Mother's Day

 I used to love Mother's Day.  I LOVE being a mother, and my husband has done a great job of celebrating me as a mother.  

I used to love Mother's Day. I LOVE my Mother-in-law.  She raised an amazing son, and I am eternally grateful for that gift. 

I used to love Mother's Day.  I was so proud of my accomplishments as a mother.  I had six amazing children, and they have grown to be amazing adults, and their love makes my world so much better. 

For many years, I dreaded Mother's Day.  

Not because of my children, or my in-laws, or my husband.  

I dreaded the celebration of Mother's Day because of the train-wreck that was my relationship with my own mother.  Many years ago I went very low-contact with my mother to protect my own mental health.  I had realized from a very early age that things in our relationship were not healthy or right, and that I was not responsible for the mess of our relationship...and that I was unable to fix things, no matter how hard I tried. 

The realization that I was not good enough, pretty enough, attentive enough, or willing enough to give in to her whims and control tactics made it seem like I was the problem.  

But the problem was never me.  

There are probably a dozen or more explanations for the problems.  Maybe half of each one is accurate. I probably won't ever know the why of the the terrible relationship.  

I do know that since she died almost 3 years ago, I have not cried a single tear missing her.  I cannot.  I don't miss her.  I did all of that missing her back in my 20s and 30s, when I was missing the mother I needed but didn't have. I cried a LOT during those years.  

Frankly, I am relieved that she is gone. 

I think about this a LOT.  Most people probably could not see how bad things were.  They did not see the physical abuse, the gaslighting, the guilt manipulation, the controlling, the verbal and emotional abuse. All most people saw was the veneer created to keep others out, to make things look good.  

I used to think a LOT about the way things actually happened and who I might have been had I had a different mother.  Now, instead, I just try to be the best mother I can be. I learned from her what NOT to do.  And because of her, I have had a LOT to overcome in order to be the mother I really wished I had as a kid.  

None of this is to say I didn't love her.  She was my mother.  And she was a brilliant person.  But she was NEVER my friend.  And she was my first abuser.  I loved her like only a trauma-bonded abused child can love their parent who abused them.  

I hope I have been able to break the cycles of trauma and abuse in my family of origin, so that my children don't have to look back on their childhood and work to break free of things to which I subjected them.  I pray I have been successful in this one thing.  If I have been successful in this one thing, I have accomplished the one thing I always said I would do.  

Today I am able to appreciate and celebrate Mother's Day again...celebrating my Mother-in-law, and my lovely friends and their mothers....but also celebrating ME, and the growth and change I have seen in myself as a MOTHER. 

Upside down stories

 I have always LOVED to write.  To create.  I live a LOT in my head, processing the stuff of my life, and the experiences of people around me.  At one point in time, I really REALLY wanted to write novels or romances.  But as I have gotten older, and read more of this genre, it all feels very formulaic, and contrived.  

Imagine with me a typical story line - a young woman runs away from home to meet with huge success in a big city, but not in relationships.  In frustration, she returns to her small hometown to be knocked head-over-heals by the young man who was there all along, and they live happily-ever-after.  Formulaic.  NOT realistic.  Sometimes HE is more successful; sometimes she is a failure at something...still formulaic. 

How many love stories ACTUALLY look like this?  

Why don't authors write realistic love stories?  Oh, yeah.  They don't sell.  

YUCK.  

Why are real-life love stories not as attractive?  

Oh, yeah...people don't want to face the fact that people FIGHT, and screw things up, and it can't be tied together with a pretty bow in 150 pages.  The fact that real life is messy, and unfair, and painful.  How do you sell books like that?  

As time has passed, I have come to the conclusion that I need to write nonfiction...it is a better fit for who I am, and the direction I am headed.  And yet, I procrastinate.  It's not the right time.  It's too much work.  I don't know where to start.  

Today, it dawned on me that real-life stories DO actually sell....sometimes.  And people DO want to read them...SOME of them.  Honestly, *I* read them.  I don't read much "fluff" any more.  Real life is more appealing to me.  But not the ones that are easily scripted and tied up in a pretty bow.  I want the raw, and rough, and the ones that make me look deeper at who I am, down deep.  

Tell me....what do YOU want to read? Do you want the formulas? The fantasy? The real?  The raw?  What draws you in?  

I'm not "there" yet

 There's so much of me that is still a work-in-progress.  

I'm learning to overcome the traumas in my life.  
I'm learning to show grace to myself and others. 
I'm learning and growing in my faith.  
I'm healing from the hurts of life. 

Meanwhile, I'm also learning that the things in my life I experience on a daily basis are making me into someone new.  

I am NOT the person I was at 18 when I left for college.  
I am NOT the person my mother was disappointed in because college changed me.  
I am NOT the newly-married wife flinching because my husband moved faster than I was prepared for.  
I am NOT the new mother scared to revisit my childhood traumas on my children.
I am NOT the mother of all the kids in all the schools trying to juggle all the things all the time.  

For now, I am a daughter of a flawed, dysfunctional family. 
I am a wife of a newly retired-from-the-Navy husband, trying to figure out what is next. 
I am the mom of a bunch of newly-minted adults, struggling to step back and let them handle things on their own, and working to reimagine my life rattling around in a house that is much too large for those of us still living in it.  
I am Mimi to some precious little people that I get to spend far too little time with.  
I am a coworker, friend, neighbor.  

Coronavirus (aka Covid-19) and social distancing

March 15, 2020

We're trying to figure out what this next week will look like.  Frankly, it feels like the whole world has gone crazy.  Schools are closed across the country.  Every teacher and professor in the country is scrambling to adapt to an online format.  Except the homeschoolers...this is old hat for them/us...well, except for the world-ending, dystopian feel of everything. 

We enjoyed a day at home today...and by "WE", I mean *I* have enjoyed the day at home.  Jason went to work, and the kids have suffered through no church or youth activities or work or school.  I'm pretty sure they're going to be having mental breakdowns soon.  Until then, we've done laundry, and there was a Guitar Hero competition...and now there's some kind of card game happening.  I also made and canned bone broth, and also have enjoyed church online, and a virtual acoustic concert with an artist friend from Boston. 

There are all kinds of looming changes for all of us...things that are too big and nebulous to specify, but that will definitely affect us. 

Meanwhile, I am following so many friends in so many different areas

October 11, 2020

So much water under the bridge.  

Today I went back to church for the first time since March.  It was strange.  And SO good.  
In July I was fired from one job after filing for partial unemployment.  
My other job picked up the slack, promoted me, and made me full-time. 

Jason had surgery to reconstruct his foot, damaged by years of running, to the point where it was collapsing on itself.  He is now almost two weeks into recovery, and 4 weeks out from going on terminal leave from the Navy.  He has his first follow-up appointment on Tuesday and has been working on his resume and trying to find a job.  

Justin and Leah are isolating at home, awaiting test results for COVID exposures from work.  Both are at Millikin as students and have emailed their professors to let them know that they won't be in tomorrow.  

Heather is sick...she's in Carbondale, and she is also awaiting results of COVID testing.  

I am struggling to know where to go from here.  So much of my life is up in the air, and I feel like I am living in some strange suspended animation, looking around, trying to figure out where we will land.  While the whole world is trying to navigate life in the middle of a pandemic, we have the added level of trying to figure out jobs, moves, and life after the military.  It feels overwhelming to me, and I don't know where to start.  

I have tried processing with my counselor, and her advice is to just focus on what is here and now.  Which feels like a cop-out.  Like, I know there are things that I need to get done prior to any potential move, no matter when it happens.  I have to shred mail/trash.  I have to sort things that have been moving with us, and get rid of a LOT of things.  Right now, I have no time.  I need to take two children to do their driving tests and get their licenses.  Work still rolls on, no matter what else is going on.  The dog needs a haircut.  I need to study for my licensure exam.  I need to finish registering for that.  Laundry and dishes and toilets and vacuuming and sweeping and driving and sleep....all need to happen.  And cooking and shopping and cleaning up.  

I wish I had been able to enjoy the extended time at home that so many seem to have had.  I have worked regularly all the way through.  I am tired.  And overwhelmed.  And sad.  And frankly, probably healthier than I have been in years.  I am tired of being socially distanced so far that no one checks up on ME.  No one has called me to see how I am.  I get that everyone is busy.  These are some crazy times.  I guess I am just tired of feeling responsible for all of the communication that happens with other people in my life, and rarely do others extend that same level of communication/concern to me, and that makes me feel sad and alone.  

Heading back to my suspended animation, where the husband is busy playing the same football game he has been playing on repeat for the last few years since they haven't made a new season.... At least football is back on TV now!!  

Dumping Ground

Right now my brain feels like a dumping ground. 
It is full of trash...and treasures.
I just have to sort out which is which...
...which feels hugely overwhelming at the moment. 

There's grief. 
Not the expected grieving for my mother. 
Nope.  Not a single tear. 
Those were all cried many years ago. 

The grief I am feeling is for the end of an era. 
Twenty-one years identifying with military life. 
Feeling like an outsider for most of those years...
...and suddenly realizing that I'm on the other end of things...
...and that *I* am an expert on military life. 

Then there's the grief of missed things. 
This year has meant that we are missing out on so many things. 
Cousins, and grandkids, and travel, and friends.
Time with my husband, vacation, plans for the future...

Everything feels so big and overwhelming...
and also minute, and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. 

I want to be able to plan. 
I can barely drag myself out of bed each morning. 
I want to have some idea of where, and what, and when...
I'm lost as to why and how. 

There's so much to be done...
Financial decisions.
Jobs to be found. 
Retirement plans to be made. 
Studying and passing exams. 
Children in college to be paid for and organized, and encouraged. 
Children out on their own to be called, and loved at a distance. 

The everyday has to keep happening.
Laundry.
Dishes.
Pet food.  And kitty litter.  And Doggy grooming. 
Children fed.
Medical appointments.
Daily job/work responsibilities. 
Dietary goals.
grooming.  hygiene. clothing. 
Mental health.  For me.  For the children. For the spouse. 
vehicles (all 4 of them).

There's still grief around the losses of the last two and a half years. 
Losses of jobs. 
Losses of people.
Losses of possessions. 
Losses of relationships. 
Loss of progress.
Loss of trust. 
Loss of hope. 

There's so much anger. 
Anger at the people who treated us unjustly. 
Anger at the people who should have cared, but instead blamed. 
Anger at injustice. 
Anger about loss. 

There's fear. 
Fear that I missed out, and will miss out on so much that I want. 
Fear that no one will ever believe us, or trust us, or want us.
Fear of the unknown. 
Fear of more loss. 

I'm tired.  Overwhelmed.  Sad.  Depressed.  Fearful.
I have *almost* lost hope. 

My life - Part 1 - an overhead view

I was born on February 13th, the oldest child of two oldest children.

My first brother was born 13 months later...the child that my maternal grandmother was convinced SHOULD have been aborted...who later ended up being the Golden Child.

My second brother was born when I was 6 and in first grade.  He was born with a congenital heart defect, which was discovered after a month or so of failure-to-thrive, and he died on the operating table at 5 months of age.

My third brother was born 18 months after the death of the second one.

My only sister was born 12 YEARS later, after 5 or 6 miscarriages, born when our mother was 43 years old, and I was 19, and in college.

***********************

My mother grew up in a family that looked perfect.
Grandpa's family was a Presbyterian family with generations of Presbyterian ministers.  He broke that tradition, eventually becoming a professor, after working for the Presbyterian church in their TRAV (Television, Radio, and Audiovisual) department.  They lived in Arkansas and moved to Atlanta, GA when my mother was 8 years old.  After she was out of the house, my grandparents moved to Austin, TX, where Grandpa was a communications professor at the University of Texas until he retired.  When Grandpa retired, they moved to their newly remodeled vacation home in Montreat, NC.

My mother graduated from high school, and went off to college in St. Petersburg, FL, and graduated from there 4 years later with a Bachelor's degree in Spanish and Russian.  The way she told the story, she was offered a job at the UN, but instead wanted to get married.

She met my father at the church she attended in Atlanta.  Daddy was a college student in Atlanta, originally from Staten Island, NY, but having moved to St. Petersburg, FL, when he was 17 years old when his father sold the family hardware store and retired.

My parents were married on June 25, 1966, and immediately moved to South Carolina, where my father had a job at Regal Textiles as an engineer.  They lived in Fork Shoals, on a "lake", and spent a lot of time skiing on the lake. While they lived on the lake, my uncle Brent came and spent some time there, but tragically committed suicide as he was mourning the recent suicide of his girlfriend.  My parents moved from that home quickly thereafter, living in Ware Shoals until they bought the farm in Due West, SC, which my father still lives on more than 50 years later. 

My mother was 24 when I was born.  Daddy was 28. 

They moved to The Farm just prior to my birth...it was one of two places I lived before leaving for college.  The Farm was the scene of almost all of the abuse I suffered...though The Dairy Farm also saw some of the same behaviors in the 5 years that we lived there. 

We moved to The Dairy Farm when I was 10 years old, and lived there for 5-ish years.  The years at The Dairy Farm were long and hard.  There were endless 18-hour days, injuries, losses, and financial hardship, as well as unexplained illness for Mother.  During those hard years, she experienced 2 or 3 miscarriages, and a kidney infection that could very easily have been fatal. 

At the end of the years on The Dairy Farm, we moved back to The Farm...back into the 150-year-old house with leaky walls, wood heat, and a dying well.  We never lacked for food...there was always meat in the freezer (that we had butchered), eggs in the refrigerator (that we had gathered from our chickens), fresh veggies from the garden, and fruit from the orchard.  But there was never enough money.  Daddy kept the cars running by constantly fixing them.  We stayed in the private church-affiliated school by the contribution of other church members.  We gladly wore hand-me-down clothes.  We never went on vacations, and rarely did any of the entertainment things that our friends took for granted. 

For a few years, we attended a local Presbyterian church, but my parents became concerned about the direction the church was headed and started looking around for another church.  We visited a local Baptist church but landed in a newly-planted Mennonite church. 

Adjustment to Mennonite life had to have been hard for my Mother.  She never quite forgave the very restrictive rules or the fact that some members of the church could get away with the blatant flaunting of them, while others were punished for minor indiscretions.  She was never comfortable in the clothing dictated by the rule-book, but never quite gave it up once they made the decision to leave many years later. 

My school years started with homeschooling.  My parents found Calvert School's curriculum, and did a very unpopular thing for that point in time, and decided that they would educate me at home.  Technically, that would have been my kindergarten year, as I entered first grade with my peers at Cold Springs Mennonite School, where I finished 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grades, prior to our church starting their own school, and my brother and I transferred there for my 4th-grade year, and his 3rd-grade year.  This school was where we graduated 8 years later. 

Refining Fires

2019 was a B.E.A.S.T.

There was soooo much that happened (I only covered the big stuff on my other blog )

Stress.

Financial worries.

Health challenges.

Relational problems.

There was also growth, and change, and sweet family time, and mourning, and loss, and watching God provide in unexpected and amazing ways. 

2019 was really a refining year for me.  The worries and hard times are burning away the impurities and helping me see who I am without all of those in my life. 

This morning our pastor spoke from Isaiah 32:1-8, about waiting to see the harvest God has prepared for this new year.  He said some things that really resonate with me. 

"We live and breathe hope." 

Today, I look forward to 2020 with HOPE. 
Hope to see the harvest God has promised. 
Hope for new, good things in our relationships, our jobs, our finances, our future. 

The verse that I had formerly chose as my life-verse fits very well here:
Jeremiah 29:11

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."