State of Grace

Fatherless Child

Today is one of the worst days of the year for me - Father's Day.  I had a father who sexually abused me from my infancy to adolescence. The damage these assaults incurred is deep and lifelong. I am emerging from the carnage a stronger person, but what I survived resulted in a life impaired. I may run, but there's a limp in my gait.  I may present myself to the world, but I do so with a disfigured and scarred face.  However, I'm speaking in metaphors thus nobody can see how badly I've been hurt. And, I find this to be an odd injustice.

Some of you may know that my father died last year and I've been struggling with demons - some of them familiar, some of them I've just met - ever since.  I've yet to write about the insanity around his funeral and as much as I want to get those demons out of my system, I'm not ready, I don't have the words.  All I know is that he died, others were sad, but I was mourning the loss of something I never had - a decent and loving father.  It didn't matter that he was hard working and sometimes nice - that he sexually, psychologically and physically abused me cancels out any and all of his good qualities.  Thus, I am a fatherless child.

I am not the only one who is fatherless because of abuse and has managed to get out of that savagery alive.  I know many child abuse survivors both in my life away from the computer and those who frequent this blog.  I want to say to you, fellow survivor - this post is for you, my dearest of all my dear readers.  In fact, this whole blog is for you - all this crazy-quilt-writing about the good, the bad, the parenting, being a wife and a citizen, trying my best, trying as hard as I can to live a whole and productive life against all the odds.  Dear brothers and sisters - anyone who tells me that they're a child abuse survivor is, automatically, my brother and sister - the odds are against us having a full and happy life, yet here we are, alive and trying hard, oh so very hard, to thrive.  We are awesome that way, though we often don't think we are.  But, believe me when I tell you - we are awesome.

Last year I wrote an entry on Mother's Day that was directed to us, the survivors.  It was not a Hallmark card for Mom, by any means.  Rather, it was a reminder that we owe ourselves forgiveness on these triggering "holidays".  I am re-publishing an excerpt of that post here, as we can never be reminded enough of what we so richly deserve and what we so easily forget to offer to ourselves:

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"...today I want to be a warrior in the service of my sisters and brothers, - adult child abuse survivors.   

I have a message for you, dear ones.  It's radical and some people who have not been through what we suffered as children may not appreciate it.  Indeed, they may be angry at me in sharing this truth with you, something that I believe with all of my heart, mind and soul:

My message:  You don't have to forgive your perpetrator.

And:  Forgiving your abuser is not necessary to achieve healing.

Forgiving those who criminally damaged and ravaged us is optional in moving on and living a fulfilling life. 

If there is forgiveness to be offered, extend it to yourself. 

Forgive yourself for being young, vulnerable, frightened, unable to take action, unable to move from where you were standing, sitting or lying down as you were being molested, beaten and berated.

Forgive yourself for doing drugs, drinking too much, being promiscuous, giving yourself away.

Forgive yourself for flunking classes, not finishing college, not pushing yourself at work, not wanting to be ambitious, giving up.

Forgive yourself for having to be perfect in school, overworking and overachieving at the expense of your health and well being.

Forgive yourself for alienating your body, starving it, overfeeding it, not honoring it by exercising, being careless with your body for exercising it excessively.

Forgive yourself for the bad choices in partners, the fights, the break-ups, the divorces, the difficulty in maintaining relationships.

Forgive yourself for your fears as a parent, or your fear in becoming a parent. 

Forgive yourself for yelling at your crying kids so much you want to smack their faces and shake them.  Then, forgive yourself for leaving them in the other room, crying and hollering, while you call the parent stress hotline .

Forgive yourself for having depression, post traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, dissociative disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder.  Forgive yourself for seeking help, taking medication, going to therapy, admitting yourself to the hospital.

Forgive yourself for feeling shame.

Forgive yourself for hating yourself.

Forgive yourself.  You're the one who deserves it.

In solidarity with my fellow survivors,
And love to all,
GraceD"

Time flies. Big sighs.

  Molly at 3 1/2 years old. 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

See this person here? This 3 year old girl-child smiling sweetly, shiny eyed, beguiling in a Little Dutch boy haircut? This charming tot will be 17 in 10 days and tomorrow she's taking the SAT.

The SAT.

Seventeen.

(shakes head) (shakes head again)

Good luck, tomorrow, former tot.  I am so proud of you.  So proud.

Might be the bravest, most hopeful thing I've ever written.

So, this blog has been pretty lame lately.   Sporadic posts with cliffhangers - hey! I got my kid a fancy bag! Now, I'm off to therapy! THE ABYSS! Maybe I'll be back soon and maybe not.

Then, an ominous silence.  And, perhaps some curiosity - The hell did she go? Was the headshrinking session that awful?  Did she fall into the toilet before she went out the door? 

Well, it's the former - headshrinking = awful - rather than the latter, though falling into the bowl is the sort of freak accident that would happen to me.

What's the big deal about therapy?  Hasn't this blogger been through her share of psychotherapists, psychiatrists, group therapy sessions, inner child workshops, warrior woman weekends, and a stay in the psych ward already? 

Yes, I have.  Thousands and hundreds of dollars have been invested in my mental health.  This EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization Reprogramming) work, however, is different.

The gory stuff after the jump.  Thus, a warning to sister and brother abuse survivors:  Graphic descriptions of abuse lurk in the next section.  Please, my dearest of all my dollins, don't venture forward if you're feeling vulnerable and could be "triggered" by such tough information. 

Freaked

This brief entry in list form serves to explain why the last post was so stupid:

1.  I'm very nervous because I have to go to my third therapy session this morning.
2.  Therapy is hard and anxiety inducing.
3.  I will begin a technique called EMDR soon and right now I'm prepping for it.  You know, history taking, getting to know my therapist, she getting to know me, etc.
4.  Even the prep/etc.  is anxiety inducing.

So, forgive me, Dollin Reader, this is a bitch and singing "da da da" riffs to myself is the best I can do at this point.

I will be brave and try to write about the process when I come back. 

Love,
GraceD

Our AlphaMom Video, or The TV Camera Really Does Add 15 Pounds to Your Frame

Dollin Readers, you know that I'm upfront and open with all of you.  Other than broadcasting my waist size, you know more about me than you probably care to know, including the shameful fact that now and again I fart  during yoga practice.

Well, I've been hiding something from you - an interview of Molly and me at  BlogHer 2006 with Leah Peterson, the much beloved blogger of Leahpeah. I'd like to go on record by saying that as an interviewer, Amanda Congdon has nothing on my girlfriend and hero, Leah.  So, back off, blondie.

Allow me to brag just a wee bit and tell you that this video is posted on the estimable online parenting media resource, AlphaMom.   Our encounter with Leah is listed alongside interviews of  way-more-popular-bloggers-than-me:  Amalah, A Girl and a Boy, Chookoolonks, Her Bad Mother, Jenandtonic, Joy Unexpected, Finslippy, Fluid Pudding, Fussy, Miss Zoot, Suburban Bliss and Sweetney.  The roster is topped off with the elegant, erstwhile Republican, Arianna Huffington of the Huffington Post.

The brilliant and cheekbone-intensive Isabel Kallman, founder and creator of AlphaMom, sent me the video link two months ago with these gentle, loving words:

I have stayed away from communicating with your very recently, but have not stopped thinking about you and your recent struggles.  I have been sending my warm vibes and will continue to do so.  Unconditionally your friend, I am.

While you were away, we posted almost all of the videos from BlogHer 06.  I purposefully did not post yours as it was time for reflection and I wanted to respect that.

I have posted yours and Molly's interview...if you prefer I can take it down and delay its viewing. But something non-verbal tells me it would be nice for you to see it and for others as well.

Two months later, the coast is a bit more clear and I'm ready to share.  But, before you click the Play Video icon, I'm going to grab your hand through the monitor and insist on telling you these all important preface remarks:

I wield that microphone as if it was a karaoke mike.  That's because as a Filipina I possess the gene for karaoke singing.  We all do, ask any of your Filipina friends.

I contradict myself multiple times.  The world is SAFE for kids! The world is NOT SAFE for kids! Then, back to - The world is SAFE for kids!  Allow me to summarize here  that the world is safe AND not safe for kids.

I said that Molly thought of me as a sort of mom version of Bill Murray.  I swear to God she said that.  I swear.

Yes, we had a professional do our make-up.  By the end of the taping, I hot-flashed it all off.

Molly is lovely and poised, isn't she?  I'm so proud of her that I could spit.  Fortunately, I managed not to do that on the set.

Molly also wants the World Wide Web to know that she has privacy issues with her mother.  Duly noted, kid.  Now go to your room while I hack your MySpace password.

All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up:

 

Cruel Summer

Closing in on Autumn.  View from the kitchen window., originally uploaded by GraceD.

I know -  it's nearly Autumn and it's about time I showed up on this blog.  It's taken a while to emerge from a heightened existential dread that accompanied a very Cruel Summer. 

Because of that,  I've been at a loss for words.  Well, at a loss for blogging-words as the kid will attest that my words flow freely in her direction. 

"Mom! Please! You're stressing me out!" sez the kid.

Wow, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.  She sounds just like me.

When September rolled around, I thought about posting a wrap-up of the summer.  You know, a kind of checking in with everyone,  "what I did on my summer vacation", not unlike the essays we wrote in fourth grade. 

But, the thought was fleeting.  A chit-chatty report would have been tough, if not impossible.  Thus, I am reduced to terse paragraphs, as follows:

We went to London! We had big fun!

On our return we found out that my father was admitted to the hospital for pneumonia.

We celebrated birthdays and Molly got her drivers license!

In the meantime, my father's health was deteriorating as was the behavior of a certain family member.  More proof that there is a direct correlation between the onset of a crisis and the upswing of family dysfunction.

We enjoyed summer's bounty from the farmer's market all through July and ate wonderful meals of fresh organic salads! Lots of artisan cheeses and breads, too!

My father spent three weeks dying, was revived at one point despite a "No Code" order, then hung on to what became a painful existence on a respirator for a week and a half.

In that time, my father and I had a heartfelt talk.  I can't say more about this because it's sacred stuff.  I'll try to write about it once I can stop crying when I try to write about it.

My father died.  I was there.  Sometime I'll try to write about that, too.

Then, that certain family member began to flip out. 

It wasn't a flip out where you felt badly for the family member, the sort of thing that involved sobbing and fainting spells.  Instead, this family member became a tyrannical fuckhead (or, a "crazy ass bitch", as observed by my astute younger sister).  This family member fought with all of us, attempted to take over the planning of my father's services, and successfully hijacked the visitation and Rosary at the funeral home.  Essentially, she turned the Rosary and the funeral home room into an art installation, with netting laced around the room and  my father's casket, replacing the lighting with spooky candles, burning sage and incense, placing weird little tokens and do-dads here and there, and - get this - lining tomatoes and onions around our father's body in honor of  his career in the produce business.

Because of these antics, everyone was distracted from the central issue - that our father died and the loss felt awful.   Instead of attending to our grief (which, given my situation, is a profoundly difficult matter that requires big time therapy and a complicated cocktail of anti-depressive and anti-anxiety medications), we had to deal with taking vegetables out of my father's coffin.

Everyone stops speaking to her/that certain family member.

There's more, much more, a stunning amount of more.  But as I write this, I feel compelled to pick up our 20 zillion ton cast iron wood burning stove  in the living room and throw it off the deck.  I guess I'm still a bit angry.

Eventually, this mess should be discussed in finer detail because it had all the elements of a great Six Feet Under episode.  And since we all miss Six Feet Under, we really must  fill that void.

I attempt to go on a retreat at my favorite Zen Center.  I left early as I was feeling too fragile and jittery and should not have been alone in the first place.

The hubs and I go on a nice little vacation to Wine Country.  We drink lots and lots of wine.

We go on another little vacation to San Francisco.  We continue to drink lots and lots of wine.  Also, I went to a traditional Korean spa and got the scrub down and massage of my life by a mighty little Korean woman wearing a black bra and panties.  When asked why they don't wear swimsuits, they reply "swimsuits are for swimming."  Despite this odd attire, I need to go back as soon as humanly possible.

Molly gets a job as a hostess at a local popular Japanese restaurant.   She wears a uniform consisting of black pants, black shoes and a cute little kimono.  I will take a picture of her in that cute little kimono if it kills me, or her. 

Molly is gifted with her Dad's 1995 Honda Accord.  She immediately slaps a Red Sox die hard fan bumper sticker on the car, making it officially hers.

I become ordained and solemnize (not "sodomize", as the bride and groom kept snickering to each other) my pals Richard and Jennifer's wedding.  Then, we said goodbye as they moved up to Walla Walla to take over a winery.  (I miss you guys! Let me know when your mother throws a reception for y'all.  Walla Walla society needs to meet your sodomizer!)

The doctor increases my anti-depressant dosage.

I  marvel at my numbers on the weight scale.  I lost 8 pounds.  However, I do not recommend this weight loss program as it involves death, grieving, and a crazy ass bitch family member.

Clearly, I could go on.  I will at some point, if not for the cathartic effect, but to also have my due.  The magnificent Mrs. Eden Marriott-Kennedy tells us that Writing Well is the Best Revenge.  Whether I write well or not is a topic of rigorous debate.  However, revenge and justice should be rightly served in the matter  of "she", the crazy ass bitch certain family member.

And now, I want to lighten things up a bit.  Let us board the Wayback Machine to an innocent time when hair gel was a major player in our lives and our only ambitions were to bounce around on Manhattan rooftops wearing trendy baggy clothes.  Behold, the inspiration behind the title of this post - Banarama's "Cruel Summer":

How Life Goes On (in the nicest possible way)

Wedding in Progess I, originally uploaded by GraceD.

So, mah dollin friend Jennifer called this morning saying she had a whacked out idea and that I should sit down and hear about it. After taking a seat and asking if she was pregnant again, she told me no, but she wanted to surprise everyone and get married to her partner Richard at their going away party today (they're moving back to Washington State). She asked if I could officiate. I had to go to a baby shower first, but told her well sure, honey, why the heck not?

After attending the shower, I changed to a purty gold dress I've had forever at the back of my closet, bought a bunch of flowers, tied up cala lillies and greens in a ribbon for Jen's bouquet, and went to Kinko's to get online so I could become ordained through the Secular Humanists who ordain folks free of chage and on the spot. I checked with California law to make sure all was legal and, WTF, it was. Then, I wrote out a ceremony in 15 minutes, printed this at the Kinko's and headed over to the park for the going-away picnic/surprise wedding ceremony.

Jen, in the meantime, bought a slinky pretty dress for cheap at the Salvation Army, her lovely friend Shannon fashioned a sweet floral headpiece, Richard put on something tropically handsome and their two kids reluctantly got into dress up clothes.

We asked the party crowd to gather round under a willow tree near where the going away picnic was taking place, and blew them all away with a setup of an altar, vases of flowers, Jen and Richard in fancy clothes and the announcement that this get together was also a wedding.

And, just like that, my pals got married. They even had rings.

Isn't that great?

What is the sound of one's heart breaking?

I think it sounds like a low, steady roar.  That's what I heard in my head yesterday, a roar that started off as a pesky and pervasive annoyance, then gradually became overbearing, painful, even tortuous.   

Sometime in the late afternoon, the blessed feeling of solitude dissipated and a desperate loneliness took over.  A lump in my throat formed, my arms and legs became heavy and my stomach ached.  I knew I had to get back home.  I knew I needed familiar turf and faces.  So, I left beautiful Green Gulch Farm, a place where for years I found solace and comfort.

At first I thought a little side trip would help, so I drove over the hill to tony Stinson Beach and hippie haven Bolinas.  I looked around.  I took pictures.  But, the roaring in my head got worse and I was beginning to panic.

I drove a little too crazily on the windy, hilly road back to the farm, pulled into the parking lot in a dust cloud and raced into the courtyards and buildings looking for the monk who worked in the office.  I found him cutting black fabric very carefully on a table.  He was likely working on a new robe.

This particular monk was a gentle-giant kind of a guy with a French accent.  He wasn't at all startled or disturbed when I marched up to him with purposeful steps and stammered:

"Hi. I gotta get out of here.  I'll pay for last night and tonight, but I have to leave NOW."

He looked at me kindly and spoke with warmth and understanding:

"Yes.  I see.  Well, that won't be a problem.  And don't worry about your reservation for tomorrow night.  We'll forget that."

"Oh, really? Oh. OH! Oh, thanks. THANKS! So much! Yeah."

"May I ask, is there a problem with your room or anything else about your stay?"

I almost yelped HELL NO, but caught myself:

"No no no no no! I love this place! But, I think I better go home because my father died two weeks ago and I'm kinda flipping out and I should really be with my family.  And, my dog."

Clearly I was channeling my vulnerable inner teenager.  But, the French monk overlooked my hand wringing and said softly:

"Ahhhh, yes.  This place can bring up difficult things like grief and sorrow.  That can be good or very hard.  I'm glad you know what you need and can act on it.  Please be careful driving home.  I'll send you an email receipt for your payment.  Be well."

I shook his hand.  Rather, I pumped his hand, which is probably not a very Buddhist thing to do.

Then, I packed and fled.   

I'm quite certain the roar was not a manifestation of "voices in my head".   I kind of wish it was because there's medicine for that and, in most cases, the medicine can make it go away.  Instead, I think that I'm hurting big time, smarting from this complicated-conflicted sorrow and heartbreak. 

By the time I picked up Malcolm at the dog sitter, the roar disappeared.  But, now I'm feeling like that vulnerable, flipped-out teenager. To drive the point home, my psyche went into cahoots with my body and presented peri-menopausal me with a little tiny period, remarkable enough to produce some mild cramps.   I'll bet any second now a zit will show up on my chin. 

It's good to be home where Molly maintains a stash of feminine hygiene supplies and benzoyl peroxide.   It's good to be home with Molly.   And, it's good to be home where I can allow my heart to rest and quiet down, at least for now.

Buddah peace to you, mah dollins.

Days of Kale and Simplicity

Lunch:

Kale and white bean soup.  Kale must be the Green Leafy Vegie of the Week.

Brown rice

Salad with cucumbers and red peppers dressed with a light vinaigrette

Earlier I walked over to wild and windy Muir Beach.  No one was around except for two guys walking the length of the shoreline with their dogs.  Wandered to the far end of the sand to check out the tidepools and encountered a young couple "doing it".

Now, I'm no prude and I'm definitely a fan of The Dirty.  Life at our house is an extended Cialis commercial.  One time I did it and Molly showed up nine months later.  Sex is all good.  However, exhibitionist sex in a public setting is obnoxious and intrusive.  I muttered perhaps a little too loudly, "Keee-rist, get a room!"  But, they remained in hump mode.  Pah.

More on my lodgings:

Welcome, Ms. Davis.   Shadowy self-portrait at the door of the Lindisfare Guest House.

This is the Zen version of check-in:  They leave a note on the door directing you to the room.  On the flip side of the note is an invitation to dinner at 6:05.  Pay your bill any time in the office/bookstore.  That's all.

    

Common area, center of the guest house.

Cast iron stove, comfy seating, colorful rugs, billowy house plants and fresh cut flowers.  The building design is energy efficient.  Crank up the stove and the whole building is toasty warm.  Adjust the heat in your room by opening/closing the shoji blinds.   

Bed with shoji blinds above. 

Good reading lamps.  Mattress was slightly sucky, yet I slept well.

 

 

 

 

 

Desk, chair and the great outdoors beyond the sliding doors.

No painfully ugly hotel-art like hunting dogs or bad acrylic paintings in teal and peach.

 

 

Your basic reading chair and lamp.

Really, what else do you need?  Nothing, except for more kale.

Little Altars Everywhere

Good morning from the Land of a Thousand Buddah Statues.  This Buddah sits atop an old nightstand in a bamboo grove.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For breakfast:

Polenta.  Nice and mushy, cream-of-wheaty.

Breakfast tacos of scrambled tofu (who needs eggs?)

Green and red salsa, shredded jack cheese, sour cream.

Little avocados to mix in with the tacos or to eat solo.

 

All produce fresh from the farm.  Everything organic and compostable, of course.

Another little Buddah house next to the tree adorned with beads and Tibetan prayer flags.

Lest you think that the Green Gulch Zen Buddhist priests, monks and students are somber, serious bald headed spooks in black robes - well, they're that too, but they're also vigorous, smiling folks.  They epitomize how the Green Gulch Farm's Abbott, Reb Anderson, describes American Zen Buddhism - a "muscular" practice.   The men and women are strong and mighty without making a show of it.  They also laugh a lot, when not in silent mode.  And sing - I hear a woman singing right now.
   

Buddah greetings from the greenhouse.

Today I will walk over to Muir Beach, just a half mile away.  It can be a windy, chilly beach, so I'll dress accordingly.

After I digested lunch, I'll take off on a five mile run and drop in on Muir Woods.

'Round these parts, it's clearly all about honoring John Muir, white America's first tree hugger.

 

My favorite altar - on a workshed.  That's a dark, rich and active (bees crawling in and out) honeycomb to the right of the Buddah.

The library is closed for rug cleaning, so I'm outside on a picnic table, uplugged.  The battery is low, so off to the beach I go.

Love and peace, Dollins.