Mishmash

I first wrote this post over 2 months ago, right at the beginning of March…but for several reasons, I chose not to post it at the time. It was too emotionally loaded for me then, and even though I'm pretty sure none of my immediate family reads my blog, I didn't want to post anything potentially upsetting for them.

But now it's 2 1/2 months later and the emotional purge from writing it (and the leftover emotional guilt?) has passed, and it doesn't seem nearly so loaded. Just factual, or else anecdotal--and still very accurate background fodder.

Aside from the sunshine and three straight days of 70-degree temperatures that have FINALLY found Portland this week (for the first time since last September…ugh), this week has been a rather crummy week. It's nothing specific so much as a hodgepodge of stuff that's been building up inside me, but not surprisingly, I burst into tears when it was my turn to share at support group on Wednesday…and the emotions have stayed too close to the foreground all week. Yea. I have another post in me that needs to get written and get outside of me--if for no other reason than I hope that it'll make me feel better--but I decided to publish this old post in the meantime because so much of it feeds into what's been going on lately.

Hooray. (And yes, that was sarcasm. ;o))

And if you want to know the context where this post here fits, read these entries first:

• Mon., March 7: Hidden Gifts
  
• Thur., March 31: A Life's Work
  

---

Friday, March 4, 2011

Like a sleepwalker suddenly and unexpectedly finding herself awake and coherent, I shake myself and wonder how the hell it can be March already. Really?? March? Spring?? Anna's been in school now for six months, and here I am, sitting at my computer and wondering where on earth the last six months went--and how so little could have happened in six months.

Time has always been my enemy these past 5 1/2 years of being widowed. As a former planner, go-getter, and overachiever, I've always thought that I could make time bend to my own will, to pass as quickly or slowly as I wished, to get as much done as I willed in a certain time frame. At a year out, I'd be past the worst of the grief, the one-year death anniversary past me, and I could move forward with my life. By five years out, I'd be remarried and have more children. In six months, I'd be back at work, content, and happy with my life. I create to-do lists, thinking I can actually get things done in a reasonable length of time.

I should know better. Yet I've unconsciously done it again, assuming I'd be in a different spot by mid-March than I actually am. Last fall, I assumed I'd be working by now, that I'd have everything figured out and running smoothly. But I'm most definitely not, and haven't.

And I'm baffled by the fact that there are only three more months until Anna will be out of school and it'll be summer again. In less than a month, it'll be two years already since I moved into our not-so-new-anymore house. (That it's been two years and a week or two already since I moved out of my house in Sandy is downright bizarre.) In less than six months now, Anna will be seven years old.

How. Is. That. Possible?!?!

I know part of my disorientation with time is simply adjusting to how quickly time can fly as an adult and a parent, compared to how painfully looooooooooong any given day, week, month, summer, or year felt as a kid, teenager, or college student. (Hell, it's only been ten years since I was a kid.) Another part has been adjusting to how radically being a parent changes everything: productivity, time, the ability to get anything done.

I've always been a time- and date-oriented person and a planner. I excel with dates and remembering when things happen, and when I worked at a "real" job full time, I always succeeded at getting things done on schedule. I always got things done on time, and I could cross items off my to-do list--both the professional list and the personal one--quickly and effortlessly. But that was before I had a child with me every "free" moment...or else when there were two people to do the tasks of running a household. And now it's just me, it's an even bigger and more aggravating shock to realize I can't do it all anymore and that I can't do it all in the timeframe I imagine.

But grief robbed me of a lot of years too, and it definitely skewed my perception of time even more. It debilitated me, decreased how much I could do, and limited me in ways that are hard to understand even now, over five years later.

So yeah. Still not working. Still not excited and proactive about searching for jobs and applying. Still periodically freaking out about what I'll do for money in another two or three months. (Oh--and that temporary contract job I had in November and December? Completely evaporated. They'd said at the beginning of January that they still wanted to hire me for one more document, but I never heard a single thing back from them after contacting them a few times. Sigh.)

What's hard for me to accept is realizing that despite all the reasons I "should" be working, bringing in an income, etc., etc., apparently my base desire is still to spend all the time I can with Anna--and money be damned. I want to be home with her, and when her days at school mean that she's home by 11:00 am every morning, it's hard to fathom leaving her.

But I feel so conflicted, guilty, irritated, that I'm failing somehow, (blah blah blah), that I'm not out working, that I'm not applying for jobs like I should have to be doing. If I'm going to be out of money in a few short months, then it means I need to be searching and applying NOW.

(And FYI: here's where I started being uncomfortable back in March with what came out of my mouth….errrr…fingers, I mean.)

Apparently I still hear all the voices of my youth in my head--to do more, be more, with my intelligence; to use the gifts God gave me; to always do better than everyone else--even if I'm not consciously aware they're still there. My middle sister just snorted and rolled her eyes at me last weekend when I said that I was surprised to realize my perfectionist tendencies are still alive and kicking in some areas. (I'd mostly fooled myself that they were largely gone, or at least largely tempered and limited to certain areas. Leave it to a sibling to see things clearer than you can and to call your bluff.) I guess I was only fooling myself. And it's no wonder that I've struggled so over the last three to four years with my decision to stay home with Anna instead of work like I was "supposed" to do. I forget that I was trained and conditioned from a very young age that I had an obligation, a debt, to repay*.

* Growing up, my family was never demonstrative or physically or verbally affectionate (or at least not once I was old enough to remember anything concrete). In high school, I could have told you the exact date and time of the last time I hugged my parents--which would have coincided with the last dance team or marching band competition I had and the congratulatory hug that followed. To this day, I still don't remember ever being told by my parents, out loud, that they love me. (Which, of course, doesn't mean that they never said it: just that I don't remember it.) In our family, it was simply a given, an understood (and unspoken) fact, that we loved each other. But it also means that I don't remember my mom ever telling me, I love you or You can do anything, be anything you want to be. Instead, what I do remember my mom telling me was, You could do so much more with your intelligence.

As an adult and parent now, I can see how bizarre it is that I remember that one statement more than almost any other. I was a senior in high school, and it was sometime in the fall as I was deciding what colleges to apply for, what majors I was interested in. At the time I was heavily interested in majoring in Medical Technology, and I was talking to my mom in the car about which schools would be better for it. I was excited, jazzed about the prospects, and probably talking a mile a minute (the norm for me, then and now). And I remember her pursing her lips, sighing through her nose, and shaking her head. "I just think you could do so much more with your intelligence, Candi," she protested. The implication that medical technology wasn't enough of a challenge, wasn't difficult enough--wasn't enough--was immanently clear. I was an excellent student, had a 4.0 GPA, and would be one of five valedictorians later that year. It didn't need to be spoken: valedictorians didn't become lab technicians; valedictorians became doctors.

And what did I do after that? Like any good girl, I intended to become a doctor, just like I was "supposed" to do. (That my pre-med major didn't even survive my freshman year in college is no surprise. After I met my first niece halfway through the year and cuddled and loved on her, I realized that I didn't want to have to wait until my mid- to late thirties to have a family. And that was the end of becoming a doctor.)

And of course my parents never criticized my choices later (although my initial desires to major in English weren't exactly supported and cheered; I needed to major in something useful, after all). Nor do I recall any excessive pressure from my parents to become a doctor, or any other profession specifically. Any pressure and demons that I put on myself likely came from me. Or really, from the subtle pressures and expectations laid on a bright, successful girl from her teachers, parents, society at large, and her own conditioned, overachieving personality….

But I still remember that one conversation with my mother when I was seventeen like it happened a month ago. And I'm stunned to find that that one statement--you could do so much more with your intelligence--is the black, slimy crud hiding under the rock, as I pick it up and try to find out through writing just why I struggle so with this battle of working vs. staying home with my child.

I could do so much more.

I should do so much more, something whispers to me.

The supreme irony is that my mom stayed home with us when we were little. Her presence is what I remember over so many other things as I look back at my childhood. My mom was always there, somewhere in the background, as I played, argued with my sister, went to friends' or my cousins' houses, as I did everything. She was there after school, during the summers, and at all my basketball and volleyball games in middle school. My dad? He was at work. And when he came home, he wasn't an involved parent. My parents' marriage has always been traditionally divided--not surprisingly, since they married in the 1950s when they were 19 years old.

And as I grew into adulthood and contemplated what I wanted for my own life, my own family and children, I wanted what I had had: a mom who was home with her kids when they were little, and then who was around for all the kid stuff after school and on the weekends. Yes, I wanted to go back to work eventually and I wanted to have a meaningful job that I enjoyed, but I wanted to only work part-time so I could have the best of both worlds.

It's still what I want. But now I have the burden and responsibility of being a single parent. There's no one else to bring in an income to support our family. And the stark reality is that, most likely, working part-time is not a viable option.

It's a lonely, frightening burden. And because I chose to stay home for so long and made other decisions over the last five years, there's no life insurance money left anymore to help us float, to give me time to figure things out now. And there's no one to talk to at night, to strategize, help figure things out, support my decisions, or give advice. (And yes, friends are lovely, supportive things, but it's not the same.) There's no one else who's responsible for making our family work.

It's lonely and exhausting. So I do what's easiest: I hide and try to avoid the decision. I take care of Anna, I get out every now and then, I wear myself out by following the demands of our school- and Anna-driven routine…but I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know what I want to do. (Well, that's not entirely true: I want someone else, a fantastical Mr. Husband, to exist to help share this burden. I don't want to be doing this all entirely by myself.) But if I don't get off my ass and do something, then nothing will happen. A job or an adequate income won't just fall in my lap, nor will said Mr. Wonderful show up on my doorstep like a delivery from the FedEx guy, wrapped up in a great big bow.

The need to summon more energy when there's none available to draw from: it's yet another of my enemies of grief. Having to draw up the will and the energy and the drive to do something frightening, exhausting, and difficult, and with no guarantee of success…oh, lordy, just let me go back to bed….Because when I wake up, maybe someone else will have figured it out for me….

---

…Written on Sunday, March 6….

 As backstory….

I've actually been writing this post for several days. I started it on Friday, but I've struggled with writing it: struggled with figuring out why I feel the way I do, and then struggled with the answer (or one of them). Finding the echoes of a one-time, sixteen-year-old conversation with my mom underneath my internal whirlpool was really upsetting, particularly when I thought I'd battled that demon, and defeated it, many years ago. (And by no means am I trying to vilify my parents, our family, or my upbringing. I know my parents love me very much, and my mom did a great job of raising us.)

But as I've continued to process this thread in my mind since Friday, one thing that has really struck me is just how much words matter to me. I remember what people say…and I remember it way too much.

(5/20/11: And apparently it's where the nasty voices in my head can find such free, fertile soil, too….)

Now, actions, or words written down and read? Or the words that go unsaid? Not nearly so powerfully, to the point that I often overlook and forget about them. I know my mom wrote, We're so proud of you, in cards many, many times. Same goes with Love, Mom and Dad. But I hear uttered statements, the words spoken out loud, echoing in my head so much more readily.

The same goes for hurtful things that friends have said over the years--particularly since being widowed and when I already was so incredibly vulnerable. It's not the things they did or wrote that I remember or that haunt me: it's what they said. The brief, awful words that some of them said in moments of anger, or in thoughtless conversations. And years later, I still hear them in my head, ringing more powerfully than the other kind gestures that ought to tip their balance and erase the wrong.

Words matter to me. (Shocking, huh, seeing as I am, after all, a writer and self-described word whore?)

And another thing that's struck me these past couple of days is how I'm largely the one to blame for all the voices in my head. Nobody ever told me, No, it's bad, it's a waste, to stay home with your child. And even then, "blame" is too strong of a word; it's probably more accurate to say that I'm the one putting all this pressure on myself. I imagine my parents, my friends, the universe (and Charley himself, even) would tell me to lighten up and be easier on myself.

(5/20/11: And yes, the four friends with whom I "prescreened" this post in March most definitely told me to stop being so damned hard on myself.) 

Anna's not even in school full-time yet, after all. My "break" from parenting consists of about an hour or two each school day. My alarm clock goes off at 6:30 am, I wake Anna up a little before 7:00 am, and I drop her off at school at 7:45. I come home, eat breakfast, have a cup of coffee, and check email or Facebook and gear up my brain enough to face the day, which happens by about 8:30 or so (and this ritual isn't any different than what I did when working, too). Then I have maybe an hour and a half to two hours to get anything done before it hits 10:00 am and I'm reminded I needed to get my butt in the shower, if I don't want to be showing up for kindergarten pickup in my pajamas (a "fact" that I often forget about until about 10:30). I dash in the shower at 10:35, dash to the car, and waltz up to the pickup line outside the classroom door as one of the last parents. And then we're home by shortly after 11:00 am, and my ability to get anything accomplished in a sane, productive manner is completely gone. Anna's too social these days and wants too much interaction with me anymore to have more than a few minutes of peace and quiet when she's home. The irony that it was easier to get stuff done when she was younger is a real bitch.

The irony that kindergarten--no, make that half-day kindergarten--is harder more aggravating than preschool is a real bitch, too. Kindergarten is just as short as preschool was, but it's every day, and it's earlier, and it's put a crimp in our lifestyle and my schedule waaaaaaaaaaaaaay more than preschool ever did. I suspected many, many years ago that kindergarten wouldn't be the Get Out of Jail Free card so much as first grade would be. And lo and behold, I was right. This year of kindergarten is nothing but a weird, schizophrenic transition: part toddlerhood and stay-at-home-momness, part big-girl public-school freedom, and a whole lot of messiness. Yeehaw.

 So, yes. I'm reminded again that *I'm* the one putting all this pressure on myself to get all this stuff done and figured out during kindergarten. Really, I should have been budgeting all along for figuring it out in first grade. Oops. The downside is that, financially, I need to figure it out now (or make that several months ago).

I forget so easily how much energy it takes to be a single parent, to have to take care of every. single. thing., and while juggling a school-aged kid too. I'd figured out how to make single parenthood of a toddler and preschooler work okay (or at least to minimize the worst bits of it), but having Anna in school is a whole different ball of wax. Needing to figure out finances and work on top of everything else only exacerbates the exhaustion. It's no wonder I'm falling asleep at 8:30 most school nights or that I'm still tired all the time, even when my old grief friend, Insomnia, isn't really a factor anymore.

---

But about that working thing….

One thing I haven't really mentioned on here is that I have been working these past two months. Or really, I've been working pretty much ever since Anna started school last September. (And no, I'm not referring to that short-term technical writing contract I had.)

Ever since I photographed my friends' wedding at the beginning of September last year, I've been pretty much working regularly and steadily (albeit very part-time) as a photographer. (It still feels weird to say it that way.) And as of two months and two days ago, my photography hobby has become an actual business: c.c. photography, llc.

(5/20/11: And FYI...Here was one of my aborted efforts earlier this winter/early spring to announce my photography business. But the announcement was waylaid due to the emotional vomit above that I didn't want to post. But what I wrote here still plays into my feelings now.)

I spent the first three weeks of January, frantically working my butt off, into crazy hours of the night, to get my website and all the different pieces up and running so I could start telling people about the business--and to hopefully start getting some clients and income. (And when I said in my blog post in late January that "January has bloomed and been spent much more pleasurably and calmly," I was referring to the frenzy of starting up my new business.) And I loved every minute of January. I felt useful, and productive, and like I had something to show for my time, something to be proud of. Something that had nothing to do with being a mom, or with grief. It's been fantastic.

But the reality is that it's still in its infancy, and business-wise (or make that income-wise), nothing much is happening yet. Also, I'm new at this; I don't really know how to get from "here" to "there" at having a successful, money-making business. And since I don't have money for day care and Anna's still home with me virtually all day, it makes the venture even more challenging. (I won't even go into how the lack of emotional or logistical support from day to day takes a toll.)

 Best-case, daydream-land scenario, maybe someday it could be enough to support us financially. Worst-case scenario, it's only ever a small side venture, something to do for fun, extra spending money, and a way to get out and spend time with people. If it ever gets to a point where it's not worth the time, energy, or investment to be an actual business structure in itself, then I'll reevaluate. But in the meantime, it's fun, I enjoy it, and, most importantly, it doesn't feel like "work."

But…there aren't enough clients or income to qualify it as my job, or to be anything I can rely on for now. Hence that whole need for a "job" and to go back to "work"...which, in my dictionary, apparently means something corporate (or at least something with a reliable, sufficient paycheck). But on top of my mommy reasons for not being thrilled about going back to "work," there are my self-employment reasons too.

So yes, it's definitely a mishmash of crap in my head. And it's hard. It's bloody hard, taking care of Anna and everything else and having to figure out an income, and having no one to help shoulder it--or to tell the voices in my head to shut the hell up. It's hard, and I'm tired, and it's really lonely. I know it's hard for families with two parents, too.

And I won't be such a pessimist to make a blanket statement, Life is hard; expecting anything else is foolish. Yes, sure, it's plenty hard at times, but I believe there are enough wonderful things in the world to help make up for it. ...There just haven't been as many 'wonderful things' lately as I'd like, however, to balance it out. And definitely not enough to erase saying, It's hard right now.

Yes, it's a completely different species of "hard" compared to what I had to face in the first year or two after Charley died. This isn't grief hard, or death hard. It's just life. But it doesn't make it any less hard.