What would you do? April 25, 2011

I have always called my mom on mother’s day. Always. And I’ve always dreaded it for weeks, nay months, ahead of time.

Mother’s day is painful for me, so painful it’s physically distressing, often resulting in stomach cramps and nausea. How do you celebrate someone’s motherhood when you, as their daughter, feel chronically abandoned, assaulted, ignored, used? How do I give her motherhood credit when she’s caused me so much agony? Most of those balmy May days I want to crawl in a damp hole and come back out when it’s all over.

This year I’m wondering what will happen if I just don’t call. You know the ‘ole, “if you can’t say something nice don’t say anything at all”? With each day I’m becoming less willing to pretend it’s all okay. Because it’s not okay, it never was, and I think I’m finally willing to admit it.

But can I live with the guilt? It’s Mother’s Day afterall. What would you do?

What goes up… April 20, 2011

I hadn’t cried (much) for several days. I was on my game, getting schoolwork done, moving forward, chatting with strangers, making friends, feeling good.

And then, crash.

I’m barely able to get out of bed, the anxiety is crushing, I have to remember to breathe. I can’t stay asleep, I can’t stand to be awake, I need to scream but I can’t stand my own voice.

Fuck. Can I say that here? And I was going to give up swearing this year.

Will I get my life back? Isn’t “healing” suppose to be about getting better? Making improvements? Instead I feel like my sanity is slowly draining away.   I feel crazier, less stable, more neurotic. This would be terrifying if it wasn’t so exhausting.

I feel like calling my mom for Mother’s Day and flipping the fuck out on her. Her absolute, unspoken denial of my entire childhood is suffocating. Can someone confirm my vague, remembered reality? Can someone vouch that my memories are accurate? Because I can’t possibly believe they are. What mother allows a man to lock her child in an unventilated bathroom with instructions to clean it with a solution of ammonia and bleach? What mother repeatedly responds to her child’s pleas for food with the words shouted through a door, “Whatever it is – run it under cold water and put a bandaid on it!” What mother delivers her little girl to a boyfriend so he can “make sure she’s developing properly”?  I can’t be remembering this right, can I? Can I?

The worst is what I don’t remember, what is shrouded behind half-memories that flicker between reality and and a dream state. There were several years that my brother lived with my dad. But I can’t recall anytime my brother and I didn’t live in the same house. I’ve forgotten years.  I have dark memories of a man walking into my bedroom at night, but I can’t remember anything after that.  Was it a dream?  Was he just checking on me, warmly tucking in the blankets?  Or something more nefarious?  What happened to me? What didn’t happen? And where are my memories?  Where the fuck are my memories?

And why is that man living in rational society? Why is he not locked in prison? Why isn’t he paying for my therapy? Paying for all the years I lost spinning wildly just trying to get my feet under me? Would it be inappropriate (or illegal) to make a sign, “A ped*ophile lives here” and stand in front of his house? Because, godamnit, I may be broken but I am not afraid of him anymore.

2010 Blizzard December 12, 2010

We’ve been snowed in all weekend!  We had a blizzard, the likes of which I haven’t seen since I was a little kid.  As long as you have nowhere to go, it’s still fun as an adult!  Tally for our city is 23” 17″!  (P read some initial reports in the newspaper claiming 23″, but official reports are coming in closer to 17″)

the front of our house

We don’t use the front door much, thank goodness!

The compost bin is covered and there are a few of these neat 5′ snowblown ridgelines in our yard (to the right of the garage)

So. much. snow!

We’ve (well, mostly P) been shoveling!

This ridgeline is about as tall as me (5’4″)

Buried by P are cages with blueberries.  We’ve shoveled “moats” around the  caged blueberries, apples, cherry, peach, and juneberry plants to keep the rabbits from digging down and eating the young stems.   The rabbits with girdle and kill the young plants.  I am thankful, though, for a deep winter snow to help insulate the new plants, which will increase their odds of surviving winter.

The neighbors had a lot of digging to do to get their cars out!

Light April 26, 2010

The semester is finishing up and I’m seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I’m finding a little stress relief in some bus-time knitting and stolen moments of digging in the garden.

I can’t wait for a end-of-the-semester beer. Or maybe two or three.

Finished Objects! March 12, 2010

Ahhh, spring break.  I woke up, voluntarily, at 7am and got to work.  Lookie what I finally (started and) finished!

A cover for our wool comforter!  It’s a monster – the finished size was 91″ x 104″.  Wheew!

A vendor at the local farmer’s market sells these wonderful wool comforters.  I had been oogling them for some time.  As a wedding present Mr. Sweetness himself bought one for me us.  What’s that?  I got hitched a year and a half ago?  Yes, yes, it’s true.  I should have done this ages ago.  But my sewing machine was broken or I didn’t have the fabric or I didn’t have the time or I didn’t have the snap press.

Speaking of snap press.  Check out those snaps!  Aren’t they awesome?  You might have to play a little “Where’s Waldo” to find the white cover on the brown print.  But it’s there, I promise!

The comforter now adds a lovely splash of color to the bedroom, and I no longer have to worry about the naked comforter getting (anymore) dingy.

And, much to my relief, I finally finished The Chalice Blanket.

This knitting project pretty much spanned the winter.

I’m forgetting the finished size, but it’s big enough for a twin bed.  In our house it will live on the couch. It’s long enough for P and I to share while watching a movie, but not so wide that it gets in the way.

I love it.

The pattern is just bold enough to stand out amongst the yarn’s variegations.

But simple enough to suit my tastes.

Did I mention how soft and cozy it is?  How much warmth it provides without being overbearing?  It’s perfect.

swamped March 2, 2010

life on the homestead is busy these days. We’re tapping our maple trees, babying our grafted apples, innoculating mushroom logs, trying to get grape scions to root, and stratifying seeds.

We’re also trying to work, keep up on school work, survive midterms, have a semblance of a social life, and keep the house clean. Not to mention cook, sleep, and still see each other!

I’ll be back in a few weeks!

Upon noticing the duplicate phrasing in the following posts January 21, 2010

It seems like “moving forward” is a theme around here lately. Thank goodness. It’s about time.

Like a ton of bricks January 14, 2010

Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of my dad’s death.  I knew tomorrow would be hard.

Unexpectedly, today hit me like a ton of bricks.  One year ago today I woke up in my own bed for the first time in more than a week, I went to work, and checked my phone anxiously all day waiting for a phone call from the doctor.  That conversation, one year ago today, was my father’s death sentence.  We drove north again that night.  I couldn’t stand the idea that my dad would be alone for his last night on earth, even if he was medically sedated.  We arrived late and I sat in the cool blue of his hospital room, trying to sleep sitting by his side, feeling his sweaty, swollen hand, listening to the aggressive hissing of the breathing machine.  

The news that would come in the following hours would only get worse and worse.  I would look at him and thank him for making the decision easier.  It became crystal clear he wouldn’t pull through, and letting the doctors continue intensive treatment would only degrade his remaining dignity and our own mental reserves.

Late tomorrow afternoon the half dozen of us were finally assembled and as I walked into the ICU crying for what had not yet happened, an elderly volunteer pulled me aside and gave me a long hug.  She cried, too, for me, for my loss.  She didn’t say anything, didn’t ask any questions.  But she understood.

I’m Done! December 22, 2009

I’mDoneI’mDoneI’mDone!!

One semester down, only like ten more to go.

But until then, I have a few weeks to do other things. First, however, I’m going to clean the house.

May 24, 2009

There has been a lot of good lately here on the homestead.  The BPO (broker price opinion) has been done on one house offer.  Nothing gets done until the BPO is done so, three months after we put in that offer, we might just start moving forward.  

The garden is looking awesome.  We’ve eaten some radishes, nibbled a little lettuce, and fried up a handful of collards.   The only real loss so far is the arugula which was planted from dicey seeds, so my expectations weren’t high.  Most everything else is in the ground – the beans, okra and continual lettuce sowings are almost all that remain.  Today I packed up leftover seed-starting mix and plant trays.  I packed most of the seeds into the depths of the refrigerator and noted with a small degree of sadness that a big chunk – seed starting – of the growing season is already done for the year.

Morel season has not proved very fruitful for us this year.  Once again, rain is eluding us and the mushrooms – and a great deal else – are suffering mightily for it.  

The weather is warm and I feel like a caterpillar breaking from the cocoon as I take out my ghostly limbs and bare them to the heat of the sun.  I feel relief, happiness along with a little bit of sheepishness, baring all that skin.

But I’m still feeling dizzy, restless, discontent.  With all the growing and greenery and the heavy scent of lilacs in the air, I still can’t believe all that remains of mi papa is packed, powdered, in a box in my aunt’s house.  I can’t find my bearings, my direction, any sense of grounding.  I am spinning internally, like a top going and going and going.  My brain whirring and whistling and churning.  I long for a sense of stillness and calm, to find the eye of my own storm.  I suspect part of the problem is my own endless curiosity, my unending appetite for discovery.  I cannot find time to calm myself because every uncommitted moment is filled with questions needing answers, repetition needing repeating.  There is too much I want to do, so very much I want to learn, so many processes to understand.  I think part of what I need to do is take a heavy-handled ax to the list of hobbies.  But the thought of cutting off my creative outlets is unbearable.  It’s painful, but probably beneficial like a solid pruning to redirect energy where I want it to go.  But I can’t.  I just don’t know where to start.  Quitting my job feels like the most logical thing, but I can’t exactly do that.  

I need more time, more energy, more organization, more focus.  I need less negativity, less stress, less complication.  I am starting to understand why people read enlightenment and self-help books.