A moment in time

It’s amazing how one simple moment can mark so much more than the passage of time. Years ago, if I were reading a vivid description of a rape it would have poked and prodded at my buried memories, churning up a wellspring of emotions. I would have gone to my own dark place, simply allowing myself to relive those primal feelings of fear and shame alongside my own specific details. But today, 27 years after my own nightmare began and 15 years into various therapy stints, I read just such a passage in the amazing start of Alice Sebold’s Lucky while sitting on a crowded train and it tapped into an entirely different part of me.

My first instinct this time was not to embed myself in my own memories, reverting to that small, helpless girl I remember being. This time, I felt it from the point of view of my daughter. I felt the fear as she would, that bubble of panic that signals inescapable danger. And what I felt concurrently was fury. A fury that I have often had trouble accessing for myself whenever I’ve been under assault–be that physically, mentally, or emotionally. Yet when confronted  with even the fleeting idea of such a violation happening to my darling, I was ready to lash out at the first person I deemed a possible threat. It was so powerful an impulse that I was sure I had perceptible waves of rage radiating from me for everyone on the train to see.

This is how I know that I am no longer the person I once was. That that little girl may still be within me but the grown-up mother is way ahead of her. And she is running this show.

Loss is Loss

My ex’s grandmother died today at the ripe old age of 100. She is exactly the person we are all fond of saying lived a long full life: she was married to her sweetheart for more than 60 years, traveled around the world with him after he retired, and has literally dozens of descendants. She was the quintessential grandma. And she was one of my favorite people.

Before dementia set in, she was a feisty old broad. A New England dame transplanted to the midwest and back again decades later. A stroke nearly took her out at 85 but she battled back. I took care of her a lot during that time. As the years progressed, we went from having great conversations to having long loving looks that made up for the repeated questions. In truth, the fact that she was very rarely lucid by the time I split from my husband was a saving grace. It made it a little less painful to be separated from these people I’d called family.

But news of her death hit deep, stirring up all the other feelings of loss that I’ve dealt with for the past three years. Because of circumstances (namely the order of protection I happily have separating my ex and me) I won’t be going to the funeral. And for some reason that shifts my grief to a weird place. Not family per se, but not a stranger. And yet I still feel that loss just as deeply.

Gratitude

This morning I am simply grateful that an hour into my day I am following my plan. This is the plan that had a good chance of keeping me healthy and whole. I have done minor housework, eaten, am dressed for the gym, am writing and will go work out before the rest of my kid/work day begins. I am grateful because if I can follow this plan with a good degree of consistency, I believe I can follow the rest of my plans for growth equally well. I can go about my life as deliberately as possible without becoming too rigid. And through insight I can have true control–the kind that remains even in the face of things outside of my scope.

Faith

It’s funny. I chose this pseudonym of Imani because it means faith, yet I had no idea how much I would need my faith to move forward. Faith in God, in myself, and in the belief that no matter what I will be okay. But I’m learning.

Back in the saddle again…

Yes, it’s been a while. I’ll be back to talk about what’s been going on with me but for the moment, read this piece I wrote about Amy Chua and her Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother and check out the fantastic Sexy Feminist (formerly Sirens Mag) website.

And check back here again soon. I’ll be back, I promise.

Just when you think you’re out…

I haven’t had much to say lately…that’s not true. There’s been a lot to say and a lot going on but I’ve been busy living life and haven’t really been up for the whole public introspection forum. But then Mel Gibson’s little p.r. nightmare took me down a dark and windy road that I saw fit to write about over on Sirensmag.com. Thanks to the kind ladies over there for letting me have my own rant.

http://sirensmag.com/2010/07/echoes-of-abuse/

‘I take care of my kids!’

Have you ever seen the Chris Rock standup where he rags on n***as? “A n***a will say some shit like, “I take care of my kids.” You’re supposed to, you dumb motherfucker! What kind of ignorant shit is that?” (Yes, the “n” word is more offensive to me than shit.)
Well, I think I’ve been acting a little n***erish lately. Or at least I need to be on the lookout for slipping into a similar mindset. I’ve done my share of handwringing (even if it’s only in my head) about the burden of my responsibility… and how unfair it is that it all falls on me… and there’s been lots of giving myself a free pass for fun because, you know, things are sooo hard. Ugh, smack me. Would I have it any other way and not be the one responsible for my children? Hell no. Do I deserve to have fun? Hell yes, but it’s because I deserve to be a well-rounded person, making time for the things I find rejuvenating. Not because I need payback for making the hard decisions and being the grownup.

I signed on for this when I had those kids — granted, I had no idea the reality of what that’d mean but I signed on for this. And my love for them has me fully invested in making the right decisions for them and that’s the biggest, best motivator I could ever have. So I cannot insult that love by turning it into some loathsome thing that I need to escape at times. (But every parent I know recognizes that feeling of needing to be away from their kids sometimes.)  Balance. I know that is what it’s about. And if I keep my mind right, it will all work out.

And yet…

I’m waiting for a realtor who is coming to assess my house. I’ve cleaned as much as I can and it barely made a difference. I’ve warned her about the state of disrepair. She reassured me that she’s not there to judge. And yet… you know that’s exactly how I feel. Like it’s super clear that I couldn’t hack the last year of my life with the intelligence and mental juggling necessary to work full time, keep my kids on even keel and maintain a house I can’t even begin to afford on one salary. Yeah, intellectually I know that I did the best I could and damn sure could have done worse, and yet…

What finish line?

I did it. Two weeks ago I ran the half marathon I’d set as a goal just four months before. It was an amazing experience — running around Central Park, down Seventh Ave, through Times Square, and down the West Side Highway. I cried at mile 11, not because of any pain (though that is about when every lower joint I had began to complain to me). I cried because 10 months before I didn’t know how I would get through a day, much less run such a race.

Back then I was suddenly an overweight single mother with a certifiably crazy, vengeful ex and self esteem dipping to dangerous lows. I was unsure of my decision-making skills, having practiced them little on my own over the last 20 years. But on that March day, a 30-pounds lighter me who had negotiated one hell of a year was going to finish something for which I’d methodically prepared. I’d reinforced for myself that I can set a goal, make a plan, and accomplish said goal. Nothing could beat that feeling… though that shiny old-school subway token-like medal they gave out at the end was nothing to sneeze at.

Well, I rode that high for the rest of that day and most of the next. Out of nowhere I’d think, I did that! And it felt good. But it didn’t obliterate the rest of my life’s problems. But at 5 p.m. day after my triumph, which was a week after a trial for his mini idiotic crime spree last year, my husband of 16 years was convicted and immediately remanded into custody. I’d been tied up in knots about it all for weeks. I’d come to realize that didn’t need him to go to prison to feel like justice was served, so I’d agreed to having the DA’s office offer him multiple plea bargains that had no jail time. But his delusional thinking, bad choices, or just plain old craziness, kept him from taking the deals and off to trial we went. And now he’s facing a year in prison. And I had to tell our children.

On top of that I’d finally been served with foreclosure papers. Not totally unexpected but still… I couldn’t shake the feeling of failure. I know that my situation is unique, and no, I can’t afford to keep my house on just my salary. But I still felt like I could have handled his better. It reminds me of my inadequacy in dealing with my finances and just pushes all my self-criticism buttons.

So by the the night after the race I was firmly reminded that those 13 miles were essentially just one step in my rebuilding of myself. There are many finish lines to cross in achieving the life that I want. And I just have to put one foot in front of the other.

Time heals all…blah, blah, blah

I get it. It’s a cliché for a reason but I hate that it’s true. I hate that it is only by going through a process (which often involves more time than I wish it did) that I can say I’ve truly learned a lesson, made some progress, or feel ready to move on. I can’t shake that desire to have things happen once I’ve decided I’m ready for it to, once I’ve intellectually processed something. But that’s not how it works.
I recently realized that I spent the first six months after my marriage went nuclear sort of in stasis. Despite all my big talk of empowerment and moving forward, what I was really doing was healing. Healing my heart and soul and sense of self. Laying in the cut as I decided I did have what it takes to be the person I want to be and live the life I want to live.
Yes, time does heal all wounds. Just not always in the ways you think or as quickly as we’d like. But I’m learning to just be thankful that it even happens.