January 2007 Archives

Everything I have done, I have done for them.
Everything I have done for them takes me away from them.
It's no wonder that my kids resent me for always being busy ... I just wish I could make them see what it is like to sacrifice for years and not be appreciated.

My son had a chamber concert at the university to go to for a grade in orchestra. He asked for three tickets, one for him, one for me and one for the girl, and we were looking forward to going as a family. Just before going out, I told him I had talked to one of our teachers and she had filled me in on the dress code for the place and what we could expect. He started to get upset, telling me that he knew what he was supposed to wear and that we had to dress UP. I knew we didn't but I played along, asking what he thought I should wear. We went back and forth for a few (with the girl jumping in to say she wasn't wearing a dress unless he wore one, which didn't help) until he finally said something snide about how he didn't want to be embarrassed by us, that he didn't want me to look like a slob in front of his friends.

This was an icepick between my ribs ... all my life my mother harped on my looks, how I would embarrass her if I didn't dress right or act right. Telling me I looked like a slob was the last thing that I wanted to hear, especially coming from my gangly big puppy of a 15 year old son who wouldn't change his clothes unless you paid him and the hair?? Oh, forget about the hair ... and he says I look like a slob??? I asked if my work clothes weren't good enough for him and he pretty much confirmed that he thinks I look like a slob every day.

Yeah, I was mad and yeah, I got in his face and yeah, I yelled too much but, you know, he HURT me. I said some things I shouldn't, about how he needed to be careful where he cast stones if he was living in a glass house and that I may be a slob but I'm the only slob he has and, yeah, I did say that he needs to appreciate that I would go to this concert with him because its not like his father would ever come to anything for him, EVER, and bam ... that was it. He went off.

I'm not talking about yelling back or bursting into tears. I'm talking about screaming at the top of his lungs, balling up his fists and physically looking like he wanted to kill me.

I'm seen that face before. Its his father's face. I saw it the night the phone got ripped off the wall and thrown at my head. I saw it the day he broke the bedroom door trying to get in when I locked myself and the kids in there. I saw it the night he threatened to kill me because I had let our neighbors borrow a space heater. I saw it in the rear view mirror the day I left him at the motel parking lot 75 miles away from our house. If looks could kill.

It's been a while since I wrote anything. I've spent much of that time pulled into a ball, softly keening my dearly departed inspiration.

While some would say that it is a positive thing that I don't feel the overwhelming urge to pour my angry, anguished thoughts and feelings out, I've felt a distinct sense of panic. Was my writing 'talent' in direct correlation to emotional pain and, if so, do I have to be tortured to be an artist?

My real fear is that maybe I can't write because I let too much or myself out. I talk a lot now, much more than I ever have, why write? Most days, I start talking at 7:30 and don't stop until 4 and much of that is banter and placation. Once I get home, it's reminders, arguments and endless repetition. The only place I get to be my SELF is when chatting with T, where we are generally taciturn. Still, if something bubbles to the surface, I know I can blurt it out and he will listen ... no more festering.

Before (read: when I did the bulk of my writing) I was cramped into a tiny room with nothing but my thoughts and a bed and I would write to relieve the pressure. I just do not have the same kind of pressure now. Though I do still have many issues with anger and sadness, and plenty of everyday stress, I am no longer a wellspring of anger, ready to explode with the slightest touch. I am also not nearly as backed up anymore.

In contrast, now at times I feel positively hollow. Where before I was a cistern, now I am afraid I have become an empty jug, useless unless there is something for me to hold. I am happier (in love) than I have ever been and more settled (in life) than I have been in a long time but that leaves me with an uneasy feeling. I'm unused to contentment, adjusting to a different sort of surface tension. I hope to never go back but I will have to pray for patience.

Writing will come back but it will be different. I'm adjusting with a lot of projects in the works. I just have to be patient, I suppose, realize I am in a better place and finish mourning for my old self.