It seems like a while since I've come here. Why? Because these days, I spend the majority of my time grinning like a fool and listening to music that I can't relate to.
Example: last night, I was driving across town with the last of the Arizona sun warming my face, smiling the smile of the hopelessly happy and listening to old R&B on the AM radio. I'm basically a one-woman cliche.
I haven't really wanted to write about it because I'm afraid of jinxing it. I haven't felt good about myself or my life in a while and I don't want to scare away the good fortune. The beginning of the year was rocky for a variety of reasons. My demons came back for me and for the first time in a long time I didn't see a way out. I thought it over plenty of times and was just beginning to accept the fact that I was meant to be unhinged when something happened. I can't quite pinpoint what changed or how I got out of it, but I noticed one day that my head was a little clearer. Yes, the static and depression and overwhelming urge to obsess and control were still there, but the ideas that scared me so badly were now just speaking to me instead of shouting.
A while later, I realized that I wasn't so concerned about how I was going to make it through the day. Before, I had to have a firm plan of what I was going to do during the day, down the hour, because having free time to be alone with my thoughts was too risky. Suddenly, I had the free time that I dreaded so much and, very surprisingly, I wasn't afraid of it. I started to embrace it and it felt familiar. I realized I missed having time to myself.
These days, I can't quite remember what it the first four months of the year felt like. I remember what I was doing and saying and how damaging both tended to be to me, but I can't identify with the feelings anymore. It's like my brain re-arranged itself one night and I woke up feeling new. I went to work and my eyes weren't glazed over. I started caring about myself and things I deemed important. Funny thing is, after I started to realize that I wasn't crazy, things just started to fall into place. I'm two years away from being a college graduate, my relationships with my friends and family have proven to be stronger than I ever expected, I met The Boy and, while I'm still some way from my weight-loss goal, I am absolutely confident that I will make it to where I want to be.
Like I said, I don't know what changed. I still have moments where I don't know if I'm allowed to be this happy. It doesn't feel real a lot of the time, but instead of spending a lot of time questioning or analyzing it, I'm just accepting it. Every single thought that kept me crippled during the beginning of the year is still there; I don't think those will ever go away. But they're quieter now and don't interfere as much. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I've beaten it. I don't need a label, especially that label, to define who I am and what I think about.
This isn't at all what I intended to write about, but I guess it just needed to come out. Funny how that works.
Showing posts with label Essays Nobody Asked Me To Write. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Essays Nobody Asked Me To Write. Show all posts
Monday, July 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
The Kids Are (Probably) Alright
When I was a little girl, I never really thought about kids. I had a few baby dolls, but I never felt the urgency and longing to be a mother like some of my estrogen-laden peers. Honestly, dolls weren’t really my bag; I was too busy being afraid of their lifeless marble eyes to braid their hair. You can just forget it if you think I was going to wrap them up in my favorite blanket and cradle them to my chest. It wasn’t until I saw a real baby that I became fond of them. Well, "fond" might be overgenerous; I was fascinated with them.
I was twelve when my cousin Lisa was born. My family was gathered at my aunt’s house and everyone was passing the baby around more than a half-smoked joint. Tias and tios took turns holding Lisa and brushing off their baby voices. (As an aside, I never understood why people speak to babies in incoherent high-pitched voices. Everyone does it, myself included. What a strange first impression of the world to get. The first word I said may have been “ducky”, but the first words I thought were probably more along the lines of, “I didn’t have to deal with this in the womb.”)
After everyone was satisfied with their turn, my mom asked me if I wanted to hold Lisa. I was petrified. Me? I wasn’t sure if I could handle being responsible for another human life for five minutes, but I agreed because I was so excited that someone trusted me with this responsibility.
I sat on the couch as my mom set up pillows on either side of me before putting one on my lap. Secure in my pillow fort, Baby Lisa was placed on my lap. She squirmed a little before yawning and looking at me. I wrapped my arms on either side of her and stared at her. It was a stare-down; me against baby, baby against me. I should have remembered the way she smelled like powder and formula. I should have commited her big, brown eyes that were complimented by a full head of hair into my memory. I should have spent more time understanding that this tiny human, who wasn’t even a part of the earth a few days ago, was spending part of the first week of her life on my lap. Instead, all I remember was wondering when the hell someone would take this baby off of me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t immediately love Baby Lisa, it was that I was terrified that I would do something to harm her. I was worried she would stand up, salute me and dive out of the pillow fort and onto the beigh carpeting that lined the floors. I was even more scared that I would shift slightly and somehow accidentally roll over her, making an accidental couch-baby burrito. I spent that five minutes with my arms around Lisa and not moving, not even breathing deeply, lest a rabid dog sneak up and snatch her away from me when I wasn't looking.
Ten years later and I still have essentially the same fear: I don’t want to hurt my kids. I’m not concerned about physically harming them (I still have many a pillows to construct a fort), but emotionally harming them. My worst fear when it comes to having children is that I will spend my entire life raising them and they, in turn, will spend their entire life in therapy complaining about me.
“She told me she doesn’t know if God is real,” I can hear my non-existent sixteen-year-old saying. “So I stopped believing in God and started believing in Joe. Our first kid is due next month.”
I like to think my parents did a pretty good job of raising me. I’m in my early twenties and have no major felonies, DUIs, children with uncertain baby daddies, drug abuse history and only a few instances of teenage rebellion and bitchery. I’m a relatively adjusted and compassionate person, regardless of whatever you’ve heard ’round the internets. While I can sing the praises of my parents all day, I can’t say that I understand how they did it. I don’t understand what makes me different from my friends, my cousins or the guests on “The Maury Pauvich Show”. How did my parents manage to raise my brothers and I into three well-adjusted, pretty normal non-felons?
I don’t know. I don’t even think they know. From what I can gather, parenting is a club nobody is prepared for. Sure, you can read the books and talk to the Parenting Club elders, but each circumstance is unique. Nobody has the exact same childhood, although many people have similar experiences. There is common sense that every parent learns first hand, like don’t leave permanent markers and toddlers alone. It only takes one Sharpie mustache on your baby's upper lip before you make a mental note to add that to the “Things To Remember About Parenting” list.
For the most part, however, it seems like parents are just winging it. They make up some rules and their children, out of love or fear for their parents, go with it. When I was younger, my parents’ word was the law. Everything they said was, had to be, true because why would my parents lie to me? When I was a teenager, I realized that my parents can, have and will always lie to me because they want nothing more than to ruin my life. Now, as a young adult, I realize that my parents are just playing a game that didn’t come with a rule book. They have nothing but my best interests at heart, even if I still occasionally think the only joy they get out of parenting is having someone to pass the unwanted chores to. The fact of the matter is, my parents were no more ready for parenthood than any parent. New parents can prepare for a child forever. They can read all the books, go to all the classes and talk to all the other parents, but they will be just as unprepared when that baby comes as if they just woke up one day and thought, “I think I’ll have a baby today.”
As I start to reach the age where my peers are having children or wanting children, I can’t help but have babies on the mind. I wonder if I’d make a good mother. I wonder if I’ll ever find someone I want to have children with. But, most of all, I wonder if I’ll ever feel prepared for motherhood.
M and Garland are currently expecting their first baby, and while I am excited and already filled with love for my unborn nephew, I can’t help but revert back to the same twelve-year-old girl who was terrified to hold Baby Lisa. I start to get the same nervous feeling, but then I stop to think about M and Garland. M, while he may have secretly always wanted to be a father, never publicly expressed a desire to have children. Garland, on the other hand, has stated on numerous occasions that she wants a family. She is the type of woman who sets her mind to something and accomplishes it; no fuss or theatrics, just impenetrable emotional armor and determination. When she said shortly after their wedding that she wanted to have kids, it was only a matter of time before one came along.
During one of our conversations about my nephew, Garland confessed that she was scared. She was excited at the prospect of having a child, but her excitement was mixed in with a healthy shot of fear. My unborn nephew, a defenseless six-month-old fetus, had cracked Garland’s armor. I listened in awe as she explained all the reasons she was nervous about having a child. I had no advice to offer because, well, I don’t know anything about children or raising them. But it suddenly dawned on me that regardless of whether someone is ready to be a parent or not, that’s not going to stop people from having kids. People have been recreating for thousands of years and, unless there is a serious uterus shortage in the near future, will continue to do the same thing for thousands of years to come. Just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean I won’t make a good parent. I'm just going to have to have faith that my parents set up a good enough example that I won’t completely screw up my child.
I have no doubt in my mind that M and Garland will be excellent parents. And, while I may always be nervous and unready to have children of my own, it won’t stop me from being the best tia I can be to my nephew.
In three months when my nephew arrives, I’ll set up my pillow fort once again. Though this time it won’t be completely out of fear, but rather a reminder that I want nothing but comfort and safety for my children, whenever it is I decide to have them.
I was twelve when my cousin Lisa was born. My family was gathered at my aunt’s house and everyone was passing the baby around more than a half-smoked joint. Tias and tios took turns holding Lisa and brushing off their baby voices. (As an aside, I never understood why people speak to babies in incoherent high-pitched voices. Everyone does it, myself included. What a strange first impression of the world to get. The first word I said may have been “ducky”, but the first words I thought were probably more along the lines of, “I didn’t have to deal with this in the womb.”)
After everyone was satisfied with their turn, my mom asked me if I wanted to hold Lisa. I was petrified. Me? I wasn’t sure if I could handle being responsible for another human life for five minutes, but I agreed because I was so excited that someone trusted me with this responsibility.
I sat on the couch as my mom set up pillows on either side of me before putting one on my lap. Secure in my pillow fort, Baby Lisa was placed on my lap. She squirmed a little before yawning and looking at me. I wrapped my arms on either side of her and stared at her. It was a stare-down; me against baby, baby against me. I should have remembered the way she smelled like powder and formula. I should have commited her big, brown eyes that were complimented by a full head of hair into my memory. I should have spent more time understanding that this tiny human, who wasn’t even a part of the earth a few days ago, was spending part of the first week of her life on my lap. Instead, all I remember was wondering when the hell someone would take this baby off of me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t immediately love Baby Lisa, it was that I was terrified that I would do something to harm her. I was worried she would stand up, salute me and dive out of the pillow fort and onto the beigh carpeting that lined the floors. I was even more scared that I would shift slightly and somehow accidentally roll over her, making an accidental couch-baby burrito. I spent that five minutes with my arms around Lisa and not moving, not even breathing deeply, lest a rabid dog sneak up and snatch her away from me when I wasn't looking.
Ten years later and I still have essentially the same fear: I don’t want to hurt my kids. I’m not concerned about physically harming them (I still have many a pillows to construct a fort), but emotionally harming them. My worst fear when it comes to having children is that I will spend my entire life raising them and they, in turn, will spend their entire life in therapy complaining about me.
“She told me she doesn’t know if God is real,” I can hear my non-existent sixteen-year-old saying. “So I stopped believing in God and started believing in Joe. Our first kid is due next month.”
I like to think my parents did a pretty good job of raising me. I’m in my early twenties and have no major felonies, DUIs, children with uncertain baby daddies, drug abuse history and only a few instances of teenage rebellion and bitchery. I’m a relatively adjusted and compassionate person, regardless of whatever you’ve heard ’round the internets. While I can sing the praises of my parents all day, I can’t say that I understand how they did it. I don’t understand what makes me different from my friends, my cousins or the guests on “The Maury Pauvich Show”. How did my parents manage to raise my brothers and I into three well-adjusted, pretty normal non-felons?
I don’t know. I don’t even think they know. From what I can gather, parenting is a club nobody is prepared for. Sure, you can read the books and talk to the Parenting Club elders, but each circumstance is unique. Nobody has the exact same childhood, although many people have similar experiences. There is common sense that every parent learns first hand, like don’t leave permanent markers and toddlers alone. It only takes one Sharpie mustache on your baby's upper lip before you make a mental note to add that to the “Things To Remember About Parenting” list.
For the most part, however, it seems like parents are just winging it. They make up some rules and their children, out of love or fear for their parents, go with it. When I was younger, my parents’ word was the law. Everything they said was, had to be, true because why would my parents lie to me? When I was a teenager, I realized that my parents can, have and will always lie to me because they want nothing more than to ruin my life. Now, as a young adult, I realize that my parents are just playing a game that didn’t come with a rule book. They have nothing but my best interests at heart, even if I still occasionally think the only joy they get out of parenting is having someone to pass the unwanted chores to. The fact of the matter is, my parents were no more ready for parenthood than any parent. New parents can prepare for a child forever. They can read all the books, go to all the classes and talk to all the other parents, but they will be just as unprepared when that baby comes as if they just woke up one day and thought, “I think I’ll have a baby today.”
As I start to reach the age where my peers are having children or wanting children, I can’t help but have babies on the mind. I wonder if I’d make a good mother. I wonder if I’ll ever find someone I want to have children with. But, most of all, I wonder if I’ll ever feel prepared for motherhood.
M and Garland are currently expecting their first baby, and while I am excited and already filled with love for my unborn nephew, I can’t help but revert back to the same twelve-year-old girl who was terrified to hold Baby Lisa. I start to get the same nervous feeling, but then I stop to think about M and Garland. M, while he may have secretly always wanted to be a father, never publicly expressed a desire to have children. Garland, on the other hand, has stated on numerous occasions that she wants a family. She is the type of woman who sets her mind to something and accomplishes it; no fuss or theatrics, just impenetrable emotional armor and determination. When she said shortly after their wedding that she wanted to have kids, it was only a matter of time before one came along.
During one of our conversations about my nephew, Garland confessed that she was scared. She was excited at the prospect of having a child, but her excitement was mixed in with a healthy shot of fear. My unborn nephew, a defenseless six-month-old fetus, had cracked Garland’s armor. I listened in awe as she explained all the reasons she was nervous about having a child. I had no advice to offer because, well, I don’t know anything about children or raising them. But it suddenly dawned on me that regardless of whether someone is ready to be a parent or not, that’s not going to stop people from having kids. People have been recreating for thousands of years and, unless there is a serious uterus shortage in the near future, will continue to do the same thing for thousands of years to come. Just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean I won’t make a good parent. I'm just going to have to have faith that my parents set up a good enough example that I won’t completely screw up my child.
I have no doubt in my mind that M and Garland will be excellent parents. And, while I may always be nervous and unready to have children of my own, it won’t stop me from being the best tia I can be to my nephew.
In three months when my nephew arrives, I’ll set up my pillow fort once again. Though this time it won’t be completely out of fear, but rather a reminder that I want nothing but comfort and safety for my children, whenever it is I decide to have them.
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