Once, in the Baker's Square parking lot, as I carried my baby in her car seat into the store, a reporter with a news camera stopped me. She was interviewing people, asking them what the thought about the raise the U.S. Congress had just given itself. I think they had just raised their salaries, in 1982, based on the fact that my baby was not yet sitting up by herself*, to $57,000. $57,000 was pretty high in 1982. My husband made more than that and he was about 30 years old. I didn't think $57,000 sounded like a lot for a Congressman, although admittedly I was not thinking of their many perks. Anyway, I said "It doesn't sound like too much to me". Apparently everyone else she interviewed, this being conservative Nebraska, voiced negative opinions so my positive opinion got a lot of play on the news.
My father-in-law told my mother-in-law, and my mother-in-law called everyone she knows. Imagine a phone chain of relatives and gossips. But at first my mother-in-law said "Are you sure it was TheresA?" (my mother-in-law always insisted on mispronouncing my name. I stopped correcting her after about a thousand tries. My name is not TheresA. Or Terry.) "Robert," she demanded of my father-in-law, "Did you see Katie?" "No, no," said my father-in-law, "Just Frank's wife, just TheresA". "Then" my mother-in-law reasoned, "It couldn't be TheresA. What would she be doing out in the middle of the day without the baby?" But it was me. I was holding the baby in the car seat and the cameraman had only shot my face.
This very unimportant incident became family lore, proof to all my in-laws, and it seemed like there were hordes of them, but, in truth, I only had five sisters-in-law. But, of course, there were also lots of other relatives in the phone chain. Wouldn't you know it, they all said, that she would think that pay raise was okay. I hope nobody that knows us realizes she is Frank's wife.
It was about ten seconds of one daily newscast. True, I am probably the only living being who remembers it now
*If Katie had been sitting upright by herself, I would have left the car seat in the car. In the early months, before your baby can sit up, you can't put her in the seats for babies in shopping carts. So you hauled in the entire car seat, which filled up the shopping cart. It is much more work to go grocery shopping with an infant. Trust me on this. Once in a blue moon, my ex would do me a big favor and 'let' me go grocery shopping without the baby. I was still breastfeeding her. So we planned. I would dash out to the store as soon as I had fed her. Then I would have the fun run. It still galls me, 30 years later, to recall how he thought 'letting' me go to the grocery store without the baby was a special treat. Although it might gall me even more than I considered it a treat. It was so much easier doing a grocery shop without a baby, who could blow at any time. A baby 'blowing' could mean a lot of things, mostly it meant she might become fussy and cry and, in my mind, disturb others. Plus I wanted to sooth my dumpling.
Friday, January 27, 2012
I lived in Omaha then
I lived in Omaha when my daughter was born. So did she. That was 1982.
She was three years and six months old when we moved to Minneapolis. This story took place when we still lived in Omaha, so maybe she was three, or younger.
I grocery shopped at Baker's Grocery. The one I went to was in a small strip mall called Baker's Square. In Minnesota, Wisconsin, maybe Iowa, there is a chain of restaurants that specialize in pie called Baker's Square. I first started shopping at Baker's because I associated it with the pie diner-y restaurants in Minnesota. My then-husband told me there was no connection and I vaguely believed him but I felt adrift in Omaha and I liked pretending it was the same Baker's, as if relatives of the pie purveyors had branched out into groceries. Or vice versa.
Anyway, I did all my grocery shopping during my Omaha days at Baker's, at the Baker's Square mall. I remember telling my then-husband that I missed the brand Gold 'N Plump chickens. The chickens sold at Baker's in the early eighties seemed skinny, all skin and bones. Seriously. Food varies around the country. You don't know this unless you have moved around. I never got used to the skinny chickens sold in Nebraska. Even now, I wonder why there was such a difference in chickens. In those days, I had never heard of an organically-fed, free-range chicken. I started hearing about those, and wanting them, by the time Katie was five or six. I remember telling my then-best-friend Joni that yes, the chicken her then-partner Cary insisted on buying was much tastier and much better for my daughter than my Gold 'N Plump warehoused chickens but, geez, those organic free-range chickens cost twice as much. Joni and Cary were a two-income household, more or less. As a freelance copy editor and aspiring Zen Buddhist priest, Cary did not exactly pull down big bucks. In a good year, maybe Cary earned ten grand and that would have been an very, very good year. Cary's family had money and even in her forties, her father, a Stanford professor emeritus at Stanford, underwrote her regularly. I remember her telling me that her dad said "I guess I better buy you a computer" back when everyone didn't own computers. Back then, I paid $2,500 for my first computer. I bought a used Mac SE, one of those boxy early Macs. It had 30 MB hard drive which was considered pretty good. You kept everything on floppy discs. They called then floppy discs but the mac discs were not floppy.
"You should consider buying organic chickens," Joni said one day at Rainbow, the grocery store I patronized when I moved back to Minnesota, "It would be much better for Katie." Joni loved my daughter. She loved me too but I knew that mostly she had taken me on so she could have Katie in her life. And that was okay by me. Katie needed more adults in her life than me. Joni and Cary were two of the smartest, most wonderful people I have ever known and loved. And they had the most wonderful circle of friends I have ever been knitted into. All lesbians, a few male spawn from when some of the lesbians had been married to men. Back in the eighties, less lesbians had babies as couples than today, although of course some did. Joni always said she had wanted to have kids but Cary did not want them. So Joni was a child therapist instead. And she greedily enjoyed my Katie. And Katie adored her. It was win win. Mostly. Until it wasn't.
"They cost so much, Joni," I said, feeling bad that I could not give my daughter the very best. I wanted to give Katie organic, free-range chickens but I also wanted her to eat every day, not just every other day so I could swing organic.
When you have a kid, it's not just feeding them that cost money. People who have not raised kids don't seem to factor in the many costs of kids. The fact that kids constantly grow until, at least, early adolescence means they don't wear clothes out. They out grow them. Shoes. It seemed to me that if I wanted to guarantee a growing sprout, all I had to do was buy a pair of good shoes, like Buster Brown's or Stride Rite's. If I spent thirty two dollars on a pair of stury Buster Brown t-straps for school, you could bet money Katie would outgrow them in six weeks. And birthday party invitations means birthday gifts. And movies, cello lessons, theater tickets, museum admissions. I always had season tickets to the Children's Theater when Katie was young enough to be interested, and then tickets to the Guthrie, Theater in the Round, opera tickets, concerts. We always loved Theater de la Jeune Lune, which is now defunct, sadly. And then dance performances. Not to mention dance classes. I stuffed her life with culture and culture costs money. Opera day camp. Theater day camp. Camp camp. And answer me this, how come every year, it always seemed like we had to shell out for a ton of new stuff for camp that year? Where did the stuff go?
If Katie would go away for a couple weeks, maybe for summer camp, my money output plummeted. Kids cost money.
Once, Katie went to a Girl Scout camp up in the Boundary Waters. The main focus of this particular camp experience was canoeing, so the girls had to bundle everything onto or into one backpack. At that time, Katie and I each had one small, expensive feather bedpillow. A small feather pillow stuffs pretty well. She said she could not sleep without a pillow. But as we packed for that camp, I realized that she would never touch her pillow again if she took it camping. She would be forever worried that it had bugs. Katie was diagnosed obsessive compulsive at age ten. A doctor wanted to medicate her. She and I both rejected that, but I worked around it. Impulsively, I offered to let her take my pillow. She gave me a big spontaneous hug. She took my pillow to the boundary waters, slept happily with it. I had solmenly pledged that I would not use her pillow while she was gone. I used a foam pillow that week. I never touched her special pillow. Her fears about things like that were very real. My sister said I spoiled her. But I didn't think I was spoiling her. I thought Katie's fears were very real to her. I am sure they were.
I also knew that obsessive compulsives often hate the people they love the most. She loved me the most and she hated me the most. I told myself, back then, that she hated me so much because it was safe to hate me. I have wondered if my friend, Mr. X, also has some OCD issues, if he has focussed his fear of me on me because, weirdly, sickeningly, he actually loves me. I can't stand the way he treated me and I am very sorry he left me but I couldn't stand the way he treated me anymore. He treated many other people in his life much better than me. And I was mean to him. What came first, the chicken or the egg. What came first, Katie's hatred of me or Mr. X's. Do I deserve fear and hatred from each of them? On my bad days, which there are more of these days than good ones, of course I blame myself.
Oh my goodness, I forgot what I was writing about. Baker's Square.
Little girls, and I imagine this is also true of little boys but I have not raised a little boy from start to the cusp of adulthood, begin to insist on being independent. When Katie was two and three, she often resisted holding my hand as we walked together because, as she put it, she was a big girl. Every little kid I know wants to be a big girl. Or boy. There were times when she acquiesced to my insistence that we hold hands, such as when we crossed the street and in parking lots, but, even in such a strict circumstance -- it was my rule that she had to hold my hand in all parking lots until she was so tall that her head was higher than the top height of the average car.
"Drivers don't see you, honey," I told her countless times, "in a parking lot, if you are walking between cars and then you walk out away from the cars, a driver might not see you and run over you."
I explained to her, again and again, that parking lots were particularly dangerous place for little kids to walk without holding an adult's hand. I also tried to explain to her that being 30 inches tall prevented her from being able to see moving cars. Drivers couldn't see her, she couldn't see oncoming cars. It make perfect sense to hold my hand.
But she seemed to think parking lots were relatively safe, as compared to streets. She always tried to break away from me in parking lots. And when I was returning to the car, pushing a shopping cart full of groceries, I couldn't hold her hand. She was supposed to hold the car. Of course big girls did not sit in the shopping carts. Plus those seats in shopping carts are not big enough for two year olds; they are meant for babies.
So. One day, as we walked to our car, me pushing a full shopping cart, Katie dashed quickly away. A toddler can run fifteen feet in a few seconds. Fifteen feet in a parking lot is not much. Just enough to take you from between two cars to being smack dab in the middle of a moving car. She darted. I screamed her name. I screamed it, a blood curdling yell because I wanted the sound of my voice to scare her, to shock her into stopping long enough to at least think "Mom is yelling at me, what does she want." I had screamed "Stop Katie." I wanted my voice to frighten her into frozen position. And it did.
Just as I screamed, a man hopped out of his car and spoke to me scornfully. "You lazy cow," he said. "You should have screamed at her. You should have run over to her to pull her out from in front of that car."
My heart was pounding, my pulse racing. Katie had come within a couple inches of being hit by a car. True, the car was going slow, it was, after all, a parking lot. But a slow moving car could crunch down 30 inches, maybe 30 pounds, of kid.
My scream had worked. Katie had stopped instantly, frozen. Then she flushed bright red and started screaming, just as that man yelled at me for not running. If I had run, she would have been hit. There had only been a couple seconds to make her stop.
She was three years and six months old when we moved to Minneapolis. This story took place when we still lived in Omaha, so maybe she was three, or younger.
I grocery shopped at Baker's Grocery. The one I went to was in a small strip mall called Baker's Square. In Minnesota, Wisconsin, maybe Iowa, there is a chain of restaurants that specialize in pie called Baker's Square. I first started shopping at Baker's because I associated it with the pie diner-y restaurants in Minnesota. My then-husband told me there was no connection and I vaguely believed him but I felt adrift in Omaha and I liked pretending it was the same Baker's, as if relatives of the pie purveyors had branched out into groceries. Or vice versa.
Anyway, I did all my grocery shopping during my Omaha days at Baker's, at the Baker's Square mall. I remember telling my then-husband that I missed the brand Gold 'N Plump chickens. The chickens sold at Baker's in the early eighties seemed skinny, all skin and bones. Seriously. Food varies around the country. You don't know this unless you have moved around. I never got used to the skinny chickens sold in Nebraska. Even now, I wonder why there was such a difference in chickens. In those days, I had never heard of an organically-fed, free-range chicken. I started hearing about those, and wanting them, by the time Katie was five or six. I remember telling my then-best-friend Joni that yes, the chicken her then-partner Cary insisted on buying was much tastier and much better for my daughter than my Gold 'N Plump warehoused chickens but, geez, those organic free-range chickens cost twice as much. Joni and Cary were a two-income household, more or less. As a freelance copy editor and aspiring Zen Buddhist priest, Cary did not exactly pull down big bucks. In a good year, maybe Cary earned ten grand and that would have been an very, very good year. Cary's family had money and even in her forties, her father, a Stanford professor emeritus at Stanford, underwrote her regularly. I remember her telling me that her dad said "I guess I better buy you a computer" back when everyone didn't own computers. Back then, I paid $2,500 for my first computer. I bought a used Mac SE, one of those boxy early Macs. It had 30 MB hard drive which was considered pretty good. You kept everything on floppy discs. They called then floppy discs but the mac discs were not floppy.
"You should consider buying organic chickens," Joni said one day at Rainbow, the grocery store I patronized when I moved back to Minnesota, "It would be much better for Katie." Joni loved my daughter. She loved me too but I knew that mostly she had taken me on so she could have Katie in her life. And that was okay by me. Katie needed more adults in her life than me. Joni and Cary were two of the smartest, most wonderful people I have ever known and loved. And they had the most wonderful circle of friends I have ever been knitted into. All lesbians, a few male spawn from when some of the lesbians had been married to men. Back in the eighties, less lesbians had babies as couples than today, although of course some did. Joni always said she had wanted to have kids but Cary did not want them. So Joni was a child therapist instead. And she greedily enjoyed my Katie. And Katie adored her. It was win win. Mostly. Until it wasn't.
"They cost so much, Joni," I said, feeling bad that I could not give my daughter the very best. I wanted to give Katie organic, free-range chickens but I also wanted her to eat every day, not just every other day so I could swing organic.
When you have a kid, it's not just feeding them that cost money. People who have not raised kids don't seem to factor in the many costs of kids. The fact that kids constantly grow until, at least, early adolescence means they don't wear clothes out. They out grow them. Shoes. It seemed to me that if I wanted to guarantee a growing sprout, all I had to do was buy a pair of good shoes, like Buster Brown's or Stride Rite's. If I spent thirty two dollars on a pair of stury Buster Brown t-straps for school, you could bet money Katie would outgrow them in six weeks. And birthday party invitations means birthday gifts. And movies, cello lessons, theater tickets, museum admissions. I always had season tickets to the Children's Theater when Katie was young enough to be interested, and then tickets to the Guthrie, Theater in the Round, opera tickets, concerts. We always loved Theater de la Jeune Lune, which is now defunct, sadly. And then dance performances. Not to mention dance classes. I stuffed her life with culture and culture costs money. Opera day camp. Theater day camp. Camp camp. And answer me this, how come every year, it always seemed like we had to shell out for a ton of new stuff for camp that year? Where did the stuff go?
If Katie would go away for a couple weeks, maybe for summer camp, my money output plummeted. Kids cost money.
Once, Katie went to a Girl Scout camp up in the Boundary Waters. The main focus of this particular camp experience was canoeing, so the girls had to bundle everything onto or into one backpack. At that time, Katie and I each had one small, expensive feather bedpillow. A small feather pillow stuffs pretty well. She said she could not sleep without a pillow. But as we packed for that camp, I realized that she would never touch her pillow again if she took it camping. She would be forever worried that it had bugs. Katie was diagnosed obsessive compulsive at age ten. A doctor wanted to medicate her. She and I both rejected that, but I worked around it. Impulsively, I offered to let her take my pillow. She gave me a big spontaneous hug. She took my pillow to the boundary waters, slept happily with it. I had solmenly pledged that I would not use her pillow while she was gone. I used a foam pillow that week. I never touched her special pillow. Her fears about things like that were very real. My sister said I spoiled her. But I didn't think I was spoiling her. I thought Katie's fears were very real to her. I am sure they were.
I also knew that obsessive compulsives often hate the people they love the most. She loved me the most and she hated me the most. I told myself, back then, that she hated me so much because it was safe to hate me. I have wondered if my friend, Mr. X, also has some OCD issues, if he has focussed his fear of me on me because, weirdly, sickeningly, he actually loves me. I can't stand the way he treated me and I am very sorry he left me but I couldn't stand the way he treated me anymore. He treated many other people in his life much better than me. And I was mean to him. What came first, the chicken or the egg. What came first, Katie's hatred of me or Mr. X's. Do I deserve fear and hatred from each of them? On my bad days, which there are more of these days than good ones, of course I blame myself.
Oh my goodness, I forgot what I was writing about. Baker's Square.
Little girls, and I imagine this is also true of little boys but I have not raised a little boy from start to the cusp of adulthood, begin to insist on being independent. When Katie was two and three, she often resisted holding my hand as we walked together because, as she put it, she was a big girl. Every little kid I know wants to be a big girl. Or boy. There were times when she acquiesced to my insistence that we hold hands, such as when we crossed the street and in parking lots, but, even in such a strict circumstance -- it was my rule that she had to hold my hand in all parking lots until she was so tall that her head was higher than the top height of the average car.
"Drivers don't see you, honey," I told her countless times, "in a parking lot, if you are walking between cars and then you walk out away from the cars, a driver might not see you and run over you."
I explained to her, again and again, that parking lots were particularly dangerous place for little kids to walk without holding an adult's hand. I also tried to explain to her that being 30 inches tall prevented her from being able to see moving cars. Drivers couldn't see her, she couldn't see oncoming cars. It make perfect sense to hold my hand.
But she seemed to think parking lots were relatively safe, as compared to streets. She always tried to break away from me in parking lots. And when I was returning to the car, pushing a shopping cart full of groceries, I couldn't hold her hand. She was supposed to hold the car. Of course big girls did not sit in the shopping carts. Plus those seats in shopping carts are not big enough for two year olds; they are meant for babies.
So. One day, as we walked to our car, me pushing a full shopping cart, Katie dashed quickly away. A toddler can run fifteen feet in a few seconds. Fifteen feet in a parking lot is not much. Just enough to take you from between two cars to being smack dab in the middle of a moving car. She darted. I screamed her name. I screamed it, a blood curdling yell because I wanted the sound of my voice to scare her, to shock her into stopping long enough to at least think "Mom is yelling at me, what does she want." I had screamed "Stop Katie." I wanted my voice to frighten her into frozen position. And it did.
Just as I screamed, a man hopped out of his car and spoke to me scornfully. "You lazy cow," he said. "You should have screamed at her. You should have run over to her to pull her out from in front of that car."
My heart was pounding, my pulse racing. Katie had come within a couple inches of being hit by a car. True, the car was going slow, it was, after all, a parking lot. But a slow moving car could crunch down 30 inches, maybe 30 pounds, of kid.
My scream had worked. Katie had stopped instantly, frozen. Then she flushed bright red and started screaming, just as that man yelled at me for not running. If I had run, she would have been hit. There had only been a couple seconds to make her stop.
Monday, January 23, 2012
lechery
A few years ago, a male friend came to my home for a visit. He had never been there before and he nosed around a bit. He took a close look at the titles of the few books I had on the one small bookshelf I owned. And he looked closely at the few photographs I had on the wall next to my arm chair, where I did most of my sitting.
I had a photo of my daughter, descending a spiral staircase, dressed for her first fancy high school dance. Homecoming Fall 1996. She was fourteen, a h.s. freshman. I liked the shot, taken from below, because it displayed her emergent womanliness well. The camera looked upward, scanning her beautiful legs, trim torso, and fairly full bosom. Large bosoms run in my family and my daughter had a shapely one by age fourteen.
The dress was a vintage courture number that I had bought at a garage sale for two bucks. It was a sleeveless white shift from, I think, the fifties. The fabric was a thick texture. The dress was off white, or winter white, a white one could wear after Labor Day back when wearing white after Labor Day was something women thought about carefully. It was a creamy white.
And the dress fit Katie like it had been made for her.
I was surprised, and relieved, that she had agreed to wear it. Katie tended to want expensive new outfits for dances. So one of the things I especially liked about that dress was simply that she had been thrilled to wear a two dollar garage sale bargain.
She also wore above-the-elbow cream-colored gloves. The only ones we could find were extremely cheap, from one of those very cheap accessory stores. Her arms developed a mild rash from wearing those gloves for a few hours. But she thought the look was worth it.
Anyway. I loved the dress. I loved the kid. I loved the photo, precisely because it displayed her beautiful body. It is not lecherous for a mother to love watching her child emerge into womanhood. I had loved watching her body change for fourteen years. It was a fine, simple pleasure to see my daughter becoming a woman.
And, to be fair to this male friend, I acknowledge that I loved the photo because it displayed her physical beauty.
When I looked at that photo, though, I did not see a woman. I saw a child who was on the cusp of womanhood. And her first dance! Her first real date, actually. She had hung out a bit with boys before that dance but this was the first time a boy came into the house, met me, and took her out into the world.
When this male friend saw the photo, he said 'Nice bod'.
I was stung. Tears stung my eyes. I loved the photo precisely because it displayed her beautiful figure. Oh, I forgot to mention that my daughter was a serious modern dancer at this time. She was an apprentice to a great modern dance company. She took dance classes several hours every day of the week, as well as working out to rehearse for the endless next shows she was always in. Every muscle in her body was well toned. This photo displayed her exceptional fitness, her perfect curves. In one glance, the viewer noticed a curve for her hip, the curve for her waist, the demure curves of her bosom. Plus her body was turning, because it was a turning, spiral staircase.
It is a gorgeous photo of a very beautiful young woman. The photo does display a nice bod.
I was shocked, however, when this friend said 'Nice bod'. Hurt. I absolutely do not believe he had a lecherous thought. I am certain that he saw the things that made me love the photo. He saw that she was a beautiful young woman with a very beautiful body. That was exactly why I loved the photo.
So why was I hurt when he said 'Nice bod'? I think I was hurt because I had idealized this male friend, seeing him as a feminist. I don't want to live in a world where women are valued based on their physical appeal to males. I don't want a male friend of mine to see a photo of my daughter, at any age but especially while still a child, as a body.
He didn't do anything wrong. The whole reason I love the photo was because it showed off her beautiful body. I think that is what he was responding to. He is, as we all are, a product of culture. He was responding to exactly what I loved about the photo.
And his comment was inappropriate. He revealed something about himself, something, I think, that he likes to pretend does not exist within him. He judges women, in large part, by their physical beauty. He was willing to be friends with me, the fat chick, but he would never consider me to be his lover. A woman's physical appearance matters to him, partly because the beauty of a woman at his side reflects on his value in the world, too. A guy with a fat woman has lower status than a guy with a beautiful woman.
Nice bod. Life sucks.
Later, by email, I voiced my unhappiness about his comment. He wrote back to say he had felt some shame over his remark. He also defensively reminded me that during the visit, I had played a song from the Black Eyed Peas, "Her Lovely Lady Lumps". He said I had sent some strange messages when I played that song. At the time, I danced a lot daily, blasting music into my iPod earphones. I had been amazed to discover the Black Eyed Peas, amazed to discover that women sang songs in popular music that were so overtly sexual. The vocalist for 'Her Lovely Lady Lumps' is female. The lyrics are the voice of a young woman very openly aware of her sexuality, its power and appeal. I felt like that guy in the fairy tale who falls asleep for a long time and awaken into a greatly changed world. I had not listened to any pop music for, geez, decades. I never listened to music on the radio. I listened to jazz, Annie Lennox, who I got into back in the eighties, which was the last time I listened to pop music. Rip VanWinkle, that's the guy. When I heard "Her Lovely Lady Lumps", I felt like Rip VanWinkle must have felt when he awoke.
I shared that song with my male friend that day, mixed with a few songs that I really liked to dance to. I chose that one kinda like an anthropologist might reveal something about a culture she was studying. I was fascinated that such a song existed. It was not, certainly not consciously, some kind of come on to this guy. I was being happy and silly and having fun when I suggested we start out day together with a little dancing, to get ourselves energized. To have fun. And I chose that song because I thought it was fascinating.
Later, when I confronted him for her comment about my fourteen year old daughter having a nice bod, he confronted me about playing that song.
I certainly did not think I had any lovely lady lumps. I am morbidly obese. I do not see myself as sexually appealing to anyone.
And as far as my daughter's photo, it was taped alongside the drapes. Unless you were sitting down in my arm chair, you could not see the 3 by 5 inch photo. It's not like I had that photo prominently displayed, poster size, in my home. I had it posted in a private corner, where I spent lots of private time, alone, writing and surfing the internet. If this guy hadn't been closely nosing around my home, looking closely at just about everything, he never would have seen the photo. That photo was definitely not connected to "Her Lovely Lady Lumps".
Nice bod. Lech?
I had a photo of my daughter, descending a spiral staircase, dressed for her first fancy high school dance. Homecoming Fall 1996. She was fourteen, a h.s. freshman. I liked the shot, taken from below, because it displayed her emergent womanliness well. The camera looked upward, scanning her beautiful legs, trim torso, and fairly full bosom. Large bosoms run in my family and my daughter had a shapely one by age fourteen.
The dress was a vintage courture number that I had bought at a garage sale for two bucks. It was a sleeveless white shift from, I think, the fifties. The fabric was a thick texture. The dress was off white, or winter white, a white one could wear after Labor Day back when wearing white after Labor Day was something women thought about carefully. It was a creamy white.
And the dress fit Katie like it had been made for her.
I was surprised, and relieved, that she had agreed to wear it. Katie tended to want expensive new outfits for dances. So one of the things I especially liked about that dress was simply that she had been thrilled to wear a two dollar garage sale bargain.
She also wore above-the-elbow cream-colored gloves. The only ones we could find were extremely cheap, from one of those very cheap accessory stores. Her arms developed a mild rash from wearing those gloves for a few hours. But she thought the look was worth it.
Anyway. I loved the dress. I loved the kid. I loved the photo, precisely because it displayed her beautiful body. It is not lecherous for a mother to love watching her child emerge into womanhood. I had loved watching her body change for fourteen years. It was a fine, simple pleasure to see my daughter becoming a woman.
And, to be fair to this male friend, I acknowledge that I loved the photo because it displayed her physical beauty.
When I looked at that photo, though, I did not see a woman. I saw a child who was on the cusp of womanhood. And her first dance! Her first real date, actually. She had hung out a bit with boys before that dance but this was the first time a boy came into the house, met me, and took her out into the world.
When this male friend saw the photo, he said 'Nice bod'.
I was stung. Tears stung my eyes. I loved the photo precisely because it displayed her beautiful figure. Oh, I forgot to mention that my daughter was a serious modern dancer at this time. She was an apprentice to a great modern dance company. She took dance classes several hours every day of the week, as well as working out to rehearse for the endless next shows she was always in. Every muscle in her body was well toned. This photo displayed her exceptional fitness, her perfect curves. In one glance, the viewer noticed a curve for her hip, the curve for her waist, the demure curves of her bosom. Plus her body was turning, because it was a turning, spiral staircase.
It is a gorgeous photo of a very beautiful young woman. The photo does display a nice bod.
I was shocked, however, when this friend said 'Nice bod'. Hurt. I absolutely do not believe he had a lecherous thought. I am certain that he saw the things that made me love the photo. He saw that she was a beautiful young woman with a very beautiful body. That was exactly why I loved the photo.
So why was I hurt when he said 'Nice bod'? I think I was hurt because I had idealized this male friend, seeing him as a feminist. I don't want to live in a world where women are valued based on their physical appeal to males. I don't want a male friend of mine to see a photo of my daughter, at any age but especially while still a child, as a body.
He didn't do anything wrong. The whole reason I love the photo was because it showed off her beautiful body. I think that is what he was responding to. He is, as we all are, a product of culture. He was responding to exactly what I loved about the photo.
And his comment was inappropriate. He revealed something about himself, something, I think, that he likes to pretend does not exist within him. He judges women, in large part, by their physical beauty. He was willing to be friends with me, the fat chick, but he would never consider me to be his lover. A woman's physical appearance matters to him, partly because the beauty of a woman at his side reflects on his value in the world, too. A guy with a fat woman has lower status than a guy with a beautiful woman.
Nice bod. Life sucks.
Later, by email, I voiced my unhappiness about his comment. He wrote back to say he had felt some shame over his remark. He also defensively reminded me that during the visit, I had played a song from the Black Eyed Peas, "Her Lovely Lady Lumps". He said I had sent some strange messages when I played that song. At the time, I danced a lot daily, blasting music into my iPod earphones. I had been amazed to discover the Black Eyed Peas, amazed to discover that women sang songs in popular music that were so overtly sexual. The vocalist for 'Her Lovely Lady Lumps' is female. The lyrics are the voice of a young woman very openly aware of her sexuality, its power and appeal. I felt like that guy in the fairy tale who falls asleep for a long time and awaken into a greatly changed world. I had not listened to any pop music for, geez, decades. I never listened to music on the radio. I listened to jazz, Annie Lennox, who I got into back in the eighties, which was the last time I listened to pop music. Rip VanWinkle, that's the guy. When I heard "Her Lovely Lady Lumps", I felt like Rip VanWinkle must have felt when he awoke.
I shared that song with my male friend that day, mixed with a few songs that I really liked to dance to. I chose that one kinda like an anthropologist might reveal something about a culture she was studying. I was fascinated that such a song existed. It was not, certainly not consciously, some kind of come on to this guy. I was being happy and silly and having fun when I suggested we start out day together with a little dancing, to get ourselves energized. To have fun. And I chose that song because I thought it was fascinating.
Later, when I confronted him for her comment about my fourteen year old daughter having a nice bod, he confronted me about playing that song.
I certainly did not think I had any lovely lady lumps. I am morbidly obese. I do not see myself as sexually appealing to anyone.
And as far as my daughter's photo, it was taped alongside the drapes. Unless you were sitting down in my arm chair, you could not see the 3 by 5 inch photo. It's not like I had that photo prominently displayed, poster size, in my home. I had it posted in a private corner, where I spent lots of private time, alone, writing and surfing the internet. If this guy hadn't been closely nosing around my home, looking closely at just about everything, he never would have seen the photo. That photo was definitely not connected to "Her Lovely Lady Lumps".
Nice bod. Lech?
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
despair
I have a major psychiatric disability: borderline personality disorder. I also experience major depression. I have been 'officially' diagnosed manic depressive by a couple psychiatrists -- I've seen several of them over the years. When I used to take psychotropic meds, I had to had a psychiatrist. Some states allow nurse practitioners or certain levels of licensed MSW (masters of social work) to write meds. There are no meds for a personality disorder, which is just what the phrase suggests, a disordered personality, hardwired into a person in childhood.
I believe my disorder began as soon as I was born. I believe both my parents were borderlines.
I don't believe anyone really knows what it means to have a mental health disability. I know there are people who devote their lives to the issues, and many who do lots of putatively scientific research under the title of professional mental health studies. I know some mental health care practitioners are genuinely called to help folks with mental health disabilities heal. I believe there are natural healers. And I believe people who invest many years to train, to get MSW, PhD', and all kinds of expertise help simply because they invest their life force in good intention. You know what Napoleon Hill said in Think and Grow Rich: what the mind of man can conceive and believe, it can achieve. Hill was focussed on showing people how to will themselves rich. I think he got the power of the human mind right but he got the idea of using the power of the human mind to make money wrong. I think the human mind should only be used to achieve good, and, I think, the common good. More and more, I think community, the human community, matters more than any individual. But I am unwell and unable to make much contribution to the human community, other than to care for myself and be less of a burden on the whole.
Lots of people have personality disorders. Who doesn't know a narcissist, one who is narcissistic to the personality disorder level? I just ready a story, at The Atlantic, about the writer's encounter with Joan Didion a few decades ago. Apparently many who have run into Didion believe she is a narcissistic and believed that her also renown-writer husband was as well.
As my marriage counselor turned individual therapist told me bck in the eighties when I was getting divorced from a severely disordered husband, he said that many peole with serious disorders function in their jobs and this causes most people to believe the disordered people aren't crazy. Look, they say, he has a big-shot job, he makes 200K a year, he can't be crazy. But if you talk to the people who have to interact with such a theoretical person, such as their immediate subordinates or their family, you find another story.
My PhD psychologist told me, around 1984, that I had direct personal experience with someone who was severely disordered but had a very responsible, prestigious position but in his personal life, he was a nutter. Dr. No-Name told me that my ex-husband would have to have residential psychiatric care for at least five to seven years if he was ever going to heal from his multiple personality disorders. He had been subponaed as an 'expert witness' in my chils custody litigation -- by my ex, not by me.
One thing my ex never figured on
I believe my disorder began as soon as I was born. I believe both my parents were borderlines.
I don't believe anyone really knows what it means to have a mental health disability. I know there are people who devote their lives to the issues, and many who do lots of putatively scientific research under the title of professional mental health studies. I know some mental health care practitioners are genuinely called to help folks with mental health disabilities heal. I believe there are natural healers. And I believe people who invest many years to train, to get MSW, PhD', and all kinds of expertise help simply because they invest their life force in good intention. You know what Napoleon Hill said in Think and Grow Rich: what the mind of man can conceive and believe, it can achieve. Hill was focussed on showing people how to will themselves rich. I think he got the power of the human mind right but he got the idea of using the power of the human mind to make money wrong. I think the human mind should only be used to achieve good, and, I think, the common good. More and more, I think community, the human community, matters more than any individual. But I am unwell and unable to make much contribution to the human community, other than to care for myself and be less of a burden on the whole.
Lots of people have personality disorders. Who doesn't know a narcissist, one who is narcissistic to the personality disorder level? I just ready a story, at The Atlantic, about the writer's encounter with Joan Didion a few decades ago. Apparently many who have run into Didion believe she is a narcissistic and believed that her also renown-writer husband was as well.
As my marriage counselor turned individual therapist told me bck in the eighties when I was getting divorced from a severely disordered husband, he said that many peole with serious disorders function in their jobs and this causes most people to believe the disordered people aren't crazy. Look, they say, he has a big-shot job, he makes 200K a year, he can't be crazy. But if you talk to the people who have to interact with such a theoretical person, such as their immediate subordinates or their family, you find another story.
My PhD psychologist told me, around 1984, that I had direct personal experience with someone who was severely disordered but had a very responsible, prestigious position but in his personal life, he was a nutter. Dr. No-Name told me that my ex-husband would have to have residential psychiatric care for at least five to seven years if he was ever going to heal from his multiple personality disorders. He had been subponaed as an 'expert witness' in my chils custody litigation -- by my ex, not by me.
One thing my ex never figured on
Saturday, January 07, 2012
fighting
Anyone who actually knows me knows that I have borderline personality disorder. When I was first diagnosed with having a mental health disability in 1993, I decided then that I would be open about having a mental health disability. I didn't give this careful thought. I guess I could say that it came to me to be open. Since then, I have given this choice a lot of thought.
There is quite a lot of stigma associated with having a mental health disability or, as many would say, a mental illness. Being trained as a lawyer, or maybe just because I am me, and maybe because I am a borderline, I tend to see things in black and white, rigidly contrasted terms. I don't see gray very well. This might be comparable to being colorblind only I am emotional contrast blind or something. Whatever. I am pretty sick right now of all the navel gazing I've been doing lately but navel gazing, ruminating on what it is like to be me, is part of the package of having a mental health disability.
I am not even willing to concede that many so-called mental health professionals understand mental health disabilities. I think the whole field of mental health is hunches, bias, hokum and bullshit. People come in all kinds of bents, male and female, gay and straight, transgendered. Race. Intelligence. Developmentally disabled. Geniuses. We tend to label folks who don't fit in as mentally ill.
I don't understand what I am trying to write about.
But I do understand, unfortunately, unconscious and unexamined bigotry. I also understand some conscious bigotry. I am fat so I know that for many people, fat people are vilified for being fat. You can't hide being fat like you can hide, or try to hide, being crazy.
My disability, borderline personality disorder, is one of the worst ones. Until Dr. Marsha Li
There is quite a lot of stigma associated with having a mental health disability or, as many would say, a mental illness. Being trained as a lawyer, or maybe just because I am me, and maybe because I am a borderline, I tend to see things in black and white, rigidly contrasted terms. I don't see gray very well. This might be comparable to being colorblind only I am emotional contrast blind or something. Whatever. I am pretty sick right now of all the navel gazing I've been doing lately but navel gazing, ruminating on what it is like to be me, is part of the package of having a mental health disability.
I am not even willing to concede that many so-called mental health professionals understand mental health disabilities. I think the whole field of mental health is hunches, bias, hokum and bullshit. People come in all kinds of bents, male and female, gay and straight, transgendered. Race. Intelligence. Developmentally disabled. Geniuses. We tend to label folks who don't fit in as mentally ill.
I don't understand what I am trying to write about.
But I do understand, unfortunately, unconscious and unexamined bigotry. I also understand some conscious bigotry. I am fat so I know that for many people, fat people are vilified for being fat. You can't hide being fat like you can hide, or try to hide, being crazy.
My disability, borderline personality disorder, is one of the worst ones. Until Dr. Marsha Li
a cutting edge
Dental work. I spent more than a year skipping coffee in coffeeshops, scrimping to pay for a prophylactic root canal, a post-and-core, a crown-lengthening and then a crown. About $2,300 at a dental school. I asked a few people who love me to contribute, which they did.
Old age isn't for sissies or poor people.
People: listen to that advice about brushing well twice a day, flossing, etc. Dental care is unaffordable in old age. If I run out of the ability to pay for dental school dental care, I'll run out of teeth.
Anyway, yesterday, I started the process for a new crown. $758. A gold one. I think this is much cheaper than most private dentists but it is a ton of money for me. I was going to buy a new messenger bag. My current one is six years old and falling apart, but now I don't have the hundred bucks or do so get one. And I need new shoes. The ones I have just don't work anymore; every step hurts my right arch for some reason.
Few things make me feel more forlorn than not being able to buy basic needs. I'm depressed.
The dental student was a little slow yesterday and then he rushed at the end. I have a temporary filling right now and he fussed endlessly so I won't bite on it this week. I see him again in just one week, thank goodness. He left the inner edge of the filling sharp. It's like having a dull knife in the back of my mouth. Whenever I move my tongue, which I seem to do constantly, it hurts.
Life just never seems to be light for me. I had dreams about the money I am now spending on a gold crown. I was going to go on a trip. Maybe Mexico. Now, I am just going to the dental school three times.
Sigh.
Old age isn't for sissies or poor people.
People: listen to that advice about brushing well twice a day, flossing, etc. Dental care is unaffordable in old age. If I run out of the ability to pay for dental school dental care, I'll run out of teeth.
Anyway, yesterday, I started the process for a new crown. $758. A gold one. I think this is much cheaper than most private dentists but it is a ton of money for me. I was going to buy a new messenger bag. My current one is six years old and falling apart, but now I don't have the hundred bucks or do so get one. And I need new shoes. The ones I have just don't work anymore; every step hurts my right arch for some reason.
Few things make me feel more forlorn than not being able to buy basic needs. I'm depressed.
The dental student was a little slow yesterday and then he rushed at the end. I have a temporary filling right now and he fussed endlessly so I won't bite on it this week. I see him again in just one week, thank goodness. He left the inner edge of the filling sharp. It's like having a dull knife in the back of my mouth. Whenever I move my tongue, which I seem to do constantly, it hurts.
Life just never seems to be light for me. I had dreams about the money I am now spending on a gold crown. I was going to go on a trip. Maybe Mexico. Now, I am just going to the dental school three times.
Sigh.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
noticing aging
I am 58. I won't turn 59 until August but yesterday, the thought came to me "59 this year". Fifty nine is a skip to 60. Old. Not decrepit, but old.
In this past year, I have noticed that some people, many, seem to respond to me differently. I've been fat a long time so I am used to being invisible or erased by lots of folks. Quite a lot of humans blank out fat women. Some folks see fat people and feel angry.A few will even make insulting comments, even if they not only don't know you but have no reason to be interesting with you. That anger seems especially sad to me.
I have been at countless conferences, various events, where there is a large opening circle where everyone gets to at least say hello to everyone else. And in such circles, every single time, I have picked out the folks, usually men, who don't see me because I am a fat woman and a fat woman, to them, to many, has zero value. A fat women to such people doesn't just have zero value sexually; she has zero value in every way. It's a sad, odd thing, especially as studies are showing that people are not fat because they overeat. Fat is a health condition, no more a person's choice than Parkinson's. But for some reason, we blame fat people for being fat. I blame fat being for being fat. I blame myself.
Aging is a bit like being fat, in the sense that some people either don't see me at all or they erase me when they do. I began to notice this about a year ago. It's probably been happening longer. But I particularly noticed it because of one 'young' white male adult who lives in my apartment building. I am guessing this 'young' guy is thirty something, maybe late thirties, maybe not. He seems to be well educated, hip, intelligent, interesting. He is funny, talkative, warm, personable. I met him at a community meeting for the building. I liked him. He seemed to like me.
I don't really socialize with any of my neighbors. But I have developed some friendly connections to some of them. I know their names, their families,some of their life story. We continued swapping life stories in small snatches of interaction. Friendly.
So when I met this young white male, I assumed that he and I would develop, at least, this same famliarity. Oh, another way I interact with neighbors in my building that I 'know', is that when I run into them around Berkeley, we greet one another. We certainly greet one another in the elevator.
But this young white guy doesn't seem to see me. I have stood in the elevator, a very small space, and been surprised to see him light up as he warmly greens others in the elevator. But not me. At first I thought maybe he is instinctly attracted to connecting with blacks more than whites. Gradually, however, I have figured out that he does not see me as a potential friend cause I appear old to him. Old as in completely uninteresting. He is not being rude. He doesn't see me because he does not see me as a being who could possibly have anything interesting to say to him.
I met this guy about two years ago. I see him more often, I think, than anyone else in my building. I run into him all over Berkeley. And he never greets me. I have seen him light up into a smile to say hello to other neighbors. Young ones.
A few days ago, I saw him at the dollar store in downtown Berkeley. I was buying some plasatic bags to store wool, to protect wool clothing from moths. I passed him several times in the store. We checked out at the same time. We walked home in the same direction, of course, cause we live in the ame building. I didn't expect him to walk home with me, but with virtually any other neighbor, we would have chatted as we stood alongside one another waiting for lights to change, or as we walked in the same cross walks at the same time. I paid close attention. If he had given me any signal that he was aware of me, I was ready to make friendly eye contact, to nod hello or say hello or remark on the sunshine or something.
But this guy never looked at me. It felt like I was invisible to him.
At first, when I first became aware that he was blocking me out, I made an effort to greet him. He would respond politely but clearly had zero interest in me. But I have seen him show warm, high friendly interest in others in the building.
I am pretty sure it is age. I am pretty sure he sees a boring old lady.
I am many flawed things. I am not a contributing member of society. I am poor, disabled, lonely. I don't have much to offer anyone. Now I have a new way to measure my lack of value. I am old.
I don't like being erased for being old. Everyone is going to be old. How can people ignore someone just cause they look older than themselves? Have I done this? Probably.
Another thing I have begun to notice. I spot other old, poor, lonely women out in the world. I see them, often shabbily or oddly dressed, often appearing not to have showered recently. These old, poor, lonely women don't seem to pay much attention to their surroundings and they don't seem to expect anyone surrounding them to pay any attention to them. I'd bet these odd, disheveled old women are lonely. And they are me. I am one of them.
My life has mostly sucked. I loved raising my daughter but as soon as she could she left me. My future looks so bleak. I am so lonely I can't stand it. Things are not going to get better. All I have going on are medical appointments. I have one today. I have one tomorrow. I have spent every holiday since my daughter left me alone. Every single one. I'm just marking time, waiting to die because suicide is supposed to be wrong.
I could join a senior center. I could get a social worker to find me a volunteer friend. Gosh, I could play bingo.
I don't want this life. I am working up the energy to take my life. It takes a lot of work to do this. I have made a few lame attempts about ten years ago when I first lost Katie. Then I spent a year stockpiling a class A narcotic so I would be sure to take myself out. It takes time to score enough drug. Docs will only give you a month supply at a time, of course, and I don't have the money to buy a year's worth.
The only reason I haven't done it already is because the very worst thing that has happened to me so far was to be very serious and make a planned, serious attempt and to fail is the worst thing that has ever happened to me so far. Wakng up and realizing I had failed sucked. It took me months to swim past that painful anger. I can't fuck it up this time. This time, I have to succeed.
I have something that would get the job done. But I don't have the needed resolve. that's my work right now.
How can it be wrong to end a worthless life? It is romantic nonsense that humans tell themselves every life has value and meaning. Lots of people's lives have no value or meaning.
There is an Asian homeless guy who basically lives on my block. He sleeps in the outdoor lobby of the movie theater net door. Lately he has talked to me. I have passed him several times a day for three years and suddenly he talked to me, as if it had finally registered with him that we inhabit the same space. I was walking past him the other day, just after he had put his bedding away for the day. It was late morning, the theater in the shade. He said, speaking in a normal, friendly neighbor tone, "I am waiting for the sun to reach me." That statement made lots of sense. It was chilly in the shade. But he could have just walked a few steps and been in the sun. It's been weirdly dry here. Usually it rains a lot this time of year but lately it's been sunny sunny sunny. I love the sunniness. When this guy said this, I had been thinking "I should have walked home on the other side of the street, I'd have remained in the sunshine." So when he said he was waiting for the sun, I thought I knew what he meant. He was waiting to feel the sun, to enjoy it, to be a little warmer.
I wanted to stop and ask him why is he homeless, and how is he doing. He keeps many stacks of paper coffeecups, from Peets. These stacks of cups are dirty. I don't think he would ever drink from them. And why would he keep 100 soiled coffee cups? It's hard for him to hang onto things. He has no place to put anything. He has to haul everything he owns everywhere he goes. Why those soiled paper cups?
He seems normal. Friendly. Happy. And fairly young. Maybe forty? How long has he lived this way? Does he see any different path in his future?
I will never sleep on the street, all my belongings in a shopping cart. How do people who live like that go on? I have a very nice apartment, furnished just fine. I have money for all my needs. I can't imagine how that guy goes on. I have many things he does not have.
I want to end my life.
In this past year, I have noticed that some people, many, seem to respond to me differently. I've been fat a long time so I am used to being invisible or erased by lots of folks. Quite a lot of humans blank out fat women. Some folks see fat people and feel angry.A few will even make insulting comments, even if they not only don't know you but have no reason to be interesting with you. That anger seems especially sad to me.
I have been at countless conferences, various events, where there is a large opening circle where everyone gets to at least say hello to everyone else. And in such circles, every single time, I have picked out the folks, usually men, who don't see me because I am a fat woman and a fat woman, to them, to many, has zero value. A fat women to such people doesn't just have zero value sexually; she has zero value in every way. It's a sad, odd thing, especially as studies are showing that people are not fat because they overeat. Fat is a health condition, no more a person's choice than Parkinson's. But for some reason, we blame fat people for being fat. I blame fat being for being fat. I blame myself.
Aging is a bit like being fat, in the sense that some people either don't see me at all or they erase me when they do. I began to notice this about a year ago. It's probably been happening longer. But I particularly noticed it because of one 'young' white male adult who lives in my apartment building. I am guessing this 'young' guy is thirty something, maybe late thirties, maybe not. He seems to be well educated, hip, intelligent, interesting. He is funny, talkative, warm, personable. I met him at a community meeting for the building. I liked him. He seemed to like me.
I don't really socialize with any of my neighbors. But I have developed some friendly connections to some of them. I know their names, their families,some of their life story. We continued swapping life stories in small snatches of interaction. Friendly.
So when I met this young white male, I assumed that he and I would develop, at least, this same famliarity. Oh, another way I interact with neighbors in my building that I 'know', is that when I run into them around Berkeley, we greet one another. We certainly greet one another in the elevator.
But this young white guy doesn't seem to see me. I have stood in the elevator, a very small space, and been surprised to see him light up as he warmly greens others in the elevator. But not me. At first I thought maybe he is instinctly attracted to connecting with blacks more than whites. Gradually, however, I have figured out that he does not see me as a potential friend cause I appear old to him. Old as in completely uninteresting. He is not being rude. He doesn't see me because he does not see me as a being who could possibly have anything interesting to say to him.
I met this guy about two years ago. I see him more often, I think, than anyone else in my building. I run into him all over Berkeley. And he never greets me. I have seen him light up into a smile to say hello to other neighbors. Young ones.
A few days ago, I saw him at the dollar store in downtown Berkeley. I was buying some plasatic bags to store wool, to protect wool clothing from moths. I passed him several times in the store. We checked out at the same time. We walked home in the same direction, of course, cause we live in the ame building. I didn't expect him to walk home with me, but with virtually any other neighbor, we would have chatted as we stood alongside one another waiting for lights to change, or as we walked in the same cross walks at the same time. I paid close attention. If he had given me any signal that he was aware of me, I was ready to make friendly eye contact, to nod hello or say hello or remark on the sunshine or something.
But this guy never looked at me. It felt like I was invisible to him.
At first, when I first became aware that he was blocking me out, I made an effort to greet him. He would respond politely but clearly had zero interest in me. But I have seen him show warm, high friendly interest in others in the building.
I am pretty sure it is age. I am pretty sure he sees a boring old lady.
I am many flawed things. I am not a contributing member of society. I am poor, disabled, lonely. I don't have much to offer anyone. Now I have a new way to measure my lack of value. I am old.
I don't like being erased for being old. Everyone is going to be old. How can people ignore someone just cause they look older than themselves? Have I done this? Probably.
Another thing I have begun to notice. I spot other old, poor, lonely women out in the world. I see them, often shabbily or oddly dressed, often appearing not to have showered recently. These old, poor, lonely women don't seem to pay much attention to their surroundings and they don't seem to expect anyone surrounding them to pay any attention to them. I'd bet these odd, disheveled old women are lonely. And they are me. I am one of them.
My life has mostly sucked. I loved raising my daughter but as soon as she could she left me. My future looks so bleak. I am so lonely I can't stand it. Things are not going to get better. All I have going on are medical appointments. I have one today. I have one tomorrow. I have spent every holiday since my daughter left me alone. Every single one. I'm just marking time, waiting to die because suicide is supposed to be wrong.
I could join a senior center. I could get a social worker to find me a volunteer friend. Gosh, I could play bingo.
I don't want this life. I am working up the energy to take my life. It takes a lot of work to do this. I have made a few lame attempts about ten years ago when I first lost Katie. Then I spent a year stockpiling a class A narcotic so I would be sure to take myself out. It takes time to score enough drug. Docs will only give you a month supply at a time, of course, and I don't have the money to buy a year's worth.
The only reason I haven't done it already is because the very worst thing that has happened to me so far was to be very serious and make a planned, serious attempt and to fail is the worst thing that has ever happened to me so far. Wakng up and realizing I had failed sucked. It took me months to swim past that painful anger. I can't fuck it up this time. This time, I have to succeed.
I have something that would get the job done. But I don't have the needed resolve. that's my work right now.
How can it be wrong to end a worthless life? It is romantic nonsense that humans tell themselves every life has value and meaning. Lots of people's lives have no value or meaning.
There is an Asian homeless guy who basically lives on my block. He sleeps in the outdoor lobby of the movie theater net door. Lately he has talked to me. I have passed him several times a day for three years and suddenly he talked to me, as if it had finally registered with him that we inhabit the same space. I was walking past him the other day, just after he had put his bedding away for the day. It was late morning, the theater in the shade. He said, speaking in a normal, friendly neighbor tone, "I am waiting for the sun to reach me." That statement made lots of sense. It was chilly in the shade. But he could have just walked a few steps and been in the sun. It's been weirdly dry here. Usually it rains a lot this time of year but lately it's been sunny sunny sunny. I love the sunniness. When this guy said this, I had been thinking "I should have walked home on the other side of the street, I'd have remained in the sunshine." So when he said he was waiting for the sun, I thought I knew what he meant. He was waiting to feel the sun, to enjoy it, to be a little warmer.
I wanted to stop and ask him why is he homeless, and how is he doing. He keeps many stacks of paper coffeecups, from Peets. These stacks of cups are dirty. I don't think he would ever drink from them. And why would he keep 100 soiled coffee cups? It's hard for him to hang onto things. He has no place to put anything. He has to haul everything he owns everywhere he goes. Why those soiled paper cups?
He seems normal. Friendly. Happy. And fairly young. Maybe forty? How long has he lived this way? Does he see any different path in his future?
I will never sleep on the street, all my belongings in a shopping cart. How do people who live like that go on? I have a very nice apartment, furnished just fine. I have money for all my needs. I can't imagine how that guy goes on. I have many things he does not have.
I want to end my life.
