A Room of One's Own

My senior year in college was the first time I ever had my own room. Said room, in the upstairs of a student apartment in Puffton Village, Amherst, was about the size of my walk-in closet. It. Was. TINY. But it was mine. Just mine. And as much as I loved sharing a room with my sister, which I did so much that I sobbed when she moved out of the house, and in fact, still considered the room we'd shared "ours" not "mine," having a space that was just mine was amazing to me. So, the tininess of the room didn't bother me much. I did so much growing up in that room. I changed more in that single year than I probably have during much longer chunks of my life.

I wrote my thesis in that room. I wrote prolific, if not very good, poetry. I read more books than I could count. Books that changed my life. And through much of it, I listened to the advance copy of Ani DiFranco's Little Plastic Castle that my Dad had given me when it was sent to the Coop's record department. It's still among my all time favorite albums. Hardcore Ani devotees would probably argue that it's among her more commercial endeavors and that it's not actually her best work. Yea. I could not possibly care less. That album signifies something so special and personal to me that it's about more than the music.

Having a sanctuary is an amazing thing. That tiny bedroom in Puffton was that for me. It was a place where I felt more myself than I'd felt since before my thyroid collapse. It was a safe place. If I could go back and spend a night in that little room, I totally would. I would love to be able to go back and check out all the candles and posters and tapestries and collages, many of which I'm sure I've forgotten over the years. It's not that I would trade my life now for my life then, not a chance, but I'd love to be able to visit.

And I think that, although the girl sitting in that room, writing furiously while listening to Ani would be surprised at some of the turns my life has taken (and probably disgusted that I'm not a best-selling author yet), that she would be really relieved to hear that I finally found "him" and that we are a team and that we have B&E and a home we love. She wouldn't be as shocked as I wish she would to hear that Dad is gone, although she would be no less devastated for it. She would be so stoked to hear about all the amazing things her siblings and friends have done in the intervening years.

What got me thinking about all of this? A pop up ad showed up on a site I was on yesterday, advertising an Ani DiFranco show in Concord, NH. The promo picture of Ani was...surprising. She kind of looked like someone I might have a glass of wine and chat with. And it's not that I haven't seen a picture of her in the last 15 years, I have. The transition from combative, dread-locked youngster to folk music veteran has been gradual, of course. Just like my transition from shy poet in Docs and cords to Mom in skinny jeans and boots. We all change. We all evolve. But staying in touch with past versions of ourselves is such an important part of that, to me.

48

Forty eight years ago today, a 23 year old man and a 21 year old woman got married. They went on to have five children and a marriage full of ups, downs, and an abundance of love.

Most of what I know about love I learned from them. My parents didn't always get along. In fact, I'm not sure how compatible they even were, on paper. But they were each other's true soul mates. Their love and attraction for one another remained alive, even when they were ready to tear each other's hair out.

From a pretty early age, I dreamed of finding a man who would look at me the way my Dad looked at my Mom. Through their entire forty seven year marriage, he would look at her, and then look at you, like, "Seriously, though, can you believe I landed her? I can't." She drove him absolutely bananas. His nickname for her was Pesty, which speaks volumes. One of my favorite quotes of his was, "You're gonna discover...your mother's a real PUSHER." But it was exactly the things about her that drove him nuts that drew him in. Her energy and drive was such a fantastic foil for his natural tendency toward procrastination and sedentary ways.

And my Mom adored my Dad. He drove her absolutely bananas, too. His office was literally a waking nightmare for her. And his inability to keep the top of his dresser clear, like, EVER, made her want to move out, sometimes. But when she watched him with a baby or child, or when she was cold and snuggled up to him, the tenderness that washed over her face was unmistakable.

Over the past year, as she's mourned him, I've been continually impressed by her unique ability to mourn, yet to keep on keeping on. She misses him. One hundred percent of the time, she misses him. But she goes on. She is strong, amazingly strong. It's one of the things he loved most about her.

A Year

August 3rd marked a year since my Dad died. Initially, I planned to post that day, but we had a family reunion (largely to dull the blow of the anniversary by banding together) and in the end, it felt more important to be fully present there, so I decided to wait. We moved into our new house upon our return from the reunion, so now here it is on Friday, and I'm just posting. Not because the anniversary was anything other than momentous, obviously. There's also a kind of symmetry, since my initial post about his death was August 8th last year, and now it's August 8th again.

It's funny how a year can seem so interminably long and so eye blinkingly short, simultaneously. There is a part of me that feels like, "How has it already been a year?!" And another part of me feels more like, "Holy crap, that was the LONGEST YEAR EVER." It's really hard to put into words, actually. That's about the best I can describe it.

Here's what I know. I remember in those early days, the feeling of being torn - craving some kind of normalcy while fearing the distance from the event of losing my Dad that might result, making me feel somehow less connected to him. Well, overall, normalcy has returned, I guess. It's a different normal, that sucks a little more than the normal that included him did. And certainly, the freshness of the event has subsided. I remember this week last year as a blur of misery. True misery. And certainly life doesn't feel like that anymore. But that doesn't mean I don't still have breakdowns over missing my Dad. It doesn't mean that I don't still talk to him on the regular. It doesn't mean I don't miss him all day, every day. It just means...life goes on. I have two children, I have my family and friends, I have shit to do, and I know above all that he'd want me getting my shit done.

This year has wrought so many amazing things that sometimes it's hard not to feel guilty. I DO feel so very sad about everything he's missed - two more grandchildren for starters - and E's and my family finally moving into a neighborhood just down the street from my sister's - and my job...I could go on. It's hard, sometimes, not to feel guilty about feeling joy. But I resist that impulse, except perhaps in my weakest (usually insomniac) moments, because I know full-well it would just piss him off, royally. He wants me to be happy. This I know with a certainty. And sometimes I feel as though he's actively guiding me. Which makes sense, since he did that while alive.

So, a year later...it still sucks. And life continues.

Fearing the Good

I've had this problem...I think always, but at the very least, since my life turned upside down with my thyroid disease in high school. That problem is - I fear things being too good. In the days before my thyroid self destructed, things were...kind of great, as high school goes. I was pretty. That sounds vain, it IS vain, but it's also true. I was pretty. I was fairly well liked. I played soccer - not particularly well, but I was on the team and the other girls were reasonably tolerant of my mediocrity. I had fun friends. I even had a cutie pie boyfriend on the Varsity basketball team. You guys? He drove me to school, let me wear his Letter jacket, and took me to Prom as a freshmen. It was wicked awesome (to use language from the time). But as my thyroid begin its slow ruination of my Camelot, and I didn't yet know what was making me so crazy and so HOT (temperature-wise - my appearance was toilet bound in a HURRY), things went a little haywire. I broke up with this boyfriend - a move that confounded my mother right up until I met my husband some 13 years later. I lost my desire to play soccer. I guess you had to know me at the time to understand why this would be surprising. I lost interest in school. Even more shocking. I became increasingly isolated in general. I would spend long hours alone in my room, with just my Joey McIntyre poster for company (Shut up. Like you didn't have one.). I knew, deep in my core, that something was WRONG with me. It just took a long, long time to figure out what.

When we FINALLY did figure out what, things got better. And worse. I felt better. I started sleeping again, I felt a normal temperature most of the time. My brain worked again. But I also gained 30 lbs (in addition to the 30 I'd gained when my appetite went berserk). My crazy behavior had driven away most of my friends, and there was not a boy in sight who wanted anything to do with my chubby, shy self. The truest of my friends stuck by me - which is why they are still in my life now, some two decades later. My family was awesome, as my family always is. But that time in my life was incredibly traumatic. Maybe what I've outlined above seems really surface to people. I don't know. What I know is that the person I'd thought I was didn't exist anymore, and that is a rough place to live at 16.

Since then, I've had this subconscious (and sometimes not so subconscious) fear of things being too good. When E and I got engaged, I became CONVINCED that he would perish in a fiery plane crash before we could make it to the alter (he didn't), or that he would finally realize that what an ex of mine had said about me (that I'm a "needy, high maintenance bitch") was true, and he'd bail. He didn't. In fact, he will read that sentence and fire up the ire toward that particular rider of the tech bubble all over again for saying something so nasty to me once upon a time. Because E is kickass like that.

But that fear of too much good persists. When Tiny E was born, the joy of TWO beautiful babies was so unbearable that I was convinced I didn't deserve it, and that something would shatter it. I was suffocating on terror, as is pretty well documented in this space.

So, maybe that's why I'm so terrified these days. We are finally planning a move into a home in the town we've wanted to move to for years, and I finally have a job I really care about.

And the job is another can of worms, really. Because somewhere along the way at my old job, I came to believe what people were telling me - that I wasn't good enough, or smart enough. My professional confidence was non-existent by the time I left there. And maybe THAT is why I feel like I don't deserve good things, professionally.

My point with all this navel gazing is this. I DO deserve to be happy. I'm a good person. I'm a good (though not perfect) friend. I'm a good (though not perfect) mother and daughter. I'm a good (though not perfect) employee. That last one is a doozie - I have a really hard time remembering that imperfect can still be good. And even good enough.

Sometimes, in life, we get a little lost. But it's good to find ourselves again.

Soon, it'll be a year that my Dad's been gone. I'm working my way back to the girl he was so proud of. I hope he can see me, and that he likes what he sees. I'm working really hard on liking it more, myself.

Talking to Papa

I miss my Dad all the time. All the time. But there are times when his absence feels particularly sharp. Today is one of those days. There were two things going on today that I could really have benefitted from discussing with him. And while I know he's watching over me, and while I do communicate with him, after a fashion, a nice, old-fashioned phone chat would've been super reassuring.

How do I communicate with him? Well, let's see.

The morning of his birthday, the week before last, I was awakened by the sensation of his kissing me on the cheek. He used to do that if he left for work while I was still sleeping, and it was a very distinct feeling, since he had a beard my entire life. I jolted awake, and then of course realized that he wasn't actually in my room, kissing my cheek. At least not on the physical plain. But it still felt like a message from him - some reassurance that things are going the way they're meant to.

Other times, it's more just a feeling I get. I tend to get so tense and anxious, and occasionally, I'll get this feeling of peace. It just comes over me. And maybe that sounds loopy or hippie dippy or whatever, but to me, it's just his way of letting me know he's with me.

I don't know. I just still have my sad moments, and my moments when I miss him so much.

This weekend was Memorial Day weekend - the first weekend we get together as a family each summer. My brother and his wife just finished building a new house at the beach. My Dad was such a big part of the planning of the house, and there is so much about it that he would have LOVED. So, while it was an amazing, fun weekend with amazing, fun people in an amazing, fun place, there were so many reminders of his absence. We all felt it. I know he was there with us, but it sure would've been nice to have him THERE with us.

Personal Growth Is Totally, Like, HARD!

As I said in a previous post, I started a new job in January. This is the first proper JOB I've had since leaving the company where I spent 10 years. (It was really tempting to say waste, if we're being honest, which we generally are, in this space.) I had the two nannyish type gigs in between, and the jewelry selling, but this is the first job where I go to an office and sit at a desk and all that good stuff. 

Anyone who's been reading this blog for a while knows how...effing brutal my old work environment was. I had the boss who was verbally abusive, who had a boss who was, I'm pretty sure, actually insane. Then, I had the chaotic, rudderless group wherein my boss literally hired someone two grades my senior to DO THE SAME JOB I WAS ALREADY DOING. Basically, by the time I left that joint in 2010, I had no professional confidence left. None. I had come to believe that, while the environment was crazy, I must also be a sub-par employee. I believed I wasn't competent. 

I've been in regular therapy since just after my miscarriage in 2010, and we've spent quite a bit of time on the anxiety that started during that work experience and exploded after E was born. And I've made a lot of progress. I have. But I've got a long way to go.

I panic over work on the regular. I convince myself I've made some kind of massive mistake. I convince myself I haven't done something I was meant to, or that I've done something I wasn't meant to. I work myself up into actual panic attacks. I can't seem to trust my own competence. But understanding that is in itself a huge step.

I'm a work in progress (you guys know that's my mantra, right?). I'm learning. I'm learning to leave old experiences behind me. I'm learning to trust myself. To trust that if I'm doing my best, that's the best thing for me.

And since I process through writing, it felt like something I should get out in this space, this struggle. I know my anxiety as a general thing is well covered hereabouts, but this particular issue felt like it needed addressing. 

I'm going to fight through this. I'm not going to live my life in fear, whether it's fear of freak medical diagnoses, or fear of trusting myself professionally or personally. 

Still and Always

Our house goes back on the market today, featuring all new flooring on the first floor. We are hopeful that the new flooring will make for a more pleasing entry into our home, since it's the first thing that greets visitors. We'll see.

Yesterday, I was doing some organizing in the basement. And I came across an unopened box containing a bottle of my Dad's cologne (Grey Flannel), which I'd found at TJ Maxx and was saving to give to him (They discontinued it several years ago and I've been stockpiling it whenever I've found it since). I'd given him a bottle a year or two ago for Father's Day, and I knew there was still plenty left, so I was saving this one for when he was getting low again. Seeing it, unexpectedly, in my basement, about undid me. I'd forgotten I'd put it down there. And it slapped me right in the face - metaphorically, of course - it's not actually magical cologne. 

Six months on, this still sucks. I don't cry every day anymore, and there are even times when I can think of my Dad without feeling like there's an anchor hanging from my solar plexus. But it still sucks. I still hate it. 

Fisher Price makes a Noah's Ark toy. My Mom has had it since my oldest niece was little. The Noah looks like my dad (bald, with white crown of hair and beard), and every one of the kids has referred to it as Papa. Recently, the daycare at the gym acquired one, too. E discovered the "Papa" doll recently, and now every time we go, she grabs it, and she plays with "Papa" while we're there. And she's generally pretty reluctant to give him up when it's time to go. 

This is so sweet. But it's also so heart breaking. I hate that her memories of Papa will be so toddler-fuzzy. I refuse to say she won't remember him, because she's my kid and I still remember my best friend when I was 2, Cindy, whom I haven't laid eyes on since 1978. But she won't have the lifetime of memories that I was lucky enough to share with my grandparents, and with Papa. And that, while part of life, and not at all uncommon, is bittersweet. 

My grandmother, who was so, so proud of her Irish heritage, LOVED St. Patrick's Day. She would proudly wear her green Red Sox golf cap and tell everyone that her maiden name was "Cashman, thank you very much." I like to imagine she's up there wearing her cap today, and tilting a few with my Dad (obviously wearing his favorite Kelly green half-zip sweater, which, being in heaven, has magically been restored to its stain-free form), and my grandfather, who is very likely grumbling about the crowds, while my uncle cannily finds ways through said crowds the way only he could. I could go on and on about who's at that party...the grandparents I co-opted as an extra set when I was six, my friend Erica, who was way too young to go when she went three weeks ago...I could go on. Sure, death is a part of life. Sure, acceptance of that is also a part of life. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.