My mom would say, I think, that I have the post-holiday letdown. I saw the earliest symptoms of it in my older son on Christmas morning: all the gifts were opened and he was happy, even grateful, but feeling a little down at the same time. In his case, he started getting jealous of some attention the younger brother was getting from their dad.
Likewise, I have had a good Christmas in so many ways. Both of the boys had parts in the church tableau. My ex-husband and I have been getting along, and he was here on Christmas day to open gifts with the kids and have breakfast. That made a big difference to the boys, especially the younger one. Later I dropped him off at his place and took the kids to my mom's for a relatively small family gathering of twelve for dinner (the full family gathering, more like 26 people, didn't happen until Sunday). Great visiting with my brothers and sisters, especially my brother and sister-in-law in from Michigan, and my nephew Luke down from New York City.
Gifts also were great. I have a secondhand laptop on which to really take the writing somewhere. Assorted journals and music, a beautiful set of a necklace and earring from my boys, a CD... I was not raised with the idea that the holiday is about big gifts, or gifts that somehow make life worthwhile, and I am easily pleased with fun things that I like.
So, why do I feel so crushingly alone and without direction? I know it's a feeling and that things are not likely to be so bleak in reality but wow, I'm feeling low. I always think that if I understand it, it will be easier to get past it. The jury's still out on the accuracy of that belief. Apart from winding down from the drive to provide a magical Christmas for the children, there was a tremendous amount of energy expended in the past 14 months to separate and divorce and even to establish a working relationship with my exhusband. Here I am divorced, which I really wanted, but now what? I haven't even been writing. Am I any better off than I was a year ago? The answer is yes, of course, but the momentum has petered out and there's little to struggle against. I'm accustomed to struggling, so it feels strange.
It also feels strange to choose what's going to get my commitment and energy. For years there has been pretty constant chaos. Now there's the very necessary drives of work and the children's needs, and when those take all the energy I have, I feel like a loser, not committed enough to my goals. But, that's just reality, that sometimes the kids and survival are going to be all I can manage, and if I can do that and pull Christmas together, hey that's just fine.
So, maybe Mom would be right. It's a letdown, which is really a chance to catch my breath and regroup.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Private Hurt
In the past few days, I’ve watched a little more TV than usual. Either the swine flu is in my house, or every one of the lesser viruses that are circulating vigorously in the unseasonably mild weather have attacked us. There was the seemingly neverending cough, which is a particular treat for my older son and me who have asthma. Naturally those symptoms developed into sinus infections. That’s finally clearing up but yesterday morning, the poor Bunny was up at 3:30 with the first of several bouts of vomiting. Meanwhile, all I want to do is stay in bed, head under the covers, and sleep.
After sleeping as much as possible on Sunday, I was looking for something worth watching. There wasn’t much to qualify, but I found myself watching a documentary on BBC America: “Perfect Private Parts” (www.bbcamerica.com/content/367/index.jsp, available for purchase from iTunes). Now, if there was one part of my body that I had not worried was somehow inadequate, well, it would be the private part.
According to the program, more and more women, even young women in their teens, are opting for cosmetic surgery for the vagina and surrounding area. I’m still trying to process that. We are so open about the media’s effect on our self-images: the eating disorders, preoccupation with imperfect features and skin, holding ourselves up to a distorted and impossible standard of beauty, botox and plastic surgery for the face (that was another show in the next hour). But, really, the vagina? Good Lord, to what are women comparing themselves? I am no fan of porn but I’ve seen a little and nothing there ever led me to believe that there’s a particular aesthetic to achieve or that some women have something over the rest. There's the choice of whether or how much to shave, but that's about it.
The example that was easiest for me to understand was that some young Muslim women seek hymen reattachment before marriage, literally fearing that they would be killed or at least disowned by their families if it is discovered that they are not virgins. While I find it barbaric, it is the reality of their lives and doing what they can to protect themselves makes sense. The results are less permanent and rather less tragic than female genital mutilation, but the reasons for subjecting oneself to the procedure are generally the same: to maintain connection to the community in which one lives and on which one is to some degree dependent.
Other women were unhappy with the natural state of affairs, such as having longer, “flappy” labia. In some cases, the partner or the medical practitioner for the woman laughed at her. Some were concerned about the perceived effects of childbirth. Personally, I had not noticed any big change of that kind after having my two kids, but now I admit to wondering if there’s something I missed. At present I’m single again and there’s no one to ask, ‘hey, is everything normal down there?’ and I’m not sure I would want to ask. (It was a mantra of my mother’s that if you can’t accept no for an answer, then you shouldn’t ask.)
One woman was considering some sort of surgery to improve things, but attended a women’s center which actually coaches women through taking a look at themselves and accepting who they are and what they look like. It seemed strange to me, but really, in what other context can a woman learn that there’s nothing wrong with how she looks? She decided against the surgery.
I'm reminded of one time, when I was 18 and at my personal thinnest, a guy who worked in the same store at the mall that I did told me I was looking great but "now you just need to lose your ass." That was in my head for years, until a man said to me "he didn't know what he was talking about." Too big for some is perfect for others. The point is that none of us looks like a model, and if there is such a thing as a perfect private part, probably nobody has it or if she does, she has other personal imperfections she can obsess over.
The end result is that I’m a little sadder after seeing the piece, but glad to be informed. It is appalling, the lengths to which we’ll go in torturing ourselves with comparisons to some artificial ideal. Without naming the problem, though, there is no way to combat it, no way to know that we need to teach our children and each other that all the different varieties of normal are good.
After sleeping as much as possible on Sunday, I was looking for something worth watching. There wasn’t much to qualify, but I found myself watching a documentary on BBC America: “Perfect Private Parts” (www.bbcamerica.com/content/367/index.jsp, available for purchase from iTunes). Now, if there was one part of my body that I had not worried was somehow inadequate, well, it would be the private part.
According to the program, more and more women, even young women in their teens, are opting for cosmetic surgery for the vagina and surrounding area. I’m still trying to process that. We are so open about the media’s effect on our self-images: the eating disorders, preoccupation with imperfect features and skin, holding ourselves up to a distorted and impossible standard of beauty, botox and plastic surgery for the face (that was another show in the next hour). But, really, the vagina? Good Lord, to what are women comparing themselves? I am no fan of porn but I’ve seen a little and nothing there ever led me to believe that there’s a particular aesthetic to achieve or that some women have something over the rest. There's the choice of whether or how much to shave, but that's about it.
The example that was easiest for me to understand was that some young Muslim women seek hymen reattachment before marriage, literally fearing that they would be killed or at least disowned by their families if it is discovered that they are not virgins. While I find it barbaric, it is the reality of their lives and doing what they can to protect themselves makes sense. The results are less permanent and rather less tragic than female genital mutilation, but the reasons for subjecting oneself to the procedure are generally the same: to maintain connection to the community in which one lives and on which one is to some degree dependent.
Other women were unhappy with the natural state of affairs, such as having longer, “flappy” labia. In some cases, the partner or the medical practitioner for the woman laughed at her. Some were concerned about the perceived effects of childbirth. Personally, I had not noticed any big change of that kind after having my two kids, but now I admit to wondering if there’s something I missed. At present I’m single again and there’s no one to ask, ‘hey, is everything normal down there?’ and I’m not sure I would want to ask. (It was a mantra of my mother’s that if you can’t accept no for an answer, then you shouldn’t ask.)
One woman was considering some sort of surgery to improve things, but attended a women’s center which actually coaches women through taking a look at themselves and accepting who they are and what they look like. It seemed strange to me, but really, in what other context can a woman learn that there’s nothing wrong with how she looks? She decided against the surgery.
I'm reminded of one time, when I was 18 and at my personal thinnest, a guy who worked in the same store at the mall that I did told me I was looking great but "now you just need to lose your ass." That was in my head for years, until a man said to me "he didn't know what he was talking about." Too big for some is perfect for others. The point is that none of us looks like a model, and if there is such a thing as a perfect private part, probably nobody has it or if she does, she has other personal imperfections she can obsess over.
The end result is that I’m a little sadder after seeing the piece, but glad to be informed. It is appalling, the lengths to which we’ll go in torturing ourselves with comparisons to some artificial ideal. Without naming the problem, though, there is no way to combat it, no way to know that we need to teach our children and each other that all the different varieties of normal are good.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Change, in a Year
One year ago I was looking at apartments.
I was not quite paralyzed at the thought of moving, but dreaded it. I had told my then-husband that by the end of the month of November, one of us was moving out. That was a clear statement with a deadline, something I had finally learned to use in communication. I knew I could not force him to leave. As difficult as it would be, if he did not go I would go. Somehow, I would come up with a deposit and rent money, so he could either leave or take on the expenses of our house.
He was stunned, though there were enough indicators that the split was inevitable. We both had a gift for living in denial of anything we couldn't or didn't want to see.
He was hurt, understandably, and angry. He said he would be the one to move. Based on a history in which either of us might say “I’ll do this” but might or might not actually do it, I looked at apartments and started to bring home boxes from work. He started to gather his things, and found a place he could stay. The entire time, he told me later, he expected me to back down and to allow things to slip back into the status quo. It had happened so many times, with other boundaries I had set. Watching him go through the shock, I was tempted more than once to take it back but I just could not, could not go on with our life the way it had been.
By December 1, he had moved out. At that point, I am not sure which one of us was more surprised. I had expected a lot more drama, and was continuously braced for bigger arguments than we had; I was even prepared for physical violence, but it never happened. Learning to be clear about what I want and about how I communicate it was a big part of that.
I had no picture of how divorce goes, and found it very difficult to navigate without a mental map. Especially as a younger sibling in a large family, I have too often relied on “how everyone else has done it.” School, college, getting a job – these were all a matter of course, of what everyone else had done before me. The downside is that I did not learn earlier how to consider options and make choices according to my own strengths and goals.
It's been one year. I am divorced, and have taken back my birth name. The kids are all right, not without some issues, but all right. Their dad hangs out with them at least two or three times a week, and we are getting along. We agreed to get along well enough to do the best job possible in raising the boys, and we are sticking to it. Working out a new relationship has been awkward and uncomfortable, but it seems like we will make it.
Goals for myself right now revolve around achieving some financial stability, writing and more writing. Everything was recently put on hold while my younger son has gone through a period of crisis, but I have long accepted that other goals come after the goal of being the best mom I can be for my kids. Who knows where I might be a year from now?
I was not quite paralyzed at the thought of moving, but dreaded it. I had told my then-husband that by the end of the month of November, one of us was moving out. That was a clear statement with a deadline, something I had finally learned to use in communication. I knew I could not force him to leave. As difficult as it would be, if he did not go I would go. Somehow, I would come up with a deposit and rent money, so he could either leave or take on the expenses of our house.
He was stunned, though there were enough indicators that the split was inevitable. We both had a gift for living in denial of anything we couldn't or didn't want to see.
He was hurt, understandably, and angry. He said he would be the one to move. Based on a history in which either of us might say “I’ll do this” but might or might not actually do it, I looked at apartments and started to bring home boxes from work. He started to gather his things, and found a place he could stay. The entire time, he told me later, he expected me to back down and to allow things to slip back into the status quo. It had happened so many times, with other boundaries I had set. Watching him go through the shock, I was tempted more than once to take it back but I just could not, could not go on with our life the way it had been.
By December 1, he had moved out. At that point, I am not sure which one of us was more surprised. I had expected a lot more drama, and was continuously braced for bigger arguments than we had; I was even prepared for physical violence, but it never happened. Learning to be clear about what I want and about how I communicate it was a big part of that.
I had no picture of how divorce goes, and found it very difficult to navigate without a mental map. Especially as a younger sibling in a large family, I have too often relied on “how everyone else has done it.” School, college, getting a job – these were all a matter of course, of what everyone else had done before me. The downside is that I did not learn earlier how to consider options and make choices according to my own strengths and goals.
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. -- Helen KellerNo one else in my immediate family has been divorced, so the entire process was foreign, and frightening, to me. The dissolution of the marriage was more or less de facto by the time I embarked on the mechanics of separating our residences and eventually filing the paperwork with an attorney. At every step I almost expected to fail, to be unable to effect the changes I wanted. With every argument, I felt stuck in the same dysfunctional pattern in which we had been relating to each other. I wondered if the past three years of counseling had done nothing for me, but my counselor at Women in Transition reminded me that change can be like making a slow ascent up a mountain: you don't realize you've made progress until you reach a point where you can turn and look back and see how high you have climbed.
It's been one year. I am divorced, and have taken back my birth name. The kids are all right, not without some issues, but all right. Their dad hangs out with them at least two or three times a week, and we are getting along. We agreed to get along well enough to do the best job possible in raising the boys, and we are sticking to it. Working out a new relationship has been awkward and uncomfortable, but it seems like we will make it.
Goals for myself right now revolve around achieving some financial stability, writing and more writing. Everything was recently put on hold while my younger son has gone through a period of crisis, but I have long accepted that other goals come after the goal of being the best mom I can be for my kids. Who knows where I might be a year from now?
Monday, November 9, 2009
Where, O Where Have I Been?
I am wondering myself where I have been. I have not been blogging, although I started on a series of poems. I have been caught up in a tumult, but has it really been enough to keep me from writing for so long?
There's been an escalation to the difficulty that my third grader has in school. This is the Peanut, my son who has Asperger's Syndrome. It seems that the year began a bit bumpy, though I wasn't getting much feedback in the beginning. There was a new TSS ("wraparound") whose schedule availability didn't meet the Peanut's needs, which was for help in the afternoons. Then there was a different, new TSS, whose schedule was better, but Peanut was still struggling to get through his assignments for various reasons: the writing content is more challenging than last year and he has become very particular about his penmanship; the room is noisy and distracting; there was a period of a couple of weeks when I think we all had bad colds and he was just too sleepy. That's about where I left off.
We were excited and happy to find, when the 2nd TSS staff of the year wasn't working out, the fabulous "Mr. Mike" of last year, whose loss was a source of grief to my little guy, was coming back for the afternoons. Then we were all - myself, the teachers and administrators and the behavioral specialist - concerned when things didn't get much better, then continued to get worse.
In the second half of October, I was called at work at least 4 different days to come pick up the child from school because there was just no helping him to regroup. In addition, he has been out of school for 5 days (again, just since October 15). We went to the Developmental Pediatrics specialist at the Children's Hospital and tried increasing his very low dose of ADHD meds, thinking it was probably about time to do so. Peanut became more anxious and showed OCD symptoms. We lowered the dose again. He missed three days of school. I took him to the pediatrician and had bloodwork done, to rule out possible causes of the fatigue, like anemia or mono (he was a champ for the blood draw & and I took him to Friendly's for a milkshake). That same afternoon, I took him to a psychiatrist at the human services agency which provides the wraparound services, as there had been a cancellation allowing us to get in quickly.
I sent Peanut back to school one day last week, only to have to pick him up early again as he was in a complete meltdown. When I arrived at school, he was lying under a chair in the principal's office and growling at her when she tried to talk to him. Every time, it is so clear that he himself is suffering, that he does not want to find it so difficult to cope, that he is even afraid of himself.
This summary doesn't touch on the panic I was beginning to feel. Possible clinical depression in my child? School just says "come and get him" without having a single referral or suggestion - it was the behavioral specialist who went to her supervisor and got some leads for me. At the same time, I suddenly had the clarity of hindsight, that in his interactions with his brother, Peanut has been getting increasingly sensitive and angry. And in the summer, he was so sad at the end of his week at camp, and when Mr. Mike took a different assignment away from him. I should have known sooner. That crippling thought that moms use to punish ourselves.
But there's no time for that. Tomorrow, again at the suggestion of the BSE, I am taking my almost-9-year-old son for an assessment, that will get him into a partial hospitalization program at a psychiatric facility. The key things we are watching are his anxiety levels and possible depression. It is painful to see in him the manifestation of something very like depression: it is something I have had for most of my life, so I recognize that sense of helplessness and hopelessness, the lack of energy to cope with the smallest setbacks, like stubbing his toe. Then again, he seems to be himself at his weekly drum lesson, so I make certain we don't miss it, as Peanut needs every positive experience possible right now.
There will be school work to catch up on, but we can't worry about anything until we can get him to be himself again. Over this past weekend, he was so upset, so resistant to calming down that I seriously contemplated taking him to an ER. It is fortunate that his dad was able to help him. I took the older brother out for a much needed break - he, too, is showing the strain of his brother's tantrums - and one-on-one time with his mom. The evening was much better.
Not writing has been the result of riding out this storm, also not being certain I have any right to publicize my child's problems. But, I always think to myself, there must be other parents out there who are seeing something they have never seen and for which they have no idea what to do. If we can share it, won't that help others?
Instead of blogging, I have had a steady report going out via email to concerned family and friends. I've asked everyone I know who has any kind of experience with the issues for their suggestions. Fortunately, I work for a human services agency so I have some good resources. I've advised school of doctor's appointments and doctors' offices of what's going on at school, and advised work of the time I need to take off. I am grateful for the days my sister has been able to spend with the Peanut, plus spending a little time with Bunny, the older child, who feels cheated of the time and attention that his brother is getting, for what appears to be mere bad behavior.
Okay, I guess I know where I have been, even if it has been a blur. In the midst of all of this, I am working with my exhusband to keep him informed and to share the need for child care while still being vigilant over the new boundaries in our relationship. I am too tired to think; somehow I am still getting enough work done at the office to keep my job. I am not sure how, but I am doing it.
There's been an escalation to the difficulty that my third grader has in school. This is the Peanut, my son who has Asperger's Syndrome. It seems that the year began a bit bumpy, though I wasn't getting much feedback in the beginning. There was a new TSS ("wraparound") whose schedule availability didn't meet the Peanut's needs, which was for help in the afternoons. Then there was a different, new TSS, whose schedule was better, but Peanut was still struggling to get through his assignments for various reasons: the writing content is more challenging than last year and he has become very particular about his penmanship; the room is noisy and distracting; there was a period of a couple of weeks when I think we all had bad colds and he was just too sleepy. That's about where I left off.
We were excited and happy to find, when the 2nd TSS staff of the year wasn't working out, the fabulous "Mr. Mike" of last year, whose loss was a source of grief to my little guy, was coming back for the afternoons. Then we were all - myself, the teachers and administrators and the behavioral specialist - concerned when things didn't get much better, then continued to get worse.
In the second half of October, I was called at work at least 4 different days to come pick up the child from school because there was just no helping him to regroup. In addition, he has been out of school for 5 days (again, just since October 15). We went to the Developmental Pediatrics specialist at the Children's Hospital and tried increasing his very low dose of ADHD meds, thinking it was probably about time to do so. Peanut became more anxious and showed OCD symptoms. We lowered the dose again. He missed three days of school. I took him to the pediatrician and had bloodwork done, to rule out possible causes of the fatigue, like anemia or mono (he was a champ for the blood draw & and I took him to Friendly's for a milkshake). That same afternoon, I took him to a psychiatrist at the human services agency which provides the wraparound services, as there had been a cancellation allowing us to get in quickly.
I sent Peanut back to school one day last week, only to have to pick him up early again as he was in a complete meltdown. When I arrived at school, he was lying under a chair in the principal's office and growling at her when she tried to talk to him. Every time, it is so clear that he himself is suffering, that he does not want to find it so difficult to cope, that he is even afraid of himself.
This summary doesn't touch on the panic I was beginning to feel. Possible clinical depression in my child? School just says "come and get him" without having a single referral or suggestion - it was the behavioral specialist who went to her supervisor and got some leads for me. At the same time, I suddenly had the clarity of hindsight, that in his interactions with his brother, Peanut has been getting increasingly sensitive and angry. And in the summer, he was so sad at the end of his week at camp, and when Mr. Mike took a different assignment away from him. I should have known sooner. That crippling thought that moms use to punish ourselves.
But there's no time for that. Tomorrow, again at the suggestion of the BSE, I am taking my almost-9-year-old son for an assessment, that will get him into a partial hospitalization program at a psychiatric facility. The key things we are watching are his anxiety levels and possible depression. It is painful to see in him the manifestation of something very like depression: it is something I have had for most of my life, so I recognize that sense of helplessness and hopelessness, the lack of energy to cope with the smallest setbacks, like stubbing his toe. Then again, he seems to be himself at his weekly drum lesson, so I make certain we don't miss it, as Peanut needs every positive experience possible right now.
There will be school work to catch up on, but we can't worry about anything until we can get him to be himself again. Over this past weekend, he was so upset, so resistant to calming down that I seriously contemplated taking him to an ER. It is fortunate that his dad was able to help him. I took the older brother out for a much needed break - he, too, is showing the strain of his brother's tantrums - and one-on-one time with his mom. The evening was much better.
Not writing has been the result of riding out this storm, also not being certain I have any right to publicize my child's problems. But, I always think to myself, there must be other parents out there who are seeing something they have never seen and for which they have no idea what to do. If we can share it, won't that help others?
Instead of blogging, I have had a steady report going out via email to concerned family and friends. I've asked everyone I know who has any kind of experience with the issues for their suggestions. Fortunately, I work for a human services agency so I have some good resources. I've advised school of doctor's appointments and doctors' offices of what's going on at school, and advised work of the time I need to take off. I am grateful for the days my sister has been able to spend with the Peanut, plus spending a little time with Bunny, the older child, who feels cheated of the time and attention that his brother is getting, for what appears to be mere bad behavior.
Okay, I guess I know where I have been, even if it has been a blur. In the midst of all of this, I am working with my exhusband to keep him informed and to share the need for child care while still being vigilant over the new boundaries in our relationship. I am too tired to think; somehow I am still getting enough work done at the office to keep my job. I am not sure how, but I am doing it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
