Saturday, May 12, 2012

sometimes we need to just let go

We sit and wait and worry. With baited breath.

Then wonder why our hearts hurt.

Sometimes we just need to let go.

But no one can tell us how.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012


I called an old friend tonight. I needed to talk to someone who understood, as much as anyone other than he and I could understand, someone who had known him, known us together.

I needed to have a good cry.

Some years are just harder than others. This is one of those years.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

contents under pressure

It occurs to me that perhaps I should include a warning label for recent posts and probably the ones still to come over the next week.

I hate to be the mopey, whiny, wallower.

Contrary to how it may seem, I'm not wallowing. I'm just releasing the tension, loosening the valve a bit.

I keep all these things - this anger and hurt and hate and love - bottled up, pouring more and more into the bottle until it overflows.

I should come with a warning label. Contents Under Pressure! Much like a soda bottle that has been shaken vigorously.

So I release the lid slowly.

I carefully remove a few ounces, examine it closely, rolling it around in my mind. I immerse myself in it, allowing it to flow over me as I experience every last drop. And then I rinse it down the drain, making room.

Writing allows me to do that.

I can never seem to empty the bottle, but at least this way I can keep it from spewing all over the room, making a sticky mess of everything.


It's the twelfth year without him.

It's only the first without my dog.

The loss of both still hurts like hell.

I've gathered a lot of things over the years. Most of them greet me every day. Many of them sit unobtrusively in a box, or upon a shelf, behind closed doors.

The dresser I had as a small child. I don't remember what became of its mate, if I ever knew. I reclaimed the long one from the basement at the start of my adult life. I've kept it with me every since.

The stuffed blue bear given to me by my grandfather, long before I would have any memories of Saturday morning breakfasts and Christmas trees. I have his coffee table also - a sturdy piece of furniture that I hid under as a child. It has often held my weight as I sat or stood, quickly, to tie shoes, change light bulbs or clean ceiling fans.

My great-grandmother's green kitty tea set. It was a free gift when she purchased some furniture - when she was 16. When I was little I thought it was exquisite. Now I'm much more impressed by the fact that my great-grandmother was buying furniture at the age of 16. The set lives in my kitchen now. Hers now seems remarkably small.

My great-grandfather's typewriter. He was so proud of that typewriter. Only educated men had typewriter's and a house full of books. I have many of those as well. And a bookcase he built for my aunt. I think it's beautiful. No one seems to know what happened to the giant cedar chest he built for me. 

My great, great grandmother's Christmas ornaments. I never met her. She died long before I was born, but most of her ornaments always hung on my grandmother's tree. Many have always hung on mine.

My dollhouse. My trophies. My report cards. 

Pieces of my childhood. 

It's funny how all the pains of all the years manage to roll themselves into a single state of loss. Never allowed a glimpse of one without at least hearing the whisperings of the others. 

You mourn for all those gone before you, all the moments gone. 

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

just walk away

I've always been good at walking away. It runs in the family.

The thing that sets me apart, that makes me different from them, is that I always come back. Almost immediately.

Sometimes I think that makes me better than them. Mostly I just think it makes me weak. 

I've never been very good at walking away from an argument, especially when I know I'm right. The Fine Young Man (formerly known as The Boy) likes to fight with me. Or rather, he likes to piss me off. There's not really a lot of fighting. It's mostly just me yelling. And him standing there, taking it, because he knows he's wrong. 

Then I feel bad and he feels bad and The Husband feels bad and even the dogs feel bad. And then he does it again. 

The Fine Young Man (or Little Shit depending on when you ask me) tends to lie. A lot. About some of the simplest, stupid things. 

There is nothing that will send me into a rage worse than lying to me. My rages are very unladylike - violent explosions, expletives flying like shrapnel, intent on wounding whoever is within the blast radius. This is not new. 

I've often wondered if The Boy has a need for self-punishment. He seems to refuse to let us live in peace for long. This time it was over $40. He spent it. Swore up and down he still had it. Replaced it with money from his savings. He thought I would never find out. Am I pissed he spent the $40? No. I knew he would, that's why I kept asking him if he had. I'm pissed that he lied to me. Repeatedly. Again. 

And of course this comes just a few short weeks after he was caught lying about having a girl over at the house. Repeatedly. Again. 

This is also after I finally gave up asking about school work, in an effort to remove things for him to lie to me about. I've also been giving him more freedom, hoping that my good faith effort would be rewarded with some honesty. 

I always hope. Repeatedly. Again.

I can't trust my own son. At all. And he's my son so it's not like I can just walk away. That's what sets me apart, what makes me different from them.