“Love Hurts”

The small sterile, stark white room was buzzing slightly from the hum of fluorescent lighting, as I sat silently clutching my two and a half-year, old son, terrified to turn him over to the blue-scrub clad nurse standing before me. Within moments of the gas mask being placed atop his face, I could feel his little body going limp in my arms, and no amount of preparation from the doctor’s pre-surgery instructions could have made that experience easier. I was frozen in fear, not able to let him go. The nurse was speaking to me softly saying it was time for AJ to be taken to the adjacent room on the other side of the automatic doors where Dr. DeBartomo was waiting to perform the Tympanostomy, but as reassuringly as she spoke, I still couldn’t move. Al had been standing off to the side when he suddenly turned and moved swiftly towards me with outstretched arms, saying only, “Mizz, I’m taking him; he’ll be fine.” He scooped AJ up and handed him over to the nurse, who was still waiting just steps away. I watched the double doors open, swallowing up my boy and the nurse who held him and wondered how long it might take before the procedure would be finished? The waiting seemed interminable. Even at that tender age, AJ had already flung his little body out of the playpen onto our Saltillo Tile patio resulting in a concussion, logged in three Emergency Room trips as well as one very agonizing visit to a Plastic Surgeon, and while each of those incidents was both painful and traumatic for my very young son, they required only a local anesthetic, and I was present for the entire process; this experience was drastically different, and the feeling of helplessness was overwhelming.

THIS IMAGE MAY BE A RE-RUN, BUT AFTER EXPERIENCING THE FIRST INCIDENT OF MY SON’S RECKLESS ABANDON AND ZEST FOR LIFE AT JUST 18 MONTHS OF AGE, COMPOUNDED BY HIS ONGOING AND INSATIABLE APPETITE FOR ADVENTURE, I BECAME HYPER FOCUSED ON ENSURING HIS SAFETY.

Two plus decades later, and I still remember that day as if it was yesterday. And while that one specific yesterday was years and years ago, it doesn’t stop the ache of whiplash resulting from all the odd twists and tough turns which have filled the years in-between. The unfortunate reality today regarding my relationship with that same little boy, my son, is stark in contrast to the bond we once shared, devolving to a point which has left me feeling all but paralyzed for the past many months, somewhat reminiscent of the foreboding trepidation which filled the air in that outpatient surgical center where AJ experienced his first of three “ear-tube” operations.

This is NOT the seamless segue I was hoping to achieve after my last post, and for that as well as the lengthy delay in between, I owe you a major apology. Truth be told I’ve had some awfully heavy issues to address. It is with that in mind, I implore of you to bear with me, please? The truth, like love, can hurt and is often tough to digest, and God knows I am a slow processor. The past six plus months have been akin to reliving a bizarre rerun scenario as though some “alien-like” force holds me captive. Simultaneously, I’m beyond disappointed in myself when I consider the ever-widening gaps between posts; how did that happen, and more importantly, how do I get it to stop? Originally created as a therapeutic outlet after discovering a trove of heinously ugly facts about my Ex-husband, as well as the reconciling of a lengthy series of lies I had been unwittingly living with for decades and needing a place to purge, DearEasyDiaries delivered just such a vehicle. It’s not merely a platform for some desperately needed therapy, but is a safe space… my safe space, our safe space, and what a Godsend it has been. Additionally, with DearEasyDiaries five-year anniversary being marked recently, and the empowering, albeit triggering, milestone which that celebrates, it’s time for me to, once again, pull on my big girl panties and get my “arss” in gear. Inertia is no longer an option, and I refuse to accept the shackling of haunting thoughts, so if you’d wish me a bit of good luck as I embark on the path to what I pray will be a triumphant return, I’d be very grateful.    

Last Summer, I wrote a post called “Holi-Daze,” and when I reread it recently, trying to break my “writer’s block,” I realized that like then, I continue to tiptoe around a subject that has caused me endless anguish and worry. Why is it that I find myself painstakingly agonizing over every single word I write, or rather… write, erase, rewrite, then repeat?  I’ve had no succinct answer to that question for the longest time, much longer than this last lapse in published blog posts. Truth be told, the empty pit which has taken up residence in my stomach, and never fully goes away, especially given the embarrassment and shame I still feel, having unwittingly spent at least half my adult life with an unconscionable, empathy-free, sociopathic narcissist, and the resulting damage that was inflicted is not sustainable. I can’t continue to live haunted by the past, my denial of it, nor with the possibility that it could ever be repeated. Generational curses have no place in my life any longer. There it is… that single statement may well be the crux of my literary “derailment.” It’s surely the reason I’ve removed myself from any and every equation which could possibly include my ex, Al, or any number of “others” who thrive on perpetuating lies, chaos, and creating drama as the constants in life. The bigger piece of the emotional mess that I’ve never been able to fully reconcile or bring myself to say out loud, much less detail on paper, until now, involves my son and the alliance he formed with his father over the last six years. I’d like to think that their rekindled relationship and ongoing union is one based upon the principles of trust, genuine affection, and loving concern. However, that premise would entail that I continue travelling down the familiar, but unenviable, road of blind acceptance which guided my path for so many previous years, and that’s no longer an option. My once, long ago, meek demeanor has been erased, and while I’m not entirely sure of a suitable adjective to use in place of the submissive descriptors once assigned me, I can assure you the list does NOT include any of the following: demure, docile, compliant, biddable, or acquiescent… and thank heavens for that.

THIS PHOTO OF MY MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER AND ME WAS TAKEN IN THE BACKYARD OF MY MOTHER’S 14 ACRE HORSE RANCH AND HOME ON LAGO LINDO IN RANCHO SANTA FE ON THE DAY OF MOM’S WEDDING TO MY STEPFATHER, GEORGE. MY GRANDMOTHER, MA, AND I WERE ALIKE IN A NUMBER OF WAYS; WE BOTH LOVED TO READ, WERE FAIRLY QUIET AND UNASSUMING, LOVED MUSIC, DANCING, OLD MOVIES, AND AS LIFE BEARS OUT, WE EACH GAVE BIRTH TO TWO CHILDREN, ONE OF EACH SEX, WHILE EMBRACING OUR ROLES AS TRADITIONAL WIVES.

The similarities between “Ma” and myself don’t stop where the caption above ends, and over the past couple years I’ve been closely re-examining and trying to make sense of one common facet of our lived experiences that I’d like to better understand, and hopefully not continue to perpetuate. It was never a secret that my Grandmother favored my uncle over my Mom. Despite her undeniable devotion, Ma still had a very complex relationship with my uncle, her only son. Regardless of the partiality she showed, my uncle NEVER spent any of his adult years living anywhere in close proximity to his family of origin and would only deign to visit my Grandparents when absolutely necessary, aka weddings & funerals, or when he needed “bailing out” from one of his many financial failures. Because my Grandparents spent such an enormity of time with my own family of origin, including moving to, and following my Mom from place to place over many decades, in order to be close to their only daughter and by extension their four granddaughters, we spent an inordinate amount of time together. Those memories and the presence both my Grandparent’s had in my life was a gift of immense proportion. Not only did I relish in the sense of stability and safety Ma and Pa represented, but they both provided immeasurably valuable lessons which I treasure and continue to learn from today. In addition to the qualities I shared in the caption above, my Grandmother showed me unfailingly, unconditional love, taught me how to needlepoint, and was a trusted sounding board as well as a safe refuge when my immediate family’s home life got super complicated and toxic. My Grandfather instilled in me a sense of strength through character, the importance of a strong role model, what honor and fair play looks like in business, and by his example I also learned the value that a man of integrity commands while leading his family through thick and thin. From my experience, that’s a VERY rare quality by today’s standard or any other measure, and one that certainly NEVER factored into my marriage with the man I chose to be the father of my children. Blame that on me, my naivete, blind optimism, poor choices, or the combination of it all… who knows? Whatever you want to call it though, that negligence is mine to own, and I do. That bit of history aside, my Grandfather’s sound judgment, strength, and steady hand at the helm of our “family-ship” passed when he did. Far too soon for my liking and terribly detrimental to my Grandmother, Ma’s wellbeing, but perfect timing for my uncle and his agenda. My Grandfather’s death resulted in the demise of my family of origin. A grim assessment I know, but a factual one.

Strength of character, however, was not a quality ever referenced nor transferrable via Pa’s will, which provided an ideal opening for an individual with little to no redeeming qualities, other than his good looks, selective charm, and skills on a tennis court to slither his way into the equation. My uncle took that ball and ran with it just as surely as “the boys of Fall” run towards the end zone. While those young, elite athletes originally run for a team and a touchdown, my uncle ran for personal gain, a payday, maybe even spite, but above all control, no matter the human cost or collateral damage. Narcissism and greed are powerful motivators and eventually, but far too late for any substantive justice, the unspoken, and very ugly reality of my uncle’s (and others) animus was revealed. It mattered not what my Grandfather had so carefully delineated in his final Will & Trust; all my uncle saw was an opportunity for profit and control. As such, he painstakingly and masterfully manipulated both my Grandmother and Mom for the two years which followed Pa’s passing until POOF… a brand new “Trust” Document was created, granting control of all the estate’s financial assets to my uncle, ensuring his ascent to the role of family patriarch, a designation he didn’t earn, but was eager to seize.

Why all this backstory? Probably because the memory of my family’s history is something I’ve always had trouble processing, and also because I subscribe to the theory that we can’t heal what we don’t reveal. Ours was a privileged and stable family when Pa, my maternal Grandfather steered the ship. By contrast, I watched our family unit crumble following his demise, and I struggled for the next decade listening to and watching my Grandmother lament the waiting and praying for any sliver of contact that my hapless asshat of an uncle (my description, not Ma’s) might carelessly toss her way. Recently, that memory haunts me in an unspeakably eerie way. I never envisioned finding myself in that same position, waiting and praying for a call or text which may or may not appear. Yet in the last several years, it feels like I’ve been relegated to that very same status, and it’s an abysmal way to feel after loving someone with tremendous ferocity for 29 years. My own Son’s ability to leverage my love to satisfy his whims, all the while keeping me at an arm’s length feels awfully similar to what I witnessed between my Grandmother and uncle. That scares me. Watching my Grandmother be manipulated for decades only to find herself alone and in a nursing home (her greatest fear) at the end of her life carries a sting of betrayal I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

IT ONLY RECENTLY STRUCK ME AS I’VE BEEN STRUGGLING TO COMPLETE THIS POST IN AN AUTHENTIC AND MEANINGFUL MANNER THAT MY UNCLE EXHIBITED MANY OF THE SAME CHARACTER (OR LACK OF) TRAITS THAT MY EX POSSESSES, WITH THE EXCEPTION THAT AL WAS (OR IS) FAR MORE INTELLIGENT THAN MY UNCLE MIGHT HAVE ENVISIONED HIMSELF TO BE.

Revisiting that sad history has been a wake-up call, prompting a deep dive into familial habits and patterns that have gone unchecked, so to speak. A year and a half ago when my son AJ and I began reconnecting, exchanging texts and even a phone call from time to time, I thought maybe the tide of the past several years and resulting turmoil had changed. Maybe we had been given a second chance to build back a relationship? I credited his enlisting in the Army with what appeared to be a greater purpose in life, renewed discipline, a redirection of priorities, a taste of humility, and even a deepening sense of faith. I felt optimistic and was desperate to cling to that ideal.

THESE TEXT EXCHANGES REVEAL THE INTERACTION THAT WAS ACCEPTABLE WITH MY SON AT THAT JUNCTURE. MY RESPONSE TO AN EARLIER PHONE CONVERSATION AJ AND I HAD THAT DAY WHEN HE CALLED TO TELL ME THAT HE HAD JUST GRADUATED FROM ANOTHER LEVEL IN THE ARMY TRAINING PROGRAM AND WOULD BE LEAVING FOR THE NEXT STEP… FLIGHT TRAINING. I WAS PROUD OF HIS COMMITMENT AND GRATEFUL THAT HE WAS INITIATING MORE CONTACT, EVEN SENDING ME PHOTOS OF HIS SQUAD AND A HANDFUL OF OTHER MOMENTS HE WAS WILLING TO SHARE. THAT TYPE OF INTERACTION HADN’T OCCURRED FOR QUITE SOME TIME, AND IT INSPIRED ME WITH HOPE FOR THE FUTURE.

As the caption above relays, the next step in AJ’s military service involved being transferred to an alternative location for flight training, but that was the extent of what he would tell me. While our communication had increased and improved over the course of the prior six months, I didn’t want to be too pushy or overstep what I perceived as the new latitude my Son seemed willing to extend me. It’s a tricky business navigating waters that have included such volatility and upheaval, particularly with the pressure to be cool and not overbearing. Knowing how much AJ resented my past “helicopter method” of parenting, I was working hard to be easygoing, not pose questions, and avoid the temptation to make suggestions or requests. Easier said than done; nonetheless, I was determined to be cheerleader only. While I was desperate to know more about the various steps and stages in AJ’s new life choice, I forced myself to be content with the information he volunteered. I kept telling myself, he’s a 28 year-old man, not the infant, child, young boy, teenager, college student or even the young “adult-ish” man I loved so dearly and had tried to protect for (apparently) far too long. NO easy task, but it appeared that if I wanted any shot of remaining in his life, those were the only terms that might provide for any future relationship. A challenge to be sure, but was that all?

The message relayed in AJ’s next text took me completely by surprise, prompting my mind to run crazy with questions? When did he leave the military, and why; had he been injured, or was he discharged for some reason? I’m certainly no expert on military procedures or regulations, but I’m pretty sure once a person has enlisted, they can’t just arbitrarily change their minds and leave one day? Still the cavalier manner, in which AJ communicated the news about returning to “normal civilian life” only heightened my concern. But then once again, I realized he had only shared with me the bare minimum, and I was reluctant, even afraid, to ask more. It seemed risky to jeopardize what little modicum of rapport we had been slowly building back by being too intrusive. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a medical reason for his return to civilian life. Prior to learning of AJ’s enlistment, he had sent me a brief and random text asking about the name of the Oral Maxillofacial surgeon who performed his wisdom teeth removal in high school. I was curious about the request, but didn’t yet know the impetus for the question, so I answered as straightforwardly as possible. When I read the text referenced above though, it got me wondering. The last communication we exchanged, prior to the (now not so recent) “civilian life” update was right before AJ was to start the flight training part of his enlistment program. I put two and two together and based solely on instinct, intuition, and experience as both my kid’s main caregiver throughout their lives, surmised that AJ’s long-standing issue with ear infections, including three “ear-tube” surgeries as well as a ruptured eardrum, and his Tonsil and Adenoidectomy surgery, all which took place in the first six years of his life, could very well have caused permanent scar tissue and other damage which would absolutely impact the altitude issue and other physical requirements of flight training. Had I been given a head’s up on his military plans or been given the opportunity to engage in any meaningful discussion with him at all prior to his enlistment, I would have been able to share that insight. But who knows… this is just a wild guess on my part; still, it doesn’t sound so farfetched as to be way off base either? Did he counsel with anyone prior to enlisting? Was there someone who might have known about or raised such issues and eventualities? Did Al not remember all those procedures or events from AJ’s childhood? I suppose Al’s constant travel and absence from, or interest in, our day-to-day living might explain the lapse in remembering such key details. The only surgical event which occurred following the divorce (when Al was even more conspiculously absent from our kid’s lives) was AJ’s Wisdom Teeth removal, but I had informed Al, in writing, of the procedure prior to its occurrence as well as the successful outcome afterwards. Maybe that was the reason AJ asked me about that one particular surgeon’s name? Then I thought of the time AJ broke his nose steer-wrestling at the Jr. High National Rodeo Finals in New Mexico; maybe that played a part in some piece of the puzzle too? Regardless, of all my mental gymnastics trying to deduce what might have happened, by the time I was informed of his enlistment, any input from me would have been too late to do any good. What a shame for my son, who seemed so genuinely interested and motivated by the thought of serving our country as a member of the Special Forces.   

As I sit here writing this, I’m reminded again about the submissive manner with which my Grandmother related to my uncle, grateful for any “bone” he might toss her way, and it occurs to me I sound pretty-damn meek right about now too. Wasn’t I just saying those days were behind me? As much as I may try to draw a hardline about the respect or disrespect I’ll tolerate, it’s a touchy subject when our kids are involved. Maybe that’s the price one pays when becoming a mother? The instinctual need or desire to make everything ok, no matter your children’s age, never really goes away. The challenge to temper that impulse according to the circumstances is obviously something I haven’t mastered yet. As such, there have been more instances than I can recount when I believed to my very core that I was doing the right thing by my children, only to discover I was wrong. And as difficult and painful as those words are to say… they also happen to be true.

Sometimes, when I dread the distance between my son and myself, I wonder about the decisions I might have made differently. Was I supposed to ignore the usurious manner, in which he behaved prior to our estrangement? Did I fail at what I consider to be my most important and beloved assignment in life… that of motherhood? How does one (meaning me) suddenly flick off the switch from being a mom, and stop being concerned about the wellbeing of my kids, regardless of their age? I wish I knew. I don’t have answers to any of those matters, and my assumption at this point is, that I will most likely never get responses to the litany of unresolved issues that exist between my son and me. AJ has made it abundantly clear he refuses to discuss the past or any of the events which led to our estrangement. That’s not something I can simply ‘will’ to change, but without that type of open dialogue, I’m not sure how to move forward or what the future holds for us.

Unfortunately, I’ve felt this same kind of disconnect before, both in a multitude of situations and with an assortment of people. Once I began implementing boundaries to protect myself, attempting to attain a level of peace and even keel in life, rather than wearing a welcome doormat on my back, as I have done for a majority of my years, my circle grew substantially smaller, but it also showed me who was REAL, and who wasn’t.

Call me crazy, but there’s a reel of images and remembrances that circle my mind begging to be processed, identified, and dealt with, if possible? Today, it feels like I’m a step closer. While this isn’t a pleasant endeavor, and I have no way of predicting what the fall-out may be, if I don’t get this sorted out, the chances of me ever feeling at peace are slim to none, and peacefulness is very high on my list of priorities these days. Wrestling ghosts is never easy, but if the grappling helps get one (a.k.a. me) to a place of better understanding, easy doesn’t really factor into the equation at all.

Decades ago, before my divorce from Al, my first shrink, James, gave me a book entitled “The Dance of Intimacy” by author, Harriet Lerner, Ph.D.  I recall James saying, it might be helpful towards understanding what he believed was Al’s inability to connect on any deeply personal or emotional level. Whether I ever finished the book is doubtful, but I remember feeling very triggered as so much of the content was incredibly disconcerting and hit way too close to home… damn, there’s that old denial thing again. At the time, I was struggling with Al’s disconnect from anything that might prompt a heartfelt discussion or revealing of emotion. I couldn’t fathom why it was literally impossible for him to express genuine connectivity. The issue would pop up periodically, more frequently than I intended, but despite my efforts to bury the emptiness or leave it behind, I couldn’t seem to let go. That might help explain how the following scenario could have fueled that anxiety? Sometime shortly before the year 2000, one of Al’s two older sisters sent a package for Al’s birthday, which contained several photos from Al’s childhood as well as a lovely card extending her best wishes and saying how she would really like an opportunity to meet our children. It was probably 11-12 years into our union, but no amount of prior pleading on my part nor wistful requests from either of Al’s remaining siblings was sufficient motivation for him to budge. Money wasn’t an issue; travel wasn’t an issue; both of those things were plentiful. Al seemed incapable of caring about his family of origin; I didn’t get it. After opening the large manilla envelope addressed to both of us, he read the note, perused the pictures, asked me to find a frame for one of the photos portraying his late Mother, gave the rest of the package’s contents with the card and envelope back to me, and told me to do whatever I wanted with it. I pushed back a little saying I’d be happy to frame all the pictures and put the card in one of his bedside table drawers or his office. He waved his hand in dismissal, as so frequently happened, and said, “no, I don’t care about any of it.” Case closed; I knew better than to force the issue. In hindsight, it’s likely not a good match when one person is “overly emotional” (his words) and one is not (my words) but experience had revealed, rocking the boat never served me well, so I let it go. Curiously enough I still have the original package as well as the card and remaining photographs. My intention was to save the items in case the day might come when any one of Al’s four children might find the remembrances dear. That’s yet to be determined, but I can attest to the fact that neither of my two kids nor I, ever met the Sisters, and to the best of my knowledge they’re both still living and must be in their mid to late 90’s.

IT’S A TRAGIC BUT IRONIC REALITY THAT I HOLD ON TO ALL THE THINGS I FIND SENTIMENTAL, NOT JUST THOSE OF MONETARY VALUE. REMEMBER THE “OVERLY EMOTIONAL” THING; THIS IS PROOF POSITIVE, BUT I’LL TAKE THAT OVER BEING EMOTIONLESS ANY DAY.

Al originally claimed that he “outgrew” his family and had neither the interest nor the time to rekindle any type of relationship. Maybe that was true; I’ll never know. All that I can definitively say is he also told me his family had very poor genetics; his father died when Al was just eight or nine, and his older brother reputedly passed in his mid 40’s due to heart issues. Al’s own longevity at 85 years of age, as well as his sister’s ages makes that allegation a bit suspect. But does that history have any bearing on my son, AJ’s “reimagined” alliance with his father, or his apparent disdain for, and the disconnect from, his Sister, Brother-in-Law, and me? Maybe AJ has just outgrown me too? That’s possible, or perhaps he simply chose the path of least resistance? While I expected him to respect the conditions of his privilege, and be accountable for his actions, his father was willing to dole out money with no conditions or accountability? Pretty sweet deal, or is it… maybe, maybe not? I’m not certain the answers to those quandaries will ever be revealed. In the meantime, it would appear I’m left to blindly accept whatever tidbits of insight, information, or attention AJ may or may not choose to share with me.

With the above in mind, and since I’m, apparently, still wallowing in a mildly indulgent pity party, why can’t I stop contemplating the parallel between my Son’s “relatively” recent detachment and disdain for his family of origin, to his father’s own similar behavior and “M.O.” regarding his family of origin? I have a theory. What if there are actually a variety of “ghosts” I’m battling here, rather than just one generalized version, as I initially thought? Maybe the concept of dealing with multiple small “bites” is easier to digest? Let’s run with that, because for the first time in months I see a flicker of light down this rabbit hole I’ve been travelling. Enough with the self-doubt, fear, or whatever other trick my mind is playing on me; I’m pretty sure I know these answers, I just haven’t had the guts to say the truth out loud before. This is one of those times when DearEasyDiaries reminds me how valuable therapy can be. We can’t heal our wounds if we don’t acknowledge them.

So here it is… in all my “non-shrink” but newly awakened state of mind. It’s likely I’ve been seeing myself in my Grandmother and comparing that persona and the way she accepted my uncle’s occasional crumb of attention, to the relationship I now find myself engaged in with my own Son. Not a terribly pleasant thought, but one that stands a better than average chance of being true. If that was the only burr under my horse’s saddle pad, I could probably accept it and find appropriate ways to cope with the matter, but there’s so much more than just one sore spot in question. The truth I am hesitant to confess, is that I’ve seen my Son adopting more and more of the troubling traits which both my uncle, as well as my ex, Al possessed. At the same time, I don’t care for the passivity which I’ve allowed to creep into my relationship with my own child. Walking on eggshells and tolerating disrespect is something I believed was a thing of the past after divorcing Al, and followed by the cruel judgement from other immediate members of my family when the fallout of a heinously ugly divorce was revealed. However, all these years later, here I am teetering on that same type of dysfunction, and it can’t continue. Several paragraphs ago, I claimed that “meek” was no longer an adjective I would use to describe myself, yet that’s precisely the way I’ve been reacting to this untenable “dance of denial” that’s been two-stepping its way through my life again. Right about now, I’m wishing I’d have finished that book by Harriet Lerner, and maybe even read some of her others, like “The Dance of Fear” or “The Dance of Deception.” Both of those emotions are resonating with me now in a way I haven’t felt for a while.

The term “narcissist” is over-used these days to be sure, and many of us (myself, included) display certain aspects of the disorder, but narcissism, like autism, is one of those conditions that exist on a spectrum, and that distinction is not lost on me, nor in this attempt to understand either the behavior of myself or others. I say none of this lightly, but if you’ve read many, or even one or two DearEasyDiaries posts, particularly some of the earlier ones, you might agree with my position. If you don’t, that’s okay too; we all have our own lived journeys to guide us.

Living with a concept once you fully understand the premise or backstory isn’t always a walk in the park, but it’s far superior to having to work around or live with a person’s behavior for which you have no explanation, or any modicum of sense attached. That kind of crap (sorry, not sorry) is the stuff TRAUMA and the people who exact such gaslighting are made of.

While I detest one of the pivotal words relayed in that vivid explanation of trauma detailed in the video above, it’s been waaaay too long since I saw such a complex issue broken down into such relatable terms, and for that I am beyond appreciative. With that little nugget of insight as a backdrop, it’s important to explain… I am a visual, NOT an auditory learner, which is probably why I can work on my laptop while the news is on TV, “Alexa” spins tunes, and “CHC Livescoring” is streaming whichever equestrian event has currently piqued my attention. Sure, I’d love to chalk all that sensory overload up to highly functional multi-tasking, but I fear it has more to do with having lived a good portion of my life immersed in chaos and feeling quite oddly comforted by it. Why does any of that matter a hoot in this equation; good question. Here’s the thing… it’s taken me far too long to wrap my mind around all the “feels” that drive my life, and while I’m (hopefully) confident that much of it is processed and worked through, there’s probably more to come. But now that I have a relatively decent grasp on my faults, vices, fears, and yes, maybe even strengths, I’m grateful for the peace that understanding all those qualities brings to my life.   

 MY DAUGHTER LITERALLY JUST SHARED THE GRAPHIC OF THIS SENTIMENT WITH ME YESTERDAY MORNING AND AS SOON AS I READ THE WORDS, I HAD AN EPIPHANY.

Those things… the epiphanies, are happening with more and more frequency. And just like the video regarding the “trauma” reference, I can’t help but be reminded of the discord which exists between my Son and me. While I desperately and wildly overcompensated for the absence of a father (albeit a crappy one) in my kid’s life following the divorce and trying to build a better life for my kids, there is no amount of skateboards, concert tickets, surfboards, snowboards, cars, guitars, drum sets, carbon bow & arrows, hunting trips, rifles, shotguns, parties, horses, or the lessons, travel, and supervision required to safely and productively, utilize many of those items that could begin to repair the damage and scars already inflicted upon my kids. Why? Well, go back and watch that black and white video on trauma once again. Maybe you’re a far quicker study than I, but it’s taken me 4-5 viewings of that video to truly grasp the depth, complexity, and veracity of what is such a profoundly simple explanation issued by a grown man sitting “criss-cross applesauce” in a chair talking about “fixing piss in a glass.” Sounds both crass and a tad absurd, doesn’t it? Maybe, and while I have no idea who that specific guy is, right about now I’m really wishing he had been my shrink. His words make sense… actual, legitimate sense, and rather than overcompensate for the trauma we experienced with external stimulants, I ought to have been seeking a way to “remove the piss from the glass” rather than merely buying more glasses. Duh, Missy.

It is with that very distinctive explanation of trauma in mind, in addition to the screenshot about growth giving us permission to change ourselves and our way of navigating the world to feel safe that I find myself examining the ways I’ve tried to deal with my own residual scarring while simultaneously pondering what I might have been able to do more effectively to help abate the increasing divide between my son and me. The answers which bounce around in my mind are not always easy to reconcile. There’s an inexplicable blur between the years when my kids and I rallied after the divorce and became what I used to describe as an unbreakable force compared to the years which followed our year-long stint in Texas. Somewhere in that transitional capsule of time, the bond I believed my son and I shared was broken. But when did the fissure between us really gain speed and take off? That’s still an elusive concept, and while I’m good to own my part in the equation, it’s heartbreaking to finally grasp the totality of the breakdown. It’s even tougher to accept because I didn’t change… the “rules” changed.

That’s become a recurring theme with several people in my life whom I’ve loved. So, bottom line… where is this going? Usually when I write something, I have very clear, defined beginnings and endings in mind, and the part in between is fluid depending on the experience or emotions involved. Over the years, I’ve assembled a tiny bit of a tool kit if you will, and I add to it, or take from it, as I go. This situation, or post, is proving quite the exception. See the thing is I know I have the tools I need to endure this “storm,” because I’ve done it before, but no matter how confident I am in my experience, it never occurred to me I’d ever need this set of tools regarding one of my own kids, and that’s just flat soul crushing.

Over the past several years, I’ve written numerous letters to and engaged in other exchanges with my son, trying to understand both his takeaway of our disconnect, as well as hoping to explain my point of view about what went sideways. I hoped that in doing so, we might find a way to repair the resulting damage, but to little, if any avail. My efforts and his rebukes remind me of the “glass of water” referenced earlier.  There’s “no removing the piss” if you won’t actively address the issue. So, here I am trying to reconcile, for my own clarity and sanity, the real problem in this scenario. I’m more than willing to accept my part, but also aware that all the perceived harmful actions were not exacted solely by me.  Al used to tell me when we first started dating… “no response is a response,” and I learned the truth of that statement in a deeply painful way. Am I experiencing a case of “déjà vu?” Should I finally accept that with the guarded and infrequent trail of communication between us, AJ has essentially been delivering that exact same type of message to me for six years? That it’s taken me this long to digest the eventuality I’m facing, just goes to show how I’ve allowed optimism and denial to outweigh sound reasoning, once again. But what was, or am, I supposed to do? I’m a staunch believer in family and unconditional love, yet I’ve been burned by both in unspeakable ways I never imagined possible. Those experiences hold the potential to leave someone (aka, me) more than a tad bit gun shy. Still, there is no part of me that could or would EVER stop loving my children… FULL STOP. I pray and wish for their safety, health, happiness, and prosperity daily, but at what point is it acceptable to stop being a scapegoat for foibles that aren’t mine to carry? Is it really wrong for me to expect a modicum of respect from the two human beings I’ve devoted my life, love, and every resource towards raising? Maybe, maybe not. I could probably ask a dozen people and receive just as many varied responses. But here’s the thing… there’s a better than average chance the only voice I really need to listen to is my own. That’s been a challenge and foreign concept to me for decades, but at the end of the day, the only person I can truly hold accountable for my life now, is me. There’s no doubt, I will always answer to God, but he’s already proven my life is valuable, worth saving, and has more to offer this world. Surviving Tuberculosis as an infant, two bouts with “Flesh-Eating Bacteria” in the course of nine months, including four surgeries, being completely immobile for two weeks receiving Hyperbaric treatment three times a day, then subsequently trying to raise both a six year old as well as an incredibly active 18 month old, all while having to learn how to re-use my affected hand and arm again is not for the faint of heart, but I did it. Later, I endured a nine year-long divorce ordeal…  forced to respond to more frivolous, divisive, and fraudulent legal actions across two states than I could ever have imagined. Through every challenge, I fought and survived. For now, that’s my takeaway from this experience too. Should I be hit by a bus tomorrow, I know that I’ve done my level best at everything I’ve attempted to accomplish. Raising two, now grown, kids is a part of that history, and it’s a tale I don’t shy away from telling. Maybe this is just my way of finally reconciling that while I’ve made thousands of mistakes in life, there are a thousand other good things I’ve done too. My kids are at the top of that list, and I will never regret or apologize for any of it. Seeking authenticity and truth is my guidepost, and while I might mess up at times, I do so authentically and try to own those missteps 100%. Where that leaves me with my Son remains unknown, but being able to put words to the ache that has filled my heart is surely a start.

The photo that introduces this post is from one of my daily walks through the area where I live, and when I saw it, I was struck by the symbolism of a heart with thorns protruding from it. Normally, I’m not a huge lover of cactus (memories for another time) but then I thought how brilliant nature is… everything protects itself.

There’s a poem that reads, “If you love something, set it free. If it returns, it’s yours; if it doesn’t, it never was.” Maybe it’s time for me to finally embrace that sentiment? Or maybe, I should think back to that outpatient surgery room so long ago, and keep faith that somehow it will all be ok, whatever that looks like? At least for today, I feel like I’m ready to move forward.