scars, 3

My mother is in the unfortunate position of being differently intelligent than her children and her ex-husband. Let me be clear: she is fiercely intelligent in ways that we are not. But in the ways that allow you to show off while watching Jeopardy, in the ways that genuinely enjoy intellectual pursuits for their own sakes, in the ways that allow you to write brilliant books and papers and achieve good grades without effort and have your intelligence be immediately apparent to anyone who meets you, she is lacking. And there's nothing wrong with that, except that it can be a little awkward at times.

For my mother, it is more than awkward. She is dismissive and contemptuous of us one moment and jealous the next. For years, she praised my intelligence, so that even in the depths of my high school depression, even when i planned my suicide, even when i felt that almost nothing about me was redeemable or worthy of notice or interesting or in any way mattered, i knew that i was intelligent. I knew that i was more intelligent than most, and that if all else failed, i could cling to that. It was the one thing i was sure of, the one part of me the value of which i never doubted. And then she began to tell me that intelligence was not enough, that i needed to change who i was to succeed in the world. She told me that my type of intelligence, like my dad's, was one that she did not understand and did not always like. She disparaged my accomplishments and dismissed my efforts.

She accelerated this with my sister, telling her that she had no reason to be proud of straight As, because she didn't have to study. Accomplishments only mattered, only had any worth, if you had to work for them. Things that came naturally didn't count.

Any time that any of us find something in ourselves to be proud of, she finds a way to devalue it. And we are not a naturally confident bunch with lots of things we like about ourselves. We mostly don't like ourselves very much, so when we finally find something we're okay with, that is something to celebrate and cherish.

But my mother has a very hard time looking favorably on anything that is different from her, especially if it's not something she can readily understand. She has no patience with or understanding of mental illness (despite having been surrounded by it, experiencing it herself, and taking many psych classes while attaining her three post-graduate degrees). She thinks that people who are good and smart and beautiful, people who are healthy and loved, people who have a lot going for them, have no reason to be mentally ill. She thinks that depression only happens to people who don't have anything else to distinguish them, people whose lives are empty and difficult. She thinks that anyone who has a good, full, happy life has no reason to be depressed, and that the chemical imbalance in their brains can be corrected through a determination to be happy and the simple decision to "get over it".

She is her own standard of correctness and perfection, her own yardstick of health and normalcy. If someone disagrees with her, they are wrong. If someone thinks differently from her, they are weird. If someone's skill set is different from hers, they need to adapt and change in order to succeed. If someone has accomplished more than her, they were lucky. If someone is happier than her, they are lying to themselves.

I was fed a steady stream of these messages for twenty years. When i got my first tattoo, in addition to all of the beautiful and uplifting messages about family and heritage and goals and love and connections and roots and wings, it was my way of saying that i was done with all that bullshit. When i turned twenty, i turned a corner in my life. I decided that no one else got to decide my worth, that only i got to place any kind of value on my self. I decided that it was time to pick up the parts of my mother that were uplifting and encouraging, the parts that i loved and felt connected to, and leave the rest behind.

A tattoo is like a scar, but it is not accidental and it does not come from someone else. A tattoo is a sign that you will accept no one else's marks on yourself, that only you will decide what will stay with you and what will be brushed off. A tattoo is a reminder that you have the final say in who you are.

There are still things that are beyond my control. The scars from my mother are still healing, still bleeding, still hurting. I still have weeks and months where i fall from the high wire. But now, my mother is not my partner or my safety net. I have built my own arena, my own circus ring. I have choreographed my own act, chosen my own partners. I am dancing above the abyss, and while i know that i may fall, i also know i will not be falling forever. There is rest to be found. There are places of safety. There are times of stability. And in the meantime, i am learning to dance, free and fearless, on the tightrope of my sanity. Because if you're going to be up there anyway, you might as well make something beautiful of it.

scars, 2

There are other kinds of scars. The kinds that don't show up on your skin. The kinds that are reminders of wounds to your heart, your soul, your mind. The kinds that take years to heal, and meanwhile continue to bleed and throb. The kinds that can infect your whole self if you don't take care of them in time.

Those are not the kind you can inflict on yourself accidentally. Those are the ones from other people, from spending time with people who are close to you. Strangers can hurt you, but it takes love to really damage someone in the way that lasts. Nothing scars like love.

I was born with fragile emotional skin, the kind that easily splits open, the kind that bleeds freely, the kind that does not heal smoothly. There is a lot of mental illness in my family -- depression, bipolar disorder, addictions -- a lot of tendencies and predispositions to inherit.

Here's the thing about mental illness: you can inherit all kinds of tendencies without actually showing symptoms. My dad's whole family are addicts, though nothing has (yet) flipped that switch in him. My siblings and i are also free from addiction (except maybe to The West Wing and bacon). But we all know that that predisposition could become a reality. On both sides of the family, there are long histories of depression, of delusion, of suicidal thoughts and crippling self-doubt and anger and fear and anxiety and panic and mania. Some of these things have already begun to surface in the four of us, and there are times when it feels like we are just waiting for the next crisis to hit.

So life becomes a balancing act, dancing across a tightrope with the black abyss opening up on every side. One wrong step means an endless plummet from which there may not be a return. And a safe return does not guarantee security from future falls.

In this grand balancing act, my mother is my partner on the high wire. But instead of being a serious, trained professional who understands the seriousness of what is happening, she persists in believing that the slender, swaying wire is only a few feet above a level floor surrounded by walls and ground and firm foundations. While this may be her reality, it is not mine. But she persists in believing that i dance on the wire because i don't want to walk on the floor, because i am too stubborn or silly to get over my fear and walk free. This belief is a large factor in her divorce from my dad, another high wire act who has taken his share of falls.

Instead of proceeding with gentle understanding of my tenuous position, she tries to get me to run across the wire to the platform on the other end, to climb down to the floor, to get over this morbid fascination with instability. She threatens, she pleads, she cajoles, she cries. I wobble and beg her to let go of my hand, to stop dragging me down. 

She often tells me how like my father i am. When i was little, i believed that this was a good thing, a source of pride. Now i know that she was trying to warn me, trying to save me. But she doesn't know what i know about my dad. She doesn't know how much strength it takes him to have lived so long in freefall, with her beside him all the time, screaming at him to stop falling and stand up. She doesn't know how miraculous it is that he is still alive, still functional, still capable of things like hope and joy and love. She doesn't know what an inspiration he is to me. She doesn't know how badly i want to be like him.

202-456-1414

My parents started watching "The West Wing" when i was in middle school. By high school, i had started watching it with them, and it wasn't long before it became a favorite family activity.  My brother and dad and i still engage in quoting wars on Facebook, going through basically every line of dialogue from the first four seasons (the last three had new writers and weren't nearly as good). I own the full DVD collection of all seven seasons and watch them on a loop when i do homework or chores, the same way that other people put on music.

There is one particular episode where a new character, Ainsley Hayes, is introduced, and the President wants to hire her. Ainsley gets the call from the White House as she is programming her caller ID. She presses a button, freezes, and whispers, "202-456-1414". Her friend asks if it's an agent. Ainsley replies, "It's the White House."

One evening, my mom and brother and i were watching this episode. Intrigued, my mother asked if we thought that that was really the number for the White House. My dad was out of the house, so we had no adult supervision. My mom took my phone, dialed the number, and handed the phone to my brother.

Operator: "White House. How can I help you?"
Adam: "Oh. Um. Uh, wrong number. Um, sorry." *hangs up*

My dad gets news headlines sent to his phone. Whenever there is breaking news, he gets a text right away. When we called him to tell him what had happened, he "forwarded" us a fake headline about a terrorist cell suspected in Crumpton. My mom panicked, i yelled at her for using my phone, and it was Adam who pointed out that Dad was probably playing a practical joke.

So yeah. That really is the number for the White House.

My Brother Was My Pimp

In my junior year of college, i was struggling. Tuition had been increased, and due to my parents' recent divorce, it was difficult to get help from them for loans. Lately, they had been arguing over who should be responsible for my school bills and who should be responsible for my brother's. Meanwhile, he and i were caught in the middle with threats from our schools of not being allowed to return in the spring. Not only was i scared of the humiliation of getting kicked out because i couldn't pay bills, i was also reluctant to put my education on hold. And i really, really, really, really, really, really, really didn't want to have to move back in with my mom.

Adam and i were complaining to one another over text one night. I was getting pretty worked up.
I said, "I don't care. I'm not going back to that house. I'll live in the train station and sell my body for sandwiches."
Adam replied, "Sandwiches? Come on. You're not quite steak material, but you can do better than sandwiches."

There's nothing like family to boost your self-esteem and remind you of your true value.

It Is Well With My Soul

This song presented me with my first ever theological issue to wrestle with. I remember singing it in church one evening and thinking about how beautiful it was, and then suddenly becoming profoundly uncomfortable with the lines:    
     Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
      It is well, it is well with my soul.

Thou hast taught me? I was confronted with an image of God as an unsympathetic math professor saying, "You will use this every day for the rest of your life. You need to learn how to do it right. Say it: It is well with my soul." I didn't have the education to articulate all of my thoughts correctly, but if i had i would have said that i pictured myself as a dog, and God as Pavlov, teaching me to respond in certain arbitrary ways to His predetermined stimuli.

I asked my mom about it. Since we were still in church, she couldn't address the issue fully, and i was left with my question only half-answered. She said that it was less about God teaching us (forcing us to recite) something, and more about us learning (wilfully submitting). But i was still uncomfortable with a God who, when tragedy struck, would ask us to simply recite a cliche refrain and expect us to be comforted. Merely saying that it is well with my soul does not make it so.

I faced a lot of other theological wrestling matches over my life, and this one fell to the wayside. But it was never really resolved. I read The Problem of Pain, and while it helped, it did not really answer the question. I heard sermons, i read books, and experience taught me. I eventually figured out that "taught" could mean an experiential lesson, that this was not a stern task-master forcing me to recite a memorized lesson; God had "taught" the lyricist to say that by showing him the beauty and peace that exist even in the darkest moments. God became not a Pavlovian dictator, but an advisor who walked beside me to teach me to see beauty in life.

But this was not enough.

There may be a rose growing in the dungheap, but while it may distract you from the grim reality, it does nothing to correct or even lessen it.

Life is full of dungheaps, and there is no good reason for this. The fact that i have been taught to find hope in darkness does not excuse the existence of the darkness in the first place.

magnet in my school store

I wish i could say that i had recently had some great revelation on this point. I wish i could share twelve alliterative bullet points, or a promise verse, or a piece of wisdom suitable for bumper stickers and t-shirts. I have none of that.

I can tell you that i have found peace to be a far deeper and less joyful concept than i had previously believed. You can be at peace with a situation and still be pissed as hell about it. You can even be pissed at God about it. Being at peace with a situation doesn't mean that you are happy about it, or even that you are neutral about it. I can't tell you yet what 'peace' does mean. I don't know all of the words to explain it, and i haven't completely figured out how to feel it.

Sometimes, even now, when something happens to me or to a loved one, i hear the little bell ring, and i obediently recite the cliches i have been taught.

I know that peace is something you have to fight for. I've seen the t-shirts: "Bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity". I understand the point, but it's not really right. Peace is not something that just happens. It's not the natural order of things. Everyone is born a virgin, but they are born into a world of conflict and pain. Fucking for virginity will get you nowhere. But you can't have peace without a struggle. This is the shape of things.

I have learned this: there is an extent to which merely repeating a worn out cliche does bring some measure of comfort. They are cliches for a reason. Truth does not become less potent with age or use.

And that's all i've got. It is well with my soul, but my mind is troubled. And i guess i'll have to learn to be okay with that.

Flintstone Vitamins: Why Your Kid Isn't Going to College

It all starts there, with the flavored, chewy, gummy candy vitamins. I can understand making them chewable, since many small children are not able to swallow a pill. But why must they also be delicious? And then we have the bubble-gum flavored cough syrup, the chocolatey drinks to replace actual nutritious food, and a variety of websites devoted to helping parents feed their children.

Seriously?

When i was a kid, we had a rule: You have to try everything once. If you don't like it, you don't have to finish it, and you never have to try it again. But you have to try it. Our parents didn't make a big deal about it, and if we didn't like it, they stuck to their word: we didn't have to eat it. But we had to have some of every food group at least once a day. They were diligent and creative about finding fresh fruits and veggies that we liked, and they were careful to set a good example by eating lots of healthy, delicious foods.

I remember being appalled and a little embarrassed when the neighbor's kid threw a temper tantrum when asked to eat pizza with "green stuff" on it. (The "green stuff" was oregano.) Her parents picked off the dozen or so tiny flakes and then calmed her down so that she could eat her dinner. When my cousin was little, she didn't like cheese. So at a restaurant, when her parents ordered pizza for her, they were careful to say, "She wants plain, regular pizza," which of course meant cheese. My cousin never knew the difference.

If your kid is ten and doesn't want to eat broccoli, that's one thing. You can make him a different vegetable, or tell her to eat a fruit instead. Or, as many crafty parents have suggested, you can simply chop the vegetables finely or puree them and then hide them in spaghetti sauce or a casserole and the kid will never know the difference.

But if we are talking about a three-year-old, make them eat their damned vegetables. You don't have to yell, you don't have to cry, you don't have to threaten or bribe. But you are the parent, and if your kid doesn't respect you when you ask them to eat one bite of carrots, you'd better never let them have your car keys.

If your child refuses to take cough syrup and you give them liquid bubblegum, they have learned that all difficulties in life can be passed over in favor of something delicious. If you then reinforce this lesson with gummy vitamins and chocolate milk meal replacement shakes, your kid is never going to college.

My sister texted me this morning to tell me that she will be taking Honor's English next year. For her class, she is required to read three books. And she gets to pick the books.

I don't know if there is a list that they have to choose from. But i've seen these book lists (even the ones for private schools), and while they do contain a number of classic texts, they also tend to include pop-culture favorites. Now, don't get me wrong: i love Harry Potter and Ella Enchanted as much as the next nerd. But i am under no illusions as to their fitness for a school curriculum. I think that kids should be required to read a certain amount of the really difficult stuff and taught to appreciate it. I think they should be encouraged to find books that they love and to read them incessantly (especially since this will only make it easier for them to read the hard stuff). But if a student doesn't want to read Shakespeare, you can't substitute Twilight and call it an education just because Stephanie Meyer makes Shakespeare references. But this is what your students will expect from you, because when they were six and didn't want to eat spinach, Mom gave them chocolate milk and gummy cartoon characters.

If our parents and teachers can't be adults and enforce certain restrictions and requirements, how can we expect the children in their care to learn to be adults and to set their own guidelines? Having someone else set boundaries for them teaches children self-control, something they will badly need in college and beyond.

Guess what: not everything tastes like candy. Not everything is as much fun to read as the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (which, by the way, i was surprised to discover was pretty great). But you still have to eat your peas, and you still have to read Shakespeare. Get over it.

I Blame My Mother

Three years ago, in the cafeteria, i came up with a plan B: quit school and simply become the next Anna Nicole Smith.

I have always had a soft spot in my heart for cute little old men, with their cute little old manners and their cute little old hats and their cute little old too-short pants and everything. But what i never knew is that they also have a soft spot in each of their hearts for me.

One night, i was eating my dinner, when in came an absolutely adorable little old man, wearing a pin-striped fedora, and a sweater and jacket (despite the heat), even a bow tie. Let's call him "Carissa". He had these huge, bushy, pitch-black eyebrows that stood out against his bushy, snow-white hair. He was just too cute for words.

Because my mother raised me to be polite, as well as raising me with my soft spot for cute little old men, i smiled as he walked through the cafeteria. At that, Carissa came over to my table, leaned down next to me, and asked if i was Irish.
"No . . ." i answered, bemused.
"Oh. Are you Polish?" he continued.
"No . . ."
He asked me about six more of these before i finally said, "I'm a little bit German and a little bit French."
"Oh! Do you speak German?"
"No . . ."
"Do you speak French?"
"No . . ."
"Well, how come you are so beautiful?"

Between my amusement at the situation, my confusion at the leap from linguistics to aesthetics, and the general weirdness of the conversation, i began to blush. And giggle. Both of which are my reactions to uncomfortable situations, and one of which (the giggling) i inherited from my mother. I think i said something along the lines of, "Thank you. I don't know," and Carissa went back to his seat. (My friends assure me that my behavior was much more flirtatious than this, consisting of several "Yes, sir"s and "No, sir"s, all uttered with doe-eyed glances. I can honestly say that i remember none of this.)

After regaining control of myself (which took a considerable amount of time and effort, the giggles having escalated nearly to the point of making me fall out of my chair), i jumped up and raced across the cafeteria to my friend Steven, who had missed the action.

I filled Steven in on the events, and then returned to my seat, intending to collect my things and exit the cafeteria with what little remained of my dignity. But i was denied this escape by three of my friends who insisted that i stay put.
"Why?' i demanded.
"Because he is writing something on a napkin, and we think he's gonna give you his phone number," was the reply.

At this point, the giggles and blushing had me almost completely incapacitated. Falling back into my chair, i awaited my fate.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Carissa came over to me with his napkin.

"Since you are German and French, and you don't speak any German or French, I thought you should know a few phrases," he said. Handing me the napkin, he pointed to the first one and said, "'Ich liebe Dich!' Do you know what that means?"

I actually do know a tiny bit of both German and French, so i was able to choke out the reply: "I love you."
"Yes, very good! Now, what is this one? 'Je t'aime beaucoup'?"
Ordinarily, i would have known this one as well, but at this point all rational thought was beyond me.
"Ummmm . . . " was the best i could supply.
"It's the same thing, only French," he explained.

Carissa then asked me my major, asked if i planned to get my doctorate, told me to get my master's at ENC and then go elsewhere for my doctorate (i believe he suggested a school, but i was pretty much past the point of comprehension, let alone retention, of information), and i think he may have made another observation about my beauty before leaving me. I grabbed my dishes and wallet (and the napkin, which i later had framed), and ran. My one thought was to get out of the danger zone. But on my way, the RD for the boys' dorms stopped me.

"What was he sayin' to you?" he asked, suspicious.
"Oh, umm, he asked what my major was, and he wanted to know if i was Irish and stuff," i explained, not very coherently.
"So, everything's okay, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," i answered, still suppressing nervous giggles.
"Okay. I didn't know who he was, so i just wanted to make sure that everything was fine."
"Yes. Thank you," i managed, before bolting for the door in a fit of giggles. I think my face had surpassed red at this point and was nearly purple.

Oh, well. There's always a silver lining. I guess that if i ever decide that school is just too much for me, i can just drop out and become the next Anna Nicole Smith. I hope my mother will be proud.