The Fundimental Unfairness of Addiction

God, this is awful. Horrible that this exists. Some of the logic I just can't grasp or totally endorse. But so beautifully and painfully written. As the adult child of an alcoholic/substance abuser, I find my empathy strained. I have been hurt. I have been neglected and abused so that my father could use, so that he could serve the unholy twin gods of whiskey and cocaine. I have my challenges in life, but I have never been reduced to helplessness, and for that I am grateful. Truthfully, I want someone to blame.

http://www.theguardian.com/culture/2013/mar/09/russell-brand-life-without-drugs

Some artists have to contend with this unending misery in order to create. And then some get swallowed by it. My own brother went down the rabbit hole of drinking too much and I watched helplessly from a far distance as he went missing and turned up dead on the floor of his own apartment. I had said that he was burning too intensely to carry on for long, and rightly predicted that we would have to contend with putting him in the ground. The circumstances surrounding his death are clouded partially in mystery, but it is well documented by the Navy that he was having a major drinking problem before he died. He was 25.

I want to blame my father, or his father who schooled him in the ways of the bottle and emotional abandonment. I want to rage at the loss of my brother, my college fund, at my hopes for family normalcy. I want to show him how he made me feel worthless. I want to level these things at my dad. But then I look at him, and I see a frail, sickly, and finally sober shell of what my mom says swept her off her feet in hopeless romance. I don't see the man who wrote her drippy romantic, soulful poetry. I don't see the young man who pushed me on the swing as a very small child.  I see someone who, if faced by the full measure of my experience, would crumple like burnt tissue. He's there, burnt already, and holding his shape by sheer force of will. A whisper would scatter him.

Really, that dynamic, romantic artist is gone. Like the angelic boy soprano he was, when he hit puberty he did not mellow into a mature tenor. He cracked and was no more. He couldn't ever after carry a tune any more than he could carry responsibility or joy. He couldn't deal. He was a lead pencil in a broadband world. His capacity was reduced to nil.

I hear from him every few months now. I see that he is trying to be somewhat present in my life. He calls after months of forgotten or failed attempts to remember I am a part of his family. I hear his remorse. If I wanted to reconcile with my father, he is still here on this planet. I see his desire for my forgiveness. I blankly and without much feeling absolve him, my hands in a nonmagic gesture of benediction. I tell him I need nothing from him, not so much because it is true, but because I know I will never truly get what I need, not from him anyway. I am letting him off the hook. I have given what I can to him. I have thrown years of love down a dark hole to him, but he never took my lifeline. He only memorably told me that he wished I was born male so he could punch me in the face. No amount of telling me feebly that he loves me now will erase that. That takes bigger, more fearless and transcendent love that he just cannot produce or hold in his heart. I am left to work on it within myself. Despite being told I am worthless, I have to believe in my worth, love myself, and somehow forgive a man who probably was too wasted to remember saying that to me and shattering me into fragments.

Maybe only other addicts can really understand him, really help him. I am from the other world, with all my judgements and moral superiority for having never fallen prey to the bottle or the freshly chopped line. The hole in me mirrors the hole in him. I fill it with minor peccadilloes, perhaps. I am no saint. But somehow my need to consume Chex Mix doesn't seem to interfere with my ability to love others, although perhaps parts of myself. I am sometimes driven by the desire to be perfect, even though that conceit is the worst form of self-loathing.

But, lacking perfection, how am I to offer myself to the world? How do I consider myself worthy of the love I want in my life? I can bake a killer cake, save the life of a sick person, and even comfort the dying. But what if people knew that I couldn't save my brother? I couldn't heal my father? I couldn't be enough to stop the gnawing monster of addiction from greedily devouring the people I cared most about? Does it matter how kind or good I am? I will bet it does, to people with the capacity. But some people lack that. You can call down to them forever, and ultimately have to rise up from the chasm's edge and step back, lest you fall in yourself.

I am not an addict. I know I can go to Al-Anon for support if I wanted to. I just don't want my father's failings to define me.

I am trying to resonate with kindness and compassion in my life. This lesson is a hard one. It is going to take a lot more work. But I am alive today. I am aware today. I am grateful for that. The frustrated tears I shed over this are just part of the landscape. I don't have to be perfect. I just have to be trying to be good. That is enough. That is a lot more than others may have. Just by virtue of looking at this and attempting to unravel the Gordian Knot , I am better than I was on days when I merely felt sorry for myself. One day I will claim my destiny and cut the knot with one stroke and be done with it. Alexandrian solutions are not lost on me. In the meantime I hope I can at least see it for what it is: a yoke bound to an ox-cart. Just a symbol of what could be. Can I combine my conqueror's heart with the will toward compassion? I can try.

Okay, Now What?

So I have passed the NCLEX exam and can check the whole "get a career" thing off my to-do list (again-I did this when I became a chef, too). It is a huge relief to have Nursing School behind me and a freshly minted RN license in my pocket. I'm in my new job and loving it even though I am "the new guy" and still grinding gears and finding my way around. My patients like me and the doctors are receptive to my input. I even heard an attending physician tell a resident that I know my stuff. (Oh my gosh that felt good!)

I'm also on the precipice of building my family in a more permanent way. Still holding my breath for the legal hurdles we face over Little J next month. We have reasons to be optimistic about that, although until he is finally adopted I will not be able to exhale. Too many weird things happen in the courts for me to be able to predict the outcome with anything like confidence.

After years of excruciating work and no small measure of heartbreak, all of the above came to fruition at the same time. We moved into our wonderful new house, I graduated, we got a kid the next day, and I passed the boards last week. Life has been pretty lively. I'm just now starting to enjoy the rewards of all this rapid-fire change.

As any good Warrior Goddess would, I thrive when I am conquering. Resting on my laurels has never been my thing. I like to look ahead and dream big and overcome the trials to get the prize. I'm trying to open my mind to what comes next. I am taking a year off of school so I can explore my new job and decide what path to take to advance in my career. At some point I will have to decide if Little J will remain an only child or if I dare tempt fate to ask for a daughter again. Big stuff.


Here's some possible school options:

1. Bridge to my BSN degree: This will most certainly happen, I just need to work out how soon to tackle that odious set of prerequisites. I need to take Statistics and some Chemistry. Ugh. 
2. Become a Nurse Practitioner? Maybe. If I really like clinical practice and find floor nursing limiting, this would be a good option.
3. Masters/PhD in Medical Anthropology: I LOVE this idea, but sadly UNR's Anthropology program is one I have ruled out as an option for a number of reasons. If I go with this option, we would have to move out of state. Not that I can't handle an adventure, it is just a really big move/investment. Tony would need to agree, and I just don't think he is ready for me to be heavy into school again like that. Nursing School was tough enough on our relationship.

Here's some possible family options:

1. Adopt privately: Avoid the rigors of Washoe County altogether and find an agency I can stand to work with. Adopt a domestic infant or go abroad. Costly, but less uncertainty (only a little less) once a match is made.
2. Continue to foster: Could we get lucky again or will we get our hearts broken? Big, huge gamble. Very low legal costs once an adoption can happen. Big time commitment. 
3. Keep J as an only child: I dunno. I don't feel like the family is quite "done". Most parents can relate to that. You know when you are done adding members to the family, and I'm not there yet.
4. Get another dog: We got Ember at a time when I was dying for a baby and it just wasn't happening. It helped me by giving me something small and helpless to nurture. Still, having only one dog now is less chaotic.

Misc. Goals:

1. I need to do things to enhance my health and physical energy. In other words, get a grip on my stress-eating and get my butt off the sofa. Lots of options and classes, but have been waiting for my schedule to shake out.
2. I need to get back in the groove of making art. That is: writing and also trying out other forms I have always wanted to improve in. I can't decide if blogging counts.
3. Getting my spiritual house in order so that I can do ANY of the above with a little more hope and faith, rather than stressing out all the time.
4. Take a vacation to Europe. This is way overdue.

Dream: The Priest and I Don't Agree

I dreamed last night that I went back to Ohio for a visit and was over at my father's house to see my sister. For some reason, their parish priest was there for a visit, in full high-ceremonial finery, no less.

He and my stepmom were talking about the Mel Gibson epic "The Passion of the Christ", and how he thinks that everyone should see it to gain an appreciation for the Christian faith.

I am my outspoken self even in my dreams, so naturally I said I had avoided that movie because it was just too violent for my liking. I don't need to watch a religious snuff film. My nightmares are fueled with enough images for several lifetimes already.

Sigh. This was not a popular viewpoint. The priest started in on me about it, and the fact that he felt my spirituality was flawed because I lacked a proper fear of God. We argued back and forth so much that I didn't even get to visit with my family and left in disgust.

An interesting observation that I had about this dream when I woke up is that my family, rather than coming to my aid, mostly just rolled their eyes at me and apologized to the priest for how I was offending him.

It is true that I am distant with my dad's side of the family. My father and I have had periods of estrangement to the point that my siblings (all much younger than me) barely know me. I am an utter stranger to my youngest sister Molly, which was never my intention. It just got too hard to bridge the distance of 2300 miles and the emotional gulf that still lies like an open wound from where my brother Ryan used to be. Without him to bridge the generation gap as it were, I feel totally old and separate and different from the rest of my brothers and sisters.

Of course, I am different in that I have a different mother than they do. And I live far away. And I am a whole generation older. And I am different from most other people in a lot of weird little ways, or so I am told. I feel vastly misunderstood sometimes. Luckily for me I have people in my life who at least mostly get me as a person. But the fact remains that it has always been a regret of mine that I couldn't rise above the hard times I was having with my father to be there for my siblings more.

When Ryan was alive, he did that. He looked out for them. I am a poor substitute for him in that regard. I'm trying, little by little, to let them know now that I am in their corner, that I have always loved them, that I am, unlike Ryan, still within reach. In still, small movements, I am just trying to be there.

I may have imperfect faith, but I do have perfect love, if not fully expressed yet. It is still a big gap, but when wounds heal, the edges get closer together. Healing is my business, so I guess Ryan would want me to do the work.For him I really will.

Poetry-Talk to Me

Deep thinker, contemplate me.
Wonder what my opinion is
Ask my existential input
Help me sharpen the finer points.

Don't instruct me, lead me
Down ancient paths, into unlit caves
Spread light and find, perfectly preserved
Wordless art in the womb of the world.

Take my hand even as it grows,
Filling your palm but still willing to be held.
Beckon me to behold in watercolor hue
The Impressionism of your heart.

Ask me why the dogma chafes
And why I shrug off my small town church.
Keep welcoming me to the conversation
Even if I never change my mind.

Over tea and Mozart bend
In tete a tete in foreign tongues.
Buttered batard and charcuterie
Precious currant jam now lost in time.

Wisdom passed hand to hand
And whisper kisses on my fevered brow.
I need it now, as ever and as strong
As when I was bundled in old country wool.

Eternity is now, time swirls and slides.
Folding like croissant dough and hearth-warmed.
Is there some talisman to open my ear
So I hear beyond my faulty filter?

Even if I don't understand.
Even if I cry out in pain.
I yearn to hear you murmur softly.
Talk to me, just talk to me.

Stacie Ferrante
10-30-09

Confidentiality

I hate having secrets.

I mean, I don't mind keeping other people's confidences, but I hate having things about myself that I can't share with the world. Not things I am ashamed of, but things I can't say because I am prohibited by laws governing confidentiality.

There are so many things I wish I could say about my experience as a foster parent. About the frustrations of dealing with an overtaxed system that can only give partial justice to anyone. The truth is that everyone gets hurt in some way when a child gets taken into foster care. But the worst part of it for me is the various gag orders that seem to prevent me from working for reform. Honestly, I wouldn't know where to begin.

I can't discuss the particulars of the case I am involved in, or talk about the experiences of other children in foster care that I know. I can't address the endless court delays that stand in the way between children in limbo and some kind of permanence.

It is a very helpless feeling to watch the machinations of the lawyers, the judges, and the various interested parties struggle over their disparate needs with regard to a child who is too small to voice her own opinion in a legally meaningful way.

As for my own needs, they have no place in this process. That I continue to be permanently altered by this experience seems moot. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could spray paint on a giant wall for all to see how many fears this stirs in me. How much pain I quietly swallow so that I can show a calm face to a little girl who just needs to focus on preschool and her continued resistance to eating vegetables.

Some days it is easier than others. But there are days when I want to scream. I want to scream at all the people involved with this. This isn't my fault. I didn't create this situation. I just agreed to help, to shelter a child who needed a home while her life gets sort of sorted out for her. That I have fallen in love with her and she with me isn't anyone's fault either. That I would do anything in this world to protect her would be natural in any other circumstance. But my maternal instincts do not dictate public policy and they never will.

I wish I could tell you all of it. But it is probably a good thing that I can't. This post is depressing enough. I want to lighten it. I want to give you a Hollywood happy ending so badly, but I can't. And this is just ONE child out of the hundreds in foster care in my county alone. I want to make it okay for you to be involved in my story, because then maybe I can make it okay for the amazing and beautiful little girl this affects. I want it to be okay for me, too.

Look Around and Enjoy the Scenery

My grandfather used to tell me "There is nothing wrong with reading a book, Stace, but take a break every once in a while and look as far to the horizon as you can. It is good for your eyes."

Of course, he always made sure we traveled a lot, so those horizons were always changing. The picture above is of him looking at a horizon in Wyoming near Grand Teton National Park. I miss him so much. He had such wisdom in him, and was so kind.

I'm looking at new horizons lately, albeit metaphoric ones. I am looking out at my future. I have only been in the nursing program for a few weeks and already I am seeing a change of scenery. I am not sure what changes the next few years will bring, but I am trying to savor the journey as much as I anticipate the destination.

Growth usually hurts, and I am certainly having to apply discipline to myself to do all the things I need to do. I am certainly growing right now, and I feel my horizons expanding. I am opening myself to all kinds of new possibilities, both professionally and personally. I am having to do a lot of exercise to process the feelings of apprehension, stress, and annoyance that come up. Putting one foot in front of the other seems to be the thing that helps the most whenever I get pissed and need to work it out. A long walk usually facilitates a long think.

Change is chaotic, though. Learning to ride along with it and enjoy the view takes a lot of trust. As I mentioned yesterday, trust isn't my strong suit, but I am learning. Maybe I should start with myself. I have brought myself this far, for good or ill. I need to trust that things are going to work out.

I feel a lot of doors opening right now. It may be that some of them will close over time as I make my choices about what is important to me. One thing is for sure, the scenery will be beautiful along the way if I care to take a good long look every once in a while.

Ok, Now GO!!

Ok, so since nothing can ever be simple, I have an onslaught of in-laws coming to town tomorrow. They will be here until Tuesday or so. If you can believe it, my classes start Monday, and I am somehow already behind with reading assignments that are already due the first 2 days of class. And I must work on Thursday and Friday! Ack!

BREATHE, STACIE!

I am actually not too stressed, yet. I just keep telling myself that the first few weeks are going to be an adjustment, but that I have a plan. That plan involves being kind to myself, doing healthy things like eating well and exercising, and getting some rest.

It is going to be okay. Yes, it is a rigorous course of study. I am just going to do it in the most centered way that I can, and when I get harried I will remember all the wonderful people that are pulling for me and that want to see me succeed.

And Tony just told me that he is getting me a new laptop this weekend! Yay! How timely. And my campus is wireless-enabled, so I should be better able to keep up with things. Good, good stuff. Amazing what a difference stuff like that makes.

I just got back from bellydance class. In keeping with my plan to be kind to myself, I am not going to go into a diatribe about how hard it is to look at my body being this out of shape. I am going to the gym and this dance class, so the fact that I am working on it will have to be good enough for now. But oh! *slaps own hand* Ok, enough whining!

I am just going to stay in the space where I am grateful. That does seem to help.

• I have a generous scholarship that is going to take care of the money so I can concentrate on my studies. Other students are not so lucky.
• I have a loving family.
• I have wonderful friends that inspire me to be the best person I can be.
• I have the tools and the skills and the brains to do this.
• I can be confident and trust that this will work out and I can thrive where others may falter.
  
• I am strong and have the spiritual backbone to weather the challenges.

Just keep breathing with me and sending me love.

Nesting

Check out my cosmic egg, people.

Things are going to change, big time. After an extremely long quasi-gestation, I have this: an egg. Rather than a live birth of my new world, it is going to come in stages. I'm looking at the next few years as a time to nest and keep this egg warm until it hatches.

The original cosmic egg was thought to contain many varied things. Multiple cultures have used this symbol in their beginning-of-the-world mythos. Some eggs contain sea serpents, gods and goddesses, and light. In some cases, the bottom half of the shell became the earth, and the top the heavens or the sky.

Mine contains a Nursing degree and a new career where I will make more cash and use my brain in new and interesting ways. As a bonus, all the things I am about to learn will doubtless be incorporated into whatever art I will make along the way or after I am done. It might be safe to say that I will be a largely new person once this is complete.

In honor of this change, I am putting a plan together to enhance my health and well-being. My life is going to be pretty structured, and it is going to take some pretty strict time management. I am building exercise and healthy eating into my schedule, as well as what little free time I have for family and friends, and maybe the occasional bit of contemplative solitude. I am going to take care of myself to the best of my ability. While I may be up for the occasional cocktail, more than likely I will be in hermetic aceticism, at least until my summer break in May. Better still to bring me coffee. I am going to need it.

I will likely still blog as a way to let people know what is going on with me, and you will still be able to e-mail me, etc. Please drop me a line from time to time to remind me that I am doing this for very sound reasons. Remind me about my cosmic egg if I get discouraged or overwhelmed. There are bound to be some unexpected things in that egg along with what I anticipate. I'm looking forward to seeing what they are.

Reality: Overrated?

I like fiction more than real life most of the time.

I like getting so into fiction that I can just live there. I like reading it, and I love writing it. Now, that isn't to say that I like LYING, because I think that there are some incredibly true things in fiction. Things are condensed to their essence and, to a degree, simpler.

Maybe fiction is the wrong word. Imagination may be a better expression of the concept I am kicking around, here. I have been thinking about my erstwhile romances and other relationships of old lately with fresh perspective. Some of the people I dismissed out of hand seem more interesting now, whereas people I was over the moon for leave me scratching my head. Why did I cry so hard when that guy cut me loose? Why didn't I take that one seriously or realize that they actually really liked me? It is odd. Makes me feel a little lame.

Of course, I married Tony, who I both did and didn't take seriously in turns over the years. I suppose that makes sense. I always wanted to take him seriously but for some reason I resisted doing so for a long time. In retrospect that was probably a good thing because it forced us to develop a strong friendship that was based on actually liking each other's company.

Although I suppose I earned my "Fickle Fairy" nickname. I was a bit flighty, and ran from committment much of the time. Incidentally, the guy that nicknamed me that broke up with me before I even realized we were dating. I was like "Wait? What do you mean it is over? We were dating? I thought we were just hanging out."

Clearly, my perception of what is going on around me is skewed. I already know that I just don't seem to react to the world in the same way that others do. I have to chalk that up to my imagination running away with me, rather than a lack of observation skills. I fill in the blanks with whatever embroidered bit of poetry suits me. Thus my relationships with people take on a mythic quality, based on who they are as people and the ideals and qualities I attach to them, usually to their benefit.

I wonder if that is hard for people to live up to. If I make an epic hero out of you in my mind, how easy is it to let me down? If I paint you a villain, how do I ever forgive your actual transgressions?

In literature that seems to work out okay, but in real life it is a bit messier. Maybe it is good for the egos of my friends that I hold them in such high esteem. I seem to forget that they are people, though. They are larger than life to me. I love them, though, whether that is based in reality or not. The love is real.

In my mind, most people are like characters. If a person is of particular significance to me, they inhabit an almost physical space inside me. I lovingly flesh them out in my imagination. If it is someone new, I am insatiably curious about them, adding each new thing I learn about them to my mental picture.

I try to be accurate, but I have been known to either soft-focus people or be utterly wrong about them. I have to say it is pretty jarring to have the real person turn out crueler, or weaker, or less brave than I expect they will be. I want to think the best of people, and hope they see the good in the way I see them.

The opposite is also true. The villains of my life are equally built up, resting on the foundations of what are basically just flawed or twisted people. But I guess it is easier to see them as their acts of wrongdoing than to have empathy for what made them the way they are. I can slay a dragon, but real, nuanced people are another matter. I might have to forgive them to a degree, and sometimes I am reluctant to do that.

So, if you are in my life and I apparently like you, then you shine radiantly to me. You have a halo-like glow that sets you above mere mortals. You matter more. You get to reside in my artisic and imaginative heart. I hope you like it there. I try to make it just a little better than the real world.

One Syllable is all Ye Get

In a lot of ways I always thought I was more like my grandmother than other members of the family, but lately I have noticed some of my grandfather's mannerisms creeping into my personality. Or at least I am being made aware of the ways in which I am similar to him.

Gramps was very emotionally reserved. He never said "I love you" to anyone that I saw. But the love was there, for sure. The above photo is the two of us when I was around 2-3 years old. He taught me to appreciate nature from an early age. He loved trees, especially, and seemed genuinely delighted whenever I brought him an acorn. We planted quite a few that later became beautiful oaks that now tower over that little brick house.

I never doubted that he loved me, even though he never said it, not even when he was dying. He did little things for me all the time that let me know he was thinking of me. He brought me British toffees and hand knit wool sweaters. On my last visit when he was still up and around, I had gone across town to see my father, and when I got back to the house he had already gone to bed, but he had left me a little note in the kitchen. It said "Have a good night", and sitting on top of the paper was the biggest, most perfectly shaped and succulent nectarine I had ever seen in my life. I just knew in that moment that he had taken time to select the very best one, looking each over to see which had no bruises and just the right blush. I felt a flush of love for him, and nectarine in hand, went to his room, not to wake him but just to look at him. He was snoring peacefully. I padded back to the kitchen in bare feet and bit into the fruit. Standing over the sink was a good idea, as the juice ran down my chin onto my hand and down to my elbow. Perfect. He didn't need to say the words, I could taste it.

He was kinda funny though about people's names. No matter how long your name was, it had to have a "for short". One syllable was all you got. I was obviously "Stace". In fact, so many people call me "Stace" that I don't even notice. You were lucky if you had a one syllable name to begin with, although almost none of us did. He shortened names that didn't easily shorten. Eileen was "Leen". I do that to people all the time, shortening their name to one syllable, said with affection.

I have started to do things like that, or maybe I always did and just now notice it. I do tell people that I love them, and that is a big difference. But I find that for me, saying it seems so inadequate. The words "I love you" seem to not be able to hold how I feel. I need to do things, too.

I wonder if people get it when I take a picture of a goose paddling lazily in the river and send it to them, or bake them cookies, or grasp them in an extra long hug or call just to say hello. They seem like such small things, but I don't do that for everyone, just the people I care deeply about.

I am a very poor judge of whether my love sinks under the skin of other people. Maybe I am not so adept at feeling it when they love me back, either, since I seem to need reassurance of it often. The juice of it really needs to run down my chin for me to get it, I guess.

Always missing someone

It is no coincidence that my ultimate vision of heaven is a long, sumptuously set dinner table with all of my loved ones sitting around it. Everyone eats, drinks wine, talks, sings, and generally frolics in an unending banquet of lovely conversation and amusements. Paradise.

Because that will totally never happen in real life.

I have moved around, my friends and family have scattered to to point where we are literally spread all over the world. Not even a school reunion would get everyone in one place. I had one very bitter person tell me, upon leaving my acquaintance, that she thought there was some flaw in my character that made my friends move as far from me as possible. That was totally mean of her to say, and I know I am not the center of the universe so that isn't even possible.

I'm actually really proud of the varied journeys of my far flung friends and family. They are people going places. I get around a little myself. But unless I come into enormous wealth, I can't get to New Zealand, China, Alliance, New York, Boston, Seattle, Los Angeles, San Diego, San Francisco, San Jose, and Boulder this year. I have people I love in all those places, and those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head.

Everywhere I go, I always miss someone. I just want to pull the strings and gather everyone a little closer today. I'm really blessed with a lot of love in my life, it just seems as far away as it really is today. Then again, I don't even spend enough time with my friends and family that are actually in town. Go figure.

Some true things about my brother

My brother Ryan is going to have another birthday next week. My brother Ryan is gregarious, funny, charming and (perhaps except for the cab-door ears) pretty good looking. It is also an incontrovertible fact that my brother Ryan is, sadly, dead.

I love my brother. I'm living in a world that is just wrong, wrong, wrong without him. He was ferocious in a way that I could understand. He was an angry dude with the muscle to back up that short temper. It got him in a lot of trouble. But he was blood. He was bone marrow. He was strong in ways that made his weakness all the more tragic.

He could hold a grudge because he was so sensitive inside. And a lot of people let him down. People who should have done better by him. People like me. Oh, sure, the parental units have their crosses to bear. The Navy could have taken better care of the thing they were shaping as a weapon. His friends could have tried to talk to him about his drinking problem.

But I might be the worst of all, because he has been gone a while now and I just can't forgive him for leaving me. I'm selfish. I want him. I want him to talk me into getting a tattoo. I want him to sit me down on the back porch and pour me a shot of bourbon and give me endless shit until I swallow it, feeling it burn all the way down while he laughs at my watery eyes. I want him to meet his niece and lift her up in the air until she giggles so hard she almost pukes. I want him to track down that asshole that date raped me and the criminal that did that horrible thing to our sister and make them suffer pain. I want him to show me that practiced Billy Idol-style sneer until he breaks into that big, raucous laugh. I want him to be ten again, when he would really still allow me to wrap my arms around him and pepper his face with kisses.

I want to hear him say he still loves me, because I really need that right now. He's seen the worst of me and loved me in the face of all of my fury and mental collapse. When my father unceremoniously dumped my ass out, he found ways to come and see me, even though he was only eight. He was the only one that could get me to come out when I was so broken inside I would just hide behind furniture and scream if anyone tried to come close. He would crawl under the desk with me and curl his body against mine until I stopped shaking and agreed to go buy him an ice cream cone. He paid sometimes. He always had more money than me.

And he does say he loves me, but he's a ghost. Or I'm making it up because I want to hear his voice so badly that I will allow myself any amount of self-delusion to have him close to me. There isn't anything funny he can say or do to lighten me up anymore. I'm too serious without him. Too self indulgent, too vain, and too fucking sad.

I miss him. I miss him like I pulled my heart out of my chest and left it in the desert wind to dry out rather than have to feel the throbbing pain of his absence every time it would beat.

I promised him I would love him always, no matter what. I always keep my promises. I'm still kicking his ass next time I see him, but after I'm done blacking his eye, the chocolate double scoop is on me.

How am I doing?

Most of my friends and some of my family know I have a blog. Some of them read it. All of them tell me how I should keep in touch more often. Even the ones who read it regularly never comment on the blog, or they mention it in passing when they finally pin me down on the phone.

Mostly people call me and say: "I never hear from you, but I hear from your mom (or your other friend or your husband) that you have a lot going on. How ARE you?"

Maybe people just don't find my writing very entertaining, or what I share here seems withholding in some way. It is true that the minutiae of my life is not chronicled here. But how I am doing overall seems pretty well covered if you are paying attention.

I'm contemplating my life and my art and my identity and my worth. That's how I am. I'm thinking about how the world in my head sometimes gets mangled when I try to lay my hands on it and bring it to fruition. I'm wondering if I get points for good intention when I try to be of comfort to others and end up being inadequate. I'm wondering how I can be getting a bunch of things I have worked hard for and still find ways to feel like I am not enough for the world.

I'm thinking about the nature of motherhood and wife-dom and womanhood and lover-ness and artistry. I am pressuring myself to fit all of that into the crucible that is my limited 24-hour day.

Is the real question "Are you cracking under the pressure?" because a lot of people tell me that they could never juggle the number of plates I have spinning on a daily basis. I have been known to hold down multiple jobs and freelance writing gigs and still feed my family and write notes for whatever creative writing projects in the margins. I have had two pieces of paper on my desk: one with a diagram of the nucleotide bases in a genome that codes for a specific amino acid or some such and another with a heartrending and almost too personal to share bit of poetry about how much I still long for my dead grandmother's hands on my fevered brow. Ambidextrous me, I drink coffee lefty so I can write righty. Little A imitates me by putting her play cell phone to one ear, while juggling a book, a teddy bear and a sippy cup. She mutters, "Yeah, me too." into the phone.

So, am I cracking? You mean more than usual? Aren't we all?

Lost weekend in San Francisco

I know I said I was going to write about this earlier in the week, but a profound bout of the flu has taken the smart ass right out of me. Since I really seem to like the list format, here are my impressions of the San Francisco Writers' Conference that I attended last weekend and my quasi-adventures in the City.

1. I want to give San Francisco the best oral of its life. Always good to start with a bang, eh? What can I say? I wouldn't go to a writers' conference if it was in Topeka or Columbus. When I got into my hotel (the Mark Hopkins, yay!) the first thing I did was shuck off my luggage and walk down to get a latte. There is just something about the San Francisco mojo. I was gripped by the strong urge to fall to the ground and kiss the sidewalk. Although I honor the other places I have lived in my life as needed steps in my journey, San Francisco will always be my special favorite, and the only city where I really feel in my element. I spent as much time as I could eschewing cab rides in favor of treacherously steep walks, even while sweating with fever. There is just something in the foggy air there that makes me pregnant with libidinous creativity. I just wanted to make out with strangers. Not that I would do it, but I had the big love for my fellow man.

2. I need better luggage. Staying in a REALLY nice hotel will really make you notice how banged up your luggage has become. I would never have noticed that my bag isn't all that great by taking it to my mother's house. Tucked on the luggage stand in the closet of my hotel room, it stood out. I'm not at all label conscious, but now I salivate over fantastic suitcases as if they were traveler porn.

3. 40 poems in 40 days. Since I didn't have a manuscript that was in any shape to pitch to agents, I took classes that focused more on craft. That is where the 40 days of poetry came from. I'm trying to pry open my creative psyche after slamming it shut in the fall. It is going okay so far. It is interesting to see the kind of poetry I write when I am not in the mood. I wrote one about Britney Spears on the first day. *shudder*

4. I'm still not the "cool" kid. I still don't have a clue how to pick a table when I go to lunch with hundreds of other people. It felt really awkward in a way that didn't really get better when I added alcohol. Add to that the Mercury Retrograde (more below), and I was really below par on my communication skills. I did meet some amazing writers. I really hope I will get to read their books one day. I also met some people even more misanthropic than myself.

5. Mercury Retrogrades suck ass. If my newspaper horoscope says I'm likely to get hit by a falling piano, I wouldn't let that stop me from leaving the house. But I believe in Mercury Retrogrades. The idea is that Mercury is the planet that rules communication, so when it retrogrades, wires invariably get crossed if not outright short-circuited. I have never had so many social plans go up in smoke. As a result, I had some good phone conversations, but trying to see my friends face-to-face was just impossible.

6. I wasn't my usual gregarious self due to the flu. There were long stretches where I didn't want to talk to anyone, so I sat in the back of my classes and sucked cough drops. I felt all funny and self-conscious, and to be honest, rather sorry for myself. Then I was feeling self-conscious about my "rejected writer" thing, because I worried that other people would worry that it was catching. Putting it mildly, I was better off sweating it out in my lavish marble bathtub than reading at the open mics. I read anyway, and got nice (and useful) feedback. At least I think it was nice, I was coughing too hard to hear most of it.

7. I got a new idea. In order to write this next idea, I need to compile some expertise or understanding of the works of Dante (the Divine Comedy) and firefighters. I think firefighters might be hard to write well about, since portrayals of them in movies tend to lack depth. But it occurred to me on the drive home that my protagonist (a man this time!) needs to have that for a job. I also need to watch the Showtime series "Dead Like Me" and a few pre-biblical references to make sure I'm not re-treading someone else's idea.

8. I got a new book. Writing the Breakout Novel by Don Maass. I heard this guy speak and had to run downstairs to buy his book on the spot. I was not alone in doing so. I also bought the companion workbook. I really feel that I need to work on the craft of writing in a more disciplined way. I want to dig deeper and get better at this. This guy's talk was what triggered my new idea. I may work on the other things I have on the back burner, but I want to see what I can do starting from scratch with a new perspective. I almost feel like I need to start with short stories before I work up to novel level again.

9. Dim Sum rules. Can't get it in Reno. I walked into Chinatown and found the place with zero white people in it and ordered up some bliss in dumpling form. The patrons and staff were all looking at me like I'd lost my way. My server asked me if I wanted a fork, and even though I said no thanks, she brought me one anyway. I refused to use it. Everyone was starting without trying to look like it to see if I would pick the fork up. No dice. It might have been the only fork the restaurant had, like in a glass case in the back on the wall. The sign next to it saying "In case of Caucasian, break glass."

10. I saw my old lover's apartment.
By some strange twist of fate, my mother is renting an apartment (for a short term) in the apartment complex where Iceberg lived when I was dating him, about 14 years ago. It gave me strange flashbacks. Not long ago I could have called him and had a laugh about it, but we have had a falling out. Therefore the memory infusion was as annoying as having a splinter under your fingernail.

Define Success

What the heck is success, anyway? If I look at my life from one angle, I feel like I am doing great. Tip things to the side a little and I topple off the mountain and find myself wallowing at the nadir of the achievement scale.

If you look at the American Dream, it is all about getting enough money to say "fuck you" to your boss or your ex or whomever you would like to bid permanent goodbye to, so long as you are so rich that they regret ever holding your down.

An alternate to the pile of cash is the smokin' hot ass. If you get the big makeover so that your old lovers all kick themselves for dumping you, then you have got something pretty special.

I'm not rich, but things are a little better than they were. I'm not hot and young and skinny, but I am not without my charms in the looks department. I do have some good things. Since I did a whole post on what I need, why not do one on the things I have?

1. Friends. I have lost a few, or had to redefine a few in the last couple of years. But I have very good friends whom I adore. I am wealthy in the friends arena.

2. Family. I have a big family that is really supportive and interested in my new little girl. Not everyone in my family is easy to get along with, but I run with a pretty fierce pack. They taught me how to roar.

3. Husband. We are nearing our 13th anniversary. Tony is still my best friend, and he is one hell of a good dad. We have a funny little romance after all these years.

4. Job. Oh man, do I ever bitch about my job. But the honest truth is that I have been there a while and I have a lot of vacation time on the books, even after taking almost a month off when A moved in.

5. A little girl to love. A rocks my socks. I adore her completely. We have our challenges, but she's a tough little kid. I want good things for her, and I may be uniquely suited to teach her to survive what's ahead.

6. A brain. I might not be the smartest person I know, but I do pretty well. I need to keep going with school, because getting good grades helps my self-image.

7. Strength. I persevere. That's my thing. Even if some things make me panic at first, I can usually suck it up and press on. How British of me.

8. Artistic. I'm a little wobbly on this one right now. But writing helps me be who I am.

Considering where I came from and some of the things I have been through in my life, these are some pretty damn good things. I'm trying to define my success by my functionality as much as anything else. That I am not a raving lunatic drooling into my strait-jacket is going to have to be good enough some days. There are other ways, mentioned above, that I would like to succeed. I'd love to be bikini-ready and lolling about on a pile of Benjamins. Wouldn't anyone? I might have to settle for, you know, mostly sane.

Comparing myself to other people will just bring me down. I'm lucky my friends are motivated and talented and brilliant, because it keeps me striving. But as much as I would like to have the body of one and the brains of another, I'm not a franken-girl. I am me, exactly the way I am supposed to be. Some days that is pretty good stuff.

NEWS FLASH!

Note: for those of you who worry that things I say on this blog will affect our legal standing with regard to parenting "A", please notice that I am giving very few details and certainly nothing inflammatory.

Yesterday we went to our first hearing at the district court, a 12-month permanency hearing to decide the course of "A"'s case plan. I will not really go into the details here, since all sides are now considerably lawyered-up. The overarching outcome is that her case plan is no longer geared for reunification with her parents of origin, but is focused on the TPR, or "termination of parental rights" for said parents. It is my impression that both parents, who each have their own attorney, intend to fight this couse to the fullest extent of their ability.

There are a lot of balls in the air right now, and a lot of unknowns that could still alter the course of her case.

The case worker did get up and told the judge some very complimentary things about us and our efforts to meet A's needs. He noted that she is much loved by us and that we are committed to adopt her should she become legally free. The judge asked us if we had anything to add, so Tony and I both got to get up and express how much we are bonding with A and love having her in our family. We also noted that while in our care we have seen her progress and flourish, and that we are committed to her, no matter what the outcome.

Our heretofore twice-weekly visits with A's father are now dropped down to a more manageable once per month. A had a visit with her father about an hour after the court decision, and he was understandably distraught, although he had not been present at the hearing. Thankfully, A seemed oblivious to his emotional distress, and enjoyed her brief time with him before the visit was cut short at his request.

The next hearing will be in six months. It is expected that a certain amount of legal activity will occur during that time. We are just focusing on being good parents to A and helping her through this turbulent time.

If you choose to comment on this post, please be cognizant that this is still a sensitive legal issue, and that regardless of their shortcomings, these people are A's family. It is sad that she has to come to us under these circumstances, but we are confident that she will continue to be a part of our family as well. She is a wonderful little girl, and deserves all the love in the world.