..."let go in small doses..."

I don't know what will happen with this.  I hope you'll stay with me, as this mess unfolds, and I hope it will become something profound for both of us. 
If not, I apologize for the cluster-fuck you are about to endure...

For the love of anything and everything sacred, don't dull yourself out. 
You are something so marvelous, so spectacular, so stellar.
You know whether or not you are sitting in stagnant water.  You know whether something inside you is crying out, and you know whether or not you fight to hush it every day. 
Don't. 


I can't recognize the person I have become.  Sitting behind this magic box for a few hours every day, banging out marvelous prose in secret, scribbling away in notebooks that get locked away in a safe in a dark closet.  Pretending to be empathetic and "in touch", and all the while, knowing what an unpleasant wretch of a woman I have slowly become, because I am nowhere near where I imagined I would be, or where I know I could be, because I have constantly silenced the thing inside me that cried out. 

Because I have settled. 
Because I have lent myself to people who were embarrassed by me, rather than fed by me. 
Because I have tamed myself for those people, rather than shrugged off their insecurities as just that...their insecurities.  I have embraced them as my own, and now wear them as armor. 

I am not me.  I am "Krystal and..."  Nothing is left of the fantastic and miraculous soul that existed in me to start. 
I can't digest how people survive this.  How a person's heart doesn't just stop...
I want to discover every corner and every hidden place inside of him.  I want to turn him inside out, and memorize him, to never stop discovering, and yet he is simply uninterested in learning any more about me...and often even embarrassed by the flamboyant and grandiose person I can be.  How?  And it isn't because he's "bad."  It just is.  And I know it was from the beginning.  And I hate admitting that I saw it, and knew it from the beginning.  I hate knowing and admitting that I ignored it.  That I tolerated it.  That I allowed it.  That I lived with it.  I hate that I let someone throw water on my fire, and that now I'm just wet ash. 
I can't believe that the sun will come up tomorrow. 
I can't digest how people survive this...how a person's heart doesn't just stop...

Don't die.  Sweet gods, don't dull yourself out.  Don't give yourself over to someone else to mold.  
And if you do, you have no one to blame but yourself. 

Holly Lou Yeah.

I have two kids. 
They are imperfect. 
I adore them. 

They make messes that are never-ending. 
And I adore them. 

They challenge me, my perceptions, and my patience. 
And I adore them. 

They test my boundaries, they test each other, they push my limits.  Every day. 
And I adore them. 

I love them beyond measure.  Bigger love than anything I know. 

I would never dream, imagine, fathom, of testing that love.  Of tempting that love.  Of trying that love "just because."  

I would never dream of putting them in a situation to push the limits of their love, simply to see if they'd continue to return to me. 

Never in a million years could they do or say anything that could render me incapable of forgiving them, incapable of welcoming them home. 

Rob a bank.  Push an old lady down the stairs.  Kill someone.  Kill each other.  Be gay...(gasp, gag, heaven forbid, *sarcasm*)
Anything...my love and forgiveness is great and infinite. 
And I'm not god, I'm just their mother. 

Yet I'm asked every day, in some form, to believe that some god, somewhere, is incapable of the same infinite forgiveness.  I'm asked to believe that god will "test" us.  Just because? 
Asinine. 

That god you are asking me to believe in is supposed to be greater than me.  And you're telling me in the same sentence that he isn't even capable of an infinite "welcome home"? 

I'm capable of that.  Am I greater than your god?

The Deity that I know must be out there somewhere does not need some flimsy book to speak for him, or her, or it.  It just is.  It is in everything and in everyone.  And if I need to know something, it will be placed within my heart, and I will know it.  I won't need some big man in a dark robe at a pulpit to shout it at me, to shame it at me.  I won't need someone holier-than-thou to look down upon me, and to tell me that I'm bad, and wrong, and full of sin and shame, and that I must humble myself for all the terrible things I have done, before I can be "good" enough to enter his secret Utopia. 

I've been told that it's not ok for me to just "do the right thing, and (try to) love everyone" because that might lead me to the "wrong" path, without a good, solid text to guide my thinking.  I've been told that I must not practice certain holidays, because it shows worship to false idols that draw attention away from the lord.  I have been told that being gay, "even for a second, in thought" will cast me straight into eternal damnation. 
I have even been told that it's ok to be a complete selfish prick my entire life, because Jesus has already died for my sins, and all I have to do is ask for forgiveness and "accept him" and I'll go straight to heaven.  And if those are the kinds of people that are allowed into heaven, hasn't anyone else stopped to wonder what kind of dude is running the joint?  I mean, is Larry the Cable Guy in charge up there??

I can't believe I'm greater than whatever is out there.  I can't accept that the "laws" in this book are the true and final word.  Shudder in your seat if you must, but it is what I feel.  Pray for me.  I won't roll my eyes, or become enraged, or even burst into pagan flames.  Regardless of my complete lack of religious structure, I am a good and decent and kind human being.  I don't shove small children in front of oncoming traffic, and I don't host orgies in my living room while my children roll doobies (just to prove my point, I had to spell-check "doobies.")  We are a wholesome, albeit moderately liberal family, who have just left that "organized" part out. 
When those questions arise, we answer "some people believe...

...I think this way...

...it will be up to you to decide how you feel." 

Any god, any "parent" of mankind would be incapable of having all these children, having such a powerful love for them, and still being capable of casting them into some fiery pit of torment and despair for eternity, and still be greater than me.  I know this because I am not capable of that.  Nothing my own kids could do could make me want to see them tormented even for a second, let alone a fucking eternity, while I remain unyielding to their pleas.  Impossible.  God is greater than me, and yet my capacity of forgiveness is greater than his? 

Yeah, yeah, I know, "the bible says..." 

What if god him/her/itself showed up at my door right now, and told me that the bible wasn't finished.  "I need you to write the additional texts, dude."  (Hey, it's my world, and god says "dude.") 
"There's still some debate over that "Leviticus" section, and I need to clear that stuff up.  Tell the world that I hate gay people, and that everyone who is gay is a big fat dummy, and I want them all to stop it right now.  Ten pages.  Single spaced.  Comic Sans, just for shits and giggles.  Go forth, and type, dude." 
Now there are a hundred people on my lawn, asking me what god wanted.  (Assuming god is a big fiery glowing white entity, surrounded by clouds and crap, it would be hard for the neighbors to miss.  Stay with me...) 

I have to give them something, but of course, I'm not going to want to tell them what god really said.  Why would I?  It's not in my best interest to tell them that god's a big homophobe, and that the crazy Westboro people are right...god does hate fags. 

What's to stop me from penning those extra bible pages to suit my own tastes?  Not a thing. 
What stopped the original authors from penning those pages to suit their own tastes?  To manipulate and sway the masses?  To promote the behaviors that were deemed acceptable at the time?  Not a thing. 

And if you still aren't with me...
Are we truly to sacrifice animals, stone witches and sell our daughters, all in the name of the fucking bible?  In the name of god?  

If that is genuinely true, then pass me my patchouli perfume, because I have some naked pagan moonlight dancin' to do. 

Dumb

A year ago, I knew everything I needed to know. 

I knew that cancer was for "other people." 

I knew that my food was safe. 

I knew that my shampoo was safe. 

I knew that my drinking water was safe. 

I knew that I would always be codependent and needy, that it was just who I was, and that it was ok.  

But that was a year ago, and now I feel like I don't know anything anymore. 
I'm scared, and I just want my blissful ignorance back. 

Seven

Everything was perfect when I was seven. 

It was the perfect age, the perfect time.  My mother hadn't gone crazy yet, (and if she had, I hadn't seen it, or begun to suffer from it.)  She was still married to her second husband, who I still called "Daddy", and believed he could save us from anything bad that came along.  They drew orange rings in the dark with their lit cigarettes, and we thought that was the coolest thing in the world.  My sister and I were still buddies, who slept together in bunk beds, and didn't hate the thought of sharing a room with not only each other, but our parents, because our house was so small. 

No one was sick.  No one had died.  No one was nuts...not even me yet.  I loved my mother with the full capacity of my heart because I knew she would never let me down.  I knew my "Daddy" would never abandon us, because that just wasn't the way things were.  I knew my Gran and Pa were always going to be just down the road, and I would always have them.  They were infinite. 

Everyone around me was infinite.
Everything was safe.   
The world would never change...

It changes every day.  Every time I think it might stop, and I might settle in, something wholly malignant creeps in, and reminds me that I have become too comfortable.   


It's so fast.  We're so small.  I was seven only yesterday. 
And I was going to marry Superman. 
What happened? 

I don't have the energy to give this a title.

I know there are probably some people who think that I try to push my opinions about my mother onto my children. 
My son doesn't like her.  And while that gives me a smug satisfaction that nears euphoria, I genuinely don't actively seek to destroy his image of her.  It's an opinion he's formed for himself, based upon what she's shown him.

Maybe he dislikes her partly because of her treatment of me.  I know that when I was young, I felt protective of my mother when I felt someone treated her poorly, or had unflattering things to say about her.  Regardless of her treatment of me at the time, I would become infuriated with my precious grandfather when he dared question her parental decisions, or her "party" lifestyle...even if I agreed with him.  Curious. 
Whatever the reason, my son dislikes her. 
And I have tried my best not to influence his decision.  

I sat with my daughter tonight, combing thru her wet and tangled hair, and having a lazy chat after her bath.  Wrapped in her little towel, I began rubbing her back, and her shoulders, and she slumped over in a lazy heap, declaring, "that feels nice, mom."  
So, I told her, "my mommy used to rub my back for me like this, too." 

"She did?"

"Yeah, she did.  She was really nice to me sometimes when I was little."

I realized then how hard it was for me to say nice things to my daughter about her grandmother.  How actually physically hard it was...

"What about when you were older?"

Now, I really had to bite my tongue.  I wanted to say a million things.  I wanted to tell her that she was crazy and awful.  That she was a lunatic, unhinged, and that for every sweet little back rub she offered me, there were a thousand red hand prints on my face, and countless ugly names, and a permission slip for a pedophile to attack me at his leisure, all while she pretended she was a model mother.  I wanted to tell her that her grandmother was a useless, mooching piece of shit who cared more about men and money and medicine than she ever did about her daughters, or even her grandchildren, and that she should put that evil woman out of her thoughts for good...
But instead, I said:

"Well, we didn't always get along, but sometimes she gave me really nice back rubs.  And she always came into the bathroom when I was sick, and she rubbed my back then, too." 

"Ooooh, that's nice!  I love Grandma!" 

Dagger to the heart.  Don't love that woman.  Love anyone.  Love the mailman.  Love the guy who bags our groceries.  Love Lindsay Lohan.  Just don't love that woman. 

But I didn't.  Of course I didn't.  It isn't my place, and just like my son, I know my daughter is smart enough to eventually see her for who she is.  She will.  My mother isn't the kind of person who can stop being ludicrous long enough to fool anyone. 

Loving her grandmother because she was once kind to her mother isn't the worst thing in the world.  And in the end, I get to prove to myself that I don't force my kids to dislike her.

 

Juice Newton Slays the Boogie Man...

It wasn't pleasant. 


Most of the time, it was downright scary as fuck.  I suppose I wasn't exactly a puss, as far as little kids go.  In fact, I was a bit of an explorer, and ghosts, strangers and injuries didn't really worry me all that much.  I wandered around, climbing on shit that probably should have killed me, talking to people who should have kidnapped and butchered me, and exploring places that were probably haunted a million times over, without a lot of fear of those things. 
But there was a boogie man, and I was terrified of him.  He was very real, very much a threat, and I knew that the grown ups around me were useless when it came to protecting me from him. 
And in that respect, it wasn't pleasant.  Most of the time, it was downright scary as fuck.

I spent countless hours wandering 600 acres in a bit of a fantasy world, talking to myself, and to my sweet doggies, to the point that I'm sure my mother and sister wondered if I wasn't crazy or mentally retarded half the time.

The rest of the time I spent sitting alone in my room, with a collection of songs that can only be described as "odd" for a nine-year-old kid. 
Some of them I understood fully. 
Some of them left me without a clue, but I knew that they were serious, by golly.

Here

And, here.

This little guy...

And one more, for good measure...


And somehow, those funny little songs, (and basically every other song included on those albums, since I was just a kid, with a very limited cassette collection) made it all not-so-scary for a minute.

Well, that, and my life-size Kirk-Cameron-in-a-leather-jacket-poster...mmm.  Mike Seaver...

Grey matters

He is one of the most maddening people I know.  Sometimes I am quite convinced that he does things like this, simply to see what kind of reaction I will have.  And then I remember, he's only 14 years old, and his brain won't even be done growing and fully functional until he's around 25.  

He's my kid.  And as far as kids go, he's a damn good one, too.  He doesn't smoke, he doesn't drink, he doesn't have sex or call me a fat twat or generally talk to me like I'm an ignorant whore.  He is capable of great empathy, and is pretty much just a parent's dream.

Most of the time.  

Sometimes, he's a giant prick.  Sometimes he's a thoughtless, selfish teenage asshole.  And in these moments, I am genuinely clueless.  

I'm not going to torment you with the boo-hoo story of my mother, or my childhood again.  You've heard it.  You know it.  You know she's a lunatic, and that my reasoning behind keeping my distance is legitimate.  So we can move forward...

Several months ago, my son confronted me, as I knew he would one day.  He wanted to know the truth behind my anger, resentment, and distance from my mother.  He has seen her behavior firsthand, but knew there was obviously more between her and I that went much deeper than the goofy and socially twisted antics to which he has been witness.  

And so, I sat him down, and told him.  Of course, I left out the specific details of the sexual abuse I suffered.  I'm not a moron, and I know he doesn't need to know that.  But I gave him a decent account of our rocky history, and told him that basically all of that, combined with her recent unpredictable lunacy and dangerous lashing out led his father and I to agree that unsupervised contact with her wasn't in the best interest of him and his sister.  After all, what kind of parents would we be if we felt uneasy, but still allowed someone complete access to them. 


He told me he completely understood, and after being allowed to hear things from a more adult point of view, it made things much more clear for him.  

And now, we flash forward to this afternoon...

This kid, who has been on one of those "kid" kicks, where they seem to push every button possible to see how long it takes before you snap, and murder them, told me he was going outside to play.  

Two hours later, I received a phone call from next door, where she is currently residing. 
The fuck?!  


"Hi.  I was just wondering if I could stay over here and play for..."

I didn't even wait for him to finish his sentence.  


"You need to get your ass home *right* now.  You know how I feel about this.  And I want you home.  Now.  Right now."  



I'm completely dumbfounded.  Oh sure, there are excuses.  His cousins were calling to him from across the field.  He wanted to know if he could spend the night at their house, and needed to call me before they left to go home.  
And my personal favorite, he just doesn't know why he did what he did...



I don't feel like I'm being unreasonable.  The woman is unstable.  She tried to run me off of the fucking road, for fucksake.  The short list of her wacky behavior makes Britney Spears look like Mother Theresa.  And even if she were a perfectly "normal" person, the fact that she makes me and my husband uncomfortable should be enough of a reason for us to say "no."  No good parent gets a "red flag" sort of feeling, but gives that person free roam of their kids anyway.  So, for that reason, I feel absolutely justified. 

This is precisely what I told my son when we had our long, uncomfortable, and very honest talk.  This is why it's so maddening to me when he does this kind of shit. 
One moment it seems as tho he "gets it."  He's totally got a handle on the situation, he gets it, and discipline in the area of XYZ will never be an issue again.  Because he gets it...

And then, a day like today happens, and I get a fucking phone call straight from the lion's den. 

Now, he's being punished, and is completely furious with us for being such enormous, gigantic, bogus, way-uncool turds.  (My words, not his.  That would be another nine years chained in the dungeon.)  


The absurd part is, I feel like an enormous, gigantic, bogus, way-uncool turd.  Not for the punishment.  He deserved that.  But because I can't stand it when he's upset.  Because lately, his goofy decisions have led to him being in trouble often, and I can't not punish him for it, otherwise, I'd just be an idiot of a parent like my own mother.  And I certainly don't want to raise a kid like I was.  Ick.  And yikes.  And ick, again. 



I suppose it is just the impulsive nature of his incomplete brain, and I suppose I just have to accept that.  And I suppose I just have to keep on punishing him, and knowing that he will eventually catch on. 

And I suppose I just have to sit here and stomach the fact that I am the bad guy at the moment. 

And I suppose that eventually, that mooching leech of a woman will ooze her fat ass back to Georgia where she belongs, and I won't have to worry about crap like this for another year.  


But in the end, I suppose it's only natural that they'd want to spend time together.  They are, after all, both functioning with only half a brain.  
Oh, you knew I was gonna.