Resolution

I woke up from a too-rare nap on Sunday afternoon with a strong sense of my own mortality, that existential ache that sometimes comes from a nap in the late afternoon in fall or winter. Sleep has been elusive over the past month or so. My awakenings, at 1:30 a.m., 2:30 a.m., 3:00 a.m., have generally been fraught. Anxious. During the day my heart beats out gratitude for my amazing good fortune to be doing what I love while supported by a stable family, comfortable financially, with a child who is doing well. At night I ride a river of anxiety.

Granted, there’s a lot going on. I’ll be moving to a new office at the end of this month, one that I am furnishing, and adding another day to my practice. I’m also picking up an (extremely) part-time job with my agency and have been doing a small proofreading and editing freelance job for them as well. I’m kinda-sorta running my own business and am also finally able to see that I should be a fully licensed therapist by my 50th birthday, which is ten short months away.

But that nap. It came after a family visit that was too much. I was too much—too cranky, too overloaded. I was keenly aware that this Christmas tradition of ours was contingent on all its players being present and that none of us will be here forever. Though it’s the second Christmas since my father died—and it’s been a long time since I saw him in person on the holiday—I felt the permanence of his absence so concretely. My father-in-law’s absence was palpable as well. This small family will morph. Its members will drop off, one by one. I wished a large second family for the boy when he grows up. I wished him a partner that could bring him acceptance, connection, and other people. I worried that we were not enough and that he, too, would too soon have to get used to the contingencies of life, the fact that traditions do not protect you from the necessary shifts, and that sometimes those shifts are the result of earthquakes.

I understand change. Nothing stays the same. I wouldn’t want it to. But I am scared that all of this will shift before I have a chance to see how it plays out. I have no choice but to hold this feeling loosely, to move forward anyway.

The word for 2019 is courage—the courage to live as if it couldn’t all fall away while remembering that it can all fall away; the courage to be present with anxiety while continuing to be grateful; the courage to connect when connection feels scary. I wish courage for me this year, and for you, no matter the way the earth may crackle under our feet. The earth will do what it does. May we be brave, with the presence of mind to choose how we respond.

Burn before reading

We walk around in masks, our mouths obscured, the cityscape soft and confused by smoke. Entire conversations happen without seeing a lip move. This is nothing, really, but the environmental aftershock of tragedy up north. We breathe in the remains, take death into our lungs. Trees, people, animals, houses, reduced to this clinging haze.

My brain ping-pongs between faded associations. Fire=my grandfather. November=loss. Anyone between the ages of 7 and 33 could be a child of mine and yet still parts of me lay unclaimed in childhood. I sacrifice myself to the smaller cause (a seeded pomegranate; in a moment, dinner— both interrupting the flow, just when the flow started; other times it’s laundry or an idle comment that requires my attention. Who, dear Reader, is paying attention to my needs? It has to be me, which is not in my nature.).

Do you require a narrative? Do I owe you that? I do not have it in me. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Even green wood can burn. Metal pools and hardens, bone becomes ash, if the fire is hot enough. But there is nothing to see here but a mask that catches my words before they reach the open air.

Minding the gap

Periodically, without warning or apparent provocation, the tune creeps into my head. All alone at the end of an evening and the bright lights have faded to blue. . . My conscious associations with the Eagles song “Take It To The Limit” are few and the lyrics hold little direct meaning. Still, when the song begins its slow sly creep into my consciousness, I am six years old and my father is singing in the car. He periodically glances over at me, earnestly performing for us both. This isn’t memory. This is time travel, a nostalgic, almost comforting mirage dating back to the gap.

The gap spans the five years between when I was two and seven years old, bookended one one side by my mother’s recollections of a crumbling relationship and on the other by my stepmother’s emergence, when contact with my father became more regular. Mom left college to go to work after I was born, while Dad remained an undergraduate, albeit a depressed one who struggled to keep things together at home. The one animus-free image my mother recently shared of those early days is that of my clean-cut 19-year-old father holding me at my grandparents’ kitchen table. He gazes into my eyes. I gaze back. The image is profound, simple, and concrete. When I think about it, it is almost as if I was there.

My mother did not mention this moment until after my father’s death. Had she told me earlier, I could not have truly taken it in. Finding the good, locating the connection, between my father and me so early in my life was too painful. Unable to do its sweetness justice, I would have gotten angry at the thought, the nerve, of those gazes, the cheap looks of someone who could not follow through on his good intentions.

I am almost fifty years old and yet I still sift through my childhood looking for clues. For example, this gap I’ve been contemplating lately, the years that I can no longer ask my father about — why am I thinking about that time with this fresh curiosity? His absence make it possible to consider it without the familiar anger. It also makes the exercise strangely futile. Whatever story I tell myself is as close to the truth as I will get.

There are spotty memories, disconnected from any timeline, a random scattering of dots on a blank page. Being awakened in the middle of the night to take my asthma medication. A scary story in a dark car. A golf course apartment and my fear of a stray ball to a window or the head. Maybe this Eagles song singalong. The details feel like they matter. There just aren’t enough of them. Maybe what really matters is that this newfound curiosity will never be satisfied. The truth isn’t a series of facts, I assuage myself. It’s in the stories we tell. But this story has multiple narrators. And one of them won’t be talking. 

(To hear the live version of the song, try this link.)

Who owns the past?

In the foreground of the photo my mother recently sent were clumps of basil, summer’s last contribution. The basil, brown-edged in places, was on her counter awaiting freezing. In the background was a dish drain with a yellow Fiesta dinnerware salad plate sitting to dry. Suddenly I was thrust into the summer of 1976, my plastic tumbler filled with ice and chamomile tea leaving circles of condensation on the table as I read in a shade-darkened room, more tea steeping in the Fiesta ware pitcher on the counter, yellow Italian cherry tomatoes and basil in the garden out back.

Across state lines, my father was starting graduate school. I visited sometimes, overnights in the dorm, breakfast with the gang, powdered eggs and orange juice from concentrate, a 7-year old in a room of 20-somethings. Later he rented a room with other graduate students in one of those mansions the locals donated to the university after its occupant died by suicide (or that’s the story I remember being told, anyway). There was a dining room with fox and hound wallpaper, the scene of the hunt. The place gave me the creeps.

These were young people doing young person things. I sometimes wonder who owns the stories? Who gets to decide what our shared reality was? It’s no longer so clear to me. I was willful and stubborn, a tough kid to raise. My parents were depressed in their own ways. One was present and quick to anger, the other hard to reach. Who can I talk to frankly about these times? My father, now dead, has a hagiographer. My mother, more open to my experiences, has her guilt. I am left with an ache, a desire to know those young people, to reach out and reassure them, to ask that I be allowed my own version of events, to let our stories mingle and create a shared history, craggy with details, imbued with emotions, held with love and respect for each other.

We're not going to take it

Here’s what I remember, out of a time often blurred by alcohol and lived in the aftermath of trauma:

I remember feeling like I didn’t have a choice, that I had to do what he wanted me to do.

I remember enduring it when my boyfriends–one when I was in high school, the other when I was in college, both of whom were five+ years older then me–decided it was time to have anal sex without consultation or discussion. I endured the searing pain and the humiliation because that was what I, as a woman, did.

I remember the college athlete fucking me in a professor’s basement as I lay still as a corpse, George Michael’s Faith playing on the radio.

I remember the stories about that girl at the first college I attended, the one who was so drunk that the Sigs tied her up and had sex with her, one by one. I was embarrassed for her, ashamed for her, without thinking too deeply about what it said about those “boys” and the twisted privilege of being young white men.

In the instances above, all of which took place before I turned 21, I was (to the best of my recollection) sober. But there were times when I wasn’t, times when I was sloppy, sometimes blackout drunk. Times when my behavior might have been considered promiscuous (let us consider childhood trauma, dear reader, and what it told me about my value). In general, however, I was a passive vessel. I believe I learned early in life that I had no right to control what happened to my body, that what I was worth was dependent on the attention I got, that a man’s desire could trump my own. These were lessons that took a long time to unlearn.

There have always been consequences for women in these cases. We hold the physical memory. We hold the shame. We get attacked for telling the truth. It’s about time the men involved experienced consequences. A little truth telling is balm for the soul. Face the past, make amends, and take responsibility. This is the path to changing yourselves and our culture.

If not, it’s going to get ugly for you.