The Summer I turned 10, my sister and I stayed with my aunt the week of my birthday. Mom and Dad had to fly to Houston for Dad's cancer treatment.
I went to Bible Camp. Or is it, wait, it was called Vacation Bible School. As you might be guessing right now, the bible is not exactly familiar territory for me. I think I remember liking it--it was kind of fun, and we had to work kinda hard to do stuff, like memorize verses. I let slip that I had never asked Jesus into my heart, which apparently was a big deal. The PIC (people in charge) said I should do that right away. So I prayed and said what they said I should say. I've always been a sucker for rule following.
My aunt's family is probably the most religious branch of the family. We prayed aloud at bedtime every day. I don't remember what I prayed about anymore. I don't even remember if we prayed for my dad.
The big G and the big J became big facets in my life that year, the way they never had been, before the big C became a big facet of my dad's life.
We didn't talk about it, and if we did I don't remember, but rather quickly after Dad was diagnosed, we started going to church. I'd only been to church over holidays, and then, only with Dad's parents. Elena and I both liked going to services because they had these zippered binders with art supplies in them, so instead of paying attention we could scribble furiously.
Mom never talked about it back then, but she definitely is an unbeliever. I wanted to believe, because all of the churchgoers said I should. Atheists, curiously enough, often have little to say about what you should believe. But Dad? Not sure. Maybe. Probably. Some of the things Bob said one time about his favorite songs made it sound like he did, and just didn't do anything about it because Mom was so...unbelieving. Well, I say that atheists don't have much to say about this, but I will add that Mom definitely needs to be convinced of someone's trustworthiness after she finds out they're Christian. Imagine her predicament when she found out the college I went to was sponsored by a church!
Every couple of years, Grandpa will make a particularly big deal about "those who are no longer with us" (which includes my Grandma, now), in his Christmas prayers. I've never particularly liked it. I think usually I'm not associating my father with holidays anyway, because I would have seen him everyday anyway. It doesn't make sense to think about it more on holidays. But church...maybe a little. I don't think I really consciously associate church with my dad, but I almost definitely associate services and sermons with the religious people I met during that time.
The day my Dad died, there was a minister there, whose name I didn't even know. He made some awkward comment about holding my comatose father's hand. He might have also suggested that we say things to him, not sure anymore. It was weird. I totally resented him. He might have been the guy who ran the memorial service, too, but I don't know. I wish I remembered more, but it was so long ago. All I remember is that I felt uncomfortable. From the church service my aunt told me wasn't very formal, but still lent me a slip and a skirt for. That was definitely the first time I ever wore a slip--at just over ten years old.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Friday, March 20, 2015
Rambling about Change, Young Adults, and Communication
On a slightly lighter note...
I've noticed recently several of my friends independently confessing a desire to go somewhere new, somewhere fresh, where there were no friends and family to have any understanding or preconceived notions of who they were.
And today, I realized that I wanted to do a very similar thing: I stayed in Lamoni last spring, after leaving school, despite my mom desperately wanting me to come back home. (Eventually I ended up calling her, sobbing, telling her exactly why I wanted to stay in Lamoni, and that what I needed from her was unwavering support. I'm pretty sure that's the last time since I was like 16, that I either cried that much in front of her, sort of, or tried to communicate that level of emotion to her.) I wanted to stay in Lamoni, I said, because I wanted to stay committed to returning to school, and because I had a wide support system here. And, it turns out, I wanted to stay away from people who knew my life story exceedingly well. I didn't tell her, that I also didn't want to be around this pressure to get better, to fix myself, or to have to explain what depression was, while I was dealing with it. Ick.
She sent me a letter yesterday that contained a small comment wedged between information about new shoes on sale and advice that I shouldn't use too much acne medication for fear of developing an allergy, saying she was going to give me advice, despite fears I would reject it. What? When did I do that? Is she talking about me not moving home? Or some other moment of obstinacy? Because I have no idea what she's talking about. I feel terribly disconnected, but I like receiving letters from her, besides that I feel it gives me (even more) breathing room, because it's bringing up comments like this. Damn, I do not communicate well with my Mom. At all.
Not that that's a surprise. I refused to friend her on facebook for about three and a half years, and have never been good about remaining in contact with anyone per cell phone.
But I also recognize now, that my attitudes fit into a pattern in young adults around me. Besides holdovers from being a rebellious teenager who wants to do everything on their own, and thinks they're really different from everyone else. But back to the pattern: many of my friends are graduating college or have recently graduated, and are facing a lot of change and increasing responsibility in their lives. And they realize that they are growing up and changing as people. (I'd really like to know more about the stages of developing as humans, because there has got to be something about this in there!) So because it's really difficult to become someone a little different, when everyone around you expects you to behave a certain way, it's easier to just go where no one has expectations, and meet people who see you for who you are right now, an accomplished and impressive person, not as who you were that time you were a dick to your friend because she disagreed with you or expressed nervousness or whatever.
I did that in my favorite example of how I was different in high school. Back then, I was intensely shy (but outgoing--this is an important distinction, and I'm gonna pause this sentence to explain, briefly. Shy: fear of social hubbub because of your actions, particularly when they are known to be unusual either for you or for your social group. Outgoing: perfectly comfortable interacting with humans and speaking up. So you can be outgoing, but shy about doing stuff other than talking)...about going to social events and dancing, in particular. But, as I started to enjoy listening to music a bit near the end of high school, I got tired of not getting to do stuff like dancing with friends. But hell if I was going to dance in from of my high school friends. They would have known it was extremely out of the ordinary (from middle school to high school, the only dance-like event I went to was the 6th Grade Mixer, and my Mom had a girl in my carpool buy a ticket for me and forced me to go.) My friends would have said something! How mortifying! Besides, they were now all comfortable with dances, and I had no idea what the hell happens at dances. So I went to college where no one knew me (entirely good reasons for this besides the dancing thing) and went to every dance they had, had a great time, and definitely was often one of the first people on the floor.
tl;dr I danced in college after being afraid to in high school.
So my point is, I still don't communicate well with my Mom, and part of that is probably because I'm still changing as a person. And I don't like feeling the need to figure out that change at the same time that I'd need to try to explain it to someone else. Although, from my glogging point of view, that's probably crap. Explaining it to the people you care about, should you so choose, probably helps you figure out what you want, and do it. After all, that's why I glog. So I can better understand myself. That's why active listening is helpful.
I've noticed recently several of my friends independently confessing a desire to go somewhere new, somewhere fresh, where there were no friends and family to have any understanding or preconceived notions of who they were.
And today, I realized that I wanted to do a very similar thing: I stayed in Lamoni last spring, after leaving school, despite my mom desperately wanting me to come back home. (Eventually I ended up calling her, sobbing, telling her exactly why I wanted to stay in Lamoni, and that what I needed from her was unwavering support. I'm pretty sure that's the last time since I was like 16, that I either cried that much in front of her, sort of, or tried to communicate that level of emotion to her.) I wanted to stay in Lamoni, I said, because I wanted to stay committed to returning to school, and because I had a wide support system here. And, it turns out, I wanted to stay away from people who knew my life story exceedingly well. I didn't tell her, that I also didn't want to be around this pressure to get better, to fix myself, or to have to explain what depression was, while I was dealing with it. Ick.
She sent me a letter yesterday that contained a small comment wedged between information about new shoes on sale and advice that I shouldn't use too much acne medication for fear of developing an allergy, saying she was going to give me advice, despite fears I would reject it. What? When did I do that? Is she talking about me not moving home? Or some other moment of obstinacy? Because I have no idea what she's talking about. I feel terribly disconnected, but I like receiving letters from her, besides that I feel it gives me (even more) breathing room, because it's bringing up comments like this. Damn, I do not communicate well with my Mom. At all.
Not that that's a surprise. I refused to friend her on facebook for about three and a half years, and have never been good about remaining in contact with anyone per cell phone.
But I also recognize now, that my attitudes fit into a pattern in young adults around me. Besides holdovers from being a rebellious teenager who wants to do everything on their own, and thinks they're really different from everyone else. But back to the pattern: many of my friends are graduating college or have recently graduated, and are facing a lot of change and increasing responsibility in their lives. And they realize that they are growing up and changing as people. (I'd really like to know more about the stages of developing as humans, because there has got to be something about this in there!) So because it's really difficult to become someone a little different, when everyone around you expects you to behave a certain way, it's easier to just go where no one has expectations, and meet people who see you for who you are right now, an accomplished and impressive person, not as who you were that time you were a dick to your friend because she disagreed with you or expressed nervousness or whatever.
I did that in my favorite example of how I was different in high school. Back then, I was intensely shy (but outgoing--this is an important distinction, and I'm gonna pause this sentence to explain, briefly. Shy: fear of social hubbub because of your actions, particularly when they are known to be unusual either for you or for your social group. Outgoing: perfectly comfortable interacting with humans and speaking up. So you can be outgoing, but shy about doing stuff other than talking)...about going to social events and dancing, in particular. But, as I started to enjoy listening to music a bit near the end of high school, I got tired of not getting to do stuff like dancing with friends. But hell if I was going to dance in from of my high school friends. They would have known it was extremely out of the ordinary (from middle school to high school, the only dance-like event I went to was the 6th Grade Mixer, and my Mom had a girl in my carpool buy a ticket for me and forced me to go.) My friends would have said something! How mortifying! Besides, they were now all comfortable with dances, and I had no idea what the hell happens at dances. So I went to college where no one knew me (entirely good reasons for this besides the dancing thing) and went to every dance they had, had a great time, and definitely was often one of the first people on the floor.
tl;dr I danced in college after being afraid to in high school.
So my point is, I still don't communicate well with my Mom, and part of that is probably because I'm still changing as a person. And I don't like feeling the need to figure out that change at the same time that I'd need to try to explain it to someone else. Although, from my glogging point of view, that's probably crap. Explaining it to the people you care about, should you so choose, probably helps you figure out what you want, and do it. After all, that's why I glog. So I can better understand myself. That's why active listening is helpful.
But, it's hard to hold yourself back from interjecting reassurances or advice to loved ones who are turmoiling (yes, you just saw that verbed right here, right now). And that's probably equally important, because when we do that, we communicate that we are not happy with the other person's growth happening on their terms. This previous statement only applies to conversations where the other person is verbally working through thoughts with you. In other situations, be yourself. But when family/friends aren't used to you changing or are explaining things while you're figuring shit out, that is so not helpful. It makes sense to try to avoid that and just find somewhere to be your new self, sans explanation.
Sunday, March 15, 2015
What I Have Left
After my father died, Dad's friend, Tim, helped put together the playlist for the service, friends and family brought us casseroles, Elena and my teachers ran the reception, I fended off offers to have other young girls read poems at the memorial service (in case I was too emotional--I was not), and later, Mom got rid of his stuff.
His boat, I don't remember what happened to. We sold it, probably.
His motorcycle jacket and SmartWool socks went to my oldest cousin, who is as tall as my dad was. I think we gave them to him at Christmas, a few weeks later.
Elena and I got his jeans, after my aunt got ahold of them and turned them into pillows. Mine lay on my bed for a few years, but I've lost it, now. It might be in Mom's basement.
And the camper we took out, every weekend in the summertime, was sold. There was a family from Michigan, also with two girls, who drove down, specifically to buy it. One Dad, one Mom, and two kids. Just like we used to be. Someone, Mom, probably, took a picture of us standing with them, in front of what was now their van. It's in a photo album in the study.
I had one of his old pots from college when I moved into my own apartment for a while, but I had other pots that were a smaller, more convenient size, so I brought it back. It's probably in the basement--not sure. I just left it in the dining room the last time I was home. Not far from where his hospital bed was ten years ago, actually.
I have his old desk though. I wanted a really gigantic one for my craft area, because I tend to spread out and leave no room for myself to work, so Mom suggested the desk he designed and build for himself in college. It comes apart in five big pieces, so you can move with it easily, and it doesn't use screws. It fits together in pre-cut grooves, like advanced lincoln logs or something.
And I have a poster of spicy peppers that hung in our kitchen when he was alive. It's completely in German, even though he spoke it pretty poorly. I was already correcting his pronunciation when I was seven. Now the poster hangs next to my dining table.
I asked my mom's boyfriend for Dad's old drill, because I'd like to be able to make a shelf for myself, but he only found the drill and the battery charger--none of the drill bits. They're probably buried under all the tools and projects he brought with him when he moved in.
I don't even have the three-ring-binder of the letters people sent us with stories about him--Mom has it, so that she and my aunts can finish adding more stuff they apparently have been collecting, but they haven't touched the album in eight or nine years.
Grampa gave me jewelry he says my Dad told him to buy for me when I graduated high school, but I don't really know if I believe him. The handwriting on the letter looked like Grampa's, even though I think their handwriting was similar, but I don't know anymore.
But that's it. A poster, a desk, half of a drill set, and maybe a necklace is what I've got, twelve years later. And I can't help feeling, that I really, really, maybe, ought to have something, more.
His boat, I don't remember what happened to. We sold it, probably.
His motorcycle jacket and SmartWool socks went to my oldest cousin, who is as tall as my dad was. I think we gave them to him at Christmas, a few weeks later.
Elena and I got his jeans, after my aunt got ahold of them and turned them into pillows. Mine lay on my bed for a few years, but I've lost it, now. It might be in Mom's basement.
And the camper we took out, every weekend in the summertime, was sold. There was a family from Michigan, also with two girls, who drove down, specifically to buy it. One Dad, one Mom, and two kids. Just like we used to be. Someone, Mom, probably, took a picture of us standing with them, in front of what was now their van. It's in a photo album in the study.
I had one of his old pots from college when I moved into my own apartment for a while, but I had other pots that were a smaller, more convenient size, so I brought it back. It's probably in the basement--not sure. I just left it in the dining room the last time I was home. Not far from where his hospital bed was ten years ago, actually.
I have his old desk though. I wanted a really gigantic one for my craft area, because I tend to spread out and leave no room for myself to work, so Mom suggested the desk he designed and build for himself in college. It comes apart in five big pieces, so you can move with it easily, and it doesn't use screws. It fits together in pre-cut grooves, like advanced lincoln logs or something.
And I have a poster of spicy peppers that hung in our kitchen when he was alive. It's completely in German, even though he spoke it pretty poorly. I was already correcting his pronunciation when I was seven. Now the poster hangs next to my dining table.
I asked my mom's boyfriend for Dad's old drill, because I'd like to be able to make a shelf for myself, but he only found the drill and the battery charger--none of the drill bits. They're probably buried under all the tools and projects he brought with him when he moved in.
I don't even have the three-ring-binder of the letters people sent us with stories about him--Mom has it, so that she and my aunts can finish adding more stuff they apparently have been collecting, but they haven't touched the album in eight or nine years.
Grampa gave me jewelry he says my Dad told him to buy for me when I graduated high school, but I don't really know if I believe him. The handwriting on the letter looked like Grampa's, even though I think their handwriting was similar, but I don't know anymore.
But that's it. A poster, a desk, half of a drill set, and maybe a necklace is what I've got, twelve years later. And I can't help feeling, that I really, really, maybe, ought to have something, more.
Friday, March 13, 2015
Leaving School. And Going Back
So, in this post AND in this one, I referred to the fact that I "quit" school. And I've said before, when I'm feeling more flippant about the whole thing, that I dropped out. Neither of which really hit it on the head. Really, I forced myself to quit, or take a break. And when I say forced, I don't mean I applied huge wells of raw willpower to myself and decided to leave. I mean that I was doing so badly, and my attendance and motivation to care about school were so low, that my behavior meant I could fail an entire semester...or realize I needed change.
Luckily for me, I'm too scared to fail, so I quit instead. Well, I took a medical leave of absence. After postponing in order to have a place to live until the end of the semester and take advantage of my unspent food point voucher things.
I've spent the last year living in town, working extra at the coffeeshop (woo, savings!), and occasionally thinking about grief. But I honestly think I've progressed.
Signs of Progression
This scares me. Am I ready? Eh. Maybe.
Signs/Thoughts: I am ready
Luckily for me, I'm too scared to fail, so I quit instead. Well, I took a medical leave of absence. After postponing in order to have a place to live until the end of the semester and take advantage of my unspent food point voucher things.
I've spent the last year living in town, working extra at the coffeeshop (woo, savings!), and occasionally thinking about grief. But I honestly think I've progressed.
Signs of Progression
- wanted to read books last summer about people grieving. (did like Wild.)
- spent a lot of time crying over dishes. (after closing, particularly fall and summer)
- felt desire to do more and try to follow through on things like getting involved--ish (did community volleyball and started swimming fairly regularly in pursuit of triathlon goal)
- started this blog!
- cried in front of friends about Dad (late last fall)
- cried in front of coworker (last month)
- rediscovered town library!! (2 months ago or so)
This scares me. Am I ready? Eh. Maybe.
Signs/Thoughts: I am ready
- see "Signs of Progression" Understand this means I've increased my emotional vulnerability and honesty.
- I'm never really going to feel ready. I'll always feel scared. I'll never feel "fixed." So, waiting is just giving into fear, whereas going is a bit of a matter of determination, once I'm at stage where I can handle it.
- I've repeated a pattern of "break (summer break, that is), school, depression, staving off failure," so many times. I really don't want to do that again.
- I don't think I've really replaced my habits. I think I often use the internet to avoid thinking or feeling anything difficult, so it's possible that this year has only been a vacation and that when I go back, I will revert back to old coping mechanisms and habits.
Monday, March 9, 2015
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Ugh, Headache
Ok, so the previous two posts were mostly written three days ago, when I started the blog. I just spent the last two nights trying to find a quote in a book I'd just finished, without success, and couldn't post until I found it. So I just put in the quote I think it must have been. But all this to say, it looks like I need a new "rule:" always post immediately. Don't get off the glog until you've posted what you've written. What I write is supposed to help connect me to my emotions that I don't like connecting to, so it's better to just post what I have because it's emotionally true at that moment, than to wait until the right wording comes along.
So far, that's the first rule of the glog. I've been hesitant to give myself a daily posting schedule or something, because I worry that I'll disappoint myself. But I'm even questioning that. I've a headache and I'm pretty sure it's because I've stayed up until or past 4am for the last, like, three days. And I don't intend to, really. I thought to myself earlier, I should really get to bed by 10, or at the very least midnight, just earlier today! But I've sucked at going to bed reasonably all year.
I think it's because I'm scared to sleep. I don't have nightmares or anything, don't worry. I'm pretty sure I don't even dream about my dad. But there's something there. Maybe, like I told Becca at work today, I just don't like relaxing enough to let go and allow myself to sleep. And I keep pushing myself until sleep overwhelms me.
Honestly this new attitude to sleep is a bit odd. It's been very severe this last year. And as far as I recall, last year, I slept as much as I possibly could. Especially during that one period where I tried to sleep through my entire life, resulting in me quitting school for a while. It's shit like this that makes me frustrated and also vindicated--see? This is why I had to leave school! I can barely focus on cooking myself good meals, let alone, revolve my entire day around getting school crap done! And that is incredibly frustrating to admit...especially publicly.
I was so proud of myself on Friday--I cooked myself and Alice Indian food, (only my second time making Indian something from scratch!) and I created deliciousness! And I made chocolate chip cookies (Saturday?) And last week, I kinda lost myself in making some pretty great cupcakes. I almost wanted to start making stuff a bit more regularly. And by that I mean baking stuff, because I can barely eat food that I make because I'm at the coffeehouse during food hours so much. But yeah, then I start sucking at sleeping, and eating, too. And I was late for the second day this week. (fuuuuuck.) So yeah. Maybe I ought to start doing this a bit earlier. And watching less tv online. (Yeah, like that's going to happen without some major change in my life.) Sigh. Frustration!
So far, that's the first rule of the glog. I've been hesitant to give myself a daily posting schedule or something, because I worry that I'll disappoint myself. But I'm even questioning that. I've a headache and I'm pretty sure it's because I've stayed up until or past 4am for the last, like, three days. And I don't intend to, really. I thought to myself earlier, I should really get to bed by 10, or at the very least midnight, just earlier today! But I've sucked at going to bed reasonably all year.
I think it's because I'm scared to sleep. I don't have nightmares or anything, don't worry. I'm pretty sure I don't even dream about my dad. But there's something there. Maybe, like I told Becca at work today, I just don't like relaxing enough to let go and allow myself to sleep. And I keep pushing myself until sleep overwhelms me.
Honestly this new attitude to sleep is a bit odd. It's been very severe this last year. And as far as I recall, last year, I slept as much as I possibly could. Especially during that one period where I tried to sleep through my entire life, resulting in me quitting school for a while. It's shit like this that makes me frustrated and also vindicated--see? This is why I had to leave school! I can barely focus on cooking myself good meals, let alone, revolve my entire day around getting school crap done! And that is incredibly frustrating to admit...especially publicly.
I was so proud of myself on Friday--I cooked myself and Alice Indian food, (only my second time making Indian something from scratch!) and I created deliciousness! And I made chocolate chip cookies (Saturday?) And last week, I kinda lost myself in making some pretty great cupcakes. I almost wanted to start making stuff a bit more regularly. And by that I mean baking stuff, because I can barely eat food that I make because I'm at the coffeehouse during food hours so much. But yeah, then I start sucking at sleeping, and eating, too. And I was late for the second day this week. (fuuuuuck.) So yeah. Maybe I ought to start doing this a bit earlier. And watching less tv online. (Yeah, like that's going to happen without some major change in my life.) Sigh. Frustration!
Antonia's Patented Guaranteed-To-Result-in-Emotional-Faltering Guide to Grieving Part 1
Well, I guess I'm feeling tired. This commitment to write about my feelings seems to be a step in the right direction, so my first impulse is to celebrate with finally getting to bed. But that's really not all that helpful.
So I'll start with Antonia's Patented Guaranteed-To-Result-in-Emotional-Faltering Guide to Grieving:
1. Start with a lovely childhood. Perhaps an idyllic moment or two of emotional connection.
So I'll start with Antonia's Patented Guaranteed-To-Result-in-Emotional-Faltering Guide to Grieving:
Ex: When I was 8 (wild guess), I was reading a favorite book of mine at my grandparents. (About kid detectives with a treehouse or something, if I recall.) The cover illustration on the paperback was separating from the paper and flaking off as I read, and after a while it really started to bug me. (Besides, I seem to have an intense pack-ratting tendency and can't help wanting to preserve things. Do try not to let me get carried away if you set me free in your pantry. You'll have canned goods to bequeath to your children.) Anyway, I found some clear tape and proceeded to laminate the peeling section, strip by strip. My Dad walked into the kitchen and after watching me for a few moments, said, "Antonia, someday, you're going to be a great dad." Proudest moment of my life. Well one of the proudest.
*bling* *shing* *phlew* REFLECTION FROM THE PRESENT *sing* *splay *schink*
(Yeah, this section definitely needs sound effects.)
This is one of my strongest memories of my father. His total approval of what I was doing and my life-long tendency to gerry-rig (sorry, can't think of better word) together diy solutions out of tape and cardboard made me feel so secure, so proud, so accepted. When I think of the fathering that I missed, this is the ideal. I guess I'm imbuing it with an implication that he would have taught me to make anything I wanted out of wood and more buildery materials, too, because I always wanted a father figure to teach me to make that kinda stuff. Then I could gerry-rig stuff from tape, carboard and plywood! But yeah. I can't help but think, "what would I have learned from him?" "What skills would he have taught me" (Definitely how to sail 16-ft Hobie Cat sailboats.) I feel selfish for thinking about what I would have gotten or learned, but I also can't help but think, "well. I would have!" Sometimes a lot of the pain I feel now is kind of centered on knowing that life could have been different, but isn't.
Don't get me wrong. This whole glog. The fact that I quit school. It's all so I can learn to accept and practice peacefulness. I'm not trying to recreate anything here. I'm just saying, that's what I'm sad about. And. Well. I'm trying to own up to my right to have that feeling. Whew. Ok.
2. Have object of emotional connection die. (By the way, I can't stand saying my Dad passed on. Or is no longer with us. What a load of crap. I think I 'll write about this in a later post.)
To Be Continued....
To Be Continued....
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