Starting Over--A Fresh Start--A Clean Slate

Because most of these posts are old academic writigs, and I haven't been in college for several years now--although I'd give my right eye (it's the weaker of the two) to go back--I decided to create a new blog and actually make a good-faith effort to post regularly. The new blog is called The Mood I'm In. I will post whatever madness or cockamamie scheme is coursing through my brain and body on that given day. 

Now, that's not to say that I won't still post anything here, because I just might. I'm kind of sneaky and unpredictable like that.

Love Me or Leave Me

I recently wrote an editorial based on a recent work event for my department’s statewide newsletter. Because she’s part of the story, I shared the editorial with my boss. When I left the office tonight, she hadn’t had a chance to read it, but she said, “I can’t believe that you are okay sharing this with all 20,000 of our employees.”

“Really? Have you not figured out that I don’t give sh*t what people think of me?” I asked as I walked out the door.

It got me thinking—I mean more than I usually do, although I’ve been working to try to “tuck and roll” more and not analyze life as much as I used to. It’s actually kind of ironic. We are encouraged to pursue education, and if you want to get a good grade in school, you are told to think critically. What they don’t tell you is that unless it’s for school or maybe work, you gotta leave that shit in the office or classroom, because over thinking life and thinking too critically about personal relationships will either drive you crazy, drive the people around you crazy, and too often—drive people apart.

In addition to friends, mentors, and my therapists (professional and personal), I have to give Father Time much credit for my relaxed attitude. There’s something beautiful about wrinkles, sagging skin, gray hair, and bad vision that make you just not give a rat’s ass what people think—or you care a whole hell of a lot less than you did when you were younger. I think while you get much more patient in life, you also have a lot less tolerance for B.S. You finally start to learn and believe in your worth. You start to realize that you are too valuable to let people toy with you or waste your time with games and drama. At least I know that’s true for me. If you can’t bring something positive and valuable to my life, then I don’t have time for you.

Before you start thinking I’m shallow and judgmental and you get your britches knotted up, relax. Positive and valuable are subjective, and I’ve had some of my best conversations and received some priceless information from homeless people. So when I say that people have to bring something positive and valuable to my life, I don’t mean that they always have to be sunshiny bright and have lots of bling. And, I try to be the same in others’ lives—positive and valuable, and I also try to be sunshiny, but I’m human, and some days I might be not-so-sunny. But, the only bling they’ll ever get from me is gonna be in the form of some sparkly, glittery handcrafted gift that has little or no monetary value, but is rich in love and time.

So, back to my boss’s comment…

Why would I care that 20,000 people know I swallowed my tooth and that it’s still making its journey through my body. Well, I don’t know for certain that it’s still making its trek, but based on time (it’s only been one day) and that I haven’t felt anything “biting me in the ass,” I’m assuming (yeah, that’s a pun) it’s still making its way through the labyrinth of my colon.

I have no shame in saying that I am the product of rape. I’m a survivor of child sexual abuse, and I was also raped in high school. I’ve cared for dying loved ones, and I am pedigree crazy, meaning I have been officially diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and those are just the highest level events in my life. I’m not trying to throw a dead kitty on anyone’s porch. Everyone has their hand that life dealt them, and that’s been mine. But guess what? Despite all of that, I like who I am. No. I take that back. I love who I am. Do I still have issues that creep up now and then? You betcha! But, I will always courageously face them and refuse to be defeated or defined by them. I challenge you to find someone who doesn’t have challenges creep up every now and then. I dare you to find someone who has never dealt with any painful events, and I challenge you again to look inside those groups and find someone who has absolutely no scars. Oh, I’m not saying those people don’t exist, but you sure aren’t going to find many of them.

I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and the truth is, I like who I am—enough so that I love to spend time alone, because I enjoy my own company that much. Sure, I love hanging out with the people I care about, but I care about me too. Think it sounds arrogant? It’s not. It’s just that I know my worth, and if more people felt they were worthy of being treated well, and that they deserved to live a happy, peaceful and loving life, the world would probably be a hell of a lot nicer place to live in.

I don’t hate my biological father. I’ve never known him, and I have no desire to know him. Do I think it was horrible that he raped my mother? Absolutely, but then again, if that horrific incident hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be here, and if I wasn’t here, then I would never have been able to meet all the wonderful people who have come into my life, and I certainly wouldn’t have been blessed with my amazing son, who has been the highlight of my life.

I don’t hate my grandfather for molesting me, and I don’t hate him for abusing my mother. I think what he did was horrible, but guess what? I forgive him. I’ve seen his photographs from World War II, and I’m sure he was a very, very sick man. I can’t hate someone who is sick, and even if he wasn’t sick, hating him only gives him power over my happiness. I’m not gonna do it. I’m not gonna let him—or anyone else who tries to break me—win by taking my spirit from me.

I don’t even hate the men who raped me that March night in 1985, just weeks before I turned 18. It was a very painful night for me, and at the time, I wanted to die. But guess what? My mother’s response that night made me forgive much of her dysfunctional parenting all those years before. And when I was able to forgive her, I was able to begin to heal.

I don’t hate any of the men who broke my heart or betrayed me. It is from those relationships that I learned the most about myself and did the most growing. And, I know that in every relationship—whether familial, platonic, or romantic—I have a role. I’ve yet to find one of those relationships where I was perfect and couldn’t have done something more or something better or reacted differently.

Caring for and watching the people closest to me die taught me the importance of life, and the importance of staying present in the moment with the ones you love and the importance of letting them know how much you love them.

And, for more than a year now, I’ve been living with bipolar disorder completely medication free—and that’s with my doctors’ blessings. In fact, my doctor is the one who first approached me about getting off medication, because he thought I was a good candidate. Why? Because I worked hard to learn all I could about the disorder. It was scary to re-learn how to live life like a “normal” person, which if you ask me, some of the most “normal” people are some of the most screwed up—they’re just in denial about it. Part of learning to live successfully with bipolar means that I have to take care of myself. I have to not only give myself permission to take care of myself , but I have to make me my top priority—before anyone else and before my job. I am only as good as I am healthy. I owe that to myself, and I owe it to the people who love me and who’ve always been there for me.

That’s another thing. I have a large circle of loyal and devoted friends who love me and I love them. Some of those friendships span nearly 40 years. Just as they say that our children are a reflection of who we are, and that you can tell a lot about a person by the company she keeps, well, I figure that even with all my flaws, I must be one hell of a person, because I have an amazing child, and I have an incredible group of friends. If I was that crazy, that screwed up, or that much of a bitch, I wouldn’t be surrounded by that that many people and that much love.

Speaking of love, isn’t it sad that we are a culture that is afraid of love? When people hear the word love, they might find it comforting like a warm blanket wrapped around them on a chilly night, or they might become afraid that someone is trying to possess them or change them. Why? Why can’t we just learn to stay present in the moment? Why can’t we just be happy that in that moment, someone is letting us know that they care very much for us and that we are an important part of their life?

Why do I say these things? Because I’ve experienced them all—at all levels. The pain, the fear, the ager, and worked through them to find a place of peace, love, contentment, and happiness—and that comes from within—not based on what a handful of readers are going think about me and my missing tooth. In fact, if I’ve learned anything in my nearly 45 years of life, it’s that people actually appreciate when people share their “vulnerabilities.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve shared one of my stories and had someone pull me aside, email me later, call me, or in some way confide in me and say, “I’ve never told anyone this, but that’s happened to me too.”

So that is me, in all my proud, toofless glory. Love me or leave me, but either way, I’m not gonna hide who I am or change for anyone but me.

A Promise Made

As a child, I often heard my father say, “A promise made is a debt unpaid, in the code of the frozen north.” I never knew what that meant. Even now at the not-so-old age of 44, I’m still not sure I know exactly what he or that phrase meant, and he’s been dead for nearly 20 years, so asking him to clarify the meaning won’t solve the mystery. What I do know, is that he tried to instill in his children that when you make a promise, you keep it, because if you aren’t credible, you aren’t anything. And sometimes your credibility is all you have to carry you.

My parents and I had a challenging time—especially during my adolescence. I was fearless, and I was a hellcat. I had a temper that could bring darkness and misery to our home without warning, and a tongue that could eviscerate anyone in my path. On my bad days, I could make Shakespeare’s shrewish Katherine seem angelic. But, on my good days, I could be gentle, gregarious, charming, and witty.

As horrible as I could be, I wasn’t without a conscience. In fact, I often felt such repulsion and remorse for my violent outbursts that I would sink into a deep depression. Once, my demons persuaded me to ingest every pill in the house. And, countless others, they coaxed me into fantasizing about finally succeeding in my attempts.

As I got older, the distance between my heaven and hell seemed farther, but I still managed to visit them both—whether I wanted to or not.

About six months after my father died, I found out that I was nearly 12 weeks pregnant, which terrified me; a baby was never in my plans. I had a difficult time caring for myself, and I feared that I would be even more incapable of caring for a child. However, I also knew that conscience would not allow me to terminate the pregnancy, and there was no way I could carry a child to term and give it up. For me, there was no other option but to try my best to do right by the life that was growing inside me.

The following six months were horrible. I was often sick, and I spent the last two months of my pregnancy confined to bed, until two weeks before my due date when my doctor induced my labor for fear that I might have further complications that could harm the baby and me.

After more than 22 hours of labor—more than six of which I spent pushing to get what felt like a basketball out of me—my son was born. When the doctor placed him on my abdomen, I looked at him, and in my exhaustion, I thought, “He looks like a purple Yertl the Turtle,” but before I could muster the energy to touch him, a nurse snatched him away. I figured they were taking him to clean him, but then I saw her running for the door. I told his father to follow them. I didn’t want my baby to be mixed up with someone else’s.

I don’t know if it was denial or delirium, but it didn’t register what was going on. It wasn’t until I asked to see him that they told me my baby was in the neonatal intensive care unit. He wasn’t breathing when he was born, and he had an infection and a broken clavicle.

By then, all I wanted was to see and hold my baby, but the nurses said I would have to wait. They couldn’t roll a gurney into ICU, and they said my epidural made it impossible for me to stand and walk to a wheelchair. I insisted that the epidural didn’t work and that I could completely feel my legs. That was a lie. I was so exhausted, and my legs were so numb that it would have been easy for me to believe that I had been born with just a trunk, head, and arms. Yet, I knew that if I wanted to see my baby, I would have to try to make my legs work. As I slowly swung them around and tried to focus on lowering them to the ground, I feared that my legs would snitch me out and reveal me as a fraud. But, they remained ever faithful, and I stood and walked the couple of steps to the wheelchair.

The nurses rolled me into the ICU and showed me my blotchy, puffy-faced, cone-headed baby boy, who was resting under an oxygen tent with more wires and cords attached to him than an old-time telephone switchboard.

I placed my finger in his tiny hand and began to cry. At that moment, I realized that I never knew love—not the kind of love I felt for him, and if he didn’t live, then I had no reason to either.

They kept my baby in the hospital for about a week. In that time, they pumped him full of antibiotics and ran myriad tests on him, and I visited him daily—as soon as I woke, and I stayed until the nurses ordered me to go home to rest.

When the time came for us to bring him home, his doctor assured me that while his broken bone would take some time to heal, he was healthy and would grow to be a hearty boy.

It was the first time my baby and I were alone that I made my promise to him. I cradled him in my left arm and held him close to my chest. I felt so blessed that he had been sent to me, and even more blessed that he was alive and healthy. I looked into his blue eyes, ran my fingers over his soft fuzzy auburn hair, gently kissed him on his fat little cheek, and very softly whispered to him, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone and more than you will ever know, and I promise I will never hurt myself. I will be here for you for as long as I can. I promise.”

Countless times after his birth, my old demons visited me, but I kept my promise. Keeping that promise felt like it often worsened my hell, because in those darkest moments, I felt even more trapped. But, I made a promise, and a promise made is a debt unpaid, in the code of the frozen north. I knew that while death would be an escape, it was not an option for me. Death by my own hand might bring me peace and end my hell, but it would only be a beginning for my child—the beginning of a life of pain, emptiness, and questioning.

Four months after my baby boy celebrated his 13th birthday, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. As I learned more about the disorder, my life began to make sense: the never-ending emotional rollercoaster ride, the suicidal ideation, and the self-defeating actions. I’ve often questioned if I’ve done right by him. I fought like hell to try to present myself as sanely as I could—at least when he was around—and I’ve always tried to keep my promises to him—all of them—but I still wonder if I could have done more or if I could have done it better. At times, I’ve even questioned if he would have been better off without me as his mother.

My baby boy is 17-and-a-half years old now, and he’s starting his senior year in high school. He is an amazing person. Not only is he strikingly handsome at 6’ 2” with chiseled features, but he’s mystical and brilliant. He’s also incredibly compassionate, and he tries hard to keep his own promises. People love him and say he’s a very special person. I agree. It was because of him that I was able to stay as stable as I did before my diagnosis, and it’s because of him that I aggressively sought treatment to be as healthy as I can.

I am grateful for many things, but I’m most grateful for him. If he hadn’t come into my life, I never would have made that promise, and it turns out that life is good—very good—and I’m glad I’m here to see it—with him.

In Very Good Company

Sometimes when I sit down to write, I think to myself how happy I am that my mother isn’t sitting next to me as a co-author.  If she were, she would insist that I mention what a spunky, independent, smart alecky, and determined child I was and how crazy I drove her and my father.  Nevertheless, she is a mother, so she would also throw in a few subtle praises—just enough to let you know that despite how much I exhausted her, she loves me and is very proud of me. 

From what my mother tells me, I’ve always had an I-can-do-it-by-myself and you’re-not-the-boss-of-me attitude.  If she told me to take a nap, I would get up and down from my bed, sing, go potty, read, get a drink of water, and do anything else except sleep.  However, if she told me, “Angela, I want you to go lie down and rest, but I do not want you to go to sleep.  Do you understand me? ” I would be unconscious before my head hit the pillow.  Common scare tactics also didn’t work on me.  I didn’t care if she told Santa I wasn’t behaving.  I knew I was a good kid, and if Santa couldn’t see that, then I didn’t need his stinkin’ presents.  And, I questioned everything.

As a kid, I also learned how to disarm my mother when she was angry with me, or at least diffuse her anger.  My weapon?  Humor.  I learned early on that humor can help you through many of life’s difficult situations.  Think about it, it’s really hard to be angry with people and yell at them if you’re laughing.  It’s even difficult to be angry when you’re smiling.  It’s also really tough to dislike people who make us laugh.  Don’t believe me?  Try it sometime.  Other people learned how to fight with their fists, I learned how to disarm with humor—it made punishments much less severe. 

My Childhood took its natural course and led me to adolescence, which was, as it is for many people, a tumultuous time.  My mother still says she is convinced I was possessed by demons during those years.  And, adolescence eventually led into young adulthood, where I became as my mother says, “human”—at least most of the time, she notes. 

The truth is she was right about something.  What I fought vehemently to keep from everyone was that not only was I possessed by demons, but they never left.  Sometimes they behaved better than other times, and sometimes they even went into hibernation, but they were always with me.

Throughout my adulthood, life delivered its ups and downs to me.  That’s the nature of life, right?  I felt that life must have liked me a lot, because it dealt me more ups than downs.  It wasn’t until I was 40 and sought help for depression that I was told that my ups weren’t part of any fortune, but instead they were part of a silent disability—my demons.  “Angela, normal people need more than one to three hours of sleep each night,” my doctor said.  “Angela, slow down,” she told me as I quickly bounced my leg and talked with the speed of a seasoned auctioneer.  “Depressed people don’t have the energy that you have.  It’s often difficult for them to even find the will to get out of bed.”

“Well if I’m not depressed, then what’s my problem?”

“We (she had another doctor working with her) think you have a mood disorder.”

“I know."  No shit, I thought to myself.  "That’s why I’m here.  I’m depressed.”

“No, we think you have bipolar disorder.”

“Oh.”  I replied nonchalantly, while I cursed her silently.  She didn’t know what she was talking about.  I was not crazy.  I earned my bachelor’s in psychology; I knew plenty of manic-depressives, and I certainly was not one of them.  I was angry with my doctors.  They didn’t know what they were talking about, and I was determined to prove them wrong.

I started to read everything I could find about bipolar disorder.  I had a basic understanding of it from when I studied it in school, but unlike when I was in school and learned about the disorder from a clinical perspective, I read stories written by people who were living with the disorder.  In many of the books I read, one book seemed to be referenced more than any other: Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison’s, “An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness.”  I decided to read her book so I could finally prove that I was not crazy.  After reading less than five pages, I was sobbing when I realized I had violently thrown the book: I was reading the story of my life.  It was as if Kay Jamison had lived it with me—the good times and the bad.

It took about a week for my shock to dissipate, but once it did, I felt a sense of relief.  Suddenly my life of ups and downs made sense.  I also went back and read years of my personal journals.  In reading my own writing, which dated back to when I was 10 years old when I received my first diary, I could clearly see that the disorder was always there, and at times, I knew something was wrong, even if I had no idea what to call it, although I had sometimes referred to it as madness. 

I’ve always had a fighter’s spirit, refusing to let myself be defeated.  Bipolar disorder was going to have its hands full with me, just as my parents did.  I refused to let it be the boss of me.  I had no fear of my demons, but I did have some fear.  I was terrified that with this label, people would think I was different, and not in a quirky way.  It wasn’t the fear of being ostracized for being “crazy” that scared me.  I mean if I didn’t care what Santa thought of me when I was a child, do you really think I would care what anyone else thought of me?  No, my fear was that the people who knew me and loved me would suddenly think that I was incapable of taking care of myself, that I would lose my independence.  That’s what scared me.  I didn’t want to be treated any differently than I had been or than they would treat anyone else.  Different can be good.  We are a world of very different people, and that’s what makes life so exciting and beautiful, but treating people differently because they are different is not good.

When I began treatment for my disorder, the first thing I did was tell everyone close to me.  Why?  It’s harder to hide in plain sight.  Not only that, if I suddenly started needing less and less sleep, or I began spontaneously calling people at 2 a.m., my brain was probably driving the wrong way on a one-way street.  If I came up with some of the cockamamie ideas I was famous for—like my plans to rid the world of all its ills, live out of the trunk of my car, and “home school” my kid from the road, then those close to me would know it was time for a road block—whether I liked it or not. 

In the beginning, some of my friends and family members tried to be sensitive to my illness, and I appreciated their respect.  They were very careful how they treated me or how they referred to my illness.  But, I’ve always felt that life really isn’t that serious; it goes on with or without us, so why make it more difficult than it has to be?  I told them, not to walk on eggshells around me.  I explained, “you’ve been calling me crazy my whole life, and I have even called myself crazy (although we usually meant it more as quirky than mentally disabled), there’s no reason to stop now that I have the pedigree papers to prove it.”  Some people may not take it so lightly, and I respect that.  Everyone has his or her own attitudes and experiences, and I want to honor that, especially since I know firsthand the torture that bipolar can inflict.  I also know that it is very much a silent disability, because many people who knew me said that they never would have suspected that I had such a disorder.  I was good at hiding my misery when I was depressed, and my brain tended to spend most of its time traveling in the hypomanic lane.  I know that many of those “disbelievers” meant well.  They wanted to be supportive, but sometimes in denying my disability, I felt they were trivializing my challenges. 

My personal choice is that I don’t like the word disabled.  Although bipolar is a disability because has the potential of disabling me, I refuse to be disabled by it.  I spent about a year working with a team of doctors to learn how to live my life with bipolar, and I spent a lot of independent time learning as much about the disorder as I could.  My biggest challenge was learning how to travel “in the middle lane,” instead of riding the bipolar rollercoaster.

Don’t get me wrong, bipolar disorder is a very serious illness.  Some people spend their entire lives battling it.  Some people’s disorders are such that their bodies don’t respond well to many of the medications, or it’s difficult finding the correct dosage for their treatment.  I’m lucky.  Very lucky.  I responded well to the first medication my doctors prescribed, and I’ve had no problems.  It’s been several years now, and I’ve become used to a “normal” life.  A very peaceful life.  Enough time has passed that while I remember that I enjoyed the amazing highs that came with the manic moments, and I remember that I felt so incredibly hopeless during the down times, I can’t remember exactly how they felt.  I only remember whether I liked them or not.

My point of sharing this with you is not to solicit your pity, sympathy, or praise.  My disorder is what it is, and I’m only doing what most people would do when faced with a challenge in their lives: deal with it.  What I would like you to take from this is the following:

As annoying or strange as some people may be, we never know what may be going on beneath their surface.  We all have our own challenges, be they cultural, physical, mental, or emotional. 

Not everyone who has a mental illness is scary or dangerous.  One of my friends once told me, “You shouldn’t tell people you have bipolar disorder.  It might scare them.”  I confidently told my friend, “I’m not going to hide or deny who I am.  Society wouldn’t think anything was odd if I were diabetic or had high blood pressure.  Besides, I’m not the person they need to be afraid of.  I take my medicine, and I am under the regular care of a team of doctors.  They should be more scared of the people who deny that they have any problems.”

Some of the world’s most brilliant writers, poets, composers, and artists suffered from manic-depression: Edgar Allen Poe, Ernest Hemingway, Peter Tchaikovsky, and Michelangelo.  The way I see it, I’m in very good company.

Signed,

A pedigree crazy person who is surprisingly sane.

And It Goes a Little Something Like This...

I did not want to get out of bed this morning.  My bed is comfy; I feel like an angel sleeping in a fluffy cloud.  Okay, so maybe I’m not an angel, and I’ve never slept in a fluffy cloud, but it feels the way I imagine it feels to sleep in a fluffy cloud.  

Yet, I forced myself to crawl out of my heavenly place—as I do every day—and almost every day, it goes something like this:

As I walk out of my bedroom, I get slapped by my dopey dog’s gator-like tail and almost trip over her, who by the way pretends she doesn’t understand English commands, but somehow can read English thoughts—if they involve her receiving treats, going for a walk, or going for a ride.  Then I open the door to my 16-year-old son’s room and get smacked across the face with the smell of dirty teenage gym laundry.  I wake the kid and then let the dog out to take care of her business.  I groggily try to jog across the yard to grab her before she jumps the fence—in yet another of her escape attempts.  I drag her back into the house.  I make coffee, and I wake the kid again.  I make breakfast, eat, and pick out my clothes.  And, I wake the kid again.  I walk into the bathroom, trip over the kid’s dirty clothes that he left strewn across the bathroom floor the night before.  I take a shower, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and dream of dumping a bucket of ice water on the kid to wake him.  I decide to be nice and instead yelled at him “WAKE UP!” to which he grouchily responds, “You don’t have to yell.”  I force myself to remember the little boy who used to live with me—the one that this big grump replaced—the little boy who woke the first time I went into his room and who thought I was the greatest thing that ever graced the planet.  I’ve heard rumors that that someday that sweet little boy will return in a man-sized version, but I have a hard time believing it.

Then I go into the kitchen, feed the dog, dream of the day the kid’s grown, out of the house, and has his own teenagers, give the dog water, fix my lunch, and then walk down the hall to remind my now half-dressed son that we need to leave in 15 minutes.  I check my e-mail, pack all items I need for the workday, and threaten to make the kid go to school half-dressed if he isn’t ready in five minutes.  Exactly five minutes later, he saunters down the hall, shoes and unmatched socks in hand, teeth unbrushed, and announces that he is ready to go. 

“Where’s your backpack?  Did you eat something for breakfast?  Did you grab something for lunch?  What about your teeth?  Do you have your gym clothes?  Wallet?  Cell phone?  Did you take your vitamins?”

“Oh, I forgot.”

He just said two of my five least favorite words: “I forgot” and “I don’t know.”  I look at my Houdini dog with a look that says, “And you, with all your escape antics, are the easy one.”  She looks back at me as if to say, “Yeah, I know, so can I have a treat?”

The kid walks back to the bathroom brushes his teeth, and decides he needs to use the restroom.  Five minutes later, he comes out, goes to his room to get the rest of his stuff, returns, and says, “I can’t find my wallet or my phone.” 

“Fine.  Then you will have to walk to my office after school.”

“I’ll just walk to the gym,” he says and walks back down the hallway.  On his return, he says, “I found my wallet and phone.”

“Amazing that you can find things when your freedom is at risk,” I say as I feel my lips purse, my nostrils flare, and my right eyebrow arch.

By now, you’re probably thinking, that I should leave without him.  Well, let me tell you, the thought runs through my mind almost daily.  But, then I remember when I was 16.  I would have thought I won the lottery if my mom left without me on a school day.  What kid wouldn’t want a day to sleep in, talk on the phone, draw, play video games, go wherever he wants, and watch TV?  Nope.  This kid isn’t getting off that easy.  He hates school, so leaving him would be the same treat it would have been for me.  If I need to, I will let him be late, march him into the principal’s office, and make him tell the principal why he’s tardy.

“Let’s go,” I say, and I tell the dog, “Please, no escape attempts today.”

I finally get the kid and his bare, size 15 pedal flappers into the car, where he begins to put on his shoes and socks.

“Son, you are 16.  We have this same challenge every day.  You need to get it together, because I’m not going to be that mom who calls you when you’re 40 and runs through the list with you to make sure you are ready every morning.”

As I finish speaking, I realize that if I didn’t know otherwise, I would think he’s completely deaf and blind and doesn’t know I exist. 

We are two strangers inching our way through rush-hour traffic in near silence—me who knows nothing, and my teenager who knows everything—at least that’s his opinion.  The only noise comes from the radio and the sound that leaks from his iPod earphones. 

I pull up to his school to drop him off.  “Have a good day.  I love you,” I tell him, while thinking to myself, “but the jury’s out on whether or not I like you today.”

“Mmm…hmm,” he grunts as he slams the car door.

I drive away to meet my carpool partner, who also happens to be my friend and my parenting guidance counselor. 

“Good morning, sunshine!”  She says as she pulls up.  “Do you need some coffee?  How is Kut Master Kane?” (Kut Master Kane is my son’s DJ name.  He’s got it all planned; he’s going to be an international success as a DJ, and he doesn’t understand why he needs school to do it.)

I pass on the offer to get coffee.  We drive to the parking lot and meander to the office, where on our walk to and through the building, several smiling faces and hellos greet us. 

I sit down in my quiet cubicle, put on my earphones, turn on my iPod, and escape into the peaceful world of writing, researching, and editing, and I realize that although I wouldn’t trade the kid or the dog for anything in the world, I need breaks from them.  I need to feel a sense of achievement separate from them and that I’m contributing to the greater good, and as a public servant, I can do that.  Home and work offer me the balance I need.

Now why didn’t I want to get out of bed this morning?

Shhhh...

Shhhh…now tell me a story. Slow. Smooth. Wrap me in your words. Intoxicate me with your experience. Take me. Take me to where you’ve been. Whisper where you’re going. Caress me with the sounds your ears make love to. Sing me the song of when you were young. When you were fearless. Speak to me of the beauty in isolated lands. Words whirling around us, wrapping us in identity. Now tell me the story of who you are. Tell me who you are when you are not who you are. Seduce me with your stories. Shhhhh… Seduce me.

Moment of Being

Like many people, I have my routine. Every morning I cross the street, which isn’t really a street. It’s the tracks for the rapid-transit train. The café is my refueling station. It was mid-November and I was on day three at a new job. I ordered my drink and stood at the counter waiting for my mocha. And I watched. I watched all the people around me. So many of them were faceless—even the ones who in pictures would be considered beautiful. A busy café full of people, some with outwardly attractive appearances, and yet few had faces. They all looked the same: the men and women, tall and short, fat and skinny, attractive and ugly, young and old. There really was no differentiation between them. They were all shells. They were closed tight. No one smiled. No animation. No one was alive. The few people who actually had faces were the ones who smiled. They were the ones who interacted with the people around them. They were the ones who touched someone else. They were the beautiful ones.

After I got my drink, I walked outside where there were maintenance workers trimming trees, construction workers working on our building’s seismic retrofit, and I watched the train zip by, and as it did so, it created a breeze that was just strong enough to breathe life into a flock of dried leaves, enabling them to flutter about, dancing and swirling. I smiled. God , it’d been a long time since I noticed the leaves dance.