Needless to say (is it?) the short and sweet visit with family triggered an avalanche of sorrow. I miss my family terribly. It was great to see my sister. I love her dearly. I love my nephew with all my heart. He is a wonderful man, a terrific father to his three daughters, a great friend to his cousin (my beloved son).
They grew up spending many Saturday’s together with Nana, my Mother, while we parents were working. In the summer months that often meant she took them golfing. I don’t know what we would have done without her. We talked about that on the visit last week. We played euchre and laughed. It was more pleasant than I expected I guess. Maybe age or distance has mellowed our differences. It has surely made us more appreciative of our brief lifetime together.
Once home in Cincinnati, my well meaning sister began texting me photos of dogs up for adoption near me – in northern Michigan. I don’t believe we talked about my getting another pet at all. Apparently she decided on the long ride home that I needed a dog. I can just imagine her voicing her ideas from the back seat. And the three of them unanimously deciding. For me.
It’s been five years since I lost both of my elderly dogs in the same year, and a year since I lost my cat. I’m not sure my heart can take much more loss. I’m not ready to muster up the emotional generosity to adopt another dog or cat could I afford it. Which I cannot. I’m barely making ends meet these days.
I’ll admit, however, that the sweet face of an 8 year old miniature beagle in the local shelter really sent me into a tailspin. Oooh, sweetheart – how ever did you end up here at eight years old…in a cage without a home? How does that happen? I’m so so sorry. My heart aches for her. And I’m a bit angry with my sister, but she doesn’t understand my circumstances, nor the depth of my grief. “Struggling” means something different to everyone. It’s relative. Literally.
So I am keeping vigil for Lelo, praying for a kind and loving heart to find her quickly and make the rest of her days gentle and joyful. Had my former husband not died in April, I might have called him about adopting Lelo. I’d have told him that I didn’t have the adoption fee and he would have said, “meet me there in an hour.” I couldn’t live with him but he was still a loving friend – with a little gambling cash always set aside. And so I miss him acutely again, not that I haven’t been grieving his loss in other ways on other days.
It has brought back memories of the dogs and cats that have graced my entire life. Each of them made me a better person. And my “grandbird,” a parrotlet named Lovey who I kept with me for a year and flew to New York City with in a soft backpack cage on my chest. We had some great adventures together. She was so smart. I’ve known extraordinary animals, mine and those of loved ones around me. I miss them all.
It has also made me think about how my parents and my siblings and I have all gone through time periods of estrangement, when we absolutely could not abide one another’s presence – until one of our pets was in trouble and we would rally around in a care routine, contributing any way we could. We got that much right at least.
The expensive wisdom of age teaches you a few things well, like that it is much easier to love someone than it is to like them – let alone forgive their behavior. And it is impossible not to love an innocent animal in their hour of need. After all, they are entirely at our mercy.
as the Norwegians would say when asked “How are you?” Why didn’t I think of that?!
My sister did respond to the video I texted her. After her brief inquiry of the band Tool during her recent visit, and knowing she likely wouldn’t listen to a heavy metal song, I texted her an acoustic video cover of one of my favorite Tool songs, Right In Two. Her response was, “not my cup of tea.” That reply felt all warm and wonderful to me. And do you know why? Because it was entirely different than any way my siblings have ever responded to me. Entirely different.
It was generous. It indicated maturity in our relationship. Because it was not punitive; it was not corrective. It was not judgmental. It was not hostile. For the first time I remember in my lifetime it was about her, not what I was getting wrong. Which meant it implied respect. We can be different. We can have different likes and preferences and even values – and we can still love one another. Her response was spacious.
I’m not kidding when I tell you what a remarkable change this seemingly small, insignificant shift means. It shows me that light years of growth have occurred…somehow. That only took about sixty years too long for my liking. Maybe it just means they have given up trying to save me. Whatever it means, I’ll take it.
To say that I have been the black sheep of the family all my life would be a gross understatement. Acceptance was never going to happen, let alone any meaningful connection or companionship. I have spent a lifetime being jealous of women with close sisters. I’ve long been grieving the loss of what would never be.
And it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on my part, albeit coming at it from my needy, codependent campaign for their acceptance. Once the lightbulb finally went on there and I stopped trying to prove my worth everything changed. See how that works? We choose freedom, health, self-acceptance, self-love. And then we get the acknowledgment. We were enough all along.
“Repugnant is a creature who would squander the ability to lift an eye to heaven, conscious of his fleeting time here…” – Tool
This past week some of my family came to visit. My younger sister and her son. His girlfriend came along to help with the ten hour drive north from Cincinnati. I was glad to meet her, and I was excited to see them. I hadn’t seen her in the two years since my brother’s memorial service. My nephew had brought his three young girls up to visit us last summer. They were “t’weens” then, so who knows when I might see them again. Teenagers have their own busy agendas and are probably less likely to indulge the boring elderly aunt.
This visit had a different purpose, actually. They drove a rented truck up to deliver the granite headstones my sister had made for my parent’s and my brother’s gravesites. Cemeteries are governed by strict laws now that require professional installation and maintenance. They came to oversee that.
We all went out to eat near my home. My son wore his Tool sweatshirt, the one that features the colorful Alex Grey illustration featured on the Lateralus album. I bought him that sweatshirt for Christmas a few years ago, so he put it on without thinking about it – which immediately raised questions. And so began a short conversation about the band Tool.
My son introduced me to Tool years ago. Since my days at the Grande Ballroom in Detroit I have been a heavy metal fan, thank you Black Sabbath. I took my son and friends to their first rock concert as teens. We went to see Metallica. It was great, even if I was way older than the rest of the audience. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for my son and how he enriches my life every day in a million ways. I’m trying to pay attention, because WHO GETS TO BE THIS BLESSED?!
If I’m honest I had mixed feelings about seeing my sister. I love her dearly. We have little in common. Our values are so different. We have a third sister in this area; she and I have no contact. I knew that the two of them were going to meet also. Family, at least mine, is always a mixed bag of emotions. You never know how it’s going to go.
However, I do not have mixed feelings about Tool. I am a die-hard fan for life. I have referred to them as the Mozarts of their generation. Their music is a complex, brilliant treatise on the human condition. As usual…artists are the keepers of the truth, after all. The alchemists who turn our fodder into gold. And now I am also a fan of Band of Echoes. How is this song the perfect metaphor for my family relationships…how is my heart to survive these divisions?
But as it turned out we had a wonderful visit with my family. Politics and religion never entered into the conversation. We are aging. Our younger brother died of a heart attack two years ago. Our time here is fleeting. My sister and I both know that every visit is a privilege and could certainly be our last. We also know that our sons – our beautiful genius sons, will love each other long after we are gone. “Good Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise,” as my southern grandmother Mimi would have said.
So as a continuance of our conversation I searched for an acoustic version of a favorite Tool song to share with my sister. I knew she wouldn’t listen to the heavy metal original. We will see how this goes…
Shortly after moving from the suburbs of Detroit to Traverse City back in the 1980’s, I became friends with a man named Prof Mondol. Prof wrote a novel titled Operation Tibet. It’s based on his service as a fighter pilot in WWII, having served with the Royal Indian Air Force. Published in 1979, I still have the copy he signed and gifted me. He was such a wise man. I regarded him as an unofficial spiritual teacher of sorts and held him in the utmost respect.
Due to fly somewhere on business, I offered to drive him to Detroit Metro Airport one weekend. It was an opportunity to talk for hours, and I could also take my young son to visit his father in Midland along the way. That trip would prove quite enlightening on several levels, although not in any way I could have expected.
After introducing Prof while dropping my son off, my former husband asked if he could speak to me privately for a minute. We walked down his long driveway off M20 just west of Midland. He was very direct with this statement that if I ever dared to expose his son to a black person again (Prof was a native of India), he would see to it that I never saw my son again. Specifically he explained in detail how he would have drugs planted in my car and ensure that I spent my life in prison. “Are we clear on this? Do you understand me?!” he bellowed in a whisper. Ha! As if I could be anything but clear about who I had divorced years prior. While also perfectly clear about being responsible for who I had married…and why he felt so familiar. Ass-holes are familiar to me.
I did not know that day that Prof was dying of cancer, and that trip would be the last time I would spend with him. I did not know what a gift it was. I still remember our conversation, and I have just thought of it again. Triggered recently, of course, by a family member reminding me how different we are; how I have always been, and will always be, an outsider in my family of origin. Because Prof asked me a question that day that would subconsciously affect my entire adult life: “do you believe that God created the universe – or is creating the universe?”
“Creating,” I replied without hesitation. It was an intuitive response. Immediate. From the depths of my being.
For reasons I may never comprehend, road trips seem to provide some precious insights for me. Don’t know what it is about setting a block of time aside and getting away from the house; maybe it’s the open highway…maybe it’s just making myself available to drive for people I love. My natural tendency is to stay home. I really don’t like to leave the house, and often don’t for long periods of time. To say home is sanctuary for me is a gross understatement. Home is renewal; home is life.
Sitting still does not even remotely mean I am not experiencing constant change. I guess I am living an internal life. Nature visits me at my door. The world quite literally revolves around me; I remain still at the center. You might be surprised to know that no two days are ever the same from my chair here in the corner.
But returning home recently I found myself on a detour. Road construction in Michigan happens in summer, when the weather allows. I would be passing so near to my family cemetery that it seemed disrespectful not to stop. And so I did, for the first time in years. It made me feel acutely sad. The grave sites of my parents and brother, among those of multiple generations of ancestors, were overgrown. Rocks were strewn willy-nilly. My parents graves had a headstone; my brothers did not. Later that week I was talking to my sister and mentioned this. She is the only member of my family I have much contact with at all, and then it is infrequent. We live 10 hours drive apart.
A couple of days later she asked if I would be willing to place grave markers if she were to purchase them. I agreed. She researched online and asked if she could ship them directly to me. I agreed. Within another day or so I was informed that the two grave markers had been ordered and were being shipped to her. And that she had enlisted her son, my nephew, to drive up with the markers and meet with the township for placement. He would be overseeing the project and I would be notified when it was done.
It isn’t that I mind being dismissed. Certainly not in this instance. It did startle me for a moment. And reminded me that it has always been this way in my family. I might be temporarily enlisted to participate. But then they will think better of it. As in, better not trust this to Susan. Better not let Susan make a decision. Better to handle it without Susan and then inform her. It’s been this way as long as I can remember. I am a member of the family…but just barely. They scoot over at the last minute and give me a seat on the bench. I’m an adjunct member. By default. By default that we had the same two parents, that is. But I am certainly not an equal.
And in this specific instance, the truth is that I don’t much understand or value the physical need to visit the remains of dead loved ones. They aren’t there. Although it has been documented that all wild animals in nature pause when passing over ground with remains below. It is known that elephants will spend some time stopping on their migrations pausing over long buried remains far under the ground. And they will spend almost twice as long IF those remains are of their own herd.
Which brings me full circle to what this essay is about (finally, eh?) How do the elephants know? What is the built in telepathic sense that all life on earth seems to possess? Why don’t humans understand, acknowledge and value it? What is this telepathy inherent in nature?
For lack of a better word, some would call it psychic. We are psychic beings. Acknowledged or not, we are all living a psychic life. Everything is psychic. God is psychic. You learned “all-knowing.” Same thing: interconnected.
So how am I depressed? Why am I so debilitated by grief? What is death? How can I reconcile the injustice of the world I live in? What is this perceived divide in reality?
We humans seem to have made such a clusterfuck of this ark we were entrusted with. We don’t even know we were placed here. We are in a panic that we will miss our purpose. We’ve been allocated to adjunct caretakers. Our seat on the bench is dwindling. Our time for being trusted has come and gone, and we don’t even know what is happening here.
But I do understand it. My cells get it. My psychic field, my spirit, knows. We are all part of the same God. We are infinitely intelligent. God isn’t done. The universe wasn’t created. It is becoming. We are becoming.
“The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.” – Gloria Steinem
In my sweet little blessed life here I was recently swimming in the warm, clear water of Crystal Lake. Out from the beach at my friend’s summer cottage, not another person in sight. She was thanking me for something – oh, driving her around, as she had flown in from her home in another state. She had bought me dinner the previous night. Our conversation turned into a back and forth of silly compliments and thank yous. Standing on a soft sand blanket, shoulder deep in blue water as far as my eye could see, I said, “well…I got the better end of the deal.”
That was the day after I got home from attending The Detroit Book Festival with another friend. She needed to attend for business and had asked me to drive her downstate. Not only because I know my way around, but because I have often bragged that “if you can drive in Detroit, you can drive anywhere.” It was a chance to put my money where my mouth is, so to speak. However she paid for gas, hotel and fabulous meals in return. She also provided one on one counseling – not sure she knew she’d signed up for that, but that’s what transpired along the way. When I dropped her home she thanked me. “Well, I got the better end of that deal,” I replied. I didn’t say it lightly.
Days before my father died he said to me, “I sure hope your friends are going to take care of you in your old age.” He was implying that my family would not, because I had not taken care of him properly in his old age. And I had abandoned my siblings. The five of them (my mother being long dead) had unanimously agreed that they were done with me. They had put up with me long enough. They wouldn’t speak to me for years after my father died, or ever again in the case of my brother.
My father was in the hospital for a life saving surgery. His heart would give out a few days later. I think he knew he was dying, and it was his final chance to let me know how disappointed he was with me. My sister yelled at me to shut-up that afternoon and I would leave in tears. My father was almost deaf and apparently I was speaking loudly – as I had gotten used to doing in the recent years he had lived with me. Perhaps I, too, have become somewhat hard of hearing. For whatever reason, I was embarrassing them. They made it clear they did not want me there. This wasn’t anything shocking or new. I was their burden to bear. To say that I never fit in was a gross understatement; I was an albatross in a flock of swans.
Decades had passed since I’d left home – decades of therapy, ACOA meetings, and self examination. Failed marriages. Failed businesses. The loss of my mother. The loss of friends. I’d raised a child with his narcissistic father – who, by the way, my family loved and got along with. My mother lent him the seed money to start his own business right after our divorce. She didn’t tell me that, he did. He leveled it as evidence of how stupid and crazy I was to leave him. He won. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d gotten the better end of the deal.
My family has always told me that I am lucky, wielded this announcement disdainfully like an accusation. In fact, I am lucky. And I do not take for granted that I have fared better than they have in life. I had a better education, for one thing. But years before that I was lucky in birth order – eldest, and specifically because my maternal grandmother was close. She was a huge influence in my upbringing. And as I’ve said before, my parents addictions were not yet in full swing. My Mother was 19 when she was pregnant with me. My father was in the army and so Mom and I lived the first 8 months of my life with my grandparents in a big Tudor house in Detroit. I remember playing as a toddler in that magical house with it’s many secret nooks and crannies. My siblings have no recall of it at all. I’ve imagined my grandparents arguing about the decision to drive us to Texas, where my father was stationed, and drop us off with him. I’ve dreamt about it. I’m guessing my grandmother could hardly bear the idea, but that my grandfather felt it was the only possibility of my father taking responsibility for his young family.
Three years later we would return to Michigan. My father went to work for my grandfather. Mimi was often my babysitter. In grade school I would ride my bike to her house, often with friends in tow. We knew we could count on lots of food and goodies, and a quarter to spend around the corner at the 5 & Dime. So lucky.
I fared much better than my younger siblings in so many ways. They have lived with ongoing health problems, plagued with cancer and heart issues. Now in my 70’s I’ve still had neither – how’s that for lucky?! They have all four battled the demons of addiction – to alcohol, drugs, cigarettes and gambling. I’ve not had that to deal with. They have all faced homelessness more than once. It is true they were not so lucky.
And now in my old age I live quite an isolated life. I have lost more loved ones than remain. Thankfully I have a handful of close friends. I can count on them. They can count on me. A chosen family. It sure feels like I’m getting the better end of the deal.
If you were to ask me today my greatest achievement in life, I would say it’s having learned to value kindness in the face of cruelty. Not entirely. God knows I’ve slipped up more times than I care to admit. I’ve certainly been cruel at times. But I hope I am becoming kinder with age. It is a choice, a choice that requires practice. Kindness and curiosity are the way forward, of that I’m sure.
Feeling like I got the better end of the deal isn’t about comparison to anyone else. It isn’t a competition. It’s about being grateful. I want you to feel like you’re getting the better end of the deal when we are together, and I want to feel like I am. That’s why I say it; it reminds me how grateful I am to be with you, here, now. It’s a “just pinch me” moment. How lucky are we?!
Admittedly, I’ve never been good at separating out timelines in my life. It’s all going down at once in here. This morning at three a.m. I woke from some wild cosmic ride thinking about my RAYHOPE experience. And having an ah-ha I would like to share. It had me buzzing.
You may not remember reading the post about this (May 8, 2024). Here’s the synopsis: my father was dying. As I was driving to be his caretaker one day I had to pull over to calm down, overcome with grief and blinded by tears. It suddenly occurred to me that I was habitually praying for him but not for myself. And so I said a prayer for myself, a solicitation for help. And I ended it with, “show me just a little ray of hope…” Those are not words I have ever used. My Mother, perhaps, but I don’t remember ever saying them, let alone thinking them. I was desperate for some relief, physically and spiritually.
My father was living with my brother, way out in the middle of nowhere in some tiny cabin my brother had rented when I kicked him out of my house. Homeless, my brother had asked to stay for a few weeks, and over three years later I kicked him out. I was tired of his abusive behavior. But I wouldn’t see him that day, or ever again. So I took them groceries, cleaned the house, filled the refrigerator with prepared meals. My father was still able to get around on his own, and one of my sisters would be there the next day. Around the middle of the afternoon Dad said he wanted to lay down and take a nap. My brother would be home from work by dinner time, and so I said goodbye to Dad. It would be my turn on the caretaker schedule again in a few days.
Slowly I dodged the potholes of the dirt road for a few miles to get back to the highway. There was traffic to wait out before I could turn left. Once I did I was following a big black SUV, and as I got up to speed I couldn’t help noticing that it had a specialty license plate. A government vehicle? It wasn’t legible until we came to a stoplight miles later, and as I inched up behind it the license plate read R-A-Y-H-O-P-E.
Literally, a little ray of hope.
I had to pull over again, this time in a parking lot, to compose myself. I was shaking. Did I hallucinate that? How can that happen? There was no predetermined time frame for my visit. Imagine the complicated sequence of events that had to culminate in that exact place and time. The State of Michigan sells customized license plates. They run a check to make sure no one is already using that exact plate; there are no duplicates. What was it doing on a big SUV on a northern Michigan rural highway nowhere near anything? At some random time in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon? I did not hallucinate it. It was carefully orchestrated, perhaps over months or even years, for me. It had to be.
My father did not live but a few more weeks. My brother would never speak to me again. He was a gambling addict, and once my father was gone he would not be able to pay rent and would soon become homeless again. But he would not reach out to me. The day that had given me so much hope did not mean what I thought it meant. I have never understood it.
Until very early this morning – twelve years later – when I woke knowing something even more fantastical. Help me wrap my head around this awareness: that event was a glimpse into how the world works. It was not a miracle, not unique, or even unusual. It was momentary insight into how life works. All the time. It is all unfolding perfectly. In any given second. On any road, anywhere.
The past several months have broken me open. My days are consumed with unreconcilable grief. Maybe it’s been percolating under the surface all my life and only now has the time and safe place to express itself from my body. And this grief has simply sharpened my awareness to the point in time where I can almost grasp the enormity of this. There has always been a little ray of hope. There will always be a little ray of hope. Nothing here is happening by accident. Nothing ever has.
7/30, 3:33 am; I’m awake thinking about my brother again, about how he didn’t have a voice. About how I feel a responsibility to speak up for him, to tell the story of how abuse in the family of a narcissist steals the childhood of a spectacular child, an innocent child, who would never find himself again, never know joy. Who would never know his soul, his voice. Who would die alone in the rented room of a coworker’s trailer at the age of 62.
What if, at the age of 72, I drop the guilt I have carried my entire life? What if I was never responsible? Oh sure, part of me always knew my four younger siblings weren’t my responsibility. I left home at 16, telling my parents that I would no longer raise their children for them. Never mind take care of their drunk asses at three am when they stumbled in from the bar. But I didn’t really let go of the guilt, ever. The sense that I had abandoned them all. I remember being in my late thirties, sitting in a therapy session with my sister who looked right at me and told me she still could not forgive the fact that I left them all to fend for themselves when I was sixteen. I abandoned them. I abandoned my siblings. She told me they were angry at me – not at my parents. And I get it now; in many ways I was the parent. When I left at 16 they had already depended on me for years.
And I didn’t just disappear. Perhaps it would have been better if I had. No, I went away to boarding school. To what I still call the real Hogwarts. I went from a living hell to magical days full of beauty and art and inspiration. I went to Kingswood Cranbrook. I was in my heaven. I left my young siblings to fend for themselves against a monster no one could name. It was 1970. There was no such thing as Child Protective Services. No one to call, should anyone in the community realize something was wrong. I only realized it at a subconscious level myself. My body knew it, but my psyche wouldn’t define the fear for decades to come.
And I have carried guilt ever since. It is heavy. My body can’t seem to lose this visceral fat. My ankles are swollen, my knees ache. I can’t eat anything spicy, or digest gluten anymore. I’m a walking inflammation factory. Rather than accept this all comes naturally with age, I protest. There is nothing natural about this. This comes from aging in a dysfunctional, misogynistic family and culture. The one that flourished in the post-war industrial boom of the mid 1900’s.
The internet is full of articles about the inflammation that occurs with age. WHAT IF it actually only occurs in an aging society of narcissistic abuse victims? And don’t tell me you aren’t one. Not if you live in the United States, or under any oppressive government. HOW the everloving fuck do you think we got here??!!! Wake up. We are a misogynistic culture of narcissistic victims. AN ENTIRE CULTURE, people. And regardless of your age or gender or socio-economic status, ain’t nobody done here until everybody is done. You don’t have to like it. But you do have to live it. Some day I’ll tell you what we all lost when we lost my brother.
Monday, 6/15: Good morning. I’m gonna change up the format here a bit. Since it’s basically always been a journal, let’s go with a journal format, beginning with the date…but all bets are off. Consistency is not a virtue I claim. I aspire. I’m…ya’ know, aspirational. It is a gorgeous summer morning. It is sunny and cool. Fifty-three degrees. It reminds me why we live in Michigan. But Michigan is not for everyone…it’s an “if you know, you know” kinda thing.
Detroit is the same. What an absolutely magnificent city. But if you know, you know. As a young woman I couldn’t wait to leave, but it was never because I didn’t love Detroit. It was because I wanted to live away from my highly dysfunctional family. Well, I wanted to raise my son away from them. And while I am very happy to be living “up north,” I will always miss Detroit. You can take the girl out of the city…
Growing up in Detroit was one of those “right place, right time” things. Born in the early 50’s, I became a teen in the 60’s. Detroit was the U.S. center of the British Invasion of rock in the 1960’s. And I was there for it. I was a sponge for it. I was growing up in a musical family, and as I’ve often said, my parents were beatniks in the 50’s who became hippies in the 60’s. I was the flower child.
I’ve also talked here a lot about being a privileged white girl in Detroit in the 1960’s. And having a conscience, thankyougod. Let’s just say, it shaped me. It would not make my life easier. Naive and 13, we were on one of our many summer getaways with our big-ass Chris Craft cabin cruiser to Georgian Bay, Canada. If you know, you know. It is one of the most spectacular places on the planet. We would use the depth sounder to check how deep the water was at our mooring, often off the beach of some deserted little island. We would watch the fish swimming thirty feet below us as we scooped up a pitcher of water to make orange juice or coffee. We had somehow stumbled into heaven, never suspecting we might not be worthy.
Bored in Tobermory harbor one stormy afternoon my younger sister and I walked into town, where I bought my first-ever record album. Not only did Joni Mitchell sing like no one I’d ever heard, but she had also drawn the jacket cover. Song to a Seagull caught my eye because it looked a lot like my fantastical drawings. Little did I know my life would never be the same.
Fast forward (hahahaa!) another six decades and here we are, you and I…talkin’ trash and livin’ our best life. Have I mentioned how grateful I am? I would try to articulate this sentiment, but then I would turn to a mush puddle and not be able to type through the tears. That’s me these days. Hence, the month-long hiatus since my last post.
Life continues to unfold and reveal it’s many complex layers. I can barely keep up. Is this progress? Who TF knows…it feels like a loop. A loop of grief and addiction with brief glimpses of joy. Is that joy? Would I recognize joy if it bit me?! Today I sit here in dappled sunlight looking out through the trees in a state of absolute delight and possibility. Yesterday I was sick and in a state of dread. Did I mention that consistency and I are not natural companions?
I had big plans for yesterday. A long ta-da list. But I woke with a migraine. Nauseous. Stiff joints and sore muscles. Where did this come from? I had been working outdoors in the garden the previous day, and I had been stung. It could just as easily have been caused by something I ate that day. The raspberries I put on my yogurt were just beginning to mold but I couldn’t stand to lose them. I live on that edge between blissful wellness and painful incapacity. It’s called chronic illness for a reason. So yesterday was a lost day. I sipped electrolytes, ate tiny bites of dry sourdough toast and stayed in my dark, cool bedroom.
But these days I have a job. I hate having a job. Oh, I love my work. It’s the schedule I resent. Having to be up and out of the house (preferably dressed) and then drive 40 minutes to get anywhere. Regardless of how I feel. Take Sumatriptan if necessary, but show up. Because consistency counts. I was loving retirement. I will again. Life threw another curve ball that I was ill prepared for, and now I face a new challenge: find a new way to earn income. So you’re 72?! Buckle up, buttercup. You live in Michigan, and Michigan is part of the good ol’ USofA….
Honestly, this is very likely good for me, being forced to get dressed and leave the house on a schedule. With the inconsistency of ADHD, and it’s sister component lack of discipline, a little imposed structure usually serves me well. It stimulates creativity and I am forced to overcome my preference to hide; forced to engage with others. As in people. Ugh. Present company excepted.
During this past month, I’ve been overwhelmed with grief and…well, despair – for lack of a better word. I guess I must admit despair. It has been a long 6 months of winter filled with grief. I am depressed. Getting out and driving through gorgeous countryside will do me good. I have reconnected with a dear old friend, who gave me work immediately without question when I called for help. And I’ve also met some very nice people. I certainly cannot complain. How fortunate I am when I get out of my own way. Honestly, are we all our own worst enemies?
I’m beginning to engage with life again. One new rabbit hole I’d love to share here is a vlog I’ve recently discovered on YouTube. I love YouTube…so way better than television. Apparently so does everyone else. In fact, in her first year on YT, Angie has rapidly grown to be one of the most popular channels. There are reasons obvious to me, but I will let you see for yourself.
Confession: I found this vlog because I am researching lifestyle channels, thinking about starting one myself. Sort of a live-action adjunct to this blog. There are aspects of Angie’s vlog I would copy – like wearing sunglasses indoors, of course. And her vulnerability, which I would much rather disguise – but what are the chances?! However, mine would also be quite different. For starters, I’m 12 years older. And far snarkier. Hard as I might try, I am not British. My vlog would have to include my metaphysical studies and spiritual experiences to be authentic. We all know I’ve never had a humble opinion in my life. But there are many things I admire about Angie, not the least of which is her consistency. I could learn something.
I have a long list of ideas…I would love your ideas. Let’s share our curiosity, in hopes that you and I can continue this conversation about life and loss and hope and inconsistency and beauty and all things human. Thank you for being here.
So here is my offering for today: Rare Birds, for those of us growing older, expanding rather than shrinking. For real people, highly sensitive people, who take life as it comes with all it’s foibles and inconsistencies. People like us, who keep on keeping on. Meanwhile, I’m off to my local hardware store to buy myself a garden fork…I hope Angie would be proud.
It’s seven-thirty in the morning as I write this. In the nightmare I just woke from, the bear was looking in the back door at me longingly. I had locked it out, along with my sweet beloved little Corgi, Hariat. I was so angry. Who does this bear think it is, befriending my dog?! Getting her to do it’s bidding to get close to me?! That is not going to work with me.
At three a.m. this morning I had a dream in which I had let Hariat in and the bear had come out of nowhere and snuck in behind her. They both ran straight to my bed, curled around each other and went sound to sleep – the sleep of innocent children in the safety of their mother’s womb.
So hours later, in the 2nd dream, I was wise to this bear. I’m getting to know him well. I say him because I know who this is now. I know who the black bear – who is actually hanging around outdoors – is a metaphor for. And I know what it represents, what it is trying to communicate, and what needs to be healed. I now know exactly what is going on. I am living inside an adult fairy tale.
I am writing this early on the morning of Easter Sunday, 2026. It is Resurrection Day. If you are reading this, know that we are living in a new reality. We have been reborn, just this morning, into a renewed consciousness. Healed. Sing with me: Hallefuckinglujah!
Excuse the pun, but bear with me, and I will tell you a true story. This is the first draft of a fairy tale you can live inside of, as a conscious adult. It has been 72 years in the making. So far.
Four days ago I received a phone call that my former husband was dying, suddenly and unexpectedly. He had taken a nasty fall at his daughter’s house and was rushed to the hospital via ambulance. He had cut his face and tongue open and required stitches. They missed the brain bleed. By the time I had arrived he was only slightly conscious and unable to speak, although he certainly tried. He was desperate to tell me something. He kept gesturing with his hands for me to bring him pen and paper, but he wasn’t able to use them. I knew what he was trying to say. My heart was broken, too. I stayed that night, grateful to sit holding his hand as he slipped further into unconsciousness, allowing his daughters to go home for a few hours of much needed rest. They had come back and I had just left when he took his last breath.
This past week I had posted here about my deceased cat telling me not to do anything before March 30th. It sounded crazy, I know. That’s the day before Richard fell. So it has been five months of knowing that my life was going to change. Has changed now. And like a long string of dominos falling over in succession, it is as though my entire life makes perfect sense now. And a new awareness, a new reality, begins today. Ready or not.
Here is what little I can tell you this morning as I wake from the visiting bear: there is one thing and one thing only between you and a life of abundance and joy: your codependency. In the spiritual realm that forms all physical reality on earth, codependency represents the line between heaven and hell. It is the gatekeeper. With it intact, in working form within your psychology and physiology, you shall not pass. Life will present one helluva challenge after another on the slow painful descent toward oblivion. It must be healed.
And there is one way, and only one way, for healing to occur: forgiveness. Complete, utter – on your hands and knees – forgiveness.
Codependency takes on many forms. It is the master shape-shifter, after all. It’s most recognizable form is addiction. We all have them. Chemical addiction, alcohol and drug abuse, being the most obvious. But we are a culture of addicts. Food, sugar, tobacco, television…self-righteousness, hate, bigotry. We are addicted to being right. Better than. Smarter. Power is a slippery, evil mistress. She hides in the shadows where you dare not look. She hides in the folds of your belly. She hides in your complacency and your mediocrity. She hides in your neediness.
The bear trying to get in is my former husband, the manipulative, narcissistic, completely-self-absorbed-irresponsible-addict-ass-hole-love-of-my-life. He thinks I know something, have something for him. He is clawing for my attention and devotion. He is right that I have something he needs…if only it were mine to give.
He has been my greatest gift. Along with my family, my child, and the bear he sent…all bringing me a wake up call. Come out of your slumber, Susan. Life as you previously knew it is over. Forgive them all. Forgive everything you thought you knew. Forgive even what you think you know about sanity. Forgive the world. Or you shall not pass.
Here is what else I can tell you this morning: the world as we previously knew it is over. In this new reality only beauty holds power. Beauty in all it’s forms: kindness, intuition, nature. Something I learned about intuition this winter is that it is simply pattern recognition. My neurodivergent self calls it intuition; my genius knows it as pattern recognition. I see it everywhere, in everything. Dominos lining up.
Today I am reborn. I will no longer doubt myself. I shall converse openly with deceased cats and dogs; with my husband as bear. I will no longer coddle fear in my belly. I will not be repressed or shushed. I am not sorry. I do not care what you think of me; I forgive you for not knowing me. You can have it all – all – the control. I am not interested. I forgive you.
“Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past.” – Anne LaMott
Forgiveness has been a recurring theme lately in my thoughts and dreams. Call it the cosmos if you wish. The end of the Year of the Snake. The great shedding of old skin. Preparing to meet the Horse, which is my Chinese astrology sign. It’s a sign alright, and I don’t care what we name it. Bring it on.
I have been in a biglongugly funk. Fortunately, I do know how to get myself out of this: W R I T E. I can write my way out. I can draw or paint my way out, too. So can you. You can do any or all of those things. It has nothing to do with talent or experience – it depends on one thing and one thing only – willingness. Well, and a pen and some paper. I recently saw a quote by Dan Poynter that pissed me off. He said, “If you are waiting for inspiration to write, you’re not a writer. You’re a waiter.” Thanks for that, Dan. As my friend Lyn would say, “well that hurts my feelings.” Doesn’t it just…
So I have to sit my butt in a chair and write. Or draw. Or paint. A combination of the three actually works best for me. Because the alternative is insomnia, nightmares, migraine. Lately I have been raging in my sleep. My anger will not be contained. It shocks me how violent my dreams are. I’m fighting for my life, kicking and biting and stabbing and screaming. I am really angry. Keep your distance.
That has to come before the forgiveness. Because I don’t understand forgiveness. I do not know how to forgive. To give forth. To give it up…to let go.
“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks.” – David Foster Wallace
Apparently my body and my subconscious keep excellent records. I assume you also have an inner secretary; mine functions at an executive level 24/7. And there is a thriving Slights Department. I have 70+ years of slights filed here, just waiting for their moment to be justifiably indignant.
In the middle of the night my inner secretary drags out the trauma files and tries to convince me that someone is going to murder me. My nighttime assailant can be any number of people. Usually my father or my sister. They, along with other family members, were prone to violent outbursts. They all spent time in jail for violence against other people. They all weaseled out of more serious charges with the help of a good attorney. As did my former husband, my son’s father. They all drove drunk on a regular basis and never left the house without a gun. I knew what they were capable of, and for anyone who has ever been manipulated by an abuser, that is all it takes. A certain look in their glassy eyes is all it takes for them to back you right into a corner.
To say that I have clawed and chewed my way free of the manipulation of narcissists would be an understatement. The one thing I have not ever done is threaten them back. Oh, I am capable of it, believe me. I, too, have a vengeful murderer deep inside my psyche. I understand them. But I have never actually threatened anyone with any kind of violence at all. I loathe violence. I lived in it’s shadow until I was sixty years old. I had to learn how to walk away and never look back. So I guess I do actually know how to let go. I just don’t know how to make it not hurt.
And, I do swear a lot. Recently my son brought this habit to my attention and asked me to reconsider it. I told him that social psychologists have studied swearing and concluded that it does, in fact, help the body dissipate stress. He said something very wise about it, though. He asked me if it were not a form of violence. And I think it is, yes. I think I will curb my habit of swearing in my effort to live more softly. We’ll see how that goes, shall we? Consider it an experiment.
I have often joked that my obsession with murder mysteries is because I want to know there are people out there more psychotic than my own family. There is always some truth in humor, isn’t there? For the past decade or so I have played with the idea of writing a memoir. But I haven’t wanted to be the angry, confrontative whistle blower of the family. This week, as we begin a hopeful new year, I don’t think I have a choice any longer. I’m tired. I know truth heals. And only truth heals. I want healing. I will be careful and respectful to the best of my ability, but I will tell my truth my way.
Anne LaMott also said, when asked about exposing family dysfunction in her memoirs, “you own everything that’s happened to you. Write your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” I admit to you here, now, that I still need to overcome the actual fear I carry that my family will lash out and harm me. My sister threatened me years ago when I began this blog.
Many of my family members also had a great sense of humor. My son certainly does. I will incorporate that into my stories, but I will tell them however they show up. And I will share here what I can of them – not because I need you to know, but because I want us to heal. If I can do this, so can you. It’s time. It’s the year of the horse. We ride at midnight.