Sometimes I feel like Ross Perot's running mate Jim Stockdale when he was in the vice presidential debate. "Who am I and what am I doing here?" I get asked a lot "Where have you been and what are you doing?" The easy answer is "Oh I am around, just sort of quiet these days." The truth is a tad more complicated. I am working hard to progress out of my dark place and to find the light. I laugh and smile a lot more these days. I am trying to learn to embrace my new self. Yet at times I feel guilty. Guilty that I want to move on. Guilty that I want to be happy. Guilty that someone might think that I have forgotten. I am guilty of many things, but these are not among them.
I have reentered the dating world. Sometimes successfully and sometimes not so much. I've opened my heart. It was so much easier to be cold and unfeeling because everything hurt. I still have some cleaning up to do as I am still dealing with some cobwebs and some peeling paint from the remodel after the storm. Trust me FEMA ain't got an insurance policy for a demolished heart. So I packed it away in its many pieces and have slowly began to reassemble that part of me. Now I have to be watchful and not allow it to be injured as the newly rebuilt heart settles into position. I have to be willing to lose someone in order for me to even get a glimpse at what the future could hold with them. How much I am willing to be hurt depends on how much I value the person I suppose. I am into self preservation these days. If that is a crime then I am guilty.
I have put men on the friend list for many reasons. I am learning to be selfish. It's not that I cannot share, its that I simply don't want to share. I take up some room in a man's life and he needs to be able to accommodate me. I am unwilling to sit in the backseat of some one's life because of other obligations that were there before me. Needy children, neurotic parents, psychotic exes, unreasonable paranoia over passed illnesses or just plain baggage made up of crazy are not things that I am willing to step back for in my love life. I don't blame the fellas for having lives before me, but when those things bleed into my relationship with him, that's when I will pick up my keys and walk away. I have been told that I date like a man. So be it. I date like a woman who will not settle. I have raised my son and am ready to have a man to myself. If that is a crime, then I am guilty.
I am ready to shed my formal widow's title. I am tired of being either villanized or canonised because of my loss. I am tired of people judging me or my life because of the loss of my husband. I have grown tired of explaining color to the blind. I have my own identity and I want a life that is mine. People will always judge me. I understand that completely. However, I said long ago I would not wave my flag forever. I think it would be most unfair to a new man in my life to lament and forever be identified as a widow. I want to be the new me. A little older, a little wiser and a whole lot more myself. Although I spent well over 20 years in that one relationship, it will not define me. I cannot, nor should I be expected, to grieve myself to death. If that is a crime, then I am most certainly guilty.
I will always write about my journey through grief for I will always be on that road. The losses in my life have been many but none of the wounds to my soul were mortal. I will not always lament what could or in my mind should have been. I want to progress through this and grow. I have spoken to many widows who feel the same and yet are afraid to voice it to their peers because they fear they will be judged. They want to be happy mothers and girlfriends and yes even happy wives. It doesn't make them or me any less than the ones who will judge, nor their grief more valid. It simply means we are working our grief rather than being a slave to the pain. Our children, family and friends need us. They need to feed from our strength and watch us bloom again. Even if you and yours aren't ready, me and mine are. So, if that is a crime, once more, I am guilty.
Lastly, the weight of grief is relative. The weight you give mine is relative to the weight I will give yours. My loss is no more profound than yours. Your loss is no more profound than his. I get really tired of seeing people climb up on the rooftop of their lives and shout to hear the sound of their own voice. You're yelling to hear yourself above the noise in your own head. To me that is a symptom having no idea who the hell you are and not a result of losing a spouse. You built your life around someone or something, I did the same thing. But never doubt that before I knew I was a widow, I knew who I was as a person. I was lost in the mix for a minute, but I can stand flatfooted and say I know who I am. You have suffered a grievous loss. You are on a rough road. We hear you. The fact that you have small children, you have grown children, that you have no children, that you are a female, that you are male, that you are young or old, has no weight in this conversation. We are all in this hellish club that we didn't want to join and if listening to you yell is the price of being your friend, let me off this bus now. Because I am healing and if that is a crime, yes ma'am I am guilty as charged.
If you want to talk to me about your journey, grief, or recovery, I am here. If you need to vent, laugh, cry, question, measure or try to understand something, I am here. But if you come to me with issues that show that your grief out weighs mine because of the circumstances of your life, I will have no time for you. I want to move forward, learn, live, laugh and yes love. If that is a crime, I am guilty.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Sacred and The Profane
As I am hurled closer and closer to the two year anniversary of his death, I am learning things about myself. Things that are neither good nor bad but different than what they were before that day dawned. What I thought of the world and what I think of the world. One can not survive not one, but two, catastrophic life events and not be forever changed. The aftershocks continue long afterward and spill into every corner of ones life.
The first event was the suicide of my brother. It is a subject that I seldom broach but one that I suppose I should cover at some point. My brother and I were only siblings and the best of friends. In fact, our last Christmas, we actually bought each other identical clocks. We started a correspondence years before his passing with the understanding that when a letter was finished it was to be mailed with misspellings and all of the mistakes. An unedited conversation that went on for a long time. Those letters are sacred to me. When he left this world, I was as broken as I thought I would ever be in this life. I was cold inside and angry with God. Then God and I had a knock down, drag out, fist fight concerning the taking of him from me. A light bulb came on in my head. I came to the conclusion that I should be thankful for the 35 years I had with him rather than to count the 35 or so I will spend without him.
The changes around me were not as severe but they were a foreshadowing of things to come. I distanced myself from my family. I found their response to his death profane. It was hushed and silent as though it had never happened. As though he had never existed. Yet here I stood screaming in my heart. His belongings that were not in my possession were simply sold in yard sales or given to charities. Shirts were made into cleaning cloths with which he was wiped from the face of the earth it seemed. When he wrote his last letter, he burned every card and letter from me. Those ashes scattered across my hometown but the secrets of my heart were taken to the grave with him.
The second catastrophic event is the one everyone knows about. But I am learning in grief. What is sacred to me are things that no one else would see. The sacred is who we were. What we did. The son we produced. The profane is the loss of him. The loss of his family to me and my son. The loss the future I had planned. As much as I have ever grieved Richard, I grieve my hopes and dreams. I grieve the pictures in my minds eye that will never see the exposure of real life. I grieve my belief in forever. It is profane to me that I cannot yet look at people and not think “Do you not even remember that he ever existed?”
The tears that I have shed since the first event have now bled into the tears from the second. I would love to say that the torrent has slowed but it has simply retreated into the darkness. I refuse to grieve in public. The people around me before have simply faded into the background noise that I now ignore. In trying to reenter this strange planet, widows walk a strange road. We never know what to say to make the other inhabitants feel comfortable. When I am asked “Are you single?” I should be able to answer “I am a widow” without the obligatory “It’s okay” to make them more at ease. When in a group conversation, I should be able to share my sacred memories with a light in my eyes rather than casting them to the floor as though I have said something profane to silence the entire room. The sacred is that I can remember now. The profane is that I am not allowed to forget.
Today I wandered to a place of peace in a little grove of trees. I sat down on the bench and looked at the beautiful black granite and read his name through my tears for a while. Then a magic thing happened, I saw myself reflected there. The headstone did exactly what I wanted when I designed it. I wanted our son, his family and friends to look past the words of his death and to see themselves. We must remember that as profane it is how much of us as he took with him, that there is much of him left in us that is sacred.
The first event was the suicide of my brother. It is a subject that I seldom broach but one that I suppose I should cover at some point. My brother and I were only siblings and the best of friends. In fact, our last Christmas, we actually bought each other identical clocks. We started a correspondence years before his passing with the understanding that when a letter was finished it was to be mailed with misspellings and all of the mistakes. An unedited conversation that went on for a long time. Those letters are sacred to me. When he left this world, I was as broken as I thought I would ever be in this life. I was cold inside and angry with God. Then God and I had a knock down, drag out, fist fight concerning the taking of him from me. A light bulb came on in my head. I came to the conclusion that I should be thankful for the 35 years I had with him rather than to count the 35 or so I will spend without him.
The changes around me were not as severe but they were a foreshadowing of things to come. I distanced myself from my family. I found their response to his death profane. It was hushed and silent as though it had never happened. As though he had never existed. Yet here I stood screaming in my heart. His belongings that were not in my possession were simply sold in yard sales or given to charities. Shirts were made into cleaning cloths with which he was wiped from the face of the earth it seemed. When he wrote his last letter, he burned every card and letter from me. Those ashes scattered across my hometown but the secrets of my heart were taken to the grave with him.
The second catastrophic event is the one everyone knows about. But I am learning in grief. What is sacred to me are things that no one else would see. The sacred is who we were. What we did. The son we produced. The profane is the loss of him. The loss of his family to me and my son. The loss the future I had planned. As much as I have ever grieved Richard, I grieve my hopes and dreams. I grieve the pictures in my minds eye that will never see the exposure of real life. I grieve my belief in forever. It is profane to me that I cannot yet look at people and not think “Do you not even remember that he ever existed?”
The tears that I have shed since the first event have now bled into the tears from the second. I would love to say that the torrent has slowed but it has simply retreated into the darkness. I refuse to grieve in public. The people around me before have simply faded into the background noise that I now ignore. In trying to reenter this strange planet, widows walk a strange road. We never know what to say to make the other inhabitants feel comfortable. When I am asked “Are you single?” I should be able to answer “I am a widow” without the obligatory “It’s okay” to make them more at ease. When in a group conversation, I should be able to share my sacred memories with a light in my eyes rather than casting them to the floor as though I have said something profane to silence the entire room. The sacred is that I can remember now. The profane is that I am not allowed to forget.
Today I wandered to a place of peace in a little grove of trees. I sat down on the bench and looked at the beautiful black granite and read his name through my tears for a while. Then a magic thing happened, I saw myself reflected there. The headstone did exactly what I wanted when I designed it. I wanted our son, his family and friends to look past the words of his death and to see themselves. We must remember that as profane it is how much of us as he took with him, that there is much of him left in us that is sacred.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Hurricanes, Rosecolored Glasses and the Vapors
When a catastrophic life event happens, it is a landmark on the map of ones life. Sadly, most of the people from your life before this event are not going to make it into the life you lead afterward. As I am coming out of this hellish season of my life, I am shedding most of the people who knew me before the storm began. Some left immediately and others left when it got a bit too cold or the flood waters got a tad too deep. Not all relationships are strong enough to bend when hurricane force winds blow though ones life. Granny always told me, “People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.“ During these 18 months I have seen all three come to fruition. I am only now learning some things about me and the people I keep around me, as well as who I was before and who I am now. The panicked silence of my grief is lifting and I can actually hear what people who genuinely care about me have to say. My logical thinking has returned and I can examine things in an objective manner that is unclouded by things that were said and done in the fog of grief.
One of my friends, whom is also a widow, and I have talked extensively about our late husbands. When we speak of our lives before and after, the information we glean from one another can be an absolute revelation. The most important thing that I have learned from our conversations is that we must remove our rose colored glasses and look at whom we actually lost. Both of us are southern girls and were raised to “never speak ill of the dead.” Yes, I said the word. Not passed on, not gone home, not even lost, but dead. For all of the polite words used for what happened to them and the lives we knew, both are in fact, dead. They were human beings, and as such, as flawed as any one that remains here on Earth. Our relationships were living, breathing things that died the day one of us took our last breaths. We cannot truly grieve until we put these canonized ghosts that haunt our pasts to rest and look at them, as well as our lives, in the cold light of day. The details are lost in the thousands of words that make up the conversations with a good friend that change the way one sees the world. But the ultimate truth that remains is one of the truest statements I have ever made in my life. The heart cannot grieve a lie. The truth is, we loved them then for who they were. The lie is that we love them now for who we wish they had been. Unless and until we come to grips with the realities of the relationship, there is no way to heal. When the cracks in the lie begin to show, it rips us open anew.
Another dear friend and I have talked extensively about other things. He is the father of grown children and sees things through eyes I do not yet possess. He gently walked me through one of the hardest things I will ever do as a parent. Learning that I have to transition from my sons Mommy into his Mother. In my panic that my place with my son was shrinking, I was making myself obsolete in his life. Mommy binds up the wounds, cuts and scrapes that life deals our children. She forces her will upon her children because she simply knows what is best. Decisions a child doesn’t understand are met with the simple answer “because I said so” and the problem ends right there. What I couldn’t see is that my son is an adult and I was trying to remain his Mommy to make everything better. When I made the transition into letting him make his own decisions, right or wrong, I became his Mother. By letting him go I have drawn him closer to me. I am his confidant. I learned to say “How can I help?” rather than “This is what we will do.” In doing this I became unafraid to say “I don’t know.” The difference is that now I stand behind him rather than in front of him. While I have made my transition, he has made sound decisions and great strides to secure his future. When the pressure of one of us disappointing the other was removed, we could proceed into an adult relationship. I am not responsible for his life and it is his to live.
I was speaking with yet another friend and the topic turned to people who try to drag us into the drama that surrounds them. Our views on these people are very similar. Everyone has an issue every now and then, but if the nexus for your life is always in disarray, then the common denominator is you. If you are constantly looking for validation by causing conflict around you, perhaps the question should be, “What is missing within you that causes you to look for that attention?” I have, for the most part, extricated myself from the drama queens who were around me. I simply stopped answering their cries of wolf. I have made a conscious decision to be happy. I try to look at each day as a shiny new thing that will bring me to something good. The people I am keeping around me these days are positive and want good things for me. The last friend noticed a marked difference in my countenance. In his words, I am lighter and much easier in day to day conversation. He noted that I am a loving, supportive and gentle soul who loves the people around me right where they are in life. I accepted his compliment without a qualification from me. That is not something I would normally do but I am learning.
When I first started writing I stated that I could not crack the code on this widow thing. I am getting there. The correct combination is coming to me and now I can see the path I must follow. What I have discovered is that if I spend less time looking at what is gone, I can accurately see what is here. In order to reach for the solid things I want in my future, I must release my grasp on the vapor that is my past. I was always fascinated by storms as a child. My cousins would run to Granny crying but she had to call me inside. I was always standing fearless in the rain trying to watch the show. It was then Granny told me to remember when it was the coldest and the darkest during a storm, others would run from the thunder and lightening. She told me to always remember the louder the sound the further the danger and that flash of light was to remind me that daylight was just on the other side. This long night is almost over. Daybreak is coming.
One of my friends, whom is also a widow, and I have talked extensively about our late husbands. When we speak of our lives before and after, the information we glean from one another can be an absolute revelation. The most important thing that I have learned from our conversations is that we must remove our rose colored glasses and look at whom we actually lost. Both of us are southern girls and were raised to “never speak ill of the dead.” Yes, I said the word. Not passed on, not gone home, not even lost, but dead. For all of the polite words used for what happened to them and the lives we knew, both are in fact, dead. They were human beings, and as such, as flawed as any one that remains here on Earth. Our relationships were living, breathing things that died the day one of us took our last breaths. We cannot truly grieve until we put these canonized ghosts that haunt our pasts to rest and look at them, as well as our lives, in the cold light of day. The details are lost in the thousands of words that make up the conversations with a good friend that change the way one sees the world. But the ultimate truth that remains is one of the truest statements I have ever made in my life. The heart cannot grieve a lie. The truth is, we loved them then for who they were. The lie is that we love them now for who we wish they had been. Unless and until we come to grips with the realities of the relationship, there is no way to heal. When the cracks in the lie begin to show, it rips us open anew.
Another dear friend and I have talked extensively about other things. He is the father of grown children and sees things through eyes I do not yet possess. He gently walked me through one of the hardest things I will ever do as a parent. Learning that I have to transition from my sons Mommy into his Mother. In my panic that my place with my son was shrinking, I was making myself obsolete in his life. Mommy binds up the wounds, cuts and scrapes that life deals our children. She forces her will upon her children because she simply knows what is best. Decisions a child doesn’t understand are met with the simple answer “because I said so” and the problem ends right there. What I couldn’t see is that my son is an adult and I was trying to remain his Mommy to make everything better. When I made the transition into letting him make his own decisions, right or wrong, I became his Mother. By letting him go I have drawn him closer to me. I am his confidant. I learned to say “How can I help?” rather than “This is what we will do.” In doing this I became unafraid to say “I don’t know.” The difference is that now I stand behind him rather than in front of him. While I have made my transition, he has made sound decisions and great strides to secure his future. When the pressure of one of us disappointing the other was removed, we could proceed into an adult relationship. I am not responsible for his life and it is his to live.
I was speaking with yet another friend and the topic turned to people who try to drag us into the drama that surrounds them. Our views on these people are very similar. Everyone has an issue every now and then, but if the nexus for your life is always in disarray, then the common denominator is you. If you are constantly looking for validation by causing conflict around you, perhaps the question should be, “What is missing within you that causes you to look for that attention?” I have, for the most part, extricated myself from the drama queens who were around me. I simply stopped answering their cries of wolf. I have made a conscious decision to be happy. I try to look at each day as a shiny new thing that will bring me to something good. The people I am keeping around me these days are positive and want good things for me. The last friend noticed a marked difference in my countenance. In his words, I am lighter and much easier in day to day conversation. He noted that I am a loving, supportive and gentle soul who loves the people around me right where they are in life. I accepted his compliment without a qualification from me. That is not something I would normally do but I am learning.
When I first started writing I stated that I could not crack the code on this widow thing. I am getting there. The correct combination is coming to me and now I can see the path I must follow. What I have discovered is that if I spend less time looking at what is gone, I can accurately see what is here. In order to reach for the solid things I want in my future, I must release my grasp on the vapor that is my past. I was always fascinated by storms as a child. My cousins would run to Granny crying but she had to call me inside. I was always standing fearless in the rain trying to watch the show. It was then Granny told me to remember when it was the coldest and the darkest during a storm, others would run from the thunder and lightening. She told me to always remember the louder the sound the further the danger and that flash of light was to remind me that daylight was just on the other side. This long night is almost over. Daybreak is coming.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Sand, A Good Book and A New Perfume
So all week I have been in dread of this day. One of my best friends and I actually took off for the coast of the Carolina's to get me away from everything last Sunday afternoon. A lazy place that was made famous by the likes of Robert Mitchum and Robert DeNiro. Its called the Cape Fear area. A quiet and sleepy place on the coast. No plans and no hurry. When we got in the car we told no one when we would return.
I walked the beach and looked at the water. I felt small like one must beside something so big and powerful as the Atlantic. The sun was setting and the moon rising at the same time. Shells in the sand left by the tide and footprints that are taken. One must find peace in such a place. I did just that with a good book and a pack of smokes. No internet access or cable television. In the quiet of my head, I was alone with myself.
The next day we got up and moved through the town. Methodically looking at souvenirs and antiques. Nothing to do and no where to be. We went down and sat on the benches of the river between the ocean and the intercoastal waterway. I watched the birds and the people. A big pair of sunglasses, a black ball cap and some 50 SPF. When we got back I crashed and slept for a fitful few hours and then up for the evening. Dinner at a nice but casual place. Laughter on the pier watching some unknown fireworks.
When we decided to come home on Wednesday, we took our time before leaving. Singing in the car. A wonderful lunch and some driving around looking at things we want to return to see again. Some hot sauce for D’s collection. A fruitless search for t shirts and flip-flops. Nothing to stress. A happy road-trip home.
I walked into the apartment and thought that the heaviness would greet me at the door like a forgotten house-guest. That the stench of grief would be on my bed linens when I pillowed my head that night. When the sun rose I awoke with an unfamiliar expression. I found myself humming as I made my coffee and stepped out in the sun for a smoke. There was a new fragrance surrounding me though just a whiff. It was so unfamiliar to me that it took me until today to decipher its perfume.
You see, today is my birthday. My second as a widow. But I am healing. I am reaching. Last week I walked outside and noticed a Magnolia in bloom. I thought, well damn, that’s late. But a veil on my heart lifted in that moment. I am more than certain she thought she would never find it. She was roughly handled by the gardeners shears and suffered the loss of parts of herself. I know that she thought she would die from her wounds. But she is beautiful at this moment and the spotlight is on her because she is the only of her kind in bloom. She has found her spring. I, like that magnolia am late, but I am slowly coming out of my wounds and the cold winter of my grief. The unfamiliar perfume is that of the Magnolia and what it smells of is hope.
I walked the beach and looked at the water. I felt small like one must beside something so big and powerful as the Atlantic. The sun was setting and the moon rising at the same time. Shells in the sand left by the tide and footprints that are taken. One must find peace in such a place. I did just that with a good book and a pack of smokes. No internet access or cable television. In the quiet of my head, I was alone with myself.
The next day we got up and moved through the town. Methodically looking at souvenirs and antiques. Nothing to do and no where to be. We went down and sat on the benches of the river between the ocean and the intercoastal waterway. I watched the birds and the people. A big pair of sunglasses, a black ball cap and some 50 SPF. When we got back I crashed and slept for a fitful few hours and then up for the evening. Dinner at a nice but casual place. Laughter on the pier watching some unknown fireworks.
When we decided to come home on Wednesday, we took our time before leaving. Singing in the car. A wonderful lunch and some driving around looking at things we want to return to see again. Some hot sauce for D’s collection. A fruitless search for t shirts and flip-flops. Nothing to stress. A happy road-trip home.
I walked into the apartment and thought that the heaviness would greet me at the door like a forgotten house-guest. That the stench of grief would be on my bed linens when I pillowed my head that night. When the sun rose I awoke with an unfamiliar expression. I found myself humming as I made my coffee and stepped out in the sun for a smoke. There was a new fragrance surrounding me though just a whiff. It was so unfamiliar to me that it took me until today to decipher its perfume.
You see, today is my birthday. My second as a widow. But I am healing. I am reaching. Last week I walked outside and noticed a Magnolia in bloom. I thought, well damn, that’s late. But a veil on my heart lifted in that moment. I am more than certain she thought she would never find it. She was roughly handled by the gardeners shears and suffered the loss of parts of herself. I know that she thought she would die from her wounds. But she is beautiful at this moment and the spotlight is on her because she is the only of her kind in bloom. She has found her spring. I, like that magnolia am late, but I am slowly coming out of my wounds and the cold winter of my grief. The unfamiliar perfume is that of the Magnolia and what it smells of is hope.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A Magnolia by any other name
I have been largely silent for the last two months as far as the blog is concerned. I came out of a situation and was in what I thought by and large was a state of stasis. Sort of like suspended animation. What has transpired in those 7 weeks has been nothing that anyone could see, but on the inside, a lot has changed.
I was speaking to my friend, whom we shall call The Madhatter. She sees things thru different eyes than I as she sees the picture from the outside while I am living within the frame. Strangely enough the conversation hinged on some towels for my bathroom. I had been in a mad search for a shower curtain I could see in my head but could not lay my hands upon. Under such circumstances, I am never satisfied until I find what I am looking for and have it in my possession. The Madhatter is familiar with my obsession with such things and takes it as a part of my personality. On this day, I had found my shower curtain and was moving forward onto the other pieces of my vision. Bathrooms say a lot about people to me as it is a sanctuary much like a bedroom. It is where we care for the most intimate details of our person and as such should speak the loudest in my opinion. Nevertheless, the conversation turned to towels and I mentioned that I would like to find someone to do a nice monogram for me. We progressed thru our conversation and I never thought about it again until I was looking for these towels. I needed a deep crimson red, a rich chocolate brown and a handsome burnished gold. A gold letter upon the red and brown with red upon the gold. They must be thick and thirsty as well as elegant looking hanging on the rack. It was at that point that an odd question reared its head that I have been examining since. What letter would I use?
All of my life I have been called something besides my name. My father is the youngest of 11 and my mother the youngest of 9. As their youngest child I am known as “Sissy” which has been shortened to “Sis” as I have aged. The entirety of both sides of the family call me by that name. My beloved brother was older than I so when I entered high school I was known as “John’s little sister.” Then I met and married Richard and became “Mrs. Richard.” He called me “babe” and later “Hunibuni.” My son was born and I became “Drew’s Mom.” In Richard’s illness I answered to “The patient’s wife” and as his father is a pastor with his deaconship the name became either “The Pastor’s daughter-in-law” or “The Deacon’s wife.” Lastly I became “Richard’s widow.” I have been cut and trimmed, broken and beaten, as well as crammed and slammed into someone else’s box all of my damned life. So now, as I take my tentative steps into a foreign world, what am I to call myself? Now that I haven’t a box what shall I do?
One would think this an easy question since I write my name everyday. In high school, I was one of those girls who wrote my boyfriends name with mine and daydreamed of who I was to be when I grew up. Because of the culture I came out of my identity was tied to whom I married. I would be “Mrs. MyHusbandsName.” If you have daughters, this is a dangerous proposition. Because, if she is widowed early or divorced, her identity is something she will struggle with her entire life. I’ve always had issue standing up and introducing myself to people. Now, I have balls the size that roll behind Indiana Jones in the movies, but my own name doesn’t ring true in my mouth. Probably because I have never put any stock in that it meant anything. I have answered to anything anyone cared to call me because that’s just the way it was for me. But, what do I prefer to be called?
While I wrestled this conversation in my head, I decided to call The Madhatter back and finished what we had started. I needed to hash this mess out. She sees me as strong when all I can smell is weakness on my skin. She is my vision when I am blind to the world around me. She made a very simple declaration that cleared my confusion. I have walked a long road to be who that I am today. The fates and this hateful world has bent, pressured and tested me. Many things have been taken from me but the one thing that remains is my name. Not what everyone calls me, in most instances she calls me “The Belle” as it invokes my strength in her eyes. But the name I sign. I will never relinquish Richard’s last name because it also belongs to my son. I wear it with honor because it was given to me in love. I have worn his longer than I wore my father’s surname, although I was hyphenated long before it was fashionable. But as my form recovers from the shape of the boxes I have been made to fit into all my life, so must my spirit. I must recover and reclaim what is mine.
It has been said that I am a self made woman. My family is not sophisticated in their life nor in their manners. My sainted Grandmother taught me to be a lady in the way I thought and in the old way of how I carry myself. But I looked at the females in the cities I traveled to and here in Charlotte to determine how I would appear. I studied their mannerisms and customs. I shed my Appalachian appearance and manners years ago. I traded them for a classic look and an elegant countenance. I stripped off my closed mind and my judgmental mindset. I created a strong female who owns her mind and self-worth. Someone who can love you where you are and never ask you to change who you are fundamentally. I made a 180 degree turn from the small minded and dependant people who arise out of that culture. We live in a world of choices and mine is to be who I am today rather than whom someone else said I should grow up to be.
I ordered my towels today and the letter I chose is an “S.” So let me stand up in front of you all and introduce myself. My name is Sandra and I am the Real Deal Steel Magnolia. I am very pleased to meet me.
I was speaking to my friend, whom we shall call The Madhatter. She sees things thru different eyes than I as she sees the picture from the outside while I am living within the frame. Strangely enough the conversation hinged on some towels for my bathroom. I had been in a mad search for a shower curtain I could see in my head but could not lay my hands upon. Under such circumstances, I am never satisfied until I find what I am looking for and have it in my possession. The Madhatter is familiar with my obsession with such things and takes it as a part of my personality. On this day, I had found my shower curtain and was moving forward onto the other pieces of my vision. Bathrooms say a lot about people to me as it is a sanctuary much like a bedroom. It is where we care for the most intimate details of our person and as such should speak the loudest in my opinion. Nevertheless, the conversation turned to towels and I mentioned that I would like to find someone to do a nice monogram for me. We progressed thru our conversation and I never thought about it again until I was looking for these towels. I needed a deep crimson red, a rich chocolate brown and a handsome burnished gold. A gold letter upon the red and brown with red upon the gold. They must be thick and thirsty as well as elegant looking hanging on the rack. It was at that point that an odd question reared its head that I have been examining since. What letter would I use?
All of my life I have been called something besides my name. My father is the youngest of 11 and my mother the youngest of 9. As their youngest child I am known as “Sissy” which has been shortened to “Sis” as I have aged. The entirety of both sides of the family call me by that name. My beloved brother was older than I so when I entered high school I was known as “John’s little sister.” Then I met and married Richard and became “Mrs. Richard.” He called me “babe” and later “Hunibuni.” My son was born and I became “Drew’s Mom.” In Richard’s illness I answered to “The patient’s wife” and as his father is a pastor with his deaconship the name became either “The Pastor’s daughter-in-law” or “The Deacon’s wife.” Lastly I became “Richard’s widow.” I have been cut and trimmed, broken and beaten, as well as crammed and slammed into someone else’s box all of my damned life. So now, as I take my tentative steps into a foreign world, what am I to call myself? Now that I haven’t a box what shall I do?
One would think this an easy question since I write my name everyday. In high school, I was one of those girls who wrote my boyfriends name with mine and daydreamed of who I was to be when I grew up. Because of the culture I came out of my identity was tied to whom I married. I would be “Mrs. MyHusbandsName.” If you have daughters, this is a dangerous proposition. Because, if she is widowed early or divorced, her identity is something she will struggle with her entire life. I’ve always had issue standing up and introducing myself to people. Now, I have balls the size that roll behind Indiana Jones in the movies, but my own name doesn’t ring true in my mouth. Probably because I have never put any stock in that it meant anything. I have answered to anything anyone cared to call me because that’s just the way it was for me. But, what do I prefer to be called?
While I wrestled this conversation in my head, I decided to call The Madhatter back and finished what we had started. I needed to hash this mess out. She sees me as strong when all I can smell is weakness on my skin. She is my vision when I am blind to the world around me. She made a very simple declaration that cleared my confusion. I have walked a long road to be who that I am today. The fates and this hateful world has bent, pressured and tested me. Many things have been taken from me but the one thing that remains is my name. Not what everyone calls me, in most instances she calls me “The Belle” as it invokes my strength in her eyes. But the name I sign. I will never relinquish Richard’s last name because it also belongs to my son. I wear it with honor because it was given to me in love. I have worn his longer than I wore my father’s surname, although I was hyphenated long before it was fashionable. But as my form recovers from the shape of the boxes I have been made to fit into all my life, so must my spirit. I must recover and reclaim what is mine.
It has been said that I am a self made woman. My family is not sophisticated in their life nor in their manners. My sainted Grandmother taught me to be a lady in the way I thought and in the old way of how I carry myself. But I looked at the females in the cities I traveled to and here in Charlotte to determine how I would appear. I studied their mannerisms and customs. I shed my Appalachian appearance and manners years ago. I traded them for a classic look and an elegant countenance. I stripped off my closed mind and my judgmental mindset. I created a strong female who owns her mind and self-worth. Someone who can love you where you are and never ask you to change who you are fundamentally. I made a 180 degree turn from the small minded and dependant people who arise out of that culture. We live in a world of choices and mine is to be who I am today rather than whom someone else said I should grow up to be.
I ordered my towels today and the letter I chose is an “S.” So let me stand up in front of you all and introduce myself. My name is Sandra and I am the Real Deal Steel Magnolia. I am very pleased to meet me.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Still, I rise
Well, I did it. I have successfully done what I had to do in order to move on with my life. It was ugly and it was painful. But I did it. Those 48 hours have changed my life forever.
Packing was very difficult. I was ripping the world apart that I had used for sanctuary since Richards death. It was much like tearing the wound open again. As I packed his suits, ties, and clothes I was surrounded by his smell. His cologne permeated my soul but I could not wrap myself in it. It was impossible to convince myself that everything was to be okay. As painful as it was for me to do, I am certain it was even more painful to watch. People who had sworn their allegiance turned their backs rather than to see my angst. I opened my late brother’s suitcase and found the spare shotgun shells that were brought to end his life in July of 2003. I sat alone in the floor of my living room and cried for the men I have lost. For the life I had before. For the plans and promises that will go unfulfilled because they left me here.
When we began to load the truck, I switched to business mode with my soul screaming. My head said, “We must pack it safely and make sure everything is okay.” My heart was telling me that “nothing will ever be okay again. But I had to keep moving, quite literally. I had to get this done. One cannot get up off the table and leave a surgery.
I was dealing with people talking about “how hard Richard worked for this and that.” Finally, when I had swallowed all that I could I replied “he didn’t do this alone.” The wheels flew off then and my frayed nerves turned into fury. I had to defend myself against a canonized ghost. I had to stand alone against someone never thought I would never have to engage in this type of battle. All of my defenders were sitting back watching while we slugged it out. My will against his anger. My steel against his might. My love against his seething hatred. He retreated and I did not. I stood my ground. In doing so I destroyed my past. The lies and innuendos came to the light in way that I should have seen coming in the distance. The people who had sworn I was family forever now lay in a pile of smoke and ash. They believed outrageous things and of course they reverberated through the entire family like a church bell. It was as though they had been waiting for confirmation of grievous sin that explained Richards death. Something they could use to blame me. They judged my marriage and my life without evidence or debate. The ugliness underneath almost a quarter century came to light and what I thought was a foundation turned into quicksand. I decided rather than to dishonor my life and Richards memory, I would simply walk away. As I closed the door I held my head high and faced my own future with as much grace and humility as I could locate.
The cost was the safe haven I was to have within Richards family. I had said that this would be like having all of my skin ripped away in one sitting. I did not realize that I would have to bleed for the future I deserve. I was unaware that people I thought loved me were waiting for me to fall. That the quiet reserve I so carefully crafted was to be seen as coldness. I was shocked to find out that they viewed me as aloof and unreachable because I grieved in private rather than in public. I was trying to be strong for others who see me as mercenary. I have landed and the people who really love me are around me. The others will eventually turn around to see what has become of my life and I will still be standing. I will tell you that I am a survivor. What ever may come at me will not destroy me. I have taken these peoples best shot and yet I stand. Just as a phoenix rises after the flame, I begin anew. Still, I rise.
Packing was very difficult. I was ripping the world apart that I had used for sanctuary since Richards death. It was much like tearing the wound open again. As I packed his suits, ties, and clothes I was surrounded by his smell. His cologne permeated my soul but I could not wrap myself in it. It was impossible to convince myself that everything was to be okay. As painful as it was for me to do, I am certain it was even more painful to watch. People who had sworn their allegiance turned their backs rather than to see my angst. I opened my late brother’s suitcase and found the spare shotgun shells that were brought to end his life in July of 2003. I sat alone in the floor of my living room and cried for the men I have lost. For the life I had before. For the plans and promises that will go unfulfilled because they left me here.
When we began to load the truck, I switched to business mode with my soul screaming. My head said, “We must pack it safely and make sure everything is okay.” My heart was telling me that “nothing will ever be okay again. But I had to keep moving, quite literally. I had to get this done. One cannot get up off the table and leave a surgery.
I was dealing with people talking about “how hard Richard worked for this and that.” Finally, when I had swallowed all that I could I replied “he didn’t do this alone.” The wheels flew off then and my frayed nerves turned into fury. I had to defend myself against a canonized ghost. I had to stand alone against someone never thought I would never have to engage in this type of battle. All of my defenders were sitting back watching while we slugged it out. My will against his anger. My steel against his might. My love against his seething hatred. He retreated and I did not. I stood my ground. In doing so I destroyed my past. The lies and innuendos came to the light in way that I should have seen coming in the distance. The people who had sworn I was family forever now lay in a pile of smoke and ash. They believed outrageous things and of course they reverberated through the entire family like a church bell. It was as though they had been waiting for confirmation of grievous sin that explained Richards death. Something they could use to blame me. They judged my marriage and my life without evidence or debate. The ugliness underneath almost a quarter century came to light and what I thought was a foundation turned into quicksand. I decided rather than to dishonor my life and Richards memory, I would simply walk away. As I closed the door I held my head high and faced my own future with as much grace and humility as I could locate.
The cost was the safe haven I was to have within Richards family. I had said that this would be like having all of my skin ripped away in one sitting. I did not realize that I would have to bleed for the future I deserve. I was unaware that people I thought loved me were waiting for me to fall. That the quiet reserve I so carefully crafted was to be seen as coldness. I was shocked to find out that they viewed me as aloof and unreachable because I grieved in private rather than in public. I was trying to be strong for others who see me as mercenary. I have landed and the people who really love me are around me. The others will eventually turn around to see what has become of my life and I will still be standing. I will tell you that I am a survivor. What ever may come at me will not destroy me. I have taken these peoples best shot and yet I stand. Just as a phoenix rises after the flame, I begin anew. Still, I rise.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Labels in my closet.
I have been paying a lot of attention these days to how I identify myself. “Ms. Buni Whatsherface?” “Mrs Richard Whatshisface?” “D’s Mom?” “That Bitch Downthestreet?” “The Widow Ifeelsosorryforher‘ “The Real Deal Steel Magnolia?” This is probably because I am so desperately searching for who I am in this world that labels me. How do I label myself? I am examining what is most important to me regarding how I am perceived and what I am learning is that it is more important how I see myself.
Being my son’s mom is an important part of who I am but it does not define me. Perhaps the fact that he was born right before I turned 22 just makes it another facet of who I am. I have never been a woman who talked incessantly about daycare, diapers and the cuteness of babies. Even when he was small I never went to a shower, Tupperware party or just out for dinner with the girls and prattled on about such things. He is the most important human being on the Earth to me, but he has never defined me as a person. I have had issues with widows support groups in my age group because all they appear to have to define them is motherhood. I went to talk about and learn about processing grief, not about potty training and how cute someone’s dirt covered child was in some pictures. To me, however callus it may appear, being a mother is a gift, not a badge of honor. I am not one who allowed my child to rule my house. I did not run around and kowtow to all his wishes. I loved him unmercifully. That’s it. Mom? You betcha. Are you hungry? Is your underwear clean?
I have worn the title Bitch all my life. When I was younger it was fighting words, now I embrace it with a smile. It means you are so insecure that I intimidate you. I am ambitious and creative. I am decisive and plain spoken. I am elegant of manner and graceful under pressure. I have a firm handshake and will look you directly in the eye when I say hello. I am the match for any human on this earth. No one is better than me and no one is beneath me. You put your pants on just like I did this morning doll. And yes when I say it in that tone it does mean I see you as a mindless plaything. We all came in this world naked and in the end that’s how we leave. Someone not liking me is not something that troubles me very much these days. I am comfortable in my own skin. I am very perceptive, trust and believe, I see you. I have a bullshit meter that is as sensitive as any earthquake sensor on earth. I like genuine people. Good, bad or indifferent, if you will be you, I will be me, and we should be just fine. But calling me a name doesn’t demean me, it shows your lack of imagination and vocabulary skills. Why don’t you go read a book? The library is free. Bitch? Yep, your estimation of the situation is correct. Woof.
Then there is this widow title I am wearing. Someone said the other day, “You will always be a widow.” As I thought about that statement I clarified it for the person who is not widowed. “I will always be Richard’s widow, but I will not always be a widow.” I have had a life defining moment but it will not define me. I will choose how the world sees me. Why would I let one tragic event determine who I am for the next 40 years? Life may never be the same for me but I will not remain on a soapbox, waving my widow flag when I am in fact someone else. Widow? Yes. But not forever.
The moniker I embrace at this moment is that of the Real Deal Steel Magnolia. The Steel Magnolia part comes from my beastie’s son who introduced me as one to some FDNY firefighters. He explained saying it meant that I am funny, smart, sharp tongued with a wicked wit. Life has made me strong but the struggle made me beautiful. That for me to love you, was like having a quiet place to rest. He made me all misty eyed. I got up and kissed his cheek and he said “See! I told you.“ One of the giant Irish fellas pulled up a chair and said “A Steel Magnolia huh?’ and I said “Yes sir, the genuine article.” For the rest of the night I was called “The Real Deal Steel Magnolia.” As I read up on Magnolia’s I was amazed at what makes them thrive and I compared a lot of it to my life. So I took that one and made it my own. Real Deal Steel Magnolia? Yep, pull up a chair and sit a spell.
Just as I am the daughter of a faithless mother and a philandering father, the sister of a completed suicide, the grand daughter of a cancer victim, the widow of a good man who died far too soon, the mother of a beautiful son, the aunt of several, the friend of many and the nemesis of quite a few more, none of these things define me. I am a diamond and all of these facets cause the light to bounce through me and different colors to show. I define who I am and who I will be in the future. Today I wear one label, tomorrow I wear another. In the closet of my life, one never knows what may be on my back from one day to another. But trust me folks, I never get dressed in the dark.
Being my son’s mom is an important part of who I am but it does not define me. Perhaps the fact that he was born right before I turned 22 just makes it another facet of who I am. I have never been a woman who talked incessantly about daycare, diapers and the cuteness of babies. Even when he was small I never went to a shower, Tupperware party or just out for dinner with the girls and prattled on about such things. He is the most important human being on the Earth to me, but he has never defined me as a person. I have had issues with widows support groups in my age group because all they appear to have to define them is motherhood. I went to talk about and learn about processing grief, not about potty training and how cute someone’s dirt covered child was in some pictures. To me, however callus it may appear, being a mother is a gift, not a badge of honor. I am not one who allowed my child to rule my house. I did not run around and kowtow to all his wishes. I loved him unmercifully. That’s it. Mom? You betcha. Are you hungry? Is your underwear clean?
I have worn the title Bitch all my life. When I was younger it was fighting words, now I embrace it with a smile. It means you are so insecure that I intimidate you. I am ambitious and creative. I am decisive and plain spoken. I am elegant of manner and graceful under pressure. I have a firm handshake and will look you directly in the eye when I say hello. I am the match for any human on this earth. No one is better than me and no one is beneath me. You put your pants on just like I did this morning doll. And yes when I say it in that tone it does mean I see you as a mindless plaything. We all came in this world naked and in the end that’s how we leave. Someone not liking me is not something that troubles me very much these days. I am comfortable in my own skin. I am very perceptive, trust and believe, I see you. I have a bullshit meter that is as sensitive as any earthquake sensor on earth. I like genuine people. Good, bad or indifferent, if you will be you, I will be me, and we should be just fine. But calling me a name doesn’t demean me, it shows your lack of imagination and vocabulary skills. Why don’t you go read a book? The library is free. Bitch? Yep, your estimation of the situation is correct. Woof.
Then there is this widow title I am wearing. Someone said the other day, “You will always be a widow.” As I thought about that statement I clarified it for the person who is not widowed. “I will always be Richard’s widow, but I will not always be a widow.” I have had a life defining moment but it will not define me. I will choose how the world sees me. Why would I let one tragic event determine who I am for the next 40 years? Life may never be the same for me but I will not remain on a soapbox, waving my widow flag when I am in fact someone else. Widow? Yes. But not forever.
The moniker I embrace at this moment is that of the Real Deal Steel Magnolia. The Steel Magnolia part comes from my beastie’s son who introduced me as one to some FDNY firefighters. He explained saying it meant that I am funny, smart, sharp tongued with a wicked wit. Life has made me strong but the struggle made me beautiful. That for me to love you, was like having a quiet place to rest. He made me all misty eyed. I got up and kissed his cheek and he said “See! I told you.“ One of the giant Irish fellas pulled up a chair and said “A Steel Magnolia huh?’ and I said “Yes sir, the genuine article.” For the rest of the night I was called “The Real Deal Steel Magnolia.” As I read up on Magnolia’s I was amazed at what makes them thrive and I compared a lot of it to my life. So I took that one and made it my own. Real Deal Steel Magnolia? Yep, pull up a chair and sit a spell.
Just as I am the daughter of a faithless mother and a philandering father, the sister of a completed suicide, the grand daughter of a cancer victim, the widow of a good man who died far too soon, the mother of a beautiful son, the aunt of several, the friend of many and the nemesis of quite a few more, none of these things define me. I am a diamond and all of these facets cause the light to bounce through me and different colors to show. I define who I am and who I will be in the future. Today I wear one label, tomorrow I wear another. In the closet of my life, one never knows what may be on my back from one day to another. But trust me folks, I never get dressed in the dark.
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