Full Circle

My daughter is seventeen now. I cannot even begin to tell you how weird that is. When I had her all of those years ago, I wasn't happy. She was a surprise (I was on the pill) and one that I wasn't at all sure I wanted. There are all sorts of reasons I felt that way that I'll get into at some point maybe, but the bottom line is that it was very difficult for me.

I would hold her and stare at her and wonder how I was going to raise her. How I would do right by her. How I would love her the way she deserved to be loved. How was I going to do this for eighteen years? It seemed an eternity when every hour was a struggle to get through.

But hour-by-hour, day-by-day, week-by-week, month-by-month, year-by-year, I did it. Sometimes plodding with the heaviness of the responsibility, and sometimes going at the speed of light trying to keep up with her ever-changing needs.

And now here we are. Looking at colleges and getting a driver's license and debating the pros and cons of getting a tattoo (God help me). She is growing up - almost there - and I just can't believe it. When you're in the throes of parenthood, whether it's the snotty little mean girl in first grade or the utter cruelty of middle school or that first real heartbreak in high school, it feels like this will be your life forever. You acclimate to it and just get on with it every day. Then "suddenly" they are approaching that magic age of eighteen when you're supposedly off the hook as a parent. That moment that you've looked forward to - and dreaded - all at the same time, is finally arriving.

Your child is grown.

And your heart is stretched and tugged and tested. Both from the heartache of losing her to adulthood and from the unbelievable excitement about the next phase of your life finally arriving. That phase that you daydreamed about on the really hard days and dreaded on the really good ones.

It's then though, that you realize that life has come full circle. Sixteen years, two months, one week and six days ago I was driving in my car with my two-week old baby and realized with some dread that while I love this child more than I ever thought I could love another human being, I would never really be mentally free again. That terrified me. I had the gift and privilege of raising this beautiful girl, but with it came the burden of worrying about her until the day I died. There was no getting around it.

And worry I did! Hand-wringing, gut-wrenching, hair-pulling worry. But I've also laughed a lot. And beamed with pride. And reveled in her accomplishments. And she has filled my heart over and over again with her sweet personality, great sense of humor, intelligence and strength.

So, as I dropped her off this past week for a week-long test run at her dream college, my car was empty of her and her stuff and that long ago car seat and baby paraphernalia. But my mind was not empty of her. She remained in my thoughts. And I realized once again, all of these years after that moment in the car with my newborn, that she always would. She would be ever-present. I would always worry about her. I would always love her. I would always parent her. She would always have my heart.

Evil. Pure Evil.

I've been married for nearly 24 years. We dated for four years before that.

28 years. Twenty. Eight. Years.

That much time in a relationship does something to a person. Sometimes, it does good things to a person. Like polishing a rock over time making it smoother, more refined and even shinier on occasion. Being with the same person for 28 years forces you to work together, cooperate, compromise, negotiate.

But sometimes...sometimes...yes, sometimes it just makes you pure evil. Drives you mad and takes you to the brink of sanity. You want to kill that person. But you know you can't. So the evil takes other forms. Less deadly ones. Ones that don't put you in prison but still reflect how homicidal you have gotten.

Yesterday was one of those days for me. My husband was being a jerk. Just a jerk. We were talking about something innocuous, but I was annoyed with someone who had repeatedly dropped the ball for the last week-and-a-half on a simple task. I was more than annoyed. I. was. PISSED. Venting about it with Greg (not AT him) and he wasn't being empathetic or understanding of my feelings at all. Quite the opposite in my opinion and it was hurting my feelings and making me madder.

Add to the mix our two-year-old German Shepherd dog continually sniffing my butt as we were "discussing" the matter and I was about to go nuclear. She requires a lot of  patience.

I wasn't patient.

While I wasn't yelling at my husband, I was having unkind thoughts about him as we talked, and trying my best to prevent my brain from exploding all over the living room walls.

At one point, my husband, turns his attention to his computer to look something up and I see our dog out of the corner of my eye and turn my attention to her to see what she was up to since she had finally stopped sniffing my butt. She had discovered the Pop Tart. My husband had left a blueberry Pop Tart beside him on the couch where he had been working and the dog had just found it. It had the white frosting with sprinkles of little, blue sugary sugar crystals.

I don't know why I didn't jump into action. A dog. A Pop Tart. It was inevitable. She sniffed and then sniffed some more and then...LIIIIICK! A big wet one all across the frosted top of that Pop Tart.

I chuckled inside but didn't have time to do anything about it as my husband turned away from the computer and back to facing me. He then promptly picked up that Pop Tart and started eating it.

I just stood there and watched. Never said a word. The expression on my face didn't change a bit. Just stood there and watched it happen. No intervention whatsoever.

I DIDN'T STOP MY HUSBAND FROM EATING THE DOG-LICKED POP TART.

And I enjoyed every. single. second.

EVIL!! Just pure evil.

The satisfaction I got from that moment was scary. Wicked. I feel it even now as I write this. Just absolute contentment that he got what he deserved. Be a jerk to your wife, you get screwed with the dog-saliva pseudo-pastry. That's how it works. That's the risk you take in life.

So THERE.

Facade

I was cleaning the bathroom the other day (shocking, I know) and was looking out the window at our neighbor's back yard. Then I looked at ours. Both of them were in pretty bad shape. Tall grass overrun with weeds. Sticks every where. Dry, dirt patches where there should be grass. Dirty swing sets. I kind of laughed about it because earlier in the day I was admiring both of our front yards when I went out to get the mail.

It got me thinking about the show we put on for others. The facade we build around our lives to look put together in front of others when, in fact, we may be falling apart inside. I'm just as guilty of it as anyone else, and the older I get the more it bothers me that so much of my life is spent pretending. Pretending that I'm okay. Pretending that I'm happy. Pretending that I'm put together and that my life is in order. Pretending that I don't miss my dead family members. Pretending that I'm not worried. Pretending that all of this pretending doesn't hurt.

I had a friend say to me recently, "I have to play this role, Rachel. I HAVE to." The role of happy husband, father, son, brother, neighbor, friend - when in truth, he's pretty unhappy. The life he lives day-to-day is not what he would choose for himself if he felt like he had the power to choose. I knew in that moment that he just needed to say it and just needed me to listen and not judge or even respond. But I wanted to scream at him, "YOU'RE 50! IS THIS HOW YOU REALLY WANT TO SPEND YOUR LIFE??? AND FOR WHAT? WHY? WHAT'S IT WORTH IF IT'S NOT REAL???" But I didn't. It's not what he needed from me in that moment so I just continued to listen.

I realized later that I was smart to withhold verbal judgment because I'm playing a role too, every bit as much as my friend is. Every single day I am. I smile when I should and laugh when I should and shut up when I should and get serious when I should and DO and BE and LIVE like I should - when the truth of the matter is that if I was being completely honest with myself and others, I would be a MUCH different person leading a MUCH different life.

That makes me so sad. I'm not living in a genuine, honest way and it's an exhausting, heavy load. But how do we get out of it? How does a person pursue a life that is more authentic to be who they really are and who they really want to be, when they have a marriage and children and a job and mortgages? How do so many of us end up sitting on our couches one night somewhere in our mid-40s and wonder, HOW IN THE HELL DID I END UP HERE??
 
And then, HOW IN THE HELL DO I GET OUT??

I've felt guilty for feeling that way. I've felt like a bad person. What kind of good, decent human being wants out of their lives? Wants to run away on a fairly regular basis? I've come to the conclusion that feeling way doesn't mean we don't love our spouses/children/homes/careers. But it may mean that we don't love our lives. I know that seems counter-intuitive and contradictory on the surface, but I believe we human beings are complex and can feel more than one emotion about the same thing, at the same time. Individually, there are many things that I love about my life, but as a whole, I really hate my life.

One of the things that I'm wondering is if maybe I love some of the key components of my life but that I feel like so much is missing from it? That I'm not experiencing and achieving and LIVING all that I want in the way that I want. Maybe I don't need to run away thereby eliminating things from my life, but simply need to add more things to my life that are more meaningful to me.

I really don't have an answer. I guess it's good that I'm at least mulling it over though. Right?

Tick Tock

Sometimes it IS too late.

What a discouraging realization. The older I get, the more acutely aware I become that life is passing me by - and I'm letting it.

I'm starting to rack up a list of dreams that are just never going to happen. Things I'll never get to do or see or experience. The depression that is bringing on is crippling and I try to keep it at bay. I try to remember the here and now - this moment right now - and appreciate it for what it is. Appreciate that I have air in my lungs, a beating heart, a home, a child, people who love me.

But...the anxiety I feel about time passing is extremely overwhelming. About all that I'm missing. About how my life is such a disappointment to me and how I let it get to such a bad place.

So much of it's on me. Squarely on my shoulders. The weight of my failure is knee-buckling.

Boston Strong

I have some great memories of Boston. I've had several girls' getaway weekends in my life but my weekend there back in college was one the funnest I've ever had. What happened there shall remain there, but needless to say, it was, ahem, an ADVENTURE.

I also had a weekend there with my husband (then boyfriend) that was awfully nice. The beautiful streets, Copley Square, good restaurants, lots of history...lots to do and see.

I enjoy the grit of the city. It's just as much a part of the area and the people that live there as anything else. Being a New Yorker, I appreciate the tenacity and rough edges that living in the Northeast brings. Spit and polish may be pretty but it's not going to get you through life. In my more philosophical moments I wonder if that's cosmically why that area of our country is so often targeted by others - because we can withstand hard times and come out better in the end.

When I heard about the bombings in Boston my heart broke. Knowing, as I do, the devastation wrought from suddenly losing a loved one...well, it's a hell that I wish on no one. And even the violent loss of a limb inevitably wreaks a whole load of pain and grief that must feel insurmountable to the victim at times. My brother lost most of his hand violently when he was young and I saw what it did to him and my parents as he struggled to heal physically and emotionally.

But, while I was heartbroken for the victims of the bombing and the people of Boston, I wasn't worried. I knew immediately that they would find a way to be okay. They would rise and thrive in spite of this vicious assault on them. These Bostonians are not weaklings. These are people who are strong. So very strong.

Boston strong.

Peace and prayers to you Boston.

Gee, What a Load of Crap (At First Glance Anyway)

I just logged onto this blog to see what it looked like to a new reader and burst out laughing when I took an objective gander at it. There is the header with the title "Laughing Eden" in large font and then the first sentence in my last post is, "I keep crying."

Wow, talk about a bait and switch. With a blog title like that you'd think you were going to be in for some pretty good times on here. And then...NOT SO MUCH. Lately anyway.

When I named this blog I thought about the things that were most important to me or the things that I enjoyed. Family, friends, love, compassion, kindness, baking, art, movies, books, creating, writing; all a very big part of my life. But laughter, well laughter is what has helped me survive all the heartache that life has brought me. I'm so grateful for laughter. So indebted to it. The gift of it is priceless to me. This blog is intended to pay homage to it - a way of thanking it for helping me stay alive in some of my darkest days when all I wanted to do is disappear.

I'm in those dark days again. I will admit that laughter isn't coming easy. That I'm struggling in ways that I have never struggled before. And that I'm scared about it.

I cry way more than I laugh, and when I do laugh, it's usually a mere chuckle that is short lived. My ironic blog title made me laugh harder than I have in a while.

I'm trying though. I'm trying to find joy. Opportunities to laugh come every day and I grab them greedily, desperate to be myself again. To feel something other than sadness. And anger and frustration and discouragement and hopelessness.

Maybe that's a good sign - that I want to feel something other than all of that negativity. I imagine someone who is truly hopeless doesn't even bother trying anymore. I will always try. I have a daughter. She deserves at least that from me.

So I get up every day and shower and put on some make up and take care of my daughter and putter around the house and work and interact with people and try to serve and love and yes, laugh. The beat goes on and I hope to dance to it again one day.

Always Looking For Excuses

I keep crying. I'll be driving down the road and start crying. Or take a walk and cry. Or surf the internet and cry. Or mop the floor and cry. Watch TV and cry. Organize a cabinet and cry. Pet the cat and cry. Listen to music and cry. Cry, cry, cry.

When I'm not crying I have a constant lump in my throat and I know that with just one wrong move,  I'll start crying all over again.

I hate crying. Mostly because I know that it will bring on a sinus headache from hell the next day that no painkiller can touch. But also because it seems weak. And pathetic. And pointless. It doesn't ever solve anything (and with that headache it seems to only make things worse). It doesn't seem to propel me forward in any way or give me any relief. I end up in a big, sad heap of mush wishing that I could just disappear.

I find myself excusing the tears. That song was sad. That movie was a tearjerker. That floor was really dirty. That cat was really shedding.

I do the same thing with my feelings and emotions too. Always trying to explain them away. Always trying to talk myself out of them. Always berating myself for feeling them. Always telling myself that my period must be coming or that I need to get more sleep or eat better or exercise more or BE STRONGER RACHEL.

Here's the truth though. The truth that I don't want to deal with. The truth that I don't want to be true. The truth that brings me to my knees...

My heart is broken.

It is utterly, miserably, irrevocably broken. Just...broken. Shattered. I am someone who is heartbroken.

And I don't want to be heartbroken. I want to be whole. In one piece. Strong. Above it.

I'm not.

I am heartbroken. For some of the obvious reasons that anyone who knows anything about me, knows about. (The deaths or impending deaths of many loved ones will break your heart - OBVIOUSLY.) But also for reasons that I can't discuss here. Or anywhere. That are locked inside of me and that I am alone with. Not because I want to be, but because that's my only choice. There are some things that cannot be out in the open and the isolation of them makes me feel completely hopeless and adrift.

So, I cry. And try to make excuses for all of the crying - to myself mostly. And I try to take that next breath and that next step, and hope that each time I do it, it will bring me closer to putting one piece of my heart back together at a time. I don't have a lot of confidence though. I don't think it's possible. But I'll keep breathing and walking and trying.

It's the only option there is.