RSS Feed

Monthly Archives: January 2016

Dread

silk.jpg

Photo credit here.

I wrote this on May 25th of this year but it felt too vulnerable for to me to share at the time. Today seems like a good day to post it. I’m sitting in my office with the luxurious gift of time, courtesy of Jonas and his aftermath….

It’s a holiday weekend, and I should feel relaxed. Instead, anxiety is gnawing at me; and I want to eat everything in sight.

This has been going on since yesterday. I thought that if I took care of some things I had been putting off, I would feel relief. This is how I usually manage my anxiety, and this is what I have taught our children since–sorry, girls–they have inherited some of my bits.

There are many necessary tasks I do not enjoy. I am good at my job but I am a poor housekeeper. I can bake all night long but I can think of a million reasons to avoid working in the yard.

One of my most dreaded tasks is my core exercises. These exercises are the same routine I have been enduring since my nanny days, and I am bored to tears. I begrudge the 20 or so minutes I need to do them properly. Add the extra exercises and stretches I have incorporated to to help offset all the sitting I do since I began counseling full time, and you have dread with a capital D. I tend to forget that without this discipline, I start stooping like a crone, and people start asking when I’m due. Should I be happy or alarmed that, being as I’m into my 50’s, the pregnancy question has tended to give way to inquiries about beer consumption?

I blame my father, by the way. I seem to have gotten his undiluted posture genes. I also inherited a flat chest and somebody’s tiny hips, which meant that my abs ripped further during each pregnancy and left me looking pregnant forevermore. Thank goodness, I got a decent butt and a pretty nice pair of legs out of the deal.

Feeling so anxious has had me trying to deduce which Dreaded Task I need to tackle to get the monkey off my back. I cleaned the master bathroom, dealt with the laundry, tidied the kitchen, did my exercises, walked the dog, and made sure all my agency paperwork was up to date.

Nope. Still anxious.

I had an eating disorder in the 80’s. I learned in 1987, when I decided to start being honest with myself, that I would keep eating until I figured out what was eating me. I made a rule for myself: When I get the urge to Eat, I have to immediately stop what I am doing and sit quietly until I figure out what it is I don’t want to feel. THEN I can eat–whatever I want and as much as I desire. Except, at that point, I no longer want to.

Since those early days of truth, I’ve used this strategy here and there when I’ve found it difficult to hit the off switch. I’m happy to report I have gotten out of practice.

It finally dawned on me that I needed to draw on old experience. I sat down alone with myself until one part of me spoke to the other and cleared up the mystery.

It was ridiculously simple.

I don’t want to go shopping.

Yes, really.

I don’t want to go shopping.

I have a wedding to go to next month. A Southern wedding, in fact. I think that ups the ante, and I think the itch on the back of my neck is a hive.

Knowing how much I dislike trying to make a silk purse out of this sow’s ear, I had given myself a deadline: One month before the event, I was to assess my wardrobe and shop for whatever clothing I would need. I knew to put this mandate in place because of wardrobe crises past. This weekend marked 4 weeks until the event.

I have not yet addressed the wardrobe problem, and I am prickling with anxiety.

My sister Gwen gets upset with me and tries to boost my self esteem. I get mad back and tell her I like myself just fine. This is mostly true. I feel like a million bucks sitting here in my flip flops and battered cargo shorts. I am sporting the oversized t-shirt our oldest daughter made me for Mother’s Day back in 1997. She finger painted a portrait of me and signed it with a handprint. I feel every inch the loved and desired woman. I am showered, shaven, and deodorized. My teeth are flossed and brushed. My clothes are clean. My body works fine. What else is required?

I have come to accept dressing for work. I stick to a uniform of bland pants and interchangeable tops and scarves so I can mix and match until kingdom come. This checks the box. I am not my clothes.

But a wedding? I feel faint. I am an outsider in the sisterhood of women. Some things I just don’t get: clothing, makeup, nail care, home decorating, and talking about home decorating. I feel like an alien.

The only way to get over this is to get through it.

I have made an appointment for advising and moral support with Claire, our 17-year-old daughter, for 6:30 tonight. She is going to accompany me on a shopping trip and talk me down when I go into fight or flight. I want to honor our niece at her wedding. I love her enough to speak the language of the normal. I’m going to play dress up. I am going to shut my mouth. I am going to like it.

I’m getting this out of my system now because once I commit, I am going to hold my head high and wear those threads like a princess at a ball.

Glass slippers in size 10, please.

Advertisements

This is a Biscuit

Schulranzen

My red leather bookbag, shown with one of my Latin text books and one of the books assigned in my German class: Kleider machen Leute by Gottfried Keller.

January 24, 2016

This collection of words is a biscuit.

These paragraphs are here to sop up some of the leftovers now that my story about Hanna has run its course.  Hanna’s influence and tangible reminders of our friendship are grafted into my daily life and therefore unavoidable—which is not to say they are unwelcome. But they do remind me that the story can never truly be done.

And so, if you have the stomach for it, you can read this postscript. This is my second postscript, and I am certain there will be others here and there. If you are unfamiliar with the story–if you are sick of the story–stop here. I’ll be none the wiser.

Lindy, our oldest, is out of our nest and lives in a tropical climate. She still has a couple of boxes here, and some of her things hang on a rod in the basement. Among her belongings is an incredible leather jacket she scored several years ago on Black Friday. She doesn’t need it, and she can’t part with it. Both are true.

Lindy has been after me to treat it with leather conditioner. I hope mink oil is the right treatment because I just spent the better part of an hour massaging it with love. This seemed a good occupation for a snow day with nary a plow in sight. When would I get to it otherwise?

I like to touch. I like to dig in the dirt, and I don’t care what happens to my nails. I hate wearing gloves when I wash the dishes. Once I got my hands coated with mink oil, I figured I’d better make the most of it. Out came all the leather goods I could find.

As I worked, I had plenty of time for reflection…

…which was helpful, since I found, in the back of my closet, amongst my scuffed shoes, my old red Schulranzen still stuffed with artifacts from Hanna’s and my youth.

I had to beg for this bag. I wore it strapped to my back, as was the custom. I packed it so full it took all my wiry strength to grab the tree limb, swing myself over the high fence, and bolt through the neighboring apartment complex to avoid getting caught taking the illicit shortcut on my way to and from school each day. You would have done it too! I promise.

I removed the articles crammed into the bag and cleaned it with care. I worked the fragrant fat into its parched skin as I thought about the Hanna and all that had gone before.

And here is the biscuit:

In the year following Hanna’s departure, we worked hard to understand its finality. It seemed impossible that we were really done.

One evening, when all five of us were under the same roof–Henry, Lindy, Bec, Claire, and I–the girls confessed their sadness and hurt.  Aunt Hanna had stopped loving them, they quavered. They knew she had been fed up with me but they had never dreamed their aunt would cease to be their aunt. But Hanna, for the first time since their births, had declined to acknowledge them at all. Birthdays were the hardest. The girls were heartbroken and confused.

One daughter was quieter than the others.

Unbeknownst to us, she had received gifts and overtures of friendship from Hanna and her husband. The message, in short: You are the one who understands us. You are like our very own child.

Our daughter made her choice and told me later, offering little detail. Her kind but superficial responses had been calculated to skirt their need, and communication ceased.

I hadn’t figured on this spillage when calculating the possibility that time would, indeed, heal all wounds.

This is a biscuit.

For the Story of Hanna, please click here.

Candy from a Stranger

Indonesian Food

I was told never to take candy from strangers.

So I didn’t.

I took a whole lunch, and I ate every bite.

I’ve written once before about my love for the community in which I work. Today reminded me again that I have landed in the right place.

I had just returned to my somewhat rundown host church after stepping across the parking lot for coffee and was about to close my office door behind me when I heard a tentative, “Ma’am?”

I turned and saw a tiny woman I did not recognize.

“Ma’am, have you had any lunch today?”

She turned and gestured toward the battered desk which serves as the church’s Sunday reception area. There rested a half-empty platter covered with plastic.

“Would you like to try some Indonesian food? I made it for a prayer breakfast but others also brought food, and the turnout was small.”

The woman brought the plate to my door, where I still stood. This was unexpected. She appeared to mistake my hesitation.

“These are made from sticky rice and coconut milk. The dark one is sweet and has brown sugar. The other isn’t sweet, and it has tuna in it.” Almost apologetically, she added, “I come from an island. We learned to use what we had.”

The lovely, moist rectangles were plated on banana leaves.

I was overwhelmed by her simple kindness. I hurried to get a tissue to use as a plate. A tissue? Well, I am a therapist, after all.

I thanked her profusely.

“Let me think if I have something I can give you,” I said stupidly.

“Oh no,” she said. “You don’t need to give me anything for them. Please—take as many as you want.”

I hadn’t been thinking to pay her, only to share a part of my self in return. I had been visualizing my sandwich, orange, and hardboiled egg. Who would want those? It’s ridiculous, I know. But that was what popped into my mind as I scanned my brain for a gesture of communion.

I ate the rice cakes at the desk where I am now writing. The savory one was a type of tuna sandwich which hinted of ginger. The sweet one was a gooey delight. Without the banana leaf beneath them, the fragrant cakes had become hopelessly grafted to the tissue. I ate them paper and all.

Rita is no longer a stranger.

A Sip of Heaven and a Nibble of Bliss: A Postscript

Ira Rott Koala hat image copy.jpg

Image and hat design by Ira Rott*

This is part of The Story of Hanna. Please see the tab of the same name for the story in its entirety. The prior post can be found here.

January 6, 2016

The past few months have been a real grind. Today started as a grainy blur. But it got better.

I heard from Torsten today. He is Hanna’s brother. He is a brother of my heart, if not of my blood.

It’s been nearly five years now, and I’ve had not a word from Hanna. Her family has heard little more than I.

Torsten wished me a Happy New Year. He wanted me to know that he and Sophia are expecting a baby girl in May.

He still loves me, and he’s glad I’m in his life.

As I nudged down the road this evening, on the way to my daughter’s orchestra practice, I was suffused with joy, traffic be damned. In the car with me were two of my best girls. I sipped my milky-sweet Earl Grey and savored a cookie baked by my mother’s aging hands. A handmade scarf, the Christmas creation of a beloved niece, encircled me with love.

All will come right. In time. In mysterious unfolding. In winding wending waiting. All is coming right.

I’m going to be an auntie. Or maybe a grandma.

I hope I still remember how to crochet animal hats.

*Ira Rott’s patterns are awesome. Please visit her page here.

%d bloggers like this: