How to drink a bottle of wine in 24 hours

I am wiped out.

Last weekend I called my sister by every pet name I have for her, and hugged her maybe a dozen times before she and her husband closed up the pod and started their trek to South Carolina. They left their apartment early, and the house will (hopefully) be ready later this month. Meanwhile they spent last week working remotely in Tahoe and boarding in the afternoon; similarly will be this coming week in Napa. Then, next week will be couch surfing with her husband’s friend in S.C.

This week saw both my father’s and sister’s birthday. It also saw St. Valentines’s day. I happily spent the red-hued day at home; a neighbor took pity and gave my chocolate and wine later in the week.

Phone calls during the week staved off any direct interaction. I had a great Saturday with my quilt guild show and enjoyed speaking to many people. This little introvert survived! I had wanted to invite my grandmother, but at 86, she wasn’t going to wade through the pond-sized puddle in the parking lot.

Sunday was wonderful prior to heading to my parents’ home to celebrate Dad’s birthday. I attended TLM at my parish and was blessed to seek the intercession of Bl. Jacinta and Bl. Francisco Marto. Don’t forget to get your partial indulgence during this centennial of Fatima (1 pater, 1 credo, invoke OL of Fatima).

***

Mom and Dad have joined a camera photography class since mom received a DSLR for Christmas; they have an assignment due this week for an artistic portraiture. I googled this beforehand to get ideas and brought makeup accordingly. Brought the Spanish comb as she requested. I brought the two that she had gifted me. I show up with no makeup on other than some violet lipstick. (Later that evening Gramma liked the violet more than the black-plum hue I have).

I get in the door. Dad doesn’t hug me. I  don’t have time to say ‘happy birthday’. He says the barstools are set up for the lighting and he stood in for me (I arrived at 2pm instead of the suggested ASAP text that was sent while I was at the 9:30am Mass). I go upstairs and mom is complaining about my lipstick and refuses to use my makeup on me. I say “Okay”. I take off the lipstick, clarifying to her “it’s not gothic” and I laugh. Dad is standing in the doorway of the bathroom berating me for saying it’s not gothic. I said I get it. I said Okay multiple times. Mom throws another makeup wipe at me to “take it off” and I say “I have. I don’t have any makeup on”. She said “Get out. Leave. I don’t want you here”. I’m not about to leave as I’m here more for Dad’s bday than her damn photography class.

[This gives me a headache, just re-writing].

Mom left in one of her classic excuses. “I need to see Trudy. I’m going for a walk” and she left via the garage and apparently took the Chevy for a wake. WTF?!?

Dad starts blaming me. I said “I don’t need any grooming. I don’t need you to tell me how to be around her. I lived here for 27 years before moving out.”

He sputtered some nonsense, and I said that I did not need an education on how to act around my mother. That I know how this goes and that I did not need him pestering me on how to talk to her from the moment I walked into the door. He said that I should not even talk and that I am not to respond when he tells me what is going on since I am not aware. I clarified that I am well aware of what is going on and that I don’t need a play-by-play from him.

Eventually it devolves into me yelling at him at the top of my lungs (at 9am Monday I sounded like I had a severe cold); replete with cuss words. I said that I was “tired” several times. I said that I was tired of him constantly enabling her; excusing her crazy and trying to make us be at fault her for narcissism.

He said that he was always stood up for us. I explained that behind closed doors doesn’t count. I don’t need him to be a ball-less fuck and not say “don’t cuss our kids” or “don’t hit our daughters”. He didn’t have much to say other than he lives with her everyday and seemed to think it novel that we did as well.

He said he didn’t understand, then said that he viewed these issues to be a result of “chemo brain”, excusing her behavior on having gone through chemotherapy. I then laid out a litany of complaints starting from my earliest memories at 7yo; mom underwent chemotherapy in 2005, I was born in the mid-1980s. I stepped in close and met his eyes. I have to hand him credit for not flinching. And continued to lay it out. He said that he didn’t know. He looked surprised when I mentioned where he was in each instant. See, the things with kids and trauma, they don’t lie. Kids don’t think to lie about trauma because they don’t know the power trauma can wield against another person. I can’t lie about this crap. I explained that I had 2 panic attacks leading up to this this weekend.

He claimed to have no clue.

He disbelieved me when I detailed all the physical and emotional abuse before she had chemo. I said that she didn’t have chemo when she bit me when I was 7 or when she called me a bitch as I ate oatmeal while she read the horoscopes and yelled that I would the be the reason she and dad got a divorce; they’ll be married 36 years this June. Or when she threw Gramma Singer’s 1st Communion gift to me against the wall and he said that he wasn’t there. He stood in the doorway.

I said that what we needed as kids was for him to stand up to her and say don’t hit my kids and don’t cuss my kids out and he said he did it behind closed doors. I said that is not where it mattered. I told him that we needed to be protected and all he did is stand by and let her do shit and he tried to defend himself. I said he couldn’t do that anymore.

 

I want a good and serious career move. I hope it’s in the Alhambra/Pasadena/SGV area. I need space from the family. I don’t need the same 3k mile move that my sister got. But I do need my own space. My own home and eventually, when God wills it, my own Husband and family.

 

 

Same Old Poop

I know the answers to the unspoken questions that pull tears from my eyes.  I know not to ever ask ever again “When will it stop?” I came as I promised Monday  evening to pick up some food and the old food processor and juicer. She was upset, I guess I was too precisely on time. I said, “I’m here” and the response was “Oh, okay. Whatever.” Dad’s response to me was don’t start anything. Me? I came on time. I came as promised. She’s mad when I come, when I don’t visit.

I can’t entertain the crazy.

What I should eventually write a post about

is abortion. Not in the same way that the debates go, but my personal reaction to it. However, unlike the short story I submitted last month on that topic to a magazine, I’m nowhere near the ego strength needed to do this. I’m working on this issue with my therapist.  Before someone jumps to conclusions, I didn’t have one. I could never kill a child, especially each and every one that God entrusts to my care.

Silence

I’m thinking about silence itself as an object/presence recently. Immediately in my reaction field is a post I was reading from another blogger here on WP.

In my work as a child and adolescent therapist to some of the poorer children (the poorest live on skid row and I don’t have the stomach to work with that population) of Los Angeles; specifically called SPA 8 (Service Provider Area 8). I’ve had the special privilege of working with different young women, all under the age of 15 years of age who have been raped, sexually assaulted, attempted sexual assault/molestation, and/or sexual harassment. Each one has told me that they considered themselves to be the only one until they confided in a friend, cousin, or aunt near to their age (under 20 years of age); then they tell me, “I told her to tell someone about what she was going through”. Can we just get this over and done with?

Ladies/Girls/Women, let’s just admit that the men in our lives want us to feel alone. They want us to be frightened and feel alone! Yet, the reality is that more women and girls are assaulted, harrassed, abused by people they know than absolute strangers.

And abuse, physical abuse is the same story and I totally want to jump in there with the kid and be like “Yeah, I know!” but I can’t. The therapy hour is totally about them, and I pull myself back inside and be all like “Yeah? Can you tell me about what makes you scared?” or “What’s that like?” I stay on the back-burner and may save my urge to blurt out for my own therapy sessions where I get triggered/reminded of getting hit on the back my head or back with shoes or slippers (and you wonder why the F I hate the color pink or her perfume or being touched at all, least of all being touched or hugged or anything by her); that evening I watched the filled Mayo jar fly by me, missing me by golly-knows-what; choosing dissociation in the closet instead of listening to the litany of Megan’s-fucked-up-as-a-daughter-because.

You know what’s also the same fucking story? (I know, a wanna-be-nun just said the F word. Pick your jaw off the floor, ‘cuz she’s heard and said so much more worse in the past). Getting harassed and bullied at work by your supervisor. I’m taking the fall because I told my supervisor’s boss that she made comments which I considered to be inappropriate. About the 3rd week of September I received information from a client’s caregiver about A/V hallucinations, and my supervisor in the course of consulting with another supervisor, stated “Oh, is this your wife?” My roommate (a co-worker) and her supervisor were in the room. As it was out of context, inappropriate, and I’m generally reserved, I didn’t say a damn thing at the moment.  However I did email my supervisor’s supervisor about her statements, explaining that I felt they were:

Hi [Supervisor’s Supervisor],

I want to make a complaint about a statement [Name redacted to protect the not-so-innocent] made to me yesterday in front of another employee & supervisor. We had gone to the back of the [Location] office to consult with [Roommate’s supervisor] about a cx [client] of mine. To this other employee (who is my roommate, [name removed]) and in front of her supervisor, [my supervisor] said, “Oh, is this your wife?”  I corrected it immediately as “No, she’s my roommate.”
Myself and my roommate felt it was inappropriate; I’m embarrassed.
I’m making a complaint as this is not the first time [the not-so-innocent] has made inappropriate comments about faith/personal issues to me; I’ve addressed them with her in the past and thought it was taken care of. I can talk more about those  with you’d like.
I write that I’m taking the fall because I’m the one getting pegged for distinct deadlines prior to the company’s established deadlines for monthly paperwork; my supervision time is being double-booked two weeks in a row and my supervisor says “oh, I messed up…no I didn’t”; she hangs up on me, she conveniently “never” receives my text messages (I can prove this via phone company) ; she gives me the clients that she’s having assigned to her (I can also prove this), which she needs to be credentialed in an evidence-based practice (one of our primary sources of funding); she does not listen to me pertaining to being able to either submit notes on-time, or completing paperwork to her superficial deadlines but not both (I have multiple witnesses). I’ll be harassed, picked on and bullied until my body collapses or she finds someone else to bully.
Yet, there’s another side to silence, where I can find peace instead of noise, calm instead of jarring harassment; can breathe without needing to calm my pinched and firing nerve[s]. For me this kind of silence is filled with incense, Gregorian Chant and sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows. Usually, I’ve just beginning to grasp this kind of silence at the end of the Mass of the Catechumens. Currently, I take a single line from the Anima Christi “Hide me in Your wounds” because it’s the only place that has been once-struck and never struck again. That blow is finished for all time, and He is righteous and reigns again. I can hide wherever I want to, but I crawl into the lance-blow, and imagine Momma Mary holds the body of her Son one last moment as in the Pieta and clasps her hand over me, not only keeping me hidden but I cannot fall out either. I sleep with a Crucifix clutched in my hands because it’s the only way I can sleep through the night without waking up every 2 hours. One of these days I’ll walk behind the closed doors of a monastery which St. Therese of the Child Jesus frequently called a prisoner; however it’s the first time I won’t be imprisoned. I’ll be able to openly declare/be myself without fear of reprimand. Nothing should slow my mother down on reprimanding me about how I’ll cause the doom-and-gloom on her marriage and am an utter disgrace more than a 7 hour drive to San Francisco. I hope I laugh when I should be silent.