living a small, slow life in a small, slow town and loving every minute of it...please join my journal about aging, overcoming c-PTSD, living with chronic illness, and being creative in spite of it all.
OR, how to get there from here…I am nothing if not stubborn. But stubborn won’t get me where I want to go. Stubborn is a characteristic of defensiveness. Transformed into determination, however, it becomes a super power. My super power.
True confession: I’ve been in a funk. In case that wasn’t painfully obvious by the last few posts. And I have HAD IT with that routine. Remember, we aren’t havocing it anymore.
“Life can so suck, to use the theological term. It can be healthy to hate what life has given you, and to insist on being a big mess for awhile.” – Anne Lamott
When I am not honest with myself that I am grieving I become a royal pain in the butt. I won’t allow myself the grief, or make time for it. As if I have something better to do. It feels self indulgent, cloying. I judge it, especially if it’s been around for awhile. I judge myself. It gets ugly. For instance, I mention my mother here often. She’s been dead over 20 years. I miss her every day. I simply will never get over losing her. She was my greatest champion. Many days it feels like she was my only champion. Everybody deserves one.
If Doris exemplified anything her entire life, it was determination. She had limitless energy. She was like the energizer bunny. Actually, hyper. I didn’t get that gene. In many respects I’m much more like my father, who was quite the opposite. To the untrained eye most would consider him lazy. He kinda wasn’t willing to do anything he didn’t feel like doing. Least effort possible was his approach to life. In the wisdom of my old age I now understand that he, too, was a victim of trauma. He was always defensive.
I strive to be more like my mother as I am growing up. And therein lies the key that opens me back up – I’m growing up. I’m growing. I’m becoming. I’m a work in progress; a verb. That gets more difficult for me to keep in perspective as I am now in my 70’s. And I believe that I have unconsciously adopted some less-than-useful cultural limitations, such as: I am old. And done. And fully formed. Nope. Not done yet. Still growing. And always will be, right up until my last breath.
My father played the piano as if he were born at it. Mom struggled to teach herself the guitar. He sang loudly and lived defiantly. He had hubris. She was shy and soft-spoken. She had humility. He loved honky-tonk; she loved folk. She would close herself in the bedroom to practice and sing, and I would sneak up outside the door and sit on the floor to listen.
Nearing the end of 2024 I am wondering if I will ever “bounce back” from the pandemic. Have you? Do you think there is any bouncing back? I think we are changed forever. I know I am. There are two distinctive reasons I will never be the same, and I would like to share them if you will indulge me. I’d like to hear how it has affected your life. Even if the changes aren’t obviously attributable to the pandemic itself. How has your life changed in the last (almost) five years?
This morning I am needing to chew on the left side of my mouth. I am going through a series of periodontal treatments in an effort to save my teeth. The first treatment was originally scheduled for March – 2020. That didn’t happen. It was cancelled due to the shutdown. By the time we seemed to be coming out of that horrific nightmare scenario and the dentist called to reschedule, I was battling Lyme disease. My face was disfigured by Bell’s Palsy and I was beginning a series of acupuncture treatments for that. Thankfully those worked to restore most of the muscle use in my face, although not completely. Acupuncture is not covered by Medicare insurance. Neither is periodontal work, but they’re both necessary.
The other event that was cancelled that spring was a huge luxurious and much needed mental health vacation. It was a workshop I was scheduled to attend near Scottsdale, Arizona. Led by two of the most revered influences in my life, Elizabeth Gilbert and Rob Bell, the spiritual retreat was titled How to Imagine.
One of my closest friends lives in Tucson and had decided to attend after I told her about it. She offered to share her room at the resort hosting the weekend. But I didn’t think I could come up with the workshop fee, let alone the air fare. When I spoke about it another friend offered an airline credit. I was yet undecided. It would be a stretch financially and I would have to arrange in-home pet care for my elderly dogs.
Meanwhile, it was a local friend’s January birthday and we met for dinner. She was so excited to tell me all about the workshop she had just registered for…you guessed it. By this time I knew I had to go. It was meant to be and I would beg, borrow, or steal to get there. I did a little of each and managed to get registered in time for an early bird discount. Now I had two close friends who would be there, and something inside me knew this held profound healing opportunity.
When the airlines shut down the workshop was cancelled. I’m not sure why, but I have never gotten over the disappointment. Something inside me snapped. All manner of magical synchronicities had occurred to allow me that gift and I suddenly felt like a child whose dreams were never to be. I must have transferred a basketful of grief to this because I was disproportionately leveled. It was the straw…
Subconsciously I had decided that trip would be a pivot point in my life. By making that commitment happen, I could then give myself some unearned or undeserved permission to live creatively that I would not otherwise permit myself to have. I have not yet recovered that authority. Perhaps I won’t.
And here I sit, almost five years later, chewing on the right side of my mouth, still feeling like I’ve missed something. My Mother would say, “move along smartly.” And she was a very wise woman, so…watch this space…
The truth is that I don’t know where to begin…I bought this house for my beloved two little rescue dogs. Hariat was five years old when we adopted her from the Lakeshore Pembroke Welsh Corgi Rescue. I said we because I was married at the time, and we drove almost five hours south to pick her up from the farm where she was being fostered. Down and back in one day. When we arrived home that evening our sweet corgi Oliver was waiting with my brother and Dad, who lived with us at the time. We lifted Ariat, as she was named then, out to the driveway to meet Oliver at nose level. Oliver was the second corgi we had adopted a few years prior. They smelled one another and did a runner around the yard. Our mouths dropped open; they acted like they recognized each other and were the oldest of friends getting reacquainted. They were genuinely glad to see each other. Adjustment time = zero days.
Several months prior we had lost my darling Christie, or Arborglenn Pastel of Christie as she was registered with the AKA. Her mother had been US Champion of Breed, and she was the first corgi I had ever known. She was the canine love of my life and 15 years was far too short a time together. I was devastated losing her and had no intention of ever opening my heart to another dog again. At that time Oliver had been with us a few years. He was devastated, too. But during a routine checkup for Oliver the vet asked how we were getting along without Christie and I burst into tears. The vet admonished me and insisted I consider adopting another dog. A few months later we were blessed to find Ariat.
Ariat had been a working dog on a horse farm, named after a brand of equestrian gear. But her name was difficult for the three curmudgeon men of the house. And so she and I discussed the issue and agreed we would add an H to the beginning of her name. Problem solved. She would teach me that I could open my heart again. She was an angel in a dog suit.
We lived in a beautiful saltbox colonial in the lovely wooded suburb of Shorter Lake Woods. I not-so-affectionately called it the snub-division of Stepford Lake Woods. I loved the house itself, not the snooty neighborhood or the ridiculous homeowners association.
We had three neighbors, each a half acre away, including the HOA president next door. The homes on either side were barely visible through the mature pine trees unless you were actually outside in one of the side yards. The house across the road was visible through the western living room window. But it seems they could see us, and we were in constant non-compliance to one of the many rules.
One summer weekend I had a friend visit from downstate, a Michigan State University graduate with a degree in landscape design. She commented that the trees were past their maturity and in dire need of attention. I had no idea! And what do I do about that? “Well, she responded, we can do some trimming right now for starters.” And she was up and out, grabbing her very impressive lopers from the trunk of her car. And she and I worked all day trimming lower branches, her teaching me why this was good for the health of the tree and how it would benefit the canopy. We transplanted perennials I didn’t even realize would flower in some sun. We made mulch out of gathered pine needles. I hadn’t worked that hard in years. I would get a letter three days later from Mr. President informing me that I was not allowed to trim trees. It must be done by a professional arborist.
It hadn’t been long before that when old Christie had been laying out on the front lawn one day. She was quite lame by this time, and deaf and blind. Oliver had been an abused puppy before we adopted him, always timid and terrified of strangers. So he lay on the front porch well behind Christie. I returned home from work and turned in my drive behind a strange white truck. The county animal control. Seems they had received three complaints about our dogs. The officer got out of his truck and approached the house and neither dog moved. Maybe they attempted a muffled insincere bark. He asked if we could speak inside. He informed me that he had received three complaints, one from each of our barely visible adjacent neighbors. All on the same day. One at 11 a.m. The next one at noon. And – yep, you guessed it – the third at 1 p.m. Apparently the complaint was that our two small elderly dogs had been using their yards as bathrooms. There were dogs who did do that. They were large unattended dogs. One I recognized from a few doors down; most of the time I did not know them. I was always picking up after those dogs also. But even the county police officer acknowledged that we had a problem here with a bored out of work HOA president. He laughed about it. I didn’t see the humor. But I did know what this was about, and which husband was behind it (namely mine) and the political argument that had instigated the disdain.
Fast forward a couple of years and everything had changed. Christie was gone. Dad was gone. Now Oliver was deaf and blind and Hariat his constant protector. I was divorced, traumatized, and lived alone with both dogs. No living parents to appease, my brother now refused to speak to me. I had gone no contact with one sister. I had moved away from Manville. Yep. That house which I never named became known to me as Manville, after a horrible nightmare one night where I was stranded in a town of that name, fearing for my life.
Intuitively I have always felt a connection to every house I’ve ever lived in. I believe that, like a marriage, a third entity is created when these bonds are formed. It has a life all it’s own. We enter into a contract of care, and the commitment is not to be taken lightly. The home requires and deserves our attention and respect. It depends on us and in return it protects us. Treat it well and it will nurture our spirit.
A house becomes a home when we interact with it, when we feel safe there. When we express our gratitude for it. If we allow, it becomes a “thin place” where the veil between worlds is thin. I’ve moved twice in the dozen years since Manville. I cannot voice my gratitude without tears. I’ve since lost Oliver and Hariat and my brother. In my previous home I adopted a miniature beagle named Odie from the Kent County Animal Shelter, and I’ve since lost him. We agreed to take care of a Maine Coon cat named Chewy for a couple of months a couple of years ago. For over a year he and Odie were inseparable, and now it’s just me and Chewster. This house has enveloped us all, and a grieving adult son. This house deserves an affectionate moniker. This is the bright home in which I live.
Renowned American architect and best selling author Gil Shafer takes us along to his vacation retreat in Maine. Shafer is known for his reverence to the historical beauty of traditional east coast style. I grew up in a Cape Cod cottage on water, and it would be decades before I acknowledged it’s profound effect on my psyche. I agree with Gil Shafer when he says, “you live differently in different places.”
Here he took the existing building, which he bought for the setting itself, and worked with it’s less than ideal structure by embracing it’s strengths. I relate to this approach as I, too, live in a mid-century cottage which I bought because of it’s location and setting, known as the vernacular. Mid-mod, as it’s called for short, is my least favorite style of architecture. It’s right up there in my book with overhead lighting and open concept floor plans – which is to say that I have absolutely no use for it at all. In my book it’s in the chapter titled What Were They Thinking?
Mid-Mod is experiencing a huge revival. But then, ya know, America is simultaneously experiencing the dumbing down of our culture and the fall of our empire. I’ll leave you to draw the obvious parallels. You might have heard me say “meanwhile, back at the ranch…” because, let’s face it, mid-mod IS a form of ranch, neither offering much architectural interest. They sprung up in the building boom of post war industrial America for a reason, mainly that it was fast and cheap to build. Think plywood. That’s one of the reasons it was popular in the deserts of the southwest – it’s termite resistant. Then all of a sudden some opportunist decided it’s a “style” and set about convincing us that it’s desirable.
That said, my little home is well built. It was constructed of brick and concrete in the year 1955. The scoundrel I bought it from (NOT Gil Shafer) was in the process of flipping it, and buying it unfinished made it affordable to me. However, he had purchased it from the estate of the builder’s deceased wife and proceeded to gut it, taking out most of the original features. Now it’s a sad no-style-at-all house. And I absolutely love it, albeit primarily for the views. Though much smaller and humbler than the home in the video I do appreciate that my home has large picture windows from which to enjoy nature. I have coyotes and wild turkeys peering in at me from the deck, as if to say, “whatcha got to eat?” An occasional bobcat racing through the backyard, a meandering bear, huge flocks of birds migrating up the coastline, and of course, families of deer all year round. I’ve been intimidated right backwards in the door by a startled buck huffing and stomping it’s hooves, and been eyeballed too closely by a pair of hunting bald eagles on the roof.
My roofline also extends out further at the top, mimicking the look of a ship’s prow. Although almost a mile from a port town and the water, I am perched high on a hill near the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. And almost completely surrounded by water that includes Lake Michigan, inland Crystal Lake, and Betsie Bay. I live between two historic lighthouses. The summers are heaven on earth and the winters are…daunting. But quiet. Thankfully my sturdy cottage is a formidable fortress against the elements. I can adapt the architecture. The 45 degree driveway pitch, not so much…you’ll need 4 wheel drive to visit.
Watching this video gives me so many new ideas. I’ll be going out for a can of paint tomorrow. But I especially love the suggestion of writing my house a love letter. How about you? Let’s write love letters to our homes, and let’s begin with gratitude.
Gil Shafer is one of my favorite design authors. His books, gorgeously published by Rizzoli, are available here through my Amazon Affiliate link: Home At Last, https://amzn.to/3B5PUZw; The Great American House, https://amzn.to/4gtBMd4; A Place to Call Home, https://amzn.to/3XCej1K
And here are some budget friendly ideas taken from Gil Shafer’s inspiration in this video. How about those bed curtains? For a fraction of the price of curtains, I would make them from painter’s dropcloths: https://amzn.to/4gftrJR. I love the sisal rugs throughout this home. Here is one example in a 4′ X 6′ size: https://amzn.to/3TqDqSH. I have an antique bottle that I’m making into a lamp, but it isn’t costing much less than this beauty: https://amzn.to/4d4Phge. But I am smitten with the mercury glass lamp we see in the bedroom. Here is a similar lamp I’m coveting:https://amzn.to/3Tob5wt. And you can never have too many wooden trays: https://amzn.to/3zkBfcr, or storage baskets: https://amzn.to/3MEXqx4. Have fun!
I’m stuck. I’m stuck in a cycle of fear. Nobody ever talks about fear, except to say let it go. As if I wouldn’t if I could be free instead. Fear is ugly. We don’t like to admit we have fear. It shows weakness, a lack of conviction, loss of personal power, a rift in the habit of prayer or a lack of discipline. Why pray when you can worry?
My fears are projections, to be sure. I’m not actually in any kind of immediate danger. What if my fears are unfounded? All I know is that it is 4 a.m. and my stomach is in one big hard knot. I have a lot of things I can worry about, some rather trivial and some quite serious dilemmas. Worry is a bad habit and I have well developed neural pathways for it. It doesn’t take much to speed along that highway. I need a runaway truck ramp for this heavy load.
Sometimes I just have to be with it. To talk to myself as if I am my only child; to be patient and soft. Soft. Not strong. I need to be just 10% more curious than afraid. Find just 10% more humor than skepticism…
“I will dream as I see fit.” – Phil, American Dreamer
HI! PLEASE click the blog title to update the page as I published before I finished typing or did any edit!
Still stuck in that 80’s opposite sketch…I’m fall cleaning. I know, I know, most people spring clean. I do some of that, but I’m much more prone to deep clean in the fall. I know what’s coming: six months of long, dark winter days with the house sealed up as tightly as possible. I won’t want to go out (even less than I don’t want to go out all summer) and the furnace will run almost constantly. All the outdoor potted plants have to come in and find floor space, along with the windowsills being pressed into service to house any herbs or kitchen plants we might want to nurse along…I prepare myself as best I can.
There are some very welcome adjustments, too. My writing desk can go back in the eastern bedroom window after the air conditioner comes out. I have hot water heat and that means radiators. Unlike forced air heating, there is no fan blowing around the cat hair and dust mites to aggravate my allergies. It’s clean, consistent, and radiant. However central air is not an option (no ductwork), so we sacrifice the use of two windows for the summer to accommodate big window units, and I am grateful to have them.
The end of September the professional window washer will come and wipe away the summer dust and grime so my view is clear. I can watch the heavy wet snow in the hurricane force wind as it splats and sticks to the windows like gigantic white moths on a speeding windshield…who has more fun, I ask you?! I can sit, warm and comfy, and observe the large picture glass ripple in the wind like the surface of the lake in summer…and practice praying.
And although that is not an exaggeration, my little house sits high on a hill, just inland of the bluffs along the western shore of Michigan. It is equipped with hurricane windows and has held it’s own against the elements for near as many years as I have been alive. I do feel safe here. Once the leaves are blown off the deciduous trees I catch glimpses of light off the water when the sky allows. Most days I feel like I’m living in a shoe box and God forgot to take the lid off. Like much of the midwest in winter, the ground and the sky are the same cloudless flat grey, day in and day out and day in and day out, week after week for months on end. The sun is a rare sight. So I prepare myself as best I can.
Yes, I dust off the daylight lamps, the “happy lights,” as therapists call them. Make sure I’m stocked up on light bulbs and candles and firewood and all the blankets and fuzzy slippers are at the ready. Each of my three doors will have a container of snow melt pellets and a snow shovel within arms reach at all times. You never know when you might have to shovel your way out. I live within a mile of the grocery store, library and post office, and there will be days that trek is not possible.
All that said, I choose to live here. There are small things I would certainly do differently were I house hunting today, but it is a fabulous place to live. The views are beautiful. The quiet of a snowy winters’ day is as peaceful as it gets. It is an environment entirely suited to an introverted writer and artist. In truth, I don’t understand why anyone would live anywhere else. One of the best things about winter is that most of the tourists leave and my town becomes a sleepy hamlet again. Not as traffical.
My favorite view is toward the east, which is the direction the front of my house faces. My favorite time of day is early morning. My favorite drink is coffee. These three factors alone lend themselves to a lifestyle that I love. Just thinking about it now makes me warm and fuzzy inside…
Anne LaMott tells me it is time to plop down into this new promise to myself; the promise that I am going to get serious now about the art – “the art that longs to be created using your hands, your heart, your spirit, and your kitchen table.” She tells me that all creative work is a debt of honor. You have to do it as a radical act. Because if you leave it too long your curiosity and creative muscles will atrophy. I am at that edge where I know it is almost too late, and I am terrified.
For most of my adult life I fought for this, this right to live creatively. But as Anne also says, “life is very life-y…” and everything and everyone else took precedent. I erroneously thought that all I wanted was a studio space. A studio space. I cannot tell you how many homes I have lived in. Let’s just say dozens. The average American moves every seven years; for decades I moved almost yearly. In every house I looked for a place to make a studio. I didn’t know how difficult it would be to make and keep a boundary around my creativity. Because I also wanted a happy family life. Anne says that no one in your family wants you to be creative. No one wants to hear about it. I wish I’d known. I was confused when they weren’t all supportive. When they were sitting in my tiny studio closet when I thought they weren’t home and that I could finally sneak away for some quiet alone time…I didn’t know that living a creative life was antithetical to having a happy family and a happy household. I don’t know how I could have been so naive for so long, but I didn’t know.
Is creativity such an indulgence? It is if your family is unhealthy. They need you. I was needed. Really, really needed. And as I now know in hindsight, I couldn’t save any of them. Not a one. But certainly not for lack of trying.
Lately I feel like I’m stuck in a 1980’s Nickelodeon Opposite Sketch. You might have to have a middle-aged child to get that! Not this, nope, not that…no, thanks. All of a sudden nothing fits. I’m an outsider in my own life. It isn’t as if this strange phenomenon hasn’t occurred many times throughout the years; I’m sure you’ve experienced it also. It simply means we are growing mentally and spiritually, and our circumstances/home/work/relationships are not as natural as they once felt. We’ve slipped in our skin.
I knew this would happen because I have been ill. As I’ve disclosed recently I had a few rough weeks in August where I was quite sick – always a precursor to a big wake-up call. If you survive an illness, you will move through some transformation to do so. It’s similar to travel, although not as fun – if you’re as present as possible through the experience it will change you. That doesn’t mean I am consciously aware of what that healing means, at least not yet. But I’m noticing now that I don’t feel very attached to the past, to my life up to now. Everything is nebulous, kinda floaty, not securely grounded, fluid. That serves as a signal to pay attention. New opportunities will be revealing themselves as I move forward – but don’t make any fast moves. Respond softly. Remain reverentially curious.
Another way of describing this might be to say that I am letting go of everything and everyone and observing who stays, what stays, how things settle in the coming weeks and months. Sickness has an organic way of doing that. For right now at least, I’m less interested in efforting. What happens, happens. I have to drop expectations. For starters, I can’t expect anyone to get it. I don’t have the strength to hold up my end of any obligation, to show up any certain way…to be who you think I am. I want to live, and that’s about all I know today. What happens next remains to be seen.
Your opinion of me is none of my business. The politicians can manage without my input. The creditors will have to wait. The house isn’t clean. I’m empty. This is a good thing, this empty. It may sound dramatic, but I have a sense of renewal, of anticipation. It is time to re-evaluate priorities, set some new goals, be specific, focus. What do I want?! Where do I go from here…?
My son’s father is coming to visit this week. I don’t like him. Obviously I loved him once, in a previous lifetime decades ago. But recently my son spoke a minor complaint about him and I replied, “well, yeah…he’s a pain in the butt.” Now I regret saying that, of course. My son loves and admires his Dad. I spent years consciously not bad mouthing him, regardless of how he treated me. But we’re all adults here. I do make an effort to be cordial, friendly, and even inclusive. I’ve now entertained he and his significant other in my home when they are summering in the area. We’re all adults here. As my son was growing up I had less and less contact with my ex-husband, but now he’s ba-aacccckkkkk….retired and vacationing nearby on a regular basis. So I shall enter into the great what is. I’m an adult, right?
What constitutes “a pain in the butt?” Someone who is needy but not aware of it, who has a personality trait spelled D-E-F-E-N-S-I-V-E. Or macho in this case. Passive aggressive. Emotionally immature…I could go on…let’s not. You get the idea.
Look – we are all needy. It’s a given. Far needier than we wish to admit. Also a given. We all have total blind spots in the self awareness vehicle of our life, headed for an inevitable crash into the wall of our defenses, bleeding out our vulnerability. That’s why we practice compassion when we are in control. Because we all want that airbag to deploy. Okay, enough with the vehicle metaphors.
I’ve been listening to Anne Lamott, as I am prone to do from time to time. The queen of vulnerability. Certainly one of my most revered creative influences, I listen to her any time I don’t write for a few days, weeks, months (I don’t do that anymore; I know better.) As she says, it hurts to not write. Stop not writing. Sit down and “scribble and spew…” This blog is testament to that practice. It’s always been a lightly edited journal of my thoughts, both welcome and unwelcome. I let my crazy show here.
I do so highly recommend you attend her workshop:
If you are one of the readers here who write, or draw, or dance, or caretake, or paint, or sing or sew or imagine, THIS IS YOUR SIGN! Don’t wait. Stop not doing it. So whaddayasay, Thursday at 7?
“Perfectionism is the enemy of freedom. How do you let it go a little bit? You write badly. ” – Anne Lamott, and if you don’t have a copy of her brilliant book on writing: https://amzn.to/3Z4i3dJ
When my son was 15 I began teaching him to drive. At that time you could get a “student permit” one year before you were old enough to get your license, but then you could practice driving as long as there was an adult in the car. Driver’s training was a required class for all sophomore high school students. That year for Mother’s Day my card contained a Backseat Driver’s License, officially signed by then Secretary of State, Mac U. Nervus. My son is nothing if not funny! I carried that in my wallet for years, and I do not know what happened to it. Probably wore it out.
My son is a good driver, which I cannot say about my former husband. He reminds me of the cartoon character Mr. Magoo. He was declared legally blind about the age of 2 and wore thick “Coke bottle” glasses taped to his head throughout childhood. And with a ‘Little Man Tate’ genius IQ, he graduated college at the age you and I were graduating high school. In retrospect, we now know he is autistic. I used to marvel at how I could rattle off numbers to him, my own human calculator, and he could add them in his head and give me an accurate total faster than the computer. But he couldn’t change a lightbulb. That task, like many others you and I do daily, would frustrate and overwhelm him.
Shortly after he and I met lasik laser surgery became readily available. With that miracle and a regular pair of glasses he qualified for a driver’s license. Just because the state issued him one does not mean he can drive. He’s a menace on the road, but he has never been in an accident. I’m sure he’s caused a few…
Last week we met for lunch in the city where he lives, about an hour from me (yes, by design.) I had mentioned in a phone call that I had an appointment that was bringing me in to town. During our lunch conversation he asked about the tires on my new (to me) car and offered to purchase a set of tires if I would follow him to the shop up the road. You know where this is going? Ha! Wait for it…
We met at his favorite restaurant, Big Boy. Leaving the restaurant, we would have to turn left onto a busy 55mph five lane highway. He pulled right out into oncoming traffic and zoomed out ahead miles before I could safely turn…and…he lost me. He would say I lost him, and he’s right – I can’t keep up. But as I frantically searched for the tire store and finally turned in, relieved to be alive, he called. Where the heck was I? What was taking me so long?! And I looked and looked and couldn’t see him anywhere. I sat still two minutes knowing he would call back. He did. He couldn’t see me, either. It occurred to me to ask him what he could see (we’ve been at this over 30 years) and of course, we were NOT in the same location.
He had driven to the place of my appointment – NOT the tire place at all. My appointment had nothing to do with him and we had not discussed it. (I had mentioned it in our previous phone conversation.) It was an entirely spontaneous decision on his part, but he thought I was right behind him, and would follow him in…so, no need for communication. But now he was angry with me; I hadn’t kept my part of the agreement – which was to follow him. And now I would have to turn left out into heavy traffic twice again, once toward the appointment location where he waited for some unknown reason, and again leaving for home. It was nerve wracking to say the least. By the time I got there about 20 minutes later I declined his offer to wait for me and then go buy new tires. By this time I was a nervous wreck. He wasn’t. He was just confused. After all, he was just trying to help. If this sounds a bit like senility, I must tell you that it’s been this way the entire time I have known him. It’s just SOP with Magoo. Obviously he must be an enlightened master because he is cool and collected in the midst of chaos. Even if he did cause it.
Here I sit at seventy wondering why my nerves are shot. I’m not saying this is my former husband’s fault; far from it. He was one in a loooonnnng line of crazy-makers I have lived with all my life. You know about crazy-makers, right? (We have one running for President if you need an obvious example.) People who have some innate talent for wreaking havoc all around them without being affected. They’re everywhere; every family has them. My family was full of them. Grandfather, father, aunt, sister to name a few. Of course I attracted them in my adult relationships; they were familiar. The less susceptible you are to gaslighting, the more covert their passive aggressiveness becomes. But I’m by no means immune, and maybe never will be.
As I have talked about in former posts, I’m not havoc-ing it any more. It takes a varying degree of upset for me to register the crazy making, but the moment I catch it happening, I’m out. I will still love them, just from a distance. Will my nerves ever heal? I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, Going Home is my new old theme song, from the greatest movie soundtrack ever written. Close your eyes and listen. Everything will be alright.
A Painterly Home 