Diarrhea (or, it's 1030 am and can I start drinking?)

My dear friend Ailey inspired me to write a post, but I'm going to have to put it off.

I'm trying to not feel too sorry for myself here.  I was looking forward to having the morning to myself at the dojo after dropping Scott at school.  I'd have the first real chance to do some writing in several days.

Because I started the job.  I'm working for the man.  In this orientation period I'm largely shielded from the stressful aspects of home health.  I won't even be going on home visits with therapists/nurses for a while.  Instead I've sat in the middle of the office warren with a computer monitor working my way through an online course on hepatitis.

The office culture swirling around me is pleasant.  I think this will work out ok.

Due to Scott's school schedule (half days only on Fridays) I'll work a 4 day a week schedule, with Fridays off.  So this morning's plan was to take him to school, and nip over the dojo for a few hours until pick-up time.

I'd be just gathering up my stuff right now to fetch him, had things gone to plan.  He woke me at at 4:30 this morning to tell me there was "some diarrhea in the bed."

Two weeks ago we had the nausea and vomiting.  The advice nurse said the vomiting should be tapering off in a few days and the trots could go two weeks.  We had daily diarrhea, with some lapses and relapses, ending the Wednesday before last.  He's been in school since then.

This Wednesday it was Connor, the morning after the Dinner From Hell. (Subject, perhaps, of another post)  It appears to be short lived, with his return to school Thursday.  But the intermittent nature of the symptoms keeps me from counting on it, and I may have doomed myself with the phrase "short lived".

Witness this morning.  After the first wake-up Scott was in the bathroom two more times, excreting copious amounts.  I sighed and weighed the options.  He was entirely chipper, talkative even--way too talkative--and didn't seem sick.  I remembered the advice nurse's...advice...that he could go to school as long as he had enough bowel control to get to the bathroom and was under about 3 movements a day.  Well, we'd had three already so we were in a gray area.  I made the call to keep him home and he hasn't had a movement since.

Gary said bye bye and went to a meeting, or a series.  Said he'd be late.  Left me with a child who's bouncing off the walls.  A child I feel duty-bound to insist upon educational activities as opposed to video games or videos on You Tube.    And that means I have to enforce it.

He held up his end of the bargain and read a couple books online and took quizzes afterward.  So I let him play with the computer for a while.  He's waiting for me to read to him from "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" right now, while playing the piano in such experimental ways I can't think straight.

Hence the Delayed Post.

Reflections on my last days as an at-home mother

Another step down the path:

Make decision       check
inform husband     check

long latency
lo-o-o-ong latency

look for work     check
apply for jobs     check
inform sons        (sigh) check
obtain job and start date     check
husband's trip corresponds with trial run for rotation     check
3 nights at friend's home to complete trial run for separate living rotation   check

Remaining to do:

1st day at work
formally begin separate living rotation 3 nights on, 3 off
get established in this rhythm
find another place (rather than doing rotation at a friend's)
take care of legal details of divorce

This morning I'm very conscious that this is my next-to-the-last morning to wake as an at-home mother. 

Child development research posits 9 temperamental characteristics.  Among other things these affect the ease with which transitions are made.  I approach the boundary from one life into the next.  The circle of my at-home-mom life has already intersected the circle of work-out-of-the-home-mom life, the shadow of the latter looming over the (soon to be) former.  Transitions aren't easy for me; I don't negotiate them gracefully.

Already one of my feet is in the working world, and I feel longing for the world of at-home mom. Yet the longing is tinged with irony because I appreciated at-home-momming most when my kids were in school so I could be alone.  I regret that I didn't enjoy my children, and their presences more when I was home full time.  I regret that I wasn't better at that job.

As companion to this regret I also feel sorrow in surrendering my alone time for professional life.

My hope is that my solitary reflection and writing time has served its purpose.  I thought my alone time was to help me to recover from the demands of children in the context of an unhappy and unsupportive marriage.  I thought the purpose was to have some uninterrupted thinking time to consider if my unhappiness was my fault.  I thought the purpose was to write my pain and name it so it was more bearable.  In all these ways my alone time has served me.

But it's done more.  It has enabled me to discern the shape of the Pattern that has been at the core of my life, and present from the beginning.  It's a Pattern that has required my participation, which I ably gave in the form of self-doubt.  I had to doubt myself and my own visceral feelings, intuitions in order to stay in service to the pattern.  At one time the pattern served to keep me in subjection to authority, and religion reinforced the bonds.  It probably served a survival function at a time when displeasing adults could be harshly punished,  yet persisted beyond its usefulness..  Once it was a strategy to keep me in line when I very much needed to stay in  line:  I was very afraid of pain.  If my feelings and intuitions conflicted with the demands of others it was dangerous to maintain my truth.  If I could poison the well of my own truth, by accusing it of being selfish, self-serving, stupid, or just plain WRONG, then it was easier to submit.  Sadly the strategy became habitual, and became a part of me.  Some form of it has manifested in nearly every area of my life and my marriage is its current embodiment.  The only way I can continue in this marriage is by continuing to poison my own well, doubting the legitimacy of my feelings and intuitions.  To stay in this marriage, I stay in Pattern.  And I say no to Pattern.

Perhaps to uncover these insights, and use them as a basis for decision, has been the reason for the hunger for so much time alone.  Perhaps I no longer need this solitary time and it has served its purpose.

Bad mom; or life, other plans, blah blah

I am so unsuited to have a child who has adhd.  A child who has adhd needs a mother who is an extrovert, who doesn't feel drained by demands on her time.  He needs a mom who can readily drop a task orientation and smell the (goddamn) roses, because such a child is unable to move from one moment to the next without smelling the (g..d...) roses.  I should be appreciating his outside-the-box world view and his capacity to be charmed by details I wouldn't ordinarily notice.  Instead my first response is impatience, frustration, and to feel just plain harried as we try to move through a day.  I worry a lot that I give Scott way too many "it's-not-ok-to-be-me" messages.  I'm sure he gets lots of such messages, even in the progressive school he attends.

I'm ashamed to say that I welcome school days and tend to dread holidays.  Sick days are like being robbed. Sick days that involve vomiting and diarrhea are just plain unfair.  This child is not docile and compliant when he's sick.  His activity level isn't appreciably diminished. 

Phase one of the Dry Run was completed late Sunday night.  This was to be The Demonstration to the boys of what we hoped the next few years of their lives would look like with Gary and I apart.  The hope is that if we can do it right, their lives won't feel a whole lot different than Gary gone on a business trip and then me gone on a weekend with the girls.  Gary was in Asia for about 10 days and I planned to go stay with Marti for a few days upon his return Sunday night.  Ideally I'd have left Monday night, but out of the goodness of my heart decided to give Gary a chance to get over jet-lag first.  So I decided Wednesday would be the day.  I'd take Scott to school as usual, and Gary would be responsible for pick-up, then all of the childcare until I returned sometime on Saturday.  Then we'd have to get serious about finding another place.

By the way, since we've told the boys that Gary and I will be separating, the atmosphere around here has been largely positive.  The boys have been getting along (knock on wood) pretty well, with Connor much more tolerant of Scott, and Scott openly affectionate with Connor.  He's been much less inclined to do things to deliberately annoy, and Connor's been less ready to be annoyed.  If anything, this seemed improved in Gary's absence.

Friday morning last week I was looking forward to one last day alone in the house before Gary's return.  On the ride to Scott's school I started hearing ominous sounds from the back seat.  Hastily I grabbed the litter bag and thrust it behind at him.  Clearly I couldn't take him to school, and did a big pivot to take him home.

The rest of the day he seemed fine, and I thought maybe the morning episode had been a fluke.  In the afternoon he began having diarrhea.  By evening I started to take it seriously.  At midnight I was awakened to wretching and the glorious dilemma of both ends erupting at once.  This involved a linen change and emergency laundering.  He was up again at 5 a.m. saying he'd "diarrhea-ed" in his boxers.

Then he was fine all day Saturday.  I regretted having called and canceled his piano lesson.  He slept through Saturday night with no incidents.  He kept food down just fine.  Sunday afternoon he began to complain of a sick stomach and Sunday evening began to vomit.  So much for school next day.  He was home Monday and I was fully on duty as Gary slept off his jet lag.  As I've said, illness doesn't diminish Scott's desire for entertainment, and I'd resolved that if he was too sick for school, he was too sick for TV and video games.  And though he returned to school without incident yesterday, last night he was in the bathroom too many times to count and vomited a small amount this morning.  There's no question he's home again today.

Here's the exhausting part:   he goes into the bathroom, diarrhea; he gets up, I remind him (again) to keep his hands away from his face until he’s washed them—sometimes I have to remind him several times and I start to get angry, or at least very irritated because sometimes his hands are going up around his mouth even as I’m reminding him; he wipes, I remind him to not use such huge wads of toilet paper because a clogged toilet and plumber are NOT sweet thoughts…sometimes he stands up and then has to sit back down again, and sometimes he’s up and washing his hands (me reminding him to (1) wet his hands FIRST   (2) apply soap  (3) wash between his fingers  (4) THEN rinse—because his tendency is to put a bunch of soap in his hands but then put it under the running water thus rinsing it away before he has a chance to use it to clean his hands—(5) then dry)—he’ll get all that done and then have to sit down again:  sometimes this will happen 3 or 4 times in just one sitting.  And then the next sitting is within 10 or 15 minutes.

This has called into question The Plan for The Demonstration which was supposed to launch today.  Sure, it might be instructive for Gary to be responsible to care for a child who is running at two openings at once, possibly for several days on end.  Sure I really want a break from parenting in these conditions.

BUT, the purpose of The Demonstration is also to show the boys that their lives aren't going to feel much different.  Throwing Gary to the wolves, so to speak, may not be the wisest thing to do, given that objective.

I'd hoped I'd spend my last week as a stay-at-home-mom in contemplation and writing.  It's been 10 and a half years, so this really marks the end of an era.  I signed the letter accepting the offer of a home health company yesterday.  Orientation day is Wednesday next week.  I'll begin with 24 hours a week and transition to full time with benefits once the summer is done.  I guess it's ironic that I'll spend my last days as an at-home mom, really being an at-home mom.

Coincidentally I had breakfast with some of my former co-workers from nearly 13 years ago.  We'd worked together for at least 10 years.  The company we worked for was sold, sold again, and yet again.  It's owned now by a huge national chain.  Many of my co-workers have retired.  It feels...odd to be reentering a field at an age when many of my contemporaries are retiring.  But that's nothing new.  I did start having my kids at an age when most of my contemporaries were seeing their offspring graduate from college, or even start having grandchildren.

From the Void

One of the things I've been occupied with during this blog blackout has been a search for employment.  I had an interesting experience that illustrates a paradox.  It's archetypal and summed up as "fish or cut bait" (usually posed as a question).

I wasn't finding anything in Portland on my profession's website.  Someone suggested I try Crai.gslist.  I found a company and decided to contact them.  At this point I was only beginning to get serious about looking for work, and my purpose was to explore various work settings and what the environment might be like in them.  The recruitment officer said he was impressed by my many years of experience and we set up a meeting time.  I saw it as basically informational, but still dressed as if it was a formal interview.

I was there right on time.  I sat, and waited, 10 minutes, 15 minutes.  I began to feel a bit impatient and to wonder if this might be a clue to how the organization is run.  Finally the clinical supervisor arrived and took me back to the recruiter's office.  There were three of them.

It seemed the meeting went well.  They showed me around their office complex.  I told them I was there for informational purposes and was still working out in my mind what would be a schedule that could meet their needs and accommodate the needs of my family.  There were a few other hurdles I needed to accomplish, such as completing requirements for my license renewal and getting certified in CPR.  As she bade me goodbye the clinical supervisor asked if I'd let them know my plans in the next week or two.  I said I would.

This meeting was on a Monday.  It seemed they had liked me and I liked them.  I felt the business, though a for-profit (I'd only worked for non-profits in my employment history), did put patient welfare first.  I had a sense that they were serious about supporting their staff in meeting patient needs.

On Wednesday I sent thank-you notes to the three who interviewed me and told them I would contact them on Monday the following week.  On Monday I sent them an email, copied to all of them, with some questions I'd not asked during the interview, as well as an update on my progress of renewing my license and signing up for a CPR course.  Additionally, I was tracking down some former co-workers and supervisors to ask if I could use as references--this wasn't easy since it had been better than 10 years since I'd worked with or seen them...and the company I'd worked for is no more (bought out by a company that was bought out by a company, that was bought by a huge for-profit that trades publicly on the stock market).

I was surprised to not hear back from them, and even called the recruiter to ask if they had received my message.  This was on his voice mail. Perhaps he spoke with the clinical supervisor because on Friday I received an email from the clinical supervisor that answered most of my questions.  I responded with an update on my licensure and CPR certification and asked how many references they wanted. I also proposed a certain schedule and start date, subject to negotiation.

No response.

A few days later I sent a message with three references I'd tracked down.

No response.

It had been three weeks since the interview.  On Thursday I called and spoke directly to the clinical supervisor.  "Oh, HI!"  I gave her a date I'd be available to start, and proposed a schedule.  She said they "might have a position available" and told me to send my proposed schedule and availability date--in an email!  This I did.

No response, to this day.  And, when I was glancing through Cra.igslist yesterday, I saw a position posted for this company.

In the meantime I'd found a job position open at another company and contacted their recruiter.  She not only responded, she attached their benefit package for my perusal.  Two days later she emailed again and said she'd like to talk to me and they could "create a position" for me that would be to our mutual advantage.  I filled out an application online and attached my resume.  She sent a message to tell me she'd received it.  Tuesday night she called and left a voice mail saying she'd like to talk to me before scheduling an interview.  Yesterday as I was picking up the phone to call her it rang and it was her.  She had a few questions which I answered and we scheduled an interview for tomorrow.

I don't know if I'll be offered a job there or not.  Its headquarters, where team members would have to meet once a week, is quite a drive.  But it's possible that I could be working in an area that would have close proximity to Scott's school, with a schedule flexible enough to allow for pick-ups and drop-offs.

I can't help but notice the contrast between the brisk responsiveness I've received with the second business in regards to the first.  I considered contacting the first place (which is closer, and we meet at the headquarters only every-other week instead of weekly) to tell them I was looking into a position elsewhere.  When I prepared to write a message something stayed my hand.  It occurred to me that I'd gotten enough messages in the "body language" to tell me why I didn't want to work for them.  They had been telling me why, and it was best to let it go.

The interesting paradox is one hand saying that the difficulty in engaging with the first company is evidence enough that it's not meant to be--particularly when it's contrasted with the responsiveness of the second.  But for every scenario that says difficulty in achieving an objective is a 'sign' that this is not a path to take, there's another that says that anything worth doing has some obstacles to screen out those who aren't serious.

I think I've been a person who was inclined toward the second...persisting in fishing too long, and almost unable to give up.

Wish me luck tomorrow.

Update

We've come out.  Sunday we told the boys that we, the parents are going to separate and most likely divorce.  We told them they will stay in the house, while Gary and I do rotations of living with them, probably on a week by week basis.  (We may start out with shorter rotations because a week may be too long for Scott.  He's never been separate from me for more than 2 nights)

A useful opportunity is coming up.  Gary is going to Asia and will be gone about 10 days.  The boys have experienced this many times before.  When he returns I'm going to stay at a friend's house for a few days.  Thus we'll have a real-time dry run which will demonstrate to the boys what their lives will look and feel like.  The goal is that life not feel much different than it does right now.  (That's the least I'm hoping for.  My cherished hope is that absent the poison atmosphere the combination of Gary and I give off, life will feel lighter, better to them, and to me too.)


We've informed our wider families, our own parents and siblings.

We'll need another place for the times we're not at home with the boys.  I don't know yet if we'll share one or each get one.  I need a job and I have an interview on Friday.

That's all for now.  It's a very committing move we've made and we need to follow through with the next one as soon as possible.  I'm glad to have it in the open, finally--to at last be taking meaningful steps.

Um, uh, about this silence...

I guess you could say I'm on sabbatical.

I may have mentioned once that I've been working on a project of transcribing my older diaries into my computer?  Currently I'm up to fall of 1987 and recording the 50th volume.

1986/87 were very significant years for me, and I've found I've had little energy to do much else.  So my focus has narrowed, I haven't been blogging, or reading blogs.  Perhaps when I get past this particular era in my life I'll broaden my focus again.

On an unrelated topic, my sons have been out of school for spring break.  Scott gets 2 weeks, and is just beginning week 2.  He was fascinated with q.uicksand, and I encouraged him  to look up some information on the web.

Did you know that there is a whole niche of fet.ish that involves beautiful women sinking in q.uicksand?

Sigh. 

I think the family pattern doesn't need me

Situations like the one I've described earlier surface periodically.  They're a perfect microcosm of a bigger system.  In this case, there is a lie perpetuated, and telling the truth is more threatening than the lie.  The fact that a lie has occurred takes a back seat to preserving an image of What Should Be.  Therefore, telling the truth is threatening to a family system that is based on What Should Be.

I'd had not realized that Telling the Truth is only one part of affecting a system.  There is also the Accepting of the Truth.

There were many scenarios in my family where the emperor had no clothes.   I learned painfully that while being admonished to tell the truth, the real lesson was to keep silent.  Therefore I came to doubt my own eyes.  Maybe I was mistaken, and the emperor was wearing clothes that just made him look naked.  Maybe his appearance to me as naked was evidence of my own sinfulness, the devil tempting me from the One True Way (that he was dressed in finery).  Maybe I was delusional, prideful, thought I "knew better than anyone else". 

The family pattern protects itself.  Self-doubt is very effective in preventing serious questioning.  But if one of the family members breaks through that and begins to question/challenge, there is the fail-safe.  The pattern can refuse to accept the truth.  One way it does this is to cast doubt upon the veracity of the teller.

Such was the position I found myself in when my father told me he had 'no choice' but to accept my brothers' word.  And since my own Word was in direct contradiction to my brothers', where did that leave me?  I asked him and he talked about something else.

I went over and over it in my mind to see if I could be mistaken.  I asked one brother if he could reconcile the seeming conflicting "facts" of the situation and he too didn't answer.

I finally came to a resolve that I was not okay with my brothers' word being invited in to dinner and mine on the porch or out in the yard.  While my father wasn't overtly calling me a liar, my Word was relegated to some ambiguous half-state:  the penumbra of questionable.   I felt the weight of the pressure to just accept this and say no more about it.  That was my role in the family.  I felt the familiar machinations of Pattern to  silence me:  self doubt (doubt about the facts, doubt about my character, a peculiar sensation of unreality).  Also,  threat:  if I asserted  my truth,  it could destroy the family.  A family fight could disintegrate us, and it would be all my fault.  Peace in the family was riding on my willingness to sacrifice my truth and allow it to be left outside.  This is what I've always been required to do and what I've always done.

I wrote my father:

The part I keep returning to is that if I told you something that contradicts what they said, and you're saying you have to believe them, what does that say about me and what I told you?  It seems like it puts my Word off in some ambiguous place that resembles a lie.

I'm having trouble with that.

I don't know if you're telling me that you believe me, but for the purposes of family peace and stability you're going to behave as if you believe them?  I can be fine with that, but I really want to know if you believe me... because it sure seems if you're "accepting their word", then you must be rejecting mine.  If what  they told you not only contradicts what I told you, but contradicts everything Dan has told me for the past 16 months, then I don't know how you can't be saying that I'm lying.  I've tried looking at this from every angle, but I just can't seem to find another way to look at it.

My father's response was that there was no way that he thought I was lying, and he must have misunderstood (or wanted to) whatever it was my brothers told him, or that he's screwed up in some way.

Again, the substance of the truth was not addressed and I see it will not be.  He is willfully refusing to see something that is in front of him, and very obvious.  What Should Be trumps What Is.


But, this doesn't have to be at the price of my own compliance in betraying my truth.  It appears that the Pattern can make accommodation for my opting out of my role through my father accepting "blame".  He can absorb the cost through saying he was mistaken somehow.  And the belief in family As It Should Be stays intact, and unthreatened.


I broke down the first line of defense of the family image by speaking the truth.  But he is firmly holding the second line of defense by refusing to see, and accept, the truth.  

That's none of my business.


What's important to me is that this latest manifestation that exemplifies our family dynamic, has been a vehicle for seeing clearly what has been going on, and to firmly and consciously refuse it.


I don't know that I've ever done that before.

The ties that bind

It seems I can hardly mention my counselor, Sharon, without wanting to fill in our history.  It doesn't seem enough to say that I'm in counseling;  I feel compelled to say that I began with her 25 years ago and saw her weekly for 7 years.  We had a very unsatisfactory ending.  I used to record our sessions, and I believe our last one is recorded too, but I've never been able to bring myself to listen to it.  She was going through her own changes, the nature of which I will probably never know.  It was impacting the way in which she did therapy, and the change was not something I could adapt to.  Not long after we parted she stopped practicing as a counselor altogether.

Over time the hurt faded and I was able to remember the positive aspects of therapy, and the lasting good it was doing me.

Fourteen years passed.   I had my two children, moved to St. Louis, and back, faced a deteriorating marriage, and turned 50.    The deteriorating marriage was a catalyst for some intensive writing.   I had time to do it when my youngest began kindergarten.   I wanted to examine how, why, and where things would go wrong between my husband and me.  Most of the things I read suggested that the onus was on me to change. Any given interaction could fall apart so quickly and I really wanted to get a handle on exactly what would happen.  Was there really something about myself that needed to change--an attitude, a belief, a sensitivity?  If his behavior was offensive to me, was it because I was offended, therefore I needed to change whatever part of me took offense?

I spent hours trying to deconstruct some of our arguments or communications-gone-south, mentally laying them out like an exploded diagram of some machine.

I was in the midst of such soul searching when I realized that I owed my ability to even do so to the seven years I'd spent with Sharon.  I felt gratitude and decided to thank her.  So I looked her up online and saw that she was leading a study group of an author I'd recently come across.  I emailed her to see if I could join.  She called me and asked that I come in for a session first.  She was again practicing psychotherapy, to her own surprise, she said.  When she'd left the field of counseling, she never expected to return.  She didn't detail the path that took her through training to be an Archetypal Pattern Analyst.  I was intrigued enough by her study group to agree to see her for a session.  That was over 3 years ago.  I never joined the group.

Indeed, in the course of my life I'd often been frustrated by what seemed to be the emergence of a pattern.  The people and circumstances appeared to be different, but over time I'd realize there seemed to be an underlying template.  There seemed to be a Pattern that was self-similar, and it usually manifested in disheartening ways.  Its course was that I'd involve myself with people in relationships that seemed promising at first, but proved eventually to be unavailable.  There were a few forms of this.  In one men would present themselves as intensely interested, open up their hearts, yet get "scared" when mine opened in response.  It used to seem that the kiss of death of a relationship would be my own interest, which seemed to confirm the old "play hard to get" gambit.  I began to brace myself for the signs of a chill, and could usually sense immediately when the connection was broken--as soon as I began to want it.  I was left bleeding, furious that it had happened yet again:  an event like that propelled me into therapy with Sharon 25 years ago.  I thought I had healed that dynamic when I met Gary, until I realized that unavailability has more subtle forms than physically staying, or not.  Another form of Pattern I experienced was in the realm of accountability.  Certain important people were very offended if I attempted to hold them responsible for some broken agreement.  The implication was that there was some tacit agreement to let it pass unacknowledged--and I was trespassing.  The spotlight wasn't on the lapse, but on my mentioning it.  Their feelings were hurt because I named the act that had hurt my feelings.  It was as if my hurt feelings hurt their feelings.  Thus I spent a lot of time confused.  Was I wanting too much?  Was I too sensitive (a dreaded accusation)?  Was I predisposed to take things the "wrong" way?  Was what I wanted unreasonable?  The benefit of the doubt did not belong to me.  I was always afraid that I was in the wrong.

The dynamic was so much a part of who I was that I didn't really see it.  It didn't stand out as something that was worthy of mention to Sharon when we resumed our therapy relationship with her as Pattern Analyst.  It came up by chance in the course of a different conversation.

Even as I write the above I can hear echoes of the old doubts.  I can hear voices accusing me of "feeling sorry for myself", blaming others for my troubles, whining, 'poor me' and soliciting sympathy.  The driving force behind those thoughts strait-jacketed me and I could not penetrate it. Understanding eluded me.  It was easier to assume I was just wrong, period.  But then I felt miserable, and had a nagging feeling that that really wasn't It, yet I couldn't come up with what was.  I'd just get more confused.


I was wound very tight.  But with the help of Sharon's mentoring, I'm beginning to see the elements of the ties that bind.

Recent events reveal the bones of the pattern at its starkest.  I see very clearly that love in my family was not unconditional.  Love depended on allegiance to a certain unarticulated Code.  And if Truth conflicted with the Code, then Truth was to be sacrificed for What Should Be, instead of What Is.  Loyalty to What Should Be was a requirement for love.  Lies were required, even while a superficial version of  the "truth" was demanded.  As Palemother commented, "truth" in my family was about control and obedience.  What does one who has taken the expectation of Truth literally (and to heart) do when the demands of Truth cross the demands of Code?  What does one who loves the Truth do when required to lie, on pain of losing love?

One doubts oneself.  One poisons the well of her/his own feelings by doubting them.  This solves the problem of lying, when one's heart is devoted to the Truth.  Doubt, and confusion serve a protective function, even if that act of survival makes a person vulnerable in other areas.  This is because such a person is denied access to the hunches and inner promptings that guide our choices.  Such a person is prey to the demands of others because such a person believes the emotions meant to protect are motivated by selfishness. Such a person has to make a way blind in a world that's often pitiless.  Of course, the Code was meant to replace the guidance of a responsive heart and sensitivity.

More later, perhaps.

Truth dynamics in a family

I've been away from the blogs for at least 2 weeks because I've been so preoccupied with a family situation.

I am left to wonder if truth is like a light, or a vibration that shines through a family, and is transmitted generation to generation.  I wonder if each member of a family is like a facet of a kaleidoscope, reflecting and manifesting truth in unique ways.

I think all parents tell their children to "tell the truth".  A lie was severely punished, and shamed.  As the oldest child in the family I must have really taken to heart the obligation to be faithful to the truth.  For a while I confused telling the truth with admitting to some wrong-doing, even if I hadn't done it.  I got that straightened out.

My parents were rather restrictive, and as the firstborn they were even more overprotective of me.  Thus, I chafed while I watched many of my friends do things that I wasn't allowed.  My friends urged me to join them behind my parents' back, yet I couldn't.  To do so would be to lie.  When hemlines in dresses went high any of my friends with stricter parents merely rolled up their skirts once they left the house.  Mine stayed at the mandated one inch above my knee.  I turned down a number of rides home from school because my father would not let me ride in a car with teenagers.  On one of my early dates with my first love,  when we were juniors in high school, we went over to the house of an older friend of his.  (Rick was mature for his age and most of his friends were already independently-living young adults)  My father had told me I could not go into that friends' house and so I would not, even when everyone else went in, even when the friend was insulted and wanted to know "what was wrong" with his house.  Rick did go inside, but not for long.  He came back out to me and later told me I had "shown a hell of a lot of backbone" and that he respected me for it.

My strategy for juggling my adherence to truth in the conditions of overbearing parents was to wait them out.  I abided by their rules while I was "living under their roof", and as soon as I could left home.   I was 18 and I never looked back.  Those 18 years sometimes seemed to take forever.

My father was raised by a very harsh disciplinarian.  And while he probably was not as harsh as his father, he did manage to be very intimidating.  The fear of physical punishment guided our behavior to conform to the family rules, values, beliefs.  He did not outright beat us.  It wasn't like that.  At least for me. 

Perhaps it was different for my brothers.  I was seven when they were born and my sister was 5.  In a sense we were two separate families.  I wonder if the father-to-son dynamics may have carried more threat of violence than father-to-daughter.  I remember one of my brothers telling me that he truly felt that our father was capable of "beating us up".

If he ever doubted the rightness of his chosen disciplinary path, all four of us eliminated it.  We were poster children for the effectiveness of spanking:  compliant, respectful, model behavior.  We were probably people who didn't need to be spanked by temperament--eager to please, easily cowed.

My brothers' strategy for juggling truth and overbearing parents was concealment.  They chose to not wait out their term with the family to be able to do as they pleased.  They found our parents' restrictions unbearable, and unbearable to wait the many years before they were out from under them.  So they resorted to lies, when necessary, to conceal a truth that might generate harsh punishment.

It is interesting the degree to which a family which stressed the truth so emphatically in words, is invested in and with lies.

I guess I will leave it at that.

Damn. Spamn.

All right.  I've got to turn on the dreaded word verification because I'm sick of getting notified of comments on old posts that turn out to be spam.

I'm a kid at Christmas when my email program animates; the prospect of a comment like opening a package.  I'm sick of being distracted from other work I'm doing by spam comments.

I only hope that this setting retroactively protects my older posts, because that's where the spammers hit.  I suppose there's some comic relief in finding ads for penile enhancers among my comments, but I get to choose when to activate my sense of humor.

Spammers, approach me directly.  Maybe if you pay me I might consider it.

My apologies to those who hate word verification.  The devil made me do it.

Dilemma part 2

Say someone you know has a friend.  That friend has two brothers.  One of the brothers is married with children, and the other not.  The married brother's wife decided to start a business, and borrowed from her brother-in-law.  She and her husband found a site, which required a five year lease and the owner wanted a co-signer in case they defaulted.  They begged, they cajoled.  This was the perfect spot!  No other place would do!  Please, please!  Reluctantly, the unmarried brother signed. 

The business did not do well.  It had problems getting licensure with their state and local governments, and so they were stuck paying months on a lease in a building where they couldn't operate. They started out behind, and then did not recover. It's a business that requires a  steady stream of clients.  In addition to their lease they also had to have a specialized person on staff, so their overhead was high.  Some days the building stood empty. 

The married brother lost his job.  He filed a lawsuit for wrongful firing, in a case that would grind on for 18 months.


The brother who had lent the money realized he may soon be responsible for a lease on a building a thousand miles away.  So when they came to him for more money, he felt he had no choice but to give it to them.   And they came again and again and soon he was sending them money monthly and keeping them afloat.  The promise was he'd be paid back if the lawsuit was successful.

No one was supposed to know.  The married couple asked him to keep it a secret.  But one day, he told his sister, the friend, about what was going on.  He asked his sister to continue to keep it a secret from their parents.  Their parents were also helping the couple monthly and had no idea how deeply in trouble they were.  He also requested that brother and sister-in-law not know that she knew.

The friends' brother continued the flow of money.  When the friend counseled him to stop he said he couldn't because his brother was saying he, wife, kids would all be in the street.  The friend begged him to tell their parents, who are well off and can afford to help to a greater degree than they were.   Furthermore, they'd be willing. The friend said they should get together on a conference call and see if there was something they could work out: he needs to get this hook out of him.  Her brother refused.  And so, sworn to secrecy herself she felt she could only watch as the situation played out.  His brother's wife became accustomed to the monthly stipend and expected it each month.

He asked his married brother if he could see his wife's books for the business, so he could have an idea of where his money was going.  His brother refused, saying his wife doesn't show her books to anyone, not even him.  Lending brother couldn't bring himself to confront the wife directly and insist.


Tax time came, and his hit was huge.  His sister asked if he could take a deduction for supporting a small business.  He said he could have, but he'd been doing the taxes with their dad, and would have had to reveal "the arrangement".  So he swallowed and paid the taxes on income that had only passed through his hands on the way to someone else.  He could have sheltered that income, put it into a fund for retirement, made a down payment on a house.  Nearly frenzied with frustration the friend urged him to come clean with their father, let him know what was going on, quit carrying this burden by himself.  He said he couldn't do it.


The court case drug on.  The defendants found ways to delay and delay.  Each delay meant not only hardship to the family, but also to the brother who was keeping them afloat.  There was a very real possibility that if the ruling went against the defendants they could appeal, and the case could be strung out for years.


The case ended in an out-of-court agreement, and the plaintiff, her brother, was awarded a settlement.  Jubilant, he called the friend, his sister, to set up a three way call with their brother, to break the fabulous news.  For a brief time while the call was being set up, the friend was alone on the line with the lending brother.  He was in tears, as if he'd just been released from prison. "This means I can buy a house!"


The award was dispersed.  The friend asked her brother if he had been paid back.  He said no, in fact he was kind of unhappy because he'd thought he should be "closer to the top of the list" than he was.  Disgusted, the friend said, "If they'd come to you with a check straightaway, that would be one thing.  If they're going to delay like this you should ask for interest.  What you had to pay in taxes, and the interest you could have gotten on that money was a big hit, and nobody should feel entitled to someone forgiving them that amount.  Essentially you've had to pay to give them money!  And I don't see that they're even acknowledging this!"


The friend is feeling very conflicted.  In the first place her lending-brother is a sovereign adult, and is free to spend his money however he wishes, even if it's enabling their brother and sister-in-law.  It is none of her business.  To "rescue" him would be demeaning, would it not, and would also violate a confidence.  A core part of the friend's self-identity is that she can be trusted, and will always keep confidence.  On the other hand, it appears that her brother is constitutionally unable to refuse this pair, and hasn't she been complicit in his bleeding by keeping that confidence?


Something about this is deeply offensive to her.  It has to do with appearances being not what they seem.  It has to do with her brother and sister-in-law appearing as if they're not taking money from other brother, when they are.


It seems actually a classic dilemma, so  I would guess it's been universally experienced.  How have you experienced this...what did you do?...if you were the Friend, what would you want your friend to tell you?

Minor (petty) Dilemma/update at bottom

I was a stinker, and I'm teetering on a guilty impulse to undo it, with no one the wiser.

It started as a good will gesture.  Connor has snowboarding lessons today on Mt. Hood.  This is his second in a series of 4.  He and Gary leave the house early, and are gone well into the evening.  So Gary decided he and the boys would fix a Valentine's dinner last night instead.

It was a very nice meal and left a very big mess.  Which was still in the kitchen this morning when I got up after they departed. 

I would have hoped that a Valentine's dinner surprise might include the follow-through of cleaning up as well.  That seems it would round out the gift.

I dialed the cell phone.  Connor answered.  I asked if the dog had been fed and let outside to relieve himself.  No.  I asked him to tell his father that I was unhappy at having been left with a really dirty kitchen.

It's been a sore point anyway.  Nothing that people with a healthy relationship and functional communication skills couldn't handle, but we're beyond that.  I usually plan the meals, shop for them, cook.  I do a lot of the clean-up as-I-go, but the division of labor is that he cleans up the dishes.

We don't eat terribly late, and there is a lot of time in the evening where he could put the dishes in the dishwasher.  In the mornings I'm the first one up, and I like to have a free sink when I'm preparing lunches for school, and breakfasts.  So it's been a recurring resentment when there's a sink full of dirty dishes to work around as I'm trying to do my job.

I think it's not even so much the presence of the dishes when I've requested respectfully that he clean them up (more than once) so I have a clear space to work in.  The resentment comes from his not acknowledging that making his life easier is at the expense of making mine more difficult.  He resents that it bothers me.

He and Connor are gone all day.  If I leave the dishes for him I will be the one living with them.

My behavior was indefensible, though, to make Connor the conduit for communicating my displeasure.  Classic selfish dysfunction, to have involved my child.

Gary:  (I could hear him off the phone):  "Tell her to do the dishes. It's no problem."

Me:  "Yeah.  No problem for him."

When we rang off I was tempted by a wicked thought.  Let him deal with a mess in his workspace.  I went downstairs and opened up his home office.  I found a plastic box and loaded it with the dishes and pans and carried it down.  Unloaded the box on his desk and floor--careful that the bottoms weren't wet so they could damage any paperwork.

The whole time I'm chiding myself a bit thinking, "This is more effort than it would be to just do them..."  ..."Since our understanding is that one of us cooks and the other does dishes, isn't he within reason to have expected that I do the clean-up (even if this was supposedly a treat they were doing for me)?" ... "If the dinner was a gift for Valentine's, maybe my gift to him should be the Valentine's clean-up?"  ..."You're making a lot more work for yourself if you relent and decide to cart all these dishes back upstairs and do them."  ..."That's really childish, and it's not going to help things."

I guess that's the angel on my one shoulder.  On the other is the devil remembering, "Tell HER to do the dishes.  It's no problem (it's no problem, it's no problem, it's no problem)!"  Rage rises when I consider my real grievance was again being dismissed, discounted, and minimized.  If he'd said (to Connor so I could hear), "Yeah, it is kind of cold to leave her that big mess; tell her I'm really sorry" the dishes would still have been there, but I probably would have done them charitably.  I would have been inclined to take the perspective that while a special dinner doesn't usually involve the consequences of cleanup to the recipient, I could make that my gift.

The dishes are there for now.  Who will prevail, angel, or devil?

*********************************************************************************

Well, I split the difference.  I left the dishes down there.  When he and Connor got home they were in pretty high spirits and the mood was pleasant.  Gary asked if I'd slept in and I replied I'd gotten up shortly after they left.   There was a little silence as we both remembered my phone call, and he mentioned it first:  "Oh yeah.  You called...about the dishes..." (pleading tone) "I know you were bummed...but I'd made you dinner!"  I said,"But I thought when you made a gift of dinner you didn't expect the recipient to clean it up.  When I make you dinner for your birthday I don't expect you to have to clean it up."  He said, "But no one gave me a Valentine's present." (Side note.  I quit giving him valentines several years ago.  Just as we're beyond give-and-take negotiations to resolve issues, so are we also beyond valentines.  I've quit pretending.  He's more about the form, or propriety of the event, so he'll keep up appearances.  I don't bother.  I wouldn't have cared if he'd not made a dinner.  I don't expect it or particularly want it.  But still, a gift is a gift.)  I said, "If you'd said anything but, 'tell her to do them', if you'd said anything like you understood it was kind of unpleasant, I would have willingly done them and considered them my gift to you."  Pause.  "So I took them downstairs and put them in your office."

"WHAT??? "

"They're down in your office."

Feeling charitable, I even told him where to find the tote I'd used so he could bring them all up in one trip.  (I heard him say to Connor and Scott, "She put the dishes in my office!" and they all laughed.)  I let him bring them up, then I put the dishes, bowls, and silverware in the dishwasher.  I told him he could do the pans and clean out the vegetable leavings still in the sink. And called it good.

Deadbeat mom

Third time's a charm...and I may be beyond 3.  I think the first time I got a call from Connor's school secretary I was in the bathtub at home.  It rang 3 times, which is the threshold before it's sent to voice mail. Then a little while later it rang again.

I'm funny about a ringing phone.  I just can't bring myself to run for one.  I reason that answering machines have removed that obligation.

This has always been a sore spot between Gary and me.  I think he believes that the person calling knows that I have chosen to not run for the phone, and has hurt feelings.

So my first strike was that day when I was in the bath and the phone rang and I didn't answer. That would be the day that Connor was actually feverish at school.  Having called twice at my house (and by the time I was out of the tub I'd forgotten that the phone had rung and so had not checked for messages) the school secretary called Gary at work.  He went and got Connor and brought him home.

Strike two was last year when I took the boys to a matinee after school.  Connor bought two packages of  Red Vines and ate them both.  Late that night I woke to retching and a lake of red in front of the downstairs toilet (why can't they put it where it's supposed to go?).  When it was time to get up he seemed fine, noisy and active as usual, so I sent him to school.

Later that day I got a call.  He wasn't feeling well and would I come and get him?

As we were walking out to the car he said he'd told the school secretary that he'd thrown up in the wee hours and she exclaimed, "But you're supposed to wait 24 hrs after vomiting to return to school!"

Great. That's a qualifier for loser mom; sending my sick kid to school to infect everyone else.

Worse, now Connor knows that there's a 24 hr policy for a cough or a sneeze, and he can hold public humiliation over my head as leverage next time he doesn't feel like school.

There were a few other minor events that add to the impression:  calls from the school lunchroom lady to tell me his lunch account is delinquent. The kid had the check--it was in his pack.  He just kept forgetting to get it out and take it in to the lunchroom.

I think I put the final nail in the coffin on Tuesday.

Scott didn't have school at all Monday and Tuesday.  The teachers were preparing their report cards or something like that.  (I haven't seen a report card.)  I'd made them appointments with their opthamologist months in advance for Tuesday.  I had it on the calendar.  Monday I was at Connor's school to read with one of his classmates, and I asked the school secretary if they needed written notice in advance of my coming to get him out of school early.  She said I only needed to come and they'd call the classroom.

Tuesday morning as he walked out to the bus I told him that I'd be there to get him around 2:15.  Then I set about to entertain Scott.  I'd promised him if we culled some of the toys he no longer uses we could take them to a resale store and I'd give him whatever amount they bought them for.  The toys had been in the van in boxes for months.  We hadn't put the last row of seats in because there was no room. Gary had been complaining.  Tuesday seemed like the day to finally get it taken care of.

Part of  my reluctance was that I'd lost the print-out I'd made of consignment stores.  Also, I dimly remembered that only one of those stores paid cash for items as opposed to in-store trade, but I couldn't remember its name.  It's taken months to work up the motivation to re-invent the wheel and find the name and address of the store.  I did that while I waited for Scott to wake up.

As I repacked the stuff and did an informal inventory I realized a great deal of the bulk was in VHS videos.  I tried calling the store to see if they even accepted the cartridges and got their voice mail saying to call back during regular hours.  I really didn't want to have to pack up these videocassettes if they weren't going to take them, so I wanted to talk to them first.  Since Gary's working from home now I had to wait for him to get off the line.  That delayed me another 20 minutes; when I reached them I spoke to a young woman who said they would take the movies.

So we were off.  I took the dog too thinking we could make a loop and stop by the Petsmart and get his toenails clipped.  I have clippers, but his nails are black, his feet sensitive, and once I drew blood.  So I've lost my nerve and he's lost confidence in me.

Now there was a little bit of anxiety about taking the dog because he's been having diarrhea again.  I took him to the vet right after the first of the year with the same problem--off his food, loose stools, general pitifulness. I feared the worst since the last dog that had gone off her food had had a fatal cancer.  The vet pronounced him healthy but for an overgrowth of certain intestinal flora that had overwhelmed other intestinal flora.  He gave me an anti-biotic and some pro-biotic powder, and we left the office $250 poorer.  Within a few days he'd seemed healthy again.  Then we switched his food to a cheaper Cost-co brand.  Last week he went off his food again and the bowel stuff started again.  He's controlled himself well and not had any accidents in the house, but I was nervous about the car.  So I really hoped we wouldn't be too long in the resale shop.

We had 5 bags of stuff to schlep about a block.  Scott was a pretty good sport about it.  When we walked in the sales person asked if I'd been the one to call about the videos.  She was so sorry but she had misspoken when she said they took them...they only take DVD's.  A customer in the store said she thought another resale store close by might accept them.  In the meantime the owner went through the bags, removed about a 15th of it and paid me $7.  Back to the car we schlepped.  I took the dog for a short walk just in case he was uncomfortable, then we drove over to the other place.  They wanted 20 minutes to look through the bags we carried in.  So Scott, who really doesn't like walks much, and the dog, who adores walks, took a little tour through that neighborhood. I'd briefly lived in a house close by when I first moved to Portland 30 years ago and took Scott by to see.

When we returned  they had taken one item and gave me $3 for it.

Well, that was an hour and a half well spent. Hardly worth the gas, the time, and the trepidation about the dog's bowels.   I schlepped the bags back out to the van and we set off for the Petsmart.

We left the freeway as the news came on.  Admiral Mike Mullen was recommending an end to Don't Ask Don't Tell.  The last thing I heard him say was that it was wrong to deny people the opportunity to serve their country on the basis of "who they are" when I saw a motorcycle cop ahead of me.  He was traveling on a cross street from my left and his lights were on.  By the time I saw him it was too late to slow down so he could pull out ahead of me.  I was in the left hand lane so there wasn't any place to pull over so he could go around.  It wasn't until I moved into a left hand turn lane for the Petsmart lot that I realized I was his prey.  He followed me right in.  Had clocked me going too fast in a 35 mph zone.  I'm not in this area very often and hadn't seen the speed zone signs, and could swear I was at the same speed as the other cars around me.  He told me my driving record was good, so maybe I could qualify for an online traffic school.  If I did they would dismiss the ticket and it wouldn't go on my record, though I would have to pay some fee associated with taking the class.  I have to go in to the municipal court in person to arrange it.

Got the mutt's nails trimmed.  Home.  Before going inside I let him wander a bit in our back yard in case he had to go, when my cell phone rang.  I saw that it was the school calling and that it was nearly 3:00.  I wondered if Connor was sick and tried to answer, hitting the hold button instead.  Lost the call.  Went inside and called the school.  The secretary answered, and I asked if they'd just tried to call.  She said that Connor was in the office, had been there for the past 45 minutes and was insisting that I was supposed to pick him up for some kind of doctor's appointment?  When I gasped she said, "Did you forget?"  What could I say, but "ohmygoshyes".  She said, "Well, I scolded Connor. I told him that he's supposed to stay in class and we call him when you arrive, but he was so sure you were going to be here...and the trouble is, he missed his music class!" It was 2:50, the time that we were supposed to have been at the opthamologist's office, so I surrendered any possibility of making the appointment. Lamely I told her to tell him to just ride the bus home as usual.  Then got on the phone to make my mea culpas to the dr.

The woman I spoke with was very kind and understanding, even without me telling her the whole story. She merely coded us as a canceled appointment, instead of a missed, which would have meant a fee. Then we rescheduled for a month hence.

But my reputation is sealed, I think.  I am, and always will be a Deadbeat Mom.  Or if nothing else, a poster child for the drawbacks of being a middle-aged mother.

And I still have to go to the municipal court and clean up the ticket.

Excerpts

When I'm mulling over some "new" insights I'll frequently find I have visited these ideas before.  This is an excerpt from my journal about 2 1/2 years ago, and seems pertinent to what I've been thinking and writing about lately.

7/22/07
Sun
1142

Interestingly I found an article online about a book called, “Mistakes Were Made—But Not By Me”.  The author was interviewed.  The topic was cognitive dissonance, and the defensive psychological maneuvers one makes to reduce internal conflict.  What can explain someone pressing forward in the face of evidence against a course of action, once they’ve begun it.

I think this is exactly what I’ve been talking about when I consider doubting myself.  Is something appearing in a certain way to me in order to reduce a conflict I have about it:  is my brain selecting certain facts to support its own point of view, or to protect a choice I made earlier?  Is it selecting facts that would cause me to not feel so bad about something I’ve lost, or selecting facts that give me reason to pursue something?

There’s a sense of being held between two poles, in a state of tension that’s almost unbearable:  the sense of wanting what I can get from someone or something, but it beginning to look unlikely I will get it.  How long do I hold out?  I wonder if this is another of those places where no one else can go—like death.  When I die, there will be no one there but me.  In some of these situations of evaluating my behavior or possible behavior, there is a place where no one is there but me.  A mistake I’ve made all my life is to act as if there IS somebody else there—someone whose prescription I should follow.

There’s a bigger story about seeing myself as ‘victim’ to someone else's mistaken feelings or conclusions.  I see that there is a sort of drama component when talking to one person about some hurtful act another person did to me—I portray myself as ‘the reasonable one’ and the other as being inexplicably unreasonable.  In my recent history I have that story going with Gary.  I talk about it with someone else to receive reassurance that I’m not the crazy one, that my behaviors and responses ARE normal and reasonable and to bond with this other person over receiving those assurances.

I suppose there’s another approach to framing that though.  Inexplicable things happen, people behave inexplicably, and we often feel hurt by it.  Rather than talking being “just” a self-serving way of reassuring myself that I’m ‘right’ and someone else ‘wrong’, talking can also be a way of getting some insight into the principles and facts of the human condition that gave rise to the feelings in the first place.  Bonding with the other person can be beyond getting assurance about being “right”—it can be the bonding process of working together to gain understandings about ideas.
Part of where this takes me is again wondering how we can possibly form relationships when this scrim of perceptual filters and ego-protections our brain manufactures is present.  How can we evaluate anything that comes in through our senses, when the basis of its apprehension may be shifting.  I suppose that’s a sort of quantum mechanics—the idea about what given facts we’ll select from any given moment to reinforce our reality and what emotional color that will have.  That the facts we select may be influenced by what has happened just prior, or in a greater context, or by certain fears, desires…

In my past I’ve been upset at how the facts that make a certain behavior seem reasonable at the time seem to encourage a different behavior when I look back on it later.  I’ve been frustrated by the fact that only certain facts were available to my awareness, even though time shows that other facts were present too, but I’d not distinguished them from the background.  Perhaps this is witnessing how quantum mechanics works on this macro scale.  Even though objects don’t behave this way, a flower becoming a vase and vice versa, the facts we select from DO.  The conditions of our emotions and senses as the bedrock from which we select our facts are the elements of chance and randomness that is at the core of each subatomic particle…

So where does one go from THAT?  The realization that quantum mechanics may be manifesting on this level in the choices we make and the basis from which we make our choices.  Which are all fluid and may be present at any given moment, or not.  It’s all at an incredibly complex level of interaction.

It seems that history, recent and more distant, might be like the force of gravity, which Einstein said is space warped by large-mass objects—we experience that as gravity.  Perhaps history is what warps –what, perception?  Is perception analogous to gravity, which really isn’t a downward sucking motion at all, but merely the warping of space by the mass of the earth.  (So again, what the hell is space?)

So does that mean the fact that in recent (hypothetical) history Gary has said something hurtful have to warp my perception, which may be warped already in that direction by history a bit more distant but somewhat consistent.  How does this work out, I guess I’m wondering, on a practical level?  Is there a way I can be free of my perception, or be free of it warping in proximity to events/history?

“The United States is a country that believes in Belief” is something the author of the ‘Mistakes…’ book said.  I think behind many of my questions is the question about whether there is a True Objective Reality against which things can be independently measured?  (And if not, what?  I guess it seems important that there be an outside True Belief rather than that we’re all just grabbing at straws to keep ourselves oriented—as we hurtle toward death?  That whole notion of randomness, it seems like meaninglessness.  And each of us humans that do more than just respond on a level of apparency is looking for meaning, I think.  I think ultimate meaninglessness has been an existential question that’s troubled me all my life, even as a child.  Does it make my search invalid, I guess is one question, if I just seize on something random to orient myself around?  Like in a big flood, each of us caught in it are floating by, or trying to stay afloat, clutching our little pieces of jetsam and proclaiming they’re the One True Way.  If indeed, I’ve not really latched on to a Larger Truth and am only spinning by on one of many pieces available to grab onto, does it somehow invalidate the piece that’s keeping me afloat?

And along those lines I’m reminded of a question I had earlier, which is, I’m giving myself permission to give myself over to this writing and musing, thinking that it’s leading Somewhere.  I’m giving myself permission to spend what I’m spending on seeing Sharon in the faith that it’s leading Somewhere.  Somewhere psychically better than Here, where I have more wherewithal to act effectively…to have more of Myself available to me and be able to live at a higher level of personal satisfaction.

What the fuck am I looking for?  What the fuck am I trying to accomplish with therapy?  How can I KNOW when it’s supposed to end?  How can I know if I’m ‘just’ indulging myself at the expense of other pressing things I should be doing, or if I really AM on a path that has an agenda and a clear ending point.

Later:

And how can I really know?  The path laid down by people who’ve come before us with the mythical archetypal stories of the hero’s journeys—maybe those aren’t so much a pathway to go down that someone’s discovered, but instead are just an attempt to find reason in life.  Sharon’s work with me involves following the structure laid out in the myths:  The myths are Everybody’s stories, or being far from Home and the experiences we have, often adverse, as we try to return Home.  I’m pretty sure this is the template that a Jungian would use, which is what Sharon is.  The particulars differ, but the template is that one is separated from Home (a universal) may wander lost for many years, realizes he/she is lost, and attempts to return home, having to take a dangerous Journey in order to do so.  So perhaps my recent story could be of me having floundered lost for so many years, taking some false leads, but ultimately my path guiding me toward Home whether I realized it or not.  Various nuggets of encouragement associated with various things (thoughts, events, interpretations of events, books, passages in magazines, conversations with people…) would encourage me that I was on a path I should be on.  Finally I realize I am lost and have a vision of what Home is like.  I get a good look at it, and then in order to get there I have to return to the perspective from eye level with the waves that are rising awful high.  Or, I was on a hill that gave me some perspective, but then my path plunges into a dark and dangerous forest.

I suppose that person would despair sometimes and wonder if they’d REALLY seen that vision of Home, if it really existed, or if they were doomed to wander indefinitely in the dark.  If Home had been a figment and if the fact they were in this forest at all proved something negative about their character. 

I guess what I’m saying, is that I do have an expectation that this writing, this time to myself, this giving priority to this time, this therapy and this money being spent in therapy—this is leading Someplace.  I’m not just treading water, even though right now it’s easy to believe I am.  Fear that I’m deceiving myself in my hoping that treading water is not a permanent condition that will later appear as a blip in the overall scheme of things regardless of how little progress I see now.  Fear that I’m telling myself that, but in actuality I AM in a dead end.  A condition that will last forever because I’m not using my will power to lift myself out of it.

I guess that’s part of my question, is my very search, and if I’m going about it in the right way.  I was raised in the tradition that humans are flawed (sinful) and that there is a True Way and that it is our will that keeps us adhering to this true way, and that it’s very difficult.  So the strength of one’s will is shown by how closely they can adhere to the true way.  I’ve sort of been tyrannized and castigated by this my whole life.  And in opposition to it is this:  the idea that inherent in humans, or maybe only some, is a wisdom that will guide one through the experiences one needs most.  That adhering to the One True Way actually interferes with this process of moving toward wholeness and enlightenment.  That it’s more organic, and authentic to listen to each experience as it happens free of judgment, and get what is needed from it.  That point of view assumes that the Soul wants to grow in positive directions, is oriented in a direction of expansion.  And odd the paradox that in expansion there is wholeness, where common sense would call it dis-integration.

So what IS my journey.  And is the end point a place where I can still recognize my life, or does it reveal itself to my perception as meaningless ultimately?

At any given point am I  where I’m supposed to be, or am I there through error, and worse, through continuing error?  Such as, I’ve considered myself to be in a recovery period where I need to not volunteer, need to not be out doing outwardly useful things, need to be spending time in interior spaces.  Now am I still here because it’s the right place to be?  Or am I here because it’s habit and I’m waiting for a signal that never comes?  A signal I’m in error in waiting for, because it’s unrealistic to expect that when I’m ready for the next move, I’ll KNOW it.  I think that’s been the basic framework of what I’ve told myself about this period:  That I’ll know when this inward time is coming to an end because the time will begin to weigh heavy on me, rather than seeming to vanish.  That there will be a sense of knowing inside that it’s time to go.

So, then, to flesh out the template of a journey:  Did my exile from ‘home’ begin when I was faced with the truth that my mother didn’t protect me and so had to turn away from that truth and thus had to turn away from me?  And thus lived a life with a major blind spot because at a core level I couldn’t allow myself to see the truth of something?  Yet I felt honor-bound to protect the truth (finding its manifestation in my behavior of doubting myself, or attributing being self-serving to myself and therefore feeling I couldn’t trust myself).  I was tripped up by just how far a scale to take the truth.  And I suppose that’s partly about how far I involve other people.  Because I sense that there is a scale of the truth which is analogous to the molecular level of matter where we enter a realm of reality that’s its own universe.  On the thought and mind level, there is a point where another person cannot exist and it is not accurate thinking to make basic decisions from this place from the point of view of another.

I keep trying to describe this.  I keep having a sense where the components of our thoughts and emotions go deeper than the level where Other humans can contact them.  In my case, I think that’s the place where I decide whether I’m doing right action or not in staying in this swimming hole, plunging the depths.  Whether whatever ‘Other’ people would do really applies at such a level.

Early on I discovered that from the level where I experienced reality, present were many contradictory and uncomfortable emotions—uncomfortable in how they involved other people.  If I’m responding to my high school sweetheart telling me he loves me by telling him that I love him too, yet I feel parts of myself that aren’t necessarily in agreement with that, am I ‘lying’ to him?  And though I may feel uncomfortable, that I’m being dishonest by not telling him about the presence of these facts of those parts of myself, where is the place on the scale of reality he was coming from for confessing the stuff that comes from a sub-level of that scale?

My musings are telling me that though we largely interact with people, there is a place in our selves where we really can’t take another person and we’re on our own.  And that I discovered that fairly early, maybe in that instance where I wasn’t sure what my mother meant when she and that lady asked me if I’d taken a toy, and so assumed they knew on that level too.  Perhaps for the rest of my life I’ve been confused about what truth is at that level and I haven’t really been able to see—because at that time I couldn’t.  Because it involved the truth that in that instance my mother hadn’t protected me which maybe my childish mind generalized to other and all situations.  I suppose that part of what I’d tell myself would be that my mother hadn’t protected me because she knew I was ‘bad’, that even if I hadn’t stolen the toy I might as well have.  I suppose I had to believe that I was flawed, because I couldn’t tolerate believing my mother was.  Perhaps there is the seed of the self doubt that has been an intimate part of my life for as long as I can remember.So I always lived in fear of that flaw being exposed, and I always had to wait until someone made their truth explicit to me because I couldn’t trust my own judgment about their behavior.  And I would choose to think that I was flawed when it came to any question between me and another person.

So perhaps that’s my separation from home, the sense of a flaw between me and mySelf, and the journey home is the examining its origins and the degree to which it’s invested in my life, how it’s affected my life by the way it’s affected how I experience events.

Another turn around the fractal

In my last two posts I wrote about the beauty of experiencing the miraculous, the healing and peace which lie within us.  I think that's what Lavender Luz was referring to when she referenced a Higher Self.  I got to experience that in unexpected places, there are lenses through which we get a glimpse of that Self.  They are also portals through which we connect with that Self.

I also learned that having this knowledge in my bones doesn't mean that I neglect anything in this life, the temporal, little me.  I have to live with integrity at this level too, and that involves being true--true to myself, my feelings, my experience.

When I was 14 or so I read a book that I think was Harriet the Spy.  I'm not certain if it's the same book, though.  In this particular story a girl keeps a diary where she writes down her true feelings about the people in her world.  The diary is found and people she'd had an unflattering opinion of were very angry with her.  An adult in this girl's life--a relative? a teacher?--counseled her that to live in this world, we have to lie.

So I think that notion is out there, in general culture.  American culture, at least.

In Scott Noelle's  piece about sociality, he put it in a nutshell: "Quite often the real purpose of 'being social' is to protect others from their own small-mindedness.  Such is the case when mothers are pressured to avoid nursing in public."

My father-in-law provided the latest demonstration. He yelled at my 8 year old son on Christmas Eve, for being too loud, after a solid day of his dog's barking and his yelling at her to be quiet. He is used to people tolerating behavior like that without comment.  I've been shocked by the way he's treated other adults: his son, his ex-wife.  I've seen him do it many times, but not directed at me. So I'd said nothing. But he crossed a line to do it in my home at my kid. I called him on it, though I gave him the courtesy he'd not given my son; I did it in private rather than in front of other people. I also considered very carefully before I sent him an email telling him what I'd seen him do, pointing out the irony of yelling at my kid for being too loud when he and his dog had both been nothing but loud. I stated the rule that in our house, when we want something we ask for it respectfully.

He's not "spoken" with me since.  Clearly, my job was to carry the burden of unresolved anger in order to spare him knowledge of his own misbehavior.  I decided I'd rather live with the discomfort of his not speaking with me to carrying the unresolved anger, and so let it settle where it belongs--on his shoulders.  It's his, let him carry it.

In light of this incident, I now see things clearly that were clouded before.  I live in a world where people want things of me; in this case my FIL wanted to be able to behave as he pleased in my home and have it tolerated without comment.  Raised in a hypocritical world, sometimes my own well of feelings and emotions rebelled.  I lived in a family that did not tolerate insubordination.  It wasn't flexible enough to acknowledge the times it was unfair or unreasonable; to belong I had to swallow it.  I was a compliant child, responsive to the threat of punishment and ostracization.

How does a child cope in a world where what is expected runs counter to his/her truth?  I see now that my solution was to sow doubt about the legitimacy of that Truth.  My solution was to blame myself.  If my feelings ran counter to what was expected around me, there had to be something wrong with my feelings.  So I had to question them, second-guess myself, demand a standard of 'proof' that was impossible to meet.

I see now that this was the best possible of solutions.  It short-circuited the intolerable contradiction between what I knew to be true in my very soul, and what was expected to get along with others in the world.  So I see that this is the pattern I’ve been living in.  If I couldn’t just live in it happily, then I was going to have to live in it unhappily, but thinking there was something wrong with me for being unhappy.  No one really cared if I was happy in it; just that I was compliant and didn’t cause any trouble for them…did my part of keeping their self-esteem intact by not contradicting them.  I had great fear of not belonging.

It hasn't served me as an adult, though.  However, as the example of my FIL shows, people are still expecting me to "protect them from their own small-mindedness."  And there is still a threat of punishment.

My marriage has been a replication of this pattern.  I stayed in it because of the possibility that the unworkable parts were my fault.  My worst fear was that our conflicts were a result of a deep flaw in me that kept me from letting myself be happy.

Now I see that unhappiness is a natural result of living within an unworkable marriage.  Furthermore, as I've separated my own conception of mySelf from the conception of the people around me, I see that being True inside is more important to me than avoiding disapproval.  I would rather carry the burden of disapproval than the one of violating my own internal integrity.

Sometimes...

Sometimes, things just come together so beautifully. Sitting in the front room with Toni and Marti and suddenly understanding what I've heard all along about creating our own reality was a very profound moment.  It's very different from trying to alter your thoughts and "change your reality" through force of will.  We didn't do it through will power,  We did it through our receptivity, and our love, and we created a healing web that nourished all of us.

I had a dream last week, where I saw the strings, smoke, and mirrors of perception.  In the dream I was receiving intuition about a situation that seemed unsafe, all on a barely conscious level.  I saw the lens descend that told me I was just being neurotic, and having a self-serving agenda.  This lens screened out what I had seen which had put me on alert, and I second-guessed myself.  I saw the lens I was looking through, and how it changed how I viewed my available options.

This came at the same time I read a wonderful post my cousin Lori wrote about two weeks ago.  She illustrated it with a fractal, which demonstrates that the Part is contained and subsumed within the Whole.  She wrote:  "I already am all that I seek."  She linked to one of her earlier posts where she was discussing Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, with some other bloggers.  In response to a question about suffering she described a temporal self, and a larger, profound Self which encompasses the temporal.  As I read I realized what Toni, Marti, and I had done; in holding our lenses to the light, we had connected with our Larger Selves, which are in turn One.

I realize why I blog, and why I read others' blogs.  In my own writing sometimes, or in something I read, I stumble across a bit of glass that gives me a glimpse of connection with my Higher Self.

But there is still the temporal me.  That's right now following the contours and indentations of the fractal around the minutiae of worry about my son's adhd, gathering myself to do the things that set the wheels in motion to get divorced, and looking for work.  And, I think one of the insights I have received is that I have to tend to all of my selves, and can't neglect the temporal in favor of the Infinite.

Broken bits of glass

It came to me, when the three of us were sitting in the warmth of Toni's living room, that we view our lives, and our situations, through prisms.

It's an interesting relationship with reality.  A long time ago I used to think of it crudely as 'positive thinking'.  I understood that I was not to think 'negatively', because it would 'attract negativity' into my life.  This resulted in some strange mental gymnastics as I attempted to manifest Positive through my thoughts.  I experienced the concept as a matter of will power--trying to not want things too much because that was being 'attached' to the outcomes.  If a promising relationship was going well, I'd be afraid, and then I was afraid because I was afraid.  What I wanted was already doomed.

It was a strange back-door way of trying to control reality, and if that meant trying to control my perception of what happened in my life, I was going to give it my best shot.  This kind of put me in a bind because if I didn't like what was happening in my life I'd worry that I was being too negative about it and failing to perceive it positively.

Marti and I had talked about Presence in the car on the way to Toni's.  Her son's father, Marti's ex-husband, had died at Thanksgiving, and Marti had asked her son if he felt his father's Presence.  "When you're dead, you're fucking dead." was his response.

In contrast Toni was receiving reassurances of her son's Presence everywhere:  a song on the radio when she most needed to hear it;  a number on his football jersey surfacing in unlooked-for places.

She said she took comfort in our presences.  Indeed, it seemed there was a cocoon of grace around us as we talked and wept over her son.  I felt a comfort in the presence of these long-time friends that went beyond the sum of our parts.  Somehow we were all co-creators of a Moment in time where there is beauty in grief, where suffering is present but inexplicably more bearable.  I suppose that's what's meant by "the peace that surpasseth all understanding".

We each picked up a broken shard of glass, and held it so the light could shine through it.  And for a while, the vision we created was transcendent.  If we can have moments like these, we can endure much.

But, these moments are so perishable.  The light moves on, and we find we're holding a piece of broken glass, and the world that seemed magical in its depth seems flat again.

Perhaps this experience is what I was trying to achieve by will power when I was younger, and am still in the habit of doing--recoiling when I find myself 'attached' to an outcome.  It certainly doesn't come through will power.  It's capricious, and seems dependent on certain conditions.  The light we were shining with Toni was magical--yet it could have easily been, "when you're dead you're fucking dead."  It could have reduced Toni's experience of her beloved son's Presence to a series of coincidences.  It occurs to me that perhaps her son died because he despaired.  Perhaps his shard of glass revealed no hope--or perhaps the responsibility of our role in the vision created was too daunting.  Perhaps the magical moments seemed too far apart, or worse, based on just wishful thinking.

I think I can see it a different way:  that all around us are broken shards of glass.  And at any moment we can create something transcendent.  That can sustain me.