Monthly Archives: May 2015

May 20, 2015 · 7:39 pm

Explanations and exits

I have been having a difficult time writing lately. Well, I’ve been having a difficult time in general. Every time I think that my depression has receded a bit, it comes roaring back. I started this blog to mostly write about my Olds, because I felt that their behavior is sometimes too ridiculous for a single status update on Facebook. The Olds have more fans than they know [and I would prefer to keep it that way, thank you very much, tattletales]; plus, laughing at my day to day existence keeps me from remembering why I am where I am and how bleak the overall picture of my life really is. But it seems like I am writing less about the Olds and more about myself, and specifically, about how bad I feel most of the time. And that was originally not my plan here.  Maybe the Olds are not the only ones who need parenting.

Usually, when I am depressed, there are things I can do to distract myself. Watching Criminal Minds for nine or twenty hours without stopping can help. I admit that it may be a little off-putting to some that I enjoy watching serial killers so as to make my own life seem more bearable. But it does help. No matter how miserable I am, no one has broken into my house and stabbed me with an icepick. (Yet).
Watching the serial killers themselves at work does not make me feel better; quite the opposite. It usually makes me feel worse; most of them seem to be incredibly organized with a real talent for planning ahead, so it is just another profession at which I could never succeed. If I can never find the ice scraper in my car, what makes me think I could remember to keep a tarp and a few axes in the trunk? Answer comes there none.

The problem with my depression this time, is that it isn’t the the usual chemical dark cloud that descends for no reason. This time, it is situational, and the situation cannot be fixed. I have mentioned leaving my church, and why I did it. I am tired of talking about it, and I am tired of defending my position, and I am tired of spending so much time and energy on thinking about a place where I am no longer welcome, and where, even if I were, I would never set foot again.

I am tired of being angry and exhausted by sadness, and I’m also tired of mourning. But I can’t seem to stop doing any of that. I knew that the church was a huge part of my life. I knew that leaving it would hurt, and that I would probably feel lost for a while. I also knew that I really, really didn’t want to go—but that my own mouth would, sooner or later, open up and say things that could never be unsaid.  I would have become increasingly bitter and unpleasant, which had already started happening before I left.  And I didn’t want to do that, because I didn’t want people to hate me. Well. So much for that.

I’ve realized that the only way I’m going to be able to get through this particular bout of depression, is to write, but I don’t have happy or funny things to write about right now.  So if you are looking for funny OldsStories, you might have to wait for a few days.  Right now, I can only write what I have, and what I have had for a while now is a broken heart.  Glossing over it hasn’t helped.  Crying hasn’t helped. Neither have venting, wishing, being angry and bitter, pretending it never happened, ice cream, reading Elizabeth Bishop,  or any of the usual cures for a broken heart.

That’s the difference between losing an individual and losing a community, I guess.

I also need to write about it because I do not want to forget the good things.  If the church had not been so amazing, this wouldn’t hurt so much.  Even up until two weeks after I resigned, I hadn’t given up on it completely.  I still trusted the beautiful parts of the church to eventually triumph over these problems.

Most of all, I still trusted people I loved and respected to see beyond their defensiveness, and to believe that I acted with only the best of intentions, and to see what I did as something that came from a good and loving place.  After all, I’ve been asked to do that continually since last December.  It is only recently that I realized that the same consideration has mostly not been extended to me or to the friends of mine who share my position.  Yet, all of us acted out of the best intentions, and all of us are people for whom honor and seeking the right path are as natural as breathing.  None of us have done anything but tell the truth, and ask others to do the same.  So, here we are, most of us on the outside.  And until I really understand why we are out here, I don’t think I can set this aside without the danger that when I least expect it it will all coming flooding back.

These are the things I need to figure out:

What does it really mean to believe only in peoples’ best intentions?

How realistic, useful, and even safe, is it to only ever assume the good in someone’s actions?

How far am I willing to go for what I believe, even at the expense of people I love?

and finally–

What obligation, if any, do my loved ones have to support me when we disagree, or when I’ve taken a stance with which they might agree, but would rather not deal with the hassle of defending?

This last one is something that I have thought about quite a lot, and probably will continue to.

This week, a dear friend let me read something she wrote about this situation, and something she said has been circling around my head ever since:

“I realized that I want a church where someone will run after me when I run out”.

When I read that, I realized how much I wanted the same thing. After all, isn’t that what everyone wants in life?  Don’t we all want to matter enough to at least one person so that if–when–we run away, from something, there will be someone comes after us and says:

“Stop. Please don’t go. I care about you. I want you with me. Nothing is perfect and it never will be, but my life is closer to perfect when you are in it, even if right now that seems too hard to do. And, if you absolutely can’t stay, then I am coming with you.”

My friend and I don’t agree on some things about the events that led me to leave the church, although when it comes to our deepest selves, we agree on pretty much everything.  One night we played that game where you have to draw out something, like a phrase or name that someone has to guess.  My friend and I were sitting across the room from each other and couldn’t see what the other was drawing–but most of our drawings were so similar that it was almost creepy.  And also, amazing.

So when she has opinions that are different from mine, they are opinions that I take very, very seriously, and do everything I can to understand, even if I can’t always agree.  She is still part of the church, and this is the right thing for her, even though it isn’t for me.  And when I read that about how she wants a church where someone will run after her, I knew that even though some of our drawings might not match up, that most of them probably always will.

You see, she ran after me, even though it has been difficult and terribly hard for her at times to do so.

She is not the only one, either.  The fact that she and other people ran after me has meant everything to me, because I can’t remember the last time anyone ran after me, for anything. Some of the people who ran after me completely shocked me, because at least one of them is someone I have taken for granted more often than not, and because I am someone who goes much more by words than actions.   I am finally starting to learn that words mean almost nothing if they are not combined with actions–and that actions without words can say more than entire alphabets.

When I applied to college, I took hours and hours over every application; proofreading, correcting the tiniest mistakes, making sure that absolutely everything was as perfect as it could be. Except for my Vassar application.

I had decided to not even apply to Vassar, but at the last minute, to satisfy a nagging Old, I stomped upstairs to my room and whipped it off in 10 minutes, shoved it in an envelope without looking at it twice, and threw it at the naggy Old so he could drive it to the post office before midnight.

On my Vassar application, I was just me, and really, I was the most annoying and bratty part of me. I was sloppy, and I was careless, and unlike all of my other applications, I was completely honest.  I answered all the questions about my future with what I really thought, not with carefully parsed sentences designed to make me look as much like Ivy League or Seven Sisters material as I possibly could.

The earliest acceptance letter I got was from Vassar.  And I was definitely Seven Sisters and Ivy League material, judging from my other acceptances.  But Vassar accepted me when I was sloppy and angry and completely honest. They saw the best of me and they saw the worst of me.  And they still wanted me. That’s why I went there, and why I felt so at home, and always will.

The friends that I have left from the church, I think, have seen my best and my worst, but they still ran after me.

And that has made all the difference.

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May 8, 2015 · 12:50 pm

They’re [almost] heeeeere……

It is Mother’s Day this weekend, and that means one thing here at Oldenhome. The siblings are coming. BOTH of them.

When the three of us are together, our lifelong Contest goes on warp speed. This is the Contest in which we compete for the title of Number One. Technically, I am Number One, since I am the oldest. My brother is then Number Two [heh heh heh I said number two] and the youngest, our sister, is Number Three. Except chronology is not at issue here. The numbers instead denote which child is currently the favorite one. The Olds usually have different favorites at different times, but the object of this Contest is to be the overall favorite. My brother, for instance, is always Number One with one of the Olds. She pretends that this is not so, but it is. When I emerged from my studio yesterday, I came upstairs to lots of delighted chatter and giggling and then the announcement: “HAVE YOU HEARD THE GOOD NEWS?!”

Me: No–did someone die?
Old: M— is coming for Mother’s Day!!!
[I swear to God: then she did a little dance of joy. It was scary.]
Me: Oh, good!
[Remind myself to remove needles from sewing machines, as once when brother was here, he thought it would be fun to “sew” and ended up sewing parts of his own shirt together. While he was wearing it.]
Other Old [morose]: You know what this means?
Me: Shit.
Other Old: Yes.
[the two of us make runs for our respective lairs]
Joyful Old, who has been twittering and humming to herself: Where are you going? I HAVE TASKS FOR YOU!!!!
Me & Other Old, from above and below: I CAN’T HEAR YOU.

The Joyful Old was in such a good mood yesterday that we were able to avoid being Tasked for the most part. But. She has now completed what she views as her own list of tasks–moving around stacks of cookbooks, which she calls “organizing”, and disposing of about 12 magazines from 2012 on the living room coffee table so that there is room enough to set a single coffee cup. All remaining Tasks, most of which involve actual work, will be outsourced to the other Old and me.

Therefore, I must leave the house immediately. This may affect my standing and drop me down to Number Three, but that is a risk I am willing to take compared to the diseases I could contract from cleaning out the refrigerator. The other Old will not be pleased, but at times like this, it is everyone for themselves.

Ominous footsteps are overhead as I write this. I may have left my escape too late. PRAY FOR ME.

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May 6, 2015 · 2:21 pm

There and back again (no hobbits)

And Lo, for she did returneth from the big city, and verily, twas goodeth to beeth at hometh! Twas goodeth to visiteth my sister of courseth. But, she hath no dogs, and verily, I saith unto you, she hath cleaning standardeths which are far beyondeth mine comprehension. Forsooth, for the things that should match, sucheth as towels and sheeteths, matchedeth!  Hie thee to the kitchen, whereth the sink be empty of all and whereth the refrigetator hath only non-rotted produce! Selah!

I know that when astronauts return from a space mission,  they have to go into seclusion for a while before they are re-integrated into earth or something because of gravity and such*.  I can see the value of that as I have been re-integrating myself into life with the Olds. My sister’s house does seem a bit like outer space compared to this one. I think possibly the gravitational pull here is stronger, because when someone sets something down, like, say, a stack of books on the kitchen counter, it seems as though they cannot ever be moved again. At my sister’s house, stacks of things set on things stay there for possibly ten seconds before you are gently reminded to move them. The fourth and fifth reminders are no longer gentle, though.  And subsequent ones–really a little nasty.
I don’t know how my sister and I grew up in the same family and emerged with such opposite ideas about things like housekeeping and being socially correct and wearing matching socks and stuff. Maybe it is because I am the first draft, being the oldest, and by the time she came along so many years later, the Olds had learned more about shaping their offspring into people who could more successfully fit into society. Hahahaha!!!! Good one! Of course that isn’t it. My sister is more socially acceptable because by that time the Olds had figured out that it was best for their offspring to use people besides themselves as role models.

At any rate, since I have been home, I have been suggesting ways in which the Olds could improve their surroundings and mine by living more like my sister. Most of my suggestions have been met with sighing, grumbling, or outright hoots of laughter. There have even been suggestions to me that perhaps I should just “go right the hell back there” if I think my sister’s house is so great.

I have neglected to share with the Olds that I am pretty sure that my sister does not want me back, since I spent a lot of my time there giving her suggestions that were equally unwelcome.  Apparently, kids these days believe in putting each bit of trash in the garbage can as it is made/found. They care about the environment and the planet, but what about caring about their fellow humans? It is much easier on me to wait until I have a nice pile of thread ends, fabric snippets, gum wrappers, and mostly empty Starbucks cups and then throw them away all at once. They really weren’t hurting anyone sitting there on the coffee table for three days, and I felt like they gave her picture perfect living room more of a homey, lived in look anyway.

The thing is, no one appreciates me and my point of view. It is lonely, being this ambassador between the worlds of the neat and organized and the, well, NOT neat and organized.  I am trying to bring understanding and awareness of others, and no one seems to want to hear it.  Just yesterday I was explaining to one of the Olds about how when my sister cooks a meal, by the time it is on the table, the kitchen looks much as it did when she started. This is because she cleans as she goes, which is something that I also do. Well, back when I used to cook, I did it. I think. Anyway, I pointed out that when my sister cooks a meal for three people, the kitchen does not look as though a war has been fought between the forces of good [the counters] and evil [dirty dishes], with evil reigning supreme over every square inch of space. And, furthermore, that even if her kitchen did show evidence of a minor skirmish, that she would not leave the bodies there to rot overnight so that innocent bystanders would come upstairs for their coffee in the morning and be greeted by the aftermath of the slaughter. Seeing that kind of chaos can really upset the serenity of my morning, but no one cares about MY needs. Yea, for I do walk through the valley of death, and sometimes, I would just like to be able to find one clean coffee cup in it.

Like most of my suggestions and attempts at making conversation since I’ve been home, this one was greeted with an exasperated sigh and then a request for me to stop speaking.

I think the Olds did miss, me though, because they both wanted to talk to me a lot when I first got back. This is something I try to avoid most of the time, because the more talking, the more chance there is for annoyance on my part. But, I took pity on them and stayed upstairs a bit more my first couple of days back. Then, the Tasking started, and I realized that it was just that they’d been trying to gently lull me into a warm and friendly stupor so that I would not notice when I suddenly started receiving direct orders one after another. Only one of them really does the Tasking, but it is in the other’s benefit to have me around because then he can devolve his Tasks on to me.

“Tasking” is what one of the Olds does when something needs to be done that she’s decided she doesn’t want to do herself. And, if you are on the same floor of the house when she decides on a task, you’re fair game. Most of the tasks are not that onerous; for instance, I do understand that sometimes people get tired of tripping over the nine pairs of my shoes that I need to keep by the back door.  What I don’t understand is why, if someone is THAT worried about “breaking [their] ankle” or “dislocating [their] knee [again]”, they don’t just come in the front goddamned door.  My time is valuable too and maybe I haven’t had time this week to put away those shoes.

Plus, I try to live my values.  I am more than willing to help carry groceries in from the car and even put them away, except when the reason that the Old can’t do is is because she’s watching her “stories”. That is behavior I cannot enable, even if it means that the ice cream melts all over the back seat of her new car.  Besides, we have a goddamned DVR. Can she not just record them like everyone else in the world and watch them ten minutes later??

Anyway.  Now that I’m home, I need to start paying more attention to their general physical and mental conditions.  When I left, there was a new bottle of Jamesons in the kitchen.  I thought that the one I saw in there last night was the same new bottle.  I was wrong.  I also wondered why they are eating their box of Florida oranges so slowly, until I realized, they aren’t eating them as a food.  They use them as a mixer when they make old fashioneds.   So.  It is probably time for another cardiac spot check.  One of the Olds went to see his cardiologist the day before I left for Chicago, and so I did one the night before that.  He passed it with a really excellent flail and shriek, and the doctor concurred with my assessment that his heart is in good shape.  I think I might have to do another one tonight, just to keep on top of things.  After they’ve cracked the new bottle of Jamesons, they should be pretty relaxed.  Hopefully.

* I would look it up but really, that seems like a lot of work for one analogy, and you have google, so you do it if it means that much to you.

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