I don't have energy to write my usual length of post, but I wanted to share some thoughts I've been having since we got back from LA two days ago after a five-day Thanksgiving sojourn. It was pretty much the usual array of familial craziness--gaggles of visitors suffocating their hosts, large groups trying to agree on meals, group efforts to plan routes through the city's hellish traffic, out-loud belches caroming across the Thanksgiving table.
Anyway, on the way home, I noticed that I'd developed a TMJ headache and some jaw tightness (I was diagnosed with pretty bad TMJ several years ago, but I got it under control with the help of a temporary prescription to Paxil, of all things.) When I woke up yesterday morning, it was worsening. I took some Excedrin, did some Yoga, anything I could to relax. Nothing helped. Then I was standing in my bedroom, looking out the window, and I was overcome by a wave of emotion about Rox. For the first time in well over a week, I let out a good chunk of grief, and like magic, my headache and jaw tightness were gone within minutes.
What I realized was the connection between my TMJ outbreak and my having been around the family, with whom I don't feel safe expressing feelings about Rox. Not only that, but I've begun to be very aware that my breakup with Taylour a few months ago has had the desired impact, as the grieving that has poured out of me since is cleansing me, accelerating the process.
As one of the panelists said during a National Survivors of Suicide Day webcast last week, we shouldn't focus on the idea of a light at the end of the tunnel--rather, we need to recognize that there's light coming in all over the place should we choose to let it warm us. I can feel those little shards of light hitting me now--and I plan to avail myself of them as much as possible.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
Grief Brings Out the Worst in People--and the Best
The emotional turmoil of life after Rox seems to have no end to its twists and turns. The latest chapter of the saga, which I've anticipated for a long time, is this: my stepkids, Alex and Owen, have begun to inquire about the fate of "our mom's half of the house proceeds." Of course, given that Rox and I were never divorced and thus remained married when she died, the house was transferred into my name per her will, and it would seem they have no legal claim. But I'm acutely aware of the potential emotional minefield that comes with this topic.
Alex started by bringing it up at one of Jackson's soccer games a few weeks ago, which upset me greatly. This came about a week after she informed me that she'd spent essentially all of the life insurance she collected upon Rox's death--a large amount that should have set her up for a decade, not been squandered in little more than a year. Naturally, I associated the two, assuming that since she had blown her gravy train, she wanted to find another one to replace it.
Anyway, in talking with Owen about this yesterday, he divulged to me that Alex feels that I'm "profiting from our mother's death," which is utterly ridiculous and intensely hurtful. To be fair, I'm not sure I wouldn't be in the same state as Alex if my mom had hung herself last year and I'd followed that up by frittering away the biggest financial gift I was likely to see in this lifetime.
There are so many ways to react to this scenario--on the one hand, I see her as acting like a spoiled, impetuous teenager throwing a tantrum because she's realized there's no one to take care of her any more. In which case, I should do my best to ignore her accusations, and wait for her to figure things out on her own. On the other, I also know she's a profoundly wounded person. Rox's mental illness made Alex's life pretty hellish--her nervous breakdown in the early 90s, just before I met her, forced Alex into a pseudo parenting role way too early in life, and then they fought horribly through her teen years. They always had a special bond, but also a special repulsion. In the 19 months since Rox died, Alex has had no therapy (and neither has Owen), and has not only put her mother on a posthumous pedestal, but also has begun to take on even more of her personality. So maybe this episode is actually all of her pent-up angst about her mom, and guilt about her negative feelings that she's not expressing, coming out in the worst of fashions.
The problem is, none of this armchair analysis is worth a damn, because she's nearly 28 years old, her life is none of my business, and she never listens to anything I have to say anyway (in fact, she treats me a hell of a lot like her mom did, and naturally, I probably treat her a hell of a lot like I treated her mom--it's a pretty sick dynamic, when you get right down to it). But there is so much potential for further damage to our family that the whole thing has to be taken seriously.
Luckily for me, a family friend who has done what he can to advise her and Owen on what to do with their money has agreed to talk with them and help them to see the lay of the land. Then maybe she and I can talk. Really, as far as I can see, there are only two paths here: She can wake up, realize that she's being totally out of line, and express some contriteness for letting such ugly feelings out at our expense; or, she can continue to pursue the topic, and even if it can never go anywhere, she can continue to resent me for "profiting from her mother's death."
Of course, my practical answer to that hurtful implication is, didn't we all profit from her mom's death? What was the life insurance she's been blowing? The bottom line is, none of us ever would have wanted to profit in any way from this, but when someone dies, something has to happen with what's left behind. And given that we were married, and I'm left to raise our son, there's no way I can let an irresponsible, disrespectful 27-year-old make off with one penny of my financial foundation. (And coming just around the corner is her wedding, which she'll no doubt ask me to help with too--again, no chance. She needs to learn a lesson from her unhealthy impulsiveness.)
There is a coda to this little part of the story, though. Last night, I was ranting about the whole situation to my cousin Ernie, when I caught myself in the midst of railing irrationally about what a selfish bitch Rox was and how she'd ruined my life, and realized that Jackson was in the next room playing video games. I don't know if he really heard anything I was saying, but I went in and sat down with him to check in. He said he didn't really pick up on what I said, but I chose to let him know that even if Daddy says some terrible things about Mommy from time to time, it doesn't mean she wasn't an amazing person and that he didn't love her very much. Quite the opposite--she had this profound affect on him, eliciting such emotional reactions because of how much he (I) cared for her. Then I reminded him that what Mommy did was wrong, and stupid, and selfish, and he nodded his head and said, "It WAS selfish."
When I asked him why he felt Rox had been selfish, he said something I'll never forget, and that I'll forever be so proud of: "Because what she did ripped a piece out of all of our lives, and she did it only to help herself, not anyone else."
Maybe we are on the road to recovery after all.
Alex started by bringing it up at one of Jackson's soccer games a few weeks ago, which upset me greatly. This came about a week after she informed me that she'd spent essentially all of the life insurance she collected upon Rox's death--a large amount that should have set her up for a decade, not been squandered in little more than a year. Naturally, I associated the two, assuming that since she had blown her gravy train, she wanted to find another one to replace it.
Anyway, in talking with Owen about this yesterday, he divulged to me that Alex feels that I'm "profiting from our mother's death," which is utterly ridiculous and intensely hurtful. To be fair, I'm not sure I wouldn't be in the same state as Alex if my mom had hung herself last year and I'd followed that up by frittering away the biggest financial gift I was likely to see in this lifetime.
There are so many ways to react to this scenario--on the one hand, I see her as acting like a spoiled, impetuous teenager throwing a tantrum because she's realized there's no one to take care of her any more. In which case, I should do my best to ignore her accusations, and wait for her to figure things out on her own. On the other, I also know she's a profoundly wounded person. Rox's mental illness made Alex's life pretty hellish--her nervous breakdown in the early 90s, just before I met her, forced Alex into a pseudo parenting role way too early in life, and then they fought horribly through her teen years. They always had a special bond, but also a special repulsion. In the 19 months since Rox died, Alex has had no therapy (and neither has Owen), and has not only put her mother on a posthumous pedestal, but also has begun to take on even more of her personality. So maybe this episode is actually all of her pent-up angst about her mom, and guilt about her negative feelings that she's not expressing, coming out in the worst of fashions.
The problem is, none of this armchair analysis is worth a damn, because she's nearly 28 years old, her life is none of my business, and she never listens to anything I have to say anyway (in fact, she treats me a hell of a lot like her mom did, and naturally, I probably treat her a hell of a lot like I treated her mom--it's a pretty sick dynamic, when you get right down to it). But there is so much potential for further damage to our family that the whole thing has to be taken seriously.
Luckily for me, a family friend who has done what he can to advise her and Owen on what to do with their money has agreed to talk with them and help them to see the lay of the land. Then maybe she and I can talk. Really, as far as I can see, there are only two paths here: She can wake up, realize that she's being totally out of line, and express some contriteness for letting such ugly feelings out at our expense; or, she can continue to pursue the topic, and even if it can never go anywhere, she can continue to resent me for "profiting from her mother's death."
Of course, my practical answer to that hurtful implication is, didn't we all profit from her mom's death? What was the life insurance she's been blowing? The bottom line is, none of us ever would have wanted to profit in any way from this, but when someone dies, something has to happen with what's left behind. And given that we were married, and I'm left to raise our son, there's no way I can let an irresponsible, disrespectful 27-year-old make off with one penny of my financial foundation. (And coming just around the corner is her wedding, which she'll no doubt ask me to help with too--again, no chance. She needs to learn a lesson from her unhealthy impulsiveness.)
There is a coda to this little part of the story, though. Last night, I was ranting about the whole situation to my cousin Ernie, when I caught myself in the midst of railing irrationally about what a selfish bitch Rox was and how she'd ruined my life, and realized that Jackson was in the next room playing video games. I don't know if he really heard anything I was saying, but I went in and sat down with him to check in. He said he didn't really pick up on what I said, but I chose to let him know that even if Daddy says some terrible things about Mommy from time to time, it doesn't mean she wasn't an amazing person and that he didn't love her very much. Quite the opposite--she had this profound affect on him, eliciting such emotional reactions because of how much he (I) cared for her. Then I reminded him that what Mommy did was wrong, and stupid, and selfish, and he nodded his head and said, "It WAS selfish."
When I asked him why he felt Rox had been selfish, he said something I'll never forget, and that I'll forever be so proud of: "Because what she did ripped a piece out of all of our lives, and she did it only to help herself, not anyone else."
Maybe we are on the road to recovery after all.
Monday, November 12, 2007
There Aren't Enough Good Pots in the World For Me
It seems like there's always another meltdown around the corner, and I had a doozie of one about two weeks ago. It was Monday night, and Jackson was in bed. We'd agreed on a new lunch ritual--I bought him a new lunchbox and a thermos, and I was to make him Lipton's chicken soup, and send it to school with him, warm and ready to chug. About 11:30 pm, I put on some water to boil, and went to my desk to answer a couple of emails as I waited.
A few minutes later, Q walked up and made it very clear he wanted to go outside. Being the kind, big-hearted owner I am, I obliged, taking him up and down our block for about 10 minutes. Only I completely forgot about the pot of boiling water on the stove.
Flash back to several years earlier. We'd gotten a new--albeit cheap--linoleum floor after a bizarre kitchen fire caused when Rox left a bag of coffee beans mistakenly sitting on a burner that was on, resulting in a torrent of little coffee-bean charcoals burning our floor and charring the sides of our stove and fridge. Several months had passed when one night, I forgot a pot of water boiling on the stove (while, again, making chicken soup), and when I came back in, the pot was glowing orange, so naturally I removed it, only to watch in horror as globules of molten steel dripped from the bottom of the pot onto the new floor, burning holes all over the kitchen while, amazingly, missing my bare feet. To this day, that burned floor remains in place. It was no doubt one of the many triggers of Rox's depression over the years.
Now fast forward to about a month ago. Jackson and his buddy Jonas are playing video games, and I've got macaroni boiling on the stove for them. While it cooks, I go out to the front yard to pull a few weeds. Lo and behold, I lose track of time for about 20 minutes, and when I realize and come running in, the house is filled with smoke, and those scary globules once again are coming out of the pot, but at least this time, I don't pick up the pan, and the molten steel just sits on top of the stove where it can do no harm. The macaroni is burnt beyond recognition, and my Emil Lagasse saucepan is destroyed. I'm understandably annoyed, cursing myself relentlessly for making this same mistake.
So, back to that Monday night two weeks ago--I return from walking Q, and upon entering the house the smell of burning pot hits my nose right away. I run in a panic into the kitchen, where all hell is breaking loose. Once again, I've destroyed yet ANOTHER pot (my last Emil Lagasse saucepan!), only this time the molten steel has been dripping over the front of the stove, burning a kitchen rag, a floor rug, and several more holes in the floor. I turn the heat off and crumple into a pile of sobbing goo on the floor. I'm devastated. At first, I lament the stupidity of ruining another pot, further destroying the floor, and wrecking the rugs. Within moments, though, my sobbing turns to howls as I realize the real error of my ways--I'd left a very real fire threat smoldering in the kitchen as Jackson slept, alone in the house, just 20 feet away.
How could I be so stupid? How could I introduce the possibility of harm coming to my son, the child I've been (unfairly) charged with raising completely on my own, the most important thing Rox felt she ever did, my biggest responsibility in life? After a good 10 minutes of mild hysteria, I try to move the pot, stupidly, but alas, it's still liquified, and now the molten steel once again drips from the pot onto the floor near my feet. Again, it misses any contact with me, but it does further damage to the floor and another rug before I can get it safely back on the stove.
Now I'm apoplectic. I howl and sob with more force than I've ever known, more even than the weeks following Rox's last actions. It's clear that so much is coming out of me, I just let it go, even force it out harder, seemingly punishing myself for being such a dolt, and hoping that Jackson doesn't wake up to find his father in an emotional swirl and surrounded by an almost totally destroyed kitchen. Then, when I finally start to calm down, I look at the stove and notice there's a slight burn/discoloration on the front of the door, and I decide I better give it a little wipe so it doesn't set. Within seconds after I start wiping, the glass that makes up the surface of the door shatters into a thousand pieces and falls all over the floor (that's the scene below). Now the destruction is complete. At this p
oint, my crying starts to merge with glimpses of self-deprecating laughter. Not that I find it funny, mind you--but I'm becoming aware that one day down the road, this will all seem hilarious, as if it were a scene in one of those dysfunctional family sitcoms. I can't even bring myself to clean up the mess. I just put some chairs around it so Jackson and I don't accidentally step in the glass, and I head to bed, where I collapse in a heap of emotional exhaustion.
The next night, at 8:04 pm, a 5.6 earthquake jolts San Jose. It's Jackson's first earthquake, and it freaks him out. It's one of those fun ones--big enough to give you a thrill and shake lots of stuff, but not big enough to be scary or do any damage. But the implication is powerful enough as the house rattles and I can't help but think, "Don't freakin' fall over before I can sell you!" Combined with the events of the previous night, it's clear to me that someone, or something, is telling me that it's time--time to sell the house, time to get while the getting's good, time to move on to the next phase.
The following night is Halloween, Rox's favorite night of the year. If this all doesn't add up to one ominous message, then I'm not listening. Or watching. Or feeling.
A week later, I choose my friend Ginger Kehmna (a parent from Jackson's school) as my real estate agent, and we have a couple in to look at the house pre-listing. I'll be signing a listing contract this week and the house will be formally on the market in December.
Ready or not, it's time for the big change to begin. Portland, here we come?
A few minutes later, Q walked up and made it very clear he wanted to go outside. Being the kind, big-hearted owner I am, I obliged, taking him up and down our block for about 10 minutes. Only I completely forgot about the pot of boiling water on the stove.
Flash back to several years earlier. We'd gotten a new--albeit cheap--linoleum floor after a bizarre kitchen fire caused when Rox left a bag of coffee beans mistakenly sitting on a burner that was on, resulting in a torrent of little coffee-bean charcoals burning our floor and charring the sides of our stove and fridge. Several months had passed when one night, I forgot a pot of water boiling on the stove (while, again, making chicken soup), and when I came back in, the pot was glowing orange, so naturally I removed it, only to watch in horror as globules of molten steel dripped from the bottom of the pot onto the new floor, burning holes all over the kitchen while, amazingly, missing my bare feet. To this day, that burned floor remains in place. It was no doubt one of the many triggers of Rox's depression over the years.
Now fast forward to about a month ago. Jackson and his buddy Jonas are playing video games, and I've got macaroni boiling on the stove for them. While it cooks, I go out to the front yard to pull a few weeds. Lo and behold, I lose track of time for about 20 minutes, and when I realize and come running in, the house is filled with smoke, and those scary globules once again are coming out of the pot, but at least this time, I don't pick up the pan, and the molten steel just sits on top of the stove where it can do no harm. The macaroni is burnt beyond recognition, and my Emil Lagasse saucepan is destroyed. I'm understandably annoyed, cursing myself relentlessly for making this same mistake.
So, back to that Monday night two weeks ago--I return from walking Q, and upon entering the house the smell of burning pot hits my nose right away. I run in a panic into the kitchen, where all hell is breaking loose. Once again, I've destroyed yet ANOTHER pot (my last Emil Lagasse saucepan!), only this time the molten steel has been dripping over the front of the stove, burning a kitchen rag, a floor rug, and several more holes in the floor. I turn the heat off and crumple into a pile of sobbing goo on the floor. I'm devastated. At first, I lament the stupidity of ruining another pot, further destroying the floor, and wrecking the rugs. Within moments, though, my sobbing turns to howls as I realize the real error of my ways--I'd left a very real fire threat smoldering in the kitchen as Jackson slept, alone in the house, just 20 feet away.
How could I be so stupid? How could I introduce the possibility of harm coming to my son, the child I've been (unfairly) charged with raising completely on my own, the most important thing Rox felt she ever did, my biggest responsibility in life? After a good 10 minutes of mild hysteria, I try to move the pot, stupidly, but alas, it's still liquified, and now the molten steel once again drips from the pot onto the floor near my feet. Again, it misses any contact with me, but it does further damage to the floor and another rug before I can get it safely back on the stove.
Now I'm apoplectic. I howl and sob with more force than I've ever known, more even than the weeks following Rox's last actions. It's clear that so much is coming out of me, I just let it go, even force it out harder, seemingly punishing myself for being such a dolt, and hoping that Jackson doesn't wake up to find his father in an emotional swirl and surrounded by an almost totally destroyed kitchen. Then, when I finally start to calm down, I look at the stove and notice there's a slight burn/discoloration on the front of the door, and I decide I better give it a little wipe so it doesn't set. Within seconds after I start wiping, the glass that makes up the surface of the door shatters into a thousand pieces and falls all over the floor (that's the scene below). Now the destruction is complete. At this p
oint, my crying starts to merge with glimpses of self-deprecating laughter. Not that I find it funny, mind you--but I'm becoming aware that one day down the road, this will all seem hilarious, as if it were a scene in one of those dysfunctional family sitcoms. I can't even bring myself to clean up the mess. I just put some chairs around it so Jackson and I don't accidentally step in the glass, and I head to bed, where I collapse in a heap of emotional exhaustion.The next night, at 8:04 pm, a 5.6 earthquake jolts San Jose. It's Jackson's first earthquake, and it freaks him out. It's one of those fun ones--big enough to give you a thrill and shake lots of stuff, but not big enough to be scary or do any damage. But the implication is powerful enough as the house rattles and I can't help but think, "Don't freakin' fall over before I can sell you!" Combined with the events of the previous night, it's clear to me that someone, or something, is telling me that it's time--time to sell the house, time to get while the getting's good, time to move on to the next phase.
The following night is Halloween, Rox's favorite night of the year. If this all doesn't add up to one ominous message, then I'm not listening. Or watching. Or feeling.
A week later, I choose my friend Ginger Kehmna (a parent from Jackson's school) as my real estate agent, and we have a couple in to look at the house pre-listing. I'll be signing a listing contract this week and the house will be formally on the market in December.
Ready or not, it's time for the big change to begin. Portland, here we come?
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