This weekend was an adventure. It was supposed to be just another college road trip; instead, it was an adventure.
We were ready to leave right after Shane finished school – and surprisingly, got into the car on time. We turned on the engine to back out of the driveway.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, grabbing a napkin, “There’s a spider in here!” I let the spider crawl from the radio onto a napkin, then handed the napkin to Shane. He hopped out of the car and put it in the grass.
“It wasn’t a spider,” he said as he got back into the car. “It was an ant.” As he said it, another ant surfaced through a crack in the dashboard. We set it outside, too, but where there are two ants, there are usually a hundred.
We tried to leave, but the ants kept coming. We only got to the end of our street before we drove back home. We told Bill about our issue. While he was taking apart the glove compartment, I found a long trail running outside of the car, near the engine. Bill grabbed the hose and tried to guarantee that we could drive ant-free to New York. Somehow the ants transitioned during the two-night trip and by the time we got home, they were swarming at the back of the car. The hose accomplished very little.
Meanwhile, we drove: seven hours to the first college, two hours to the next college, and six hours home.
During the first leg, I ran over some huge chunks of glass so I decided to check our tire pressure. One of our tires was twelve pounds low! We filled it up and tried to find somewhere to patch it – which was not an easy task. The gas station had no garage and sent us to a tire place.
“We’re going to need the car for the whole day,” said the tire shop concierge.
“I need to be in Rochester in two hours,” I said. Shane was touring the University of Rochester.
“That’s the best I can do,” he said. “You can try the tire center down the street, but they’re booking two weeks out.”
He begrudgingly mentioned a third shop half a mile away, but they were busy, too. “It’s only me and one other guy,” said the new tire guy. “It’ll be at least a couple of hours before I can look at it.”
I told him where we needed to be and he said, “That’s like five minutes from here!” And sure enough, we could have almost walked to our tour from the shop. So we drove into Rochester, found a better tire shop (thanks to Bill, who was researching from Maryland), and they took us in immediately.
We waited about half an hour, then our car was pulled in – and back out – in mere minutes.
“The valve stem was pushed in,” said our new best friend, Ray. “They pulled it out so you should be fine now.”
No charge. Off we went, just in time for our college tour.
We spent the night near Ithaca College, and thoroughly enjoyed their Open House the next day. We had no more tire problems, and the ants weren’t bothering us much.
After the Open House, we hit the road. I drove for about an hour, then asked Shane to drive. Almost instantly, I fell asleep – the night before had been rough, and I hadn’t gotten much sleep.
Suddenly a loud thwunk woke me; I sat up quick.
Panicked, I asked Shane: “What happened?!”
(to be continued….)
Shane has temporarily moved into our basement.
It’s a one-bedroom apartment with full kitchen, living and dining areas, a separate bedroom and bath, and even a washer/dryer – which he is putting to good use after only a couple of days down there. He uses the separate entrance and drives his car to school. He goes out without telling me where or why – although he always mentions “I might be going out” which is kind of him.
Shane is almost 18, and this is a good way for him to see what it’s like living on his own. Next year at this time, he is likely to be hundreds (hopefully not thousands) of miles away in college. I thought it would help him learn what he’ll need next year, what he doesn’t yet know.
But I am the one who is learning.
I am learning that it is lonely here without him. When he comes home, he doesn’t come in and pet the dog, smile at me, tell me about his day. He just goes into his apartment and I hear nothing. Instead of longingly waiting until 2:45 p.m. when he gets home, I find myself longingly waiting … and then realizing that I have nothing to anticipate.
Dylan has been gone for two years, and Shane has been – especially because of the pandemic – texting friends, creating an online presence, getting to know people via his phone. I rarely see him. But he’s been here. Sure, he’s upstairs in a closed room, making no known noise. But once in awhile, he comes downstairs to visit the dog and say hello.
Now he’s not even here.
I wake up and think: Why should I bother getting out of bed?
My first thought – because I love it so much – is that I can work on planning our college road trips. This is not actually an activity, but I can spend days, weeks, even months planning a three-day trip to see a college. My boys – each! – have been forced to look at nearly a hundred colleges because I want to make sure they have all of their available options. And also, I just love to plan trips.
But every morning now, I wonder: what am I going to do next year at this time?
In far fewer than 365 days, Shane will be finished with college applications. He will have chosen where he’s going to be educated, and we’ll all be excited for him, wherever he decides to go.
In 365 days, we will have finished our European vacation (planned during the pandemic). We will have purchased everything we think he needs for college, and tearfully dropped him off at his freshman dorm, wherever it may be.
A year from now, then, there will be no college road trips to plan. There will be no pitter-patter of teenage footsteps clomping through the house. There will be no guitars or pianos playing in any area of the house. In fact, like it is now, it will be dead silent.
And I will be … doing what? What will I be doing? What will be my purpose for getting out of the bed in a year?
It’s impossible to guess what purpose I will ever have beyond being a mom. My parents tell me that’s when it’s time to wait for grandchildren, but I was 40 years old when I had Shane. I’m not a hundred percent sure I’ll be alive when – or if – those grandchildren are born.
Of course, I’m not a hundred percent sure I’ll be alive in a year.
So … I am going to do what I can today to enjoy it. I will watch Shane driving by on his way to Starbucks or Taco Bell or his friend’s house – wherever he is going – and I will try to memorize his image, his movements, his voice … whenever he’s around.
And I’ll try desperately hard not to think too much about next year.
I had just stepped up to the post office window when a woman with a walker rushed forward (carrying the walker) to stand by the counter. She had not waited in line, and was desperate to get some attention immediately.
“I can’t use the tape!” she wailed.
No one behind the counter paid any attention to her. After all, she had not waited in the line. So she got louder.
“I can’t use the tape! It’s tied down to the counter because apparently we just have so many thieves…” (she spat this word) “… in this area that everything needs to be tied down! So I can’t reach the tape around the box! Can I get some scissors to cut it loose?”
A postal employee calmly responded: “We can’t give you scissors to use in the lobby.”
“Well then how am I supposed to tape my box?”
“I can give you some tape in a minute to ….”
“Well I can’t be running back and forth, back and forth. I can hardly walk!” She leaned heavily on her currently unused walker.
“Why don’t you bring the box up here ….”
“It’s too heavy! I can’t possibly carry it all the way up here!” Someone from behind her plopped the box on the counter in front of her.
“See?” she shrieked. “How am I supposed to get the tape around this thing? I don’t have time for any of this!” She started fussing with tape and doing exactly what she said she couldn’t do.
Meanwhile, I was calmly mailing my packages. The postal employee ignored her long enough to take care of me, but the woman was muttering the whole time. She was crazed, unconsolable, acting like the world was about to end because some packing tape was tied to the counter.
“I shouldn’t even be here. I don’t have time for this. My mother is in the hospital and ….”
And there it was: the source of her fear. It wasn’t the tape, or the walking, or the thieves who might steal the tape. It wasn’t the size of the box or the insufficient taping.
She was terrified. This woman’s mother was in the hospital, and she needed to get back to her.
But I’m not sure if even she knew that the problem was her mother. I’m not sure if she realized that she was distraught because of the deep, underlying fear that her mother was going to die.
Not everyone wails and whines and moans loudly about things that are bothering them. Some people, in fact, keep everything so bottled up that I might not even notice that there’s a problem. This woman screamed: “I HAVE A PROBLEM!!!” the minute she walked in the door.
I listened to her whine and thought: This is what I sound like. I always sound like this.
My kids have tried to explain to me that I don’t need to scream at the cashier when the food order is wrong, or when it is late, or when anything is out of whack. And I’ve often taken this advice by screaming at my kids: “But someone needs to DO something!!!” in much the same way as the lady at the post office did.
And today I realized, at the ripe old age of 57, that my problem is really not the food order. In fact, the problem is likely unrelated to anything outside of … me.
The problem is: I am deeply afraid.
So. Now I know.
But what is causing the fear? Why am I so afraid all the time?
Writing about Loki’s privileged life reminded me that I got a second chance with my dog. I’m able to do things with Loki that I never did with Xena. I wish I had done things differently with Xena, that I had treated her better, that I had complained less, that I had spent more time just with her. But having Loki now has shown me that I can do more, that I can be better, kinder, more loving.
Which is why now, I’m thinking about my kids. I don’t get a re-do with my kids. I would never want different kids – I am extremely happy with the ones I got – but I could have done better with them.
I realized that there are very few things I would change, if I ever could. Still, there are a few.
If I were able to do it all over again…
- I would yell less. In fact, I would yell not at all. Since I tried not to yell for the past 20 years and failed, I can’t imagine how I would stop the yelling. But I would give it everything I had. Again.
- I would take more videos and, as I finished each VHSC/DVD/whatever-format video, I would LABEL IT. That alone would have made a huge difference in my attitude now. I feel like I filmed them for 20 years and have absolutely no way to watch the videos.
- I would recognize the difference between a “small” thing and a “big” thing when deciding what to share with my children. Anything that has to do with housework is a “small” thing. Anything that has to do with being kind to others is a “big” thing. I wish I’d let the small things go.
That’s it.
Because of my food issues – and the fact that I feel 7000 times better now than I did five years ago – I can look back and see that I was sick. I was tired and hungry frequently, if not every single moment of every day. I didn’t eat properly and I felt like crap.
Lots of moms feel that way, I’m sure. In addition, my thyroid attacked and killed what was left of my enthusiasm for life, right around the time my kids reached their pre-teen years. At one point, I needed to nap as much as I needed to breathe. I was wiped out by my own body.
It isn’t so much of an excuse as it is an understanding. At the time, I believed everything I did was the right thing to do. I tried. I really, really, really tried. But I yelled, I didn’t label tapes, and I harped on my children for teeny tiny idiotic things.
I still wish I had done more with less. So I failed. As we all do, as humans, I failed.
But other than labeling the videos – (why didn’t I label everything?????) – I doubt there is anything I really could have changed, especially not given my physical condition. It’s not an excuse – but I sure don’t feel like yelling as much since I got my imbalances more … balanced.
There is nothing I can do to change the past. And I am still trying. I will continue to try. Until my dying day, I will not give up trying to be the best mom I can be.
Even if that will not save them from their problems, and even if it will never be good enough.
Loki’s lived with us for almost three years but I still consider him “new.” That’s because Xena, our “old” dog, died almost three years ago.
As most dogs are, Xena was the greatest dog in the world. She wanted to please us more than anything. She knew how to “go away” and “come back” on demand. Xena was next to me constantly, and I constantly told her to “go away.” She was a waddle-y tail-wagger who did absolutely anything we asked.
The only thing Xena couldn’t do was stay healthy. She vomited all the time – several times a week for no apparent reason. She was desperately anxious. I should have spent my days calming her. Instead, I wound her up like a top, deserted her when she just wanted companionship, and yelled when she vomited.
Everything I do with Loki feels like a betrayal.
Xena didn’t need walks. By that I mean, I was too busy or lazy to take her for walks, so we only went when I wanted to walk. Xena went for lots of car rides. Sometimes I let her out in a field to run. Those were glorious days. But mostly we let her out in the yard and she sat there alone.
Loki gets two – sometimes three or four – walks per day. He is a ball of energy and if we don’t walk him, he’s insane. He races around the house like a cartoon version of himself. So even in the rain and snow, Loki gets long walks.
When walking him I think, Xena would have loved this. Every time. Every day.
Xena hated her dog food. The canned stuff was expensive and it rotted in her bowl when she didn’t eat it. She vomited when she was hungry, so she vomited a lot while the food sat in the bowl. Eventually we settled on a dry food that she ate, but she never enjoyed it.
The last food Xena ate was a can of delicious, human-grade, very expensive dog food. She loved it. It cost about $2 a can and provided one meal. I bought her a case, finally, when she was literally dying. Xena ate one can and never ate again. I donated the rest.
Loki got canned food immediately. He gets crunchy food, too. When I feed him canned food, I feel guilty that I didn’t buy canned food for Xena. Every time. Every day.
Xena shed a little. Loki doesn’t shed at all. Every time Xena climbed off of me, I spent ten minutes removing hair from my clothes and complaining loudly about it.
Xena never scratched anyone or anything. Loki ruined all our furniture with his claws and we never even grumbled.
Xena’s vomiting meant she wasn’t allowed in my bed – ever. Cleaning the comforter was too hard. She wanted to sleep next to my bed, but her snoring woke me up. So she slept in the hall, alone. Every night for 13 years.
All she wanted was to be near me.
Loki sleeps on a giant feather mattress pad designed for a human, covered with a comfort pad and a queen-sized blanket. Loki has a fleece blanket that he sleeps under. Loki’s luxury bed is right next to mine.
In the mornings, Loki is invited onto my bed for cuddling. Loki loves these moments. He puts his paws in my face, which irritates the heck out of me, but I gently move those paws and keep petting him.
Loki never sleeps in the hall. Every morning, on my bed, I pet Loki and think of Xena.
Every time.
I got involved on Facebook in a conversation about the vaccine.
I try to stay uninvolved, except to make sure that people are educated. I don’t post all over Facebook “educating” people, but I do volunteer – or at least, I did when it mattered – in areas where people didn’t know they could get a vaccine at a nearby clinic. That they could get a vaccine free, without proof of identity, without a green card. That they could get a vaccine without any fear whatsoever. So I went door-to-door telling them that a vaccine was available.
Most people know now that the vaccine is widely available, that it protects people from getting COVID. Most people also know that there have been “breakthrough” infections among the vaccinated. But the vast majority of those who are vaccinated get better quickly, require almost no hospitalizations, and almost never die from COVID, thanks to the vaccine.
So when someone said, “It’s a personal choice and I respect that!” – it sounded to me as if that person was not educated. While it is, indeed, a literal choice to be vaccinated or not vaccinated, this “choice” has to consider the lives of those around us.
Unvaccinated people get COVID at a far higher rate than vaccinated people. And it’s highly contagious. And if you’re sick, you can spread the disease before you even show symptoms. After all this time, people might know that.
But this person still does not seem to know. “Anyone can spread COVID,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if you’re vaccinated or unvaccinated. If I don’t want to get a vaccine, that’s my choice. I’m not hurting anyone.”
Well, I thought, you’re hurting yourself. You’re hurting your family. You’re hurting your friends. You’re hurting everyone around you who is subjected to COVID because you decided not to get a vaccine.
Somehow, as if they live under a rock, there are still people who truly believe that they aren’t hurting anyone else by not being vaccinated themselves. The word for that: ignorant. The definition of ignorant: lacking knowledge; uneducated.
Do they have any idea how diseases are eradicated? Don’t they understand that if fewer people get COVID, then we could eventually destroy COVID?
I didn’t want to argue with Mrs. Personal Choice. Thankfully someone stepped in – a person who works in a hospital. The nurse talked about the sick people who were still flooding the hospital – unable to breathe, unable to get a ventilator. This time, though, she says, more young adults and children are in the hospital. They are running out of beds. She wanted to know: who should tell the parents of a young child, unable to breathe, that there’s no bed for that child, or no ventilator available?
Without missing a beat, the woman swore that she wasn’t causing anyone else to get sick. And I bowed out of the conversation because, quite honestly, there isn’t any way to make the ignorant suddenly turn into educated people. Ignorant people believe what they want to believe, what they are told by other ignorant people. There is no way to disseminate facts to people who refuse to listen.
At this point, people who are still choosing to remain unvaccinated are choosing themselves over everybody else. They are allowing the virus to continue – and they will eventually allow the virus to win. As long as there are people who can get COVID, there will be people who will get COVID.
And as long as people are here to get it, COVID will jump from host to host to host, putting the whole world at risk. And the people who are getting it – if they’re not dead – will continue to scream, “It’s not my fault!”
As if.
I texted Shane when I heard the news: “I’m coming to pick you up,” I said. “Don’t take the bus home.”
Then, as usual, I panicked a little when the crowds started pouring out of the school because I was afraid he’d get on the bus anyway. It’s hard to catch one kid out of 1,500 in the four minutes it takes to fill all those buses.
And on this day, quite suddenly, the buses weren’t safe. They were shutting down the school. Some sort of contagion was spreading, and I sure didn’t want my son to catch it.
My self-described germaphobe friend was two cars away, picking up her son. We commiserated from a safe distance.
“I hope to see you soon!” I said.
“It doesn’t sound good, but I hope so!” she said.
Shane, always vigilant with checking texts, showed up at the car and tossed his backpack into the back. Then he hopped into the front seat, and we chatted – like always – all the way home. It was sad that they didn’t have play rehearsal, we agreed. They might not do the spring musical until later in the year.
We talked about his day. He was smiling. We were both smiling. Everything was a little surreal.
And then it got worse. And worse. Then better. Then worse. And next thing we knew, Shane hadn’t been at school for 18 months. A year and a half of his life passed, with 11th grade completely online.
We all know how this went: everyone was terrified. Then it got worse. Those of us who pray? We prayed a lot. We prayed for the health of our families, some form of relief, safety for our loved ones, some hope that this pandemic might end. We prayed for our sanity and our children. We prayed for a vaccine.
And then the vaccine came, and we allowed ourselves to hope again.
Those of us who’d been educated sufficiently in science and current events recognized the way out; we raced to get the vaccine. Others stayed at home, too afraid to do the one thing that would offer them freedom. And we all paid for their fear, so that now we all have to be afraid again.
But my family is vaccinated, and that makes my son a little less afraid. And my son is vaccinated, which makes my family less afraid.
So today Shane returns to school.
And the oddest thing is: I’m not driving him there. Shane is driving himself. Because during the pandemic, he learned to drive. It was one of the few things he could actually do. He was bored, so we signed him up for the required class. And he did it well. He got his license less than a year after his first romp around a parking lot.
I didn’t realize when I picked up Shane in March of 2020 that it would be the last time I would wait for him in the parking lot. And that Friday morning, I had no idea it would be the last time I would ever drive my son to school, kiss him on the head, and watch him walk inside.
I suppose it’s a mixed blessing that I didn’t know because honestly, I don’t think I could have survived the knowing.
Today my baby drives himself to his first day of his senior year. And I think that means, officially: my baby is not a baby anymore.
My name is Kirsten, and I’m an alcoholic. Today I have 29 years sober.
I haven’t said much about my alcoholism on my blog, although I have a lot to say. This was supposed to be a parenting blog – and it was, for many years – so I hesitated to mention my alcoholism. People look down on alcoholics, even if we’re not drinking. They sure don’t look to drunks for parenting advice.
Fortunately, I didn’t have children as a drunk. Heck, I even quit smoking cigarettes when I got pregnant – so my children have never known a mom in the throes of addiction.
As a drunk, I was unable to care for anyone – not even myself. I couldn’t function. I just woke up every day in search of a way to stop feeling.
Drinking was my first true love. It was the thing that made me capable. When drinking, I was able to say things I’d been afraid to say, to do things I’d never done before, to step out of the self-imposed shell I’d created between the ages of 5 and 15. Drinking made me funny, likable, happy, exciting and free. It made me feel invincible.
That feeling lasted about two years. I started drinking on occasion when I was almost 16, and I thoroughly enjoyed my rebellious years until the end of my freshman year of college. That’s when things started to go sideways. Somewhere along the line, that feeling of freedom turned into a prison. I don’t know how it happened.
While chasing that feeling of invincibility, I started doing things I never thought I’d do. My morals went kerflooey. I stopped caring about my life, my goals, my school. I just stopped caring about everything except: how can I get another drink?
For the worst parts of my alcoholism, I wasn’t old enough to drink legally. But by the time I was 21, I’d been drinking daily for two years. Plenty of people enabled me back then, especially older men. Thinking back on this time of my life repulses me now – but without the worst bits, I may never have decided to stop drinking.
Spiraling down a bottomless pit is inspirational. And that’s how I ended up in rehab. I finally decided I wanted to stop drinking more than I wanted to chase another drink. I didn’t want to live, but I didn’t quite want to die. Mostly, I didn’t want to live another day staring into the mirror at my starkly barren reflection. They say your eyes reflect your soul, but my eyes were empty.
My first day of sobriety was August 20, 1992. I have lots of drinking stories. I’ve considered writing a book. But really, I just want to say: I am incredibly blessed to have gotten sober. Many people prayed for me, or I wouldn’t still be alive today. I know this. Also I had a clear sign from God (another story) that showed me I was doing the right thing by trying to quit drinking. No one really believes that particular story, but the sign from God was literal.
I am blessed in my life by people who were willing to pray for my health, even when I was suicidal. I am very, very fortunate that I survived the insanity. And I thank God every single day for my life.
Being alive is way better than living like a zombie; I just didn’t know it until 1992. Life is good. Thank you, God, for 29 sober years.
After pouring my heart onto a blog that was, intentionally, three times longer than I normally allow, I had no idea what to write next. Because I still feel pretty much the same. I appreciated all the caring and love from all corners of my friend universe, but I still feel like I’m going to be alone in my own home for the rest of my life.
That said, I have decided that I will be okay with that.
My sons are great. I love them dearly. If there’s one thing I understood from the moment Baby #1 was born, it’s that no matter how they feel about me, I am going to love them unconditionally forever. That love won’t go away, no matter what they do. They may despise me but I am going to always, always love them.
My husband? Well, that’s another story. Because in spite of our vows, he is not blood-related. I could, if I wanted to, get rid of him. There’s a reason that divorce is so prevalent in this country – because literally, spouses are expendable. They don’t come with a warranty and they never live up to expectations.
Marriage is portrayed as a fairytale, all the way up until one is actually married, and then – BOOM! The wedding is over and real life just keeps going on like it always did, except now you have someone in your house who wasn’t there before. And you have to decide what to do with that person – how you’re going to act, what you really want, and how much compromise you can muster.
After my honeymoon, I distinctly remember coming home from work and walking into our darling little cottage in the woods, our heavenly abode. Bill wasn’t home yet and I looked around wondering, Hey! Where are the bluebirds?
Because I honestly expected bluebirds. I expected dinner for two to be on our tiny table, and maybe some talking salt shakers to be dancing nearby. I had seen enough Disney cartoons and happily-ever-movies to know that there should have been bluebirds, twittering around in a circle above my head.
That’s what was supposed to happen after my wedding. Suddenly I expected to find myself transformed into a Disney cartoon.
But – surprise! That is not what happened. I know – it’s unfair. I feel for the people who, like me, spend their entire lives looking for the right person only to find him, marry him, and then, with no warning whatsoever, wake up.
So here I am – 22 official years later – copping to the fact that talking to my husband is often like talking to a brick wall. He doesn’t hear me. I yell and he still doesn’t hear me. In fact, he hears less when I yell. I had to learn this. In addition, Bill has ADHD, so he only ever hears about every fifth word I say. And when I say Bill doesn’t know how to support me, I mean it. He absolutely does not know how.
This realization leaves me with a choice: do I ditch him, and go find someone who can support me the way I want to be supported? Or do I keep him (and his other fine qualities) and learn to support myself?
That’s my follow-up to my out-loud pity party from last week. But honestly? There really isn’t a question here.
Bill is giving this marriage the very best he’s got. And the best he’s got is really, really good.
He’s not perfect. There are no bluebirds (still!) but considering that he’s dealing with me, Bill is about as good a husband as anyone can have. Do I feel unsupported? Yes. Will he ever understand me? No.
But do I love him in spite of all that?
Well…. yes. We’re in this thing together – even without the help of Walt Disney. I don’t know for sure, but I think we’re going to be okay. And instead of working so hard on us, and him, I could do some work on me, since the bluebirds are a myth. In fact, I probably should have done that a long time ago.
I have always known I was weird. It’s hard not to know when my mom – who was one of the popular kids in high school – and my dad – who was a superstar athlete – regularly referred to me as a “square peg.” I wanted, early in life, to insert myself into the round holes of the world, but I just didn’t quite fit. Instead I was bullied and trod upon and ignored. I spent a lot of time with animals, or alone.
Years after I’d grown up, I realized that fitting into a round hole with my square self was unnecessary, and I started to learn that I was okay.
I never really looked for other square pegs. Sometimes I found them accidentally, but for most of my life, I just wandered around being lonely. I thought I was supposed to find a husband, which would make me feel less lonely, so (from afar), I admired every, single boy I saw. Some of them were fictional characters. I just looked at everyone else, searching for someone like me.
I didn’t necessarily like being surrounded by people, ever, but even when surrounded, I have always felt lonely. And today – putting myself on paper for all the world to see, judge, criticize and guffaw – it’s possible that I feel lonelier than I ever have before.
I found someone back in the 20th century who made me feel less alone. He was a square peg, like me. But he was smart and funny and gorgeous and a total loner. I thought being a loner was “cool” and he thought I was cool, so I latched onto him for a few years. Being with him verified that I was okay – not because I was with someone gorgeous, but because the gorgeous man was like me.
Not surprisingly, I was still lonely in this relationship. I hadn’t learned yet to love myself, so I couldn’t be successfully close to anyone. Eventually, we broke up. Almost immediately, he started dating the roundest of pegs – a pretentious, snooty woman who had none of my traits. And I felt unverified immediately.
It was essential that I spent a couple of years alone, working on myself, by myself. It was the only way for me to figure out how to fully be me. I had to be relationship-free. I needed to know who I am without someone standing next to me, reminding me that I was okay. I needed to be okay without anyone telling me: Hey, you’re okay.
Eventually, I learned to like myself. I no longer had to be verified: I was just okay. I was not perfect, but I was a decent human. I had things to offer the world, even though a lot of the people in the world didn’t seem to want what I had to offer. Most people didn’t get my jokes. Most people didn’t get me.
But I got me, and I decided that my understanding of myself was probably more important than their understanding of me – whoever they were – and I built upon that. I determined that I was okay, just as I am – a square peg in a world of round holes, but still okay. I was in my early 30s by the time I realized this.
Then I met a man who got me. Bill laughed at my jokes. And he made me laugh. This may not sound like enough for a solid relationship, but it’s the reason I married him. After almost 35 years, I found someone who was crazy-funny and brilliant, who saw me for who I was and liked me anyway.
Then I had kids – two of them – who liked me, too. They made me feel like I had a real reason for being on this earth. We loved each other unconditionally. I didn’t worry anymore about being a square peg. I was a mom, and that was the most important job in the world.
Bill and I worked as a team to raise the kids. They both had issues. One had issues that were glaringly like Bill’s issues. The other one had issues that were glaringly like my issues. But both kids were perfect just as they were, so Bill and I realized that maybe we were perfect just as we were, too. We were all a little weird, but we were all okay.
And then they were teenagers. Dylan started screaming and swearing at me, whole paragraphs and lectures that said: YOU ARE NOT OKAY. YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE IN THE WORLD WHO HURTS ME THE WAY YOU DO. STOP!
This has gone on for five years. You are not okay, Dylan says, again and again. You hurt me just by being you, he says.
For ten years, Bill has said the same thing. You are not okay, he says. You don’t communicate the right way. You don’t say things in a way that makes sense to other people. You need to change the way you talk to people, he says. You need to change the way you talk to me. You need to change who you are, so that I understand you.
Bill and I stopped listening to each other years ago. I stopped because I was bored with chit-chat. He stopped because he didn’t like what I said. When we talk now, we don’t support each other. We don’t know how.
We went to therapy decades ago. The therapist said, “If you didn’t like each other so much, you wouldn’t be so hurt by what the other person says.” Ten years later we went back to therapy. The new therapist said, “If you would listen to each other, you might get along better.” We quit going to therapy because we both wanted to continuing saying the things we wanted to say the way we wanted to say them.
I turn to God. Every day, I turn to God. I pray: Please help me. Please let me know what to do. I want to do better. I want to be better. Please help me be better.
I don’t know what I can do differently. They tell me I should say things in a different way. I try. I don’t feel like I am criticizing. I don’t feel like I am being cruel. I just feel like I am saying the things I need to say. I am trying to help. When they say I’ve said something wrong, I get quiet. I get defensively silent. If I can’t say anything right, I won’t say anything at all.
But this helps nothing. You are not okay, Bill says. You don’t say things the right way. You hurt people. You hurt me.
You are a monster, Dylan says, now that he is an adult and he can speak freely. You have ruined my life by being you. You were not a good mother. You were the worst mother a child can have. He doesn’t use those words, but he says it again and again and again. Usually he screams it. I have taught him this, somehow. I have taught him to scream because he feels like he is not being heard.
I start to believe – again, after 20 years – that being me isn’t going to be enough. I feel like a square peg in my own home. I pray some more. Please God, I say, if I need to be locked up in an asylum, please give me a sign.
When I reach this point, I always get a sign. Something will go wrong and I will fix it. I will help. I will show that I am a good mom, a good person, a good friend, a good helper. I will do something right, and then I will know that I don’t need to be locked up. It always happens. I always feel good, instead of feeling insane. It lasts about ten minutes.
Or my sign will be that I spend time with a person who is so controlling and egomaniacal that I suddenly feel like a saint. That’s when I remember that Mother Teresa and I share the same birthday, so I must be okay.
I shove down the need to be locked up, and realize that there are plenty of people who are worse than me. I think I am okay. In fact, I am sure of it.
Plus, I still have one reason left to live: Shane. Shane is perfect just as he is, and he’s so much like me. So I must be perfect just as I am, too. Shane is my verification that quirky people are people too. In fact, Shane is brighter, funnier, bolder, stronger, better than I am – but he is a familiar kind of “weird.” His brain works the way mine does, in many ways.
But he’s always had more self-confidence than I have. He’s a square peg who has never tried to fit into a round hole. He just fits in the world. It’s like he came with a pre-made square hole that suits him and the world just fine. He doesn’t have to work at it; he just fits.
Then one day, Shane says: It’s possible that YOU are the only person like you, and that I am actually not like you at all. Maybe I am fine and only YOU are messed up.
And I think, now: Yes, that makes sense. You are fine; I know this. So I must be messed up.
Shane has said it now, too: You are not okay. He said it in the nicest way, but he still said it. And I realize he’s been thinking it for a long, long time.
And then I know: I am not okay. It doesn’t matter if I am a lovable square peg. It doesn’t matter if I am a good, kind, decent human who wants to do better. It doesn’t matter that animals like me, because there are no people in this world who do. It doesn’t matter that I have tried and tried and tried, or that I have prayed and prayed and prayed.
It doesn’t matter that I have given everything I have to motherhood, because I thought it meant that I fit in this big, round world. It doesn’t matter because I wasn’t a good mom. I am – deep down – a flawed and imperfect mom. And I have hurt the people I love, 100% unintentionally, which is worse than hurting myself.
Because I am not okay. Something is desperately, agonizingly, deeply wrong with me.
I understand the Big World, where I don’t fit. I know I am weird. I am off. I don’t get along with people. I know that. For many years, I pretended to be what I thought everyone wanted me to be, and I learned that I was only hurting myself.
So I stopped pretending. I started caring for myself. I spent years discovering – and letting go of – self-destructive behaviors. I wanted to be okay with me. Then I spent more years just trying to learn how to be healthy. I am still desperately trying to learn to be healthy. I gave up drugs, then alcohol, then cigarettes, then caffeine, then gluten. I’ve taken up walking and sports and reading. I’m trying to rebalance my serotonin-screwed brain.
I want to be okay. I want so badly to be okay.
I realized years ago that I didn’t need the Big World to love me. I only needed to do what I could for My Family. I knew that the only thing that mattered is that I was a Good Mom. Because being a Good Mom means teaching other humans how to be kind and decent and strong for themselves, and that kind of teaching has a positive ripple effect on the whole Big World.
So I devoted myself 150% to motherhood. And then I became a teacher, too, because that positive ripple effect could be everywhere if I share it with everyone.
But when Shane said – in the nicest possible way – maybe you are not okay…? That’s when the blinders were ripped off my face and I was suddenly staring into a cesspool at my reflection.
Even after all these years, after fifty-seven years of being me, I still don’t know why I am not okay. I know I have issues. Here are the issues I know I have:
- I always want to be right.
- I talk too much.
- I am too controlling.
- My being “helpful” comes across as critical.
- I don’t know how to communicate properly.
- I don’t enjoy being socially appropriate.
- I am too selfish.
- I should be more grateful.
- I am too negative.
- I am not affectionate enough.
- I don’t trust people.
- I am naive.
- I don’t give enough of myself.
- I think too much.
- I need to live in the moment.
There are more issues, I’m sure. But I can’t seem to fix these issues. No matter how many times people tell me what I’m doing wrong, no one tells me how to do it right. And I am stuck in a house full of people who strongly believe that being me isn’t quite up to par.
I am not good enough, just the way I am. I have to become different, or I will forever be lonely in my own home.
Unfortunately, I can’t wake up tomorrow and be “okay enough.” I am stuck being me. I have gone to therapy a thousand times. I have spent nearly thirty years sober with the resources of Alcoholics Anonymous. I have changed my eating habits and taken supplements to try to balance my brain. And I have read every self-help book known to man, plus a thousand autobiographies of people who, like me, have issues that they’ve overcome.
I always think reading the books will give me just the right insight to become okay. But no matter how fast I pedal, I am still right here. No matter how hard I try, I get nowhere.
You’re not okay, they say. You’re not changing fast enough. You’re the reason our family will never recover. You’re the reason we will never want to be with you when you are old; we will never want to visit you. You’re not okay.
They say.
And I look into the mirror today, into the cesspool that is me again, and I wonder: what am I supposed to change? How can I be less of all those awful things, and more like all you people who fit in the world? How can I be like you, when I am always going to be just like me?
I really thought I was okay. But if the people in my own house believe I am not, then I am not okay.
My choice now seems to be: I can try to be okay so that I fit into my own home, or I can be me and be lonely. And for the life of me, I can’t imagine trying any harder to be okay. After all these years of giving it everything I’ve got, I honestly don’t think I have anything left to give.
So I guess I will just go back to being lonely.
