5 Years to Grief

Well, it's been five years since "the day it all changed," the day I witnessed my Grandma die suddenly.  Every year at this time,  I'm a wreck.  Okay, let's be honest, for the first several years after, I was a wreck!  And each June 1st, I would mark this day by crying at home, becoming a blob of emotional wreckage, and sometimes writing a post about how much it affected me, about how shitty post traumatic stress disorder is, about how my whole life shifted with one afternoon...

This year, however, I haven't been upset about how she died.  In fact, I've worked really hard on the what/when/why/where part of the whole ordeal and can, to some extent, accept it.  This anniversary, I've still been a wreck, though, consumed with sadness about the loss of my grandmother.  A loss that feels like a horrible, crippling cavity in my chest, empty because she's no longer filling it up.  I know that pain is normal to feel after people die.  But this isn't the dull ache of a family member now gone yet always missed.  This is grief.  Minutes-after-it-happens, bone-shaking, wailing-to-the-universe grief.

Which is actually amazing to feel.

Let me explain.   See, I've spent the past five years feeling the trauma that came with how my grandma died and the part I played in it.  Feeling responsible.  Feeling guilt.  Feeling isolated.  And yes, feeling sad that my grandma wasn't here anymore, but those feelings were either so small compared to the nightmares and the guilt, or barely dwelled on because all thoughts of her led to images of that day...

And now?  Well, now I can see my Grandma's face.  Her deep wrinkles.  Her smile.  I can hear her full belly laugh.  And her rapping her knuckles on the mustard yellow formica island while her beloved songbird clock tweeted every hour on the (wrong) hour.  I can picture her gold stud earrings.  And her "old lady" t-shirts with embroidered flowers on them.  And her tweed slacks that always had to have deep pockets and usually mismatched her many pairs of socks.  I can taste her chili, which she always had supplies for in case one of us kids might drop by.  And her cornbread, made in the same perfectly seasoned skillet every time and still the best cornbread I have ever eaten.  I can smell her, a mixture of something uniquely-Grandma and Dior's Dune.  And I can feel her hugs.  And her unwavering support.  And her love, imperfect as she could be at expressing it.  I feel that love, for me and my dad and my grandpa and my sister and her brothers and my aunt and cousin... I can feel it so keenly now that it has almost erased all memories of that horrible, horrible day.  Almost.

Sure, she wasn't a perfect parent or grandparent or wife or human being.  Sometimes she was codependent.  Sometimes she made racist or ignorant comments.  Sometimes she got really, really sad. She almost never cleaned.  And, as much as I loved the food she made me, it was usually just this side of burnt.

But everything she did, she did with the best of intentions.  For every slur she would use, she was making friends with anyone and everyone, sometimes to the point that we'd spend an hour just trying to get into the grocery store.  And for every time she didn't support her children in the way they had hoped, there were the millions of times she had food ready "just in case," even if no one showed up.  For every time she was depressed and anxious, there were the times that she picked us up at school, or took us shopping, or babysat us no matter how she felt.  And for every time she was ridiculous about something, there were all the times she let us spend the night and never failed to rub Vicks on our chest when tucking us in.  For every time she was petty or shallow about someone, there were all the times she treated her children-in-laws better than their own families sometimes treated them.  And for every time she didn't understand me, there were all the times that it didn't matter any-which-way because she loved me for exactly who I was. 

She loved the best she could.  And based on how terribly I miss her, she loved me a whole, whole lot.

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Forgetting to Remember

I woke up in a funk today.  It took me a while to realize why I was feeling sad when nothing sad had happened to me--turns out that today is the six-year anniversary of the passing of a dear friend, Cathy Fleming.  It's crazy because I actually spent today's therapy session talking about how lucky I've been to have amazing friends like her, who are so diverse in their beliefs and perspectives and self-expression.  And I'm especially lucky because I've gotten to this place of openess and thankfulness after spending years wanting to be accepted and giving my energies and time to people who weren't the types who could ever appreciate me, my friendship, or, in some cases, what it means to be a decent human being.  And yet, though I thought about my friend during therapy, it didn't even occur to me that perhaps I was suffering her loss today and that's why I was in a funk.  It's amazing how the body can remember our emotional trauma, even when our worries about day-to-day minutae push out the more important thoughts.  Like, for instance, how friendship is a gift and should be cherished, nurtured, and valued.  Or how life doesn't always turn out how we planned.  And (perhaps the most important lesson I learned from Cathy) how, even when things feel crappy, that doesn't mean we have to act crappy. 

Anyhow, I am linking to last year's post about Cathy.  Please read and also considering donating to a good cause.

In closing, here's a video to say "thanks" to all my friends out there!  I love you and couldn't navigate this life without each and every one of you!

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::face palm::

"Well, see, I got 15 emails that said it was true, which makes it more true than just one email saying it isn't true, you know?"

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Barrel Gone Dry

About a month ago I wrote a post about how I was dealing with the house rehab and unpacking and decorating.  I talked about how I was doing all my cognitive-behavioral therapy stuff and trying to "change my language" about the situation and that it was working...

Well, since then I've had major coping skill FAIL.  I mean F-A-I-L.  Like, crying at work, screaming at the boy, giving up and hiding under the covers at 6:30pm on a Sunday, feeling (honestly and truly to my very cells) that it would NEVER get better, that it had gone on for too long and that all of the work I had done to improve living life with a mental illness was, "bam!" out the window.  It was baaaaaaad.  Like, right after my Grandma died bad.  I couldn't even go into work even though it meant not getting paid... I didn't go to U2 even though Em scored us last-minute tickets... and I honestly wasn't sure why it was all worth it.  The way that OCD makes me feel is so counter to who I really am that sometimes I just feel like I will never be able to live life how I want to... how I deserve to. And that makes me really, really sad sometimes.

So, what happened?  What made me flip my shit despite having techniques in my arsenal to avoid such a situation?  Well, for one, I have a mental illness that I can't "cure," one that I can only work with in hopes of having a functional and fulfilling life.  Treatment isn't foolproof, which can be really daunting because even if you're doing everything "right," you still get fucked over sometimes.  Out of nowhere.  In public. With everyone watching.

For two, it's been almost a year, 365 days of constant anxiety, at levels similar to how I felt on my worst days after Grandma passed... my "dark days."  That's a lot of anxiety to cope with on a regular, consistent basis.  I think that my barrel just went dry, my well was empty, my breaking point met.  I didn't have any more energy to deal with the intrusive boxes, the lack of organization, the lack of control.  I know, I know, it takes people YEARS to unpack.  Well, I am not people and I do not take years to unpack.  (There are those absolutes again...)

Finally (or for third, whichever you think has better symmetry), I had the flu.  It's true! Being sick made me a complete disaster.  It's like when I was a kid, whenever I was totally irrational or cranky or whatever, my mom would say, "Ooo I hope you're not getting sick."  And then, the next day, "poof," I was sick.  I personally think my mother is some sort of evil sorceress who would create "sickness" so that I would be quiet and asleep and weak instead of healthy and just plain annoying.  I have no proof, though, so I guess we'll just have to say she was right.

I'm clearly feeling better now, you know, with the "sharing" and the "jokes" and all.  I'm not sure how or why, but I woke up a couple of days ago feeling like a human being again, albeit one that now recognizes that there are some things I will (here I go with strong language again) not be able to compromise on, no matter how much I wish it.  Having a stable, organized, uncluttered home is one of them.  It is very clear that in order for me to be a person out there in the world, one who has enough energy to stop the need to control the uncontrollable or the intrusive thoughts about what did or didn't happen or pick your favorite OCD issue-of-the-day, I need my "safe space."  I need a place to come where, when I look around, I don't see a million things that I need to do and no clear way to start, I don't see something out of place that sparks an intrusive, repetitive thought that won't go away, I don't feel uptight and crazy and untethered to this world.  Instead, I just feel like I'm home.

Maybe one day I'll be able to be a "person" and be lax about my personal space.  Last week was proof that this is not that time.  And, in all honestly, admitting this and allowing myself to be a complete basket case helped me get over it.  As weak as it might sound to some, I honestly think that being able to say to ourselves, "this is my limit," can be a powerful, even empowering, thing.

So, what now?  Well, we are nearly unpacked, though we are waiting on some additional storage items to be shipping.  We have some painting to finish, including all the trim.  And we have some furniture to buy.  All, in all, though, it feel like the storm has broken and the pieces are falling into place.  It's starting to feel okay, though there's a nagging pressure in my chest if I think about how much we have left to do for too long...

Here's to hoping that my renewed strength can hold out until the puzzle is complete!

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Judging a Book By Its Cover

I honestly don't think that I need to say anything about this video. I really think that the individuals in it speak for their ignorance just fine without me chirping in. Rebutting their claims that "fascism, socialism, and communism are all the same thing" is pointless...besides, I've already tried it before. Just watch and be appalled--as the boy said, "I really hope that this represents the lowest common denominator in our country or we're in trouble."

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Friday Food For Thought

I'm a big fan of Jezebel-in fact, if I had the ability to blog while doing my other full-time job, I totally would want to blog for them or Bitch Magazine--and I tend to link back to a lot of their posts on this little blog o' mine.  Today, during my afternoon brain-break, an article on the argument between the "you're fat because you aren't good enough" and the "you're fact because it's what your body was built for" weight schools-of-thought caught my attention, as I'm not only someone who grew-up with family members who struggled with their body image and struggled with my own before I actually had any weight gain to speak of (!), but also find that "fat hate" is as much a social justice issue as feminism is.  I'm also interested in the issue because I'm currently trying to get my activity level back to what I feel is best for me after several years of eating my feelings and attempting to deal with other foundational issues first.  Perhaps this means I'll lose a bit of the weight I've gained or perhaps not.  To me, it's somewhat beside the point (on most days), though as you can see from the comments featured in the article, it's certainly important to some out there what other people's weights are.

Anyhow, you should definitely read the post, regardless of where you stand on "will power," if only to hear a very strong voice speak about her struggles.  But I'll go ahead and share the paragraph that struck me the most:

If you're a regular reader of mine and you feel like you've heard everything in this post a million, billion times, you have my apologies. I am so sick of making these arguments, I cannot even tell you. Unfortunately, people can't even get it through their heads that diets don't work — despite both a mountain of scientific evidence to that effect and a friggin' "results not typical" disclaimer on every ad — let alone that it is possible to be fat and healthy, that it is equally possible to be thin and unhealthy, that correlation does not equal causation, that there is strong evidence that obesity is highly heritable, that calories in/calories out is a ludicrously simplistic equation unless you think human beings are Bunsen burners, and that, above all, fat people are human beings. Which means we can hear you. And our continued fatness is not a personal attack on you or our country or our healthcare system, but the result of complex factors science is only beginning to understand, and in very many cases, something we have already tried our damnedest to change.

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Memory Banks

I've been working on a couple of non-blog writing projects lately—collecting and digitizing old teenage angst poetry and journals, working on some academic articles, outlining a salacious romance novel so that I can finally retire at the ocean (kidding! or am I?), sending birthday cards, balancing the checkbook, etc.—so I haven't been spending much time scouring the internet for snark to snark about while being a snarkity snarkmaster. Looking through my old journals and writings has gotten me thinking about what it is that my brain actually catalogs...

Because of my OCD, it seems as if most of what I remember from a moment is what I was worried about, obsessing about, upset about, you name anything other than what actually happened at the event or specific details, that's what's in my brain. That, along with useless celebrity gossip and decades-old CBS soap opera plotlines. I'm consistently unable to remember a really funny event that happened with my best friends, but can recall the Wednesday 2 months ago that I was unable to get anything productive done because I was replaying a conversation from years before over and over and over again.* I can remember all the times I was upset in elementary school, but very little about childhood fun and games (whatever the hell that means). No matter how I try, I can't recall half of the stuff that happened in high school, except whatever insecurities were bouncing around and around in my head. This used to upset me: here was ONE MORE THING that I couldn't do right, so much of my life stolen from me because of a stupid wonky brain.

But...thinking about how I remember all of my incessant thinking, got me (you guessed it) thinking. In truth, there's no "right" way for memories to be kept or, even, one way events are supposed to be remembered. My memories are a reflection of my worldview, whether I like what gets captured or not. I'm seriously considering seeing if I can't scrap together some sort of timeline out of all my anxieties, see what I can piece together in spite of this thing that, for whatever reason, is a part of how I view, deal with, and remember my life. 'Cause knowing what it was that was bothering me (OCD or "real") at a certain time in my life, OCD is certainly better than worrying about how I can't remember... I mean, 'cause really, do I need any more worry floating around up here in my noggin'? I think not.

*My OCD doesn't manifest in the stereotypical "germaphobe" way... I tend to have issues with perfection, fear of harming or hurting others, and fear of misremembering something important, misrepresenting myself, or misleading others in some way. I tend to make a lot of lists, rearrange items, and replay conversations and situations over and over and over again.

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Four Years Since It All Changed

Well, this week has turned out to be harder than I anticipated. I had been doing really well anxiety-wise, so I must say that I'm a bit blown by how raw I've been leading up to today... How horrible having the flashbacks and dreams is and how much I still blame myself for what happened... On the one hand, I guess this is good, that I'm not used to feeling this awful anymore. On the other hand, I can't believe the last three years were spent feeling this way. What happened to my life? What happened to me? How in the hell did I get out of that mess?

Four years ago today, my life changed forever. It's the day that became my before and after, my personal B.C. and A.D. time marker. Four years ago today, I flew home to Arkansas for my wedding, went and spent the day with my grandparents, like I always did, and then watched, helplessly, as my Grandma died suddenly in front of me.

At the time, I put on a grateful face for my family--"Oh, I'm so lucky I got to say goodbye. It was meant to be that I was there. I got to tell her that I loved her one last time." That was a total lie, told to make them feel better so they wouldn't worry about me. In fact, I felt like absolute shit--if I hadn't gone there that day, if I hadn't let her take me shopping, if I had been faster at calling 911, or done CPR correctly, or SOMETHING, it wouldn't have happened. She would have had her CAT-scan the next day, the doctors would have found what was wrong and, poof! an alive and healthy Grandma!

I've spent most of the last four years "living" because that's what I was supposed to do... I went ahead with my wedding even though I still have a hard time separating the happiness of that anniversary with the awfulness of the days before it. I went into work (sometimes, when I wasn't sleeping or crying or hungover or angry or just plain sick) and went to interviews for better jobs, including the one I have now and love. I called friends back and hung out, which was always fun, but I dreaded because it meant being out in the world. I told everyone that it hurt, but that I would be okay. That it would just make me stronger. Really, I didn't believe any of it and I did most of my "living" out of guilt or fear of failure or embarrassment. I really just wanted to lie in bed, watch the tv, and eat my sadness. Which I sorta did. And when I wasn't doing that, I was on autopilot or navigating a raging sea of anxiety and flashbacks and panic attacks and anger and guilt and sadness... I was exhausted from pretending to be a person... I would have given ANYTHING to trade that day with someone--if they thought it was so great to have been there, they could fucking have it--I was there and I didn't want it anymore, not one single second of it.

About a year and a half ago, after moving into a new apartment, finding a job that I really love doing, and continuing to fake living, something happened. I actually started really living. I found a new therapist. I started going to acupuncture. I began not only enjoying spending time with my friends but also seeking it out. I honestly don't know what I would have done without them, as they stuck by me until one day I dreaded being in the world a lot less than I had before... I began grieving my grandma and missing her, not just thinking about how she went away. I was able to separate the two--how she died is one thing, but the fact that I don't have her around anymore is another. I began being able to miss her for her, which was so freeing to me. To cry because I was at the store and saw some socks that she'd love (she was a big sock person) and not because I'd heard an ambulance and had a panic attack.

So what now? What happened? Did enough time go by that the wound just healed? No, I can honestly say that, clearly, it's still there. If I think about that day and what she looked like as she passed and how scared I was and how responsible I felt and still feel, it's clear to me that my soul is still in a lot of pain. But... I'm not as mad at myself about it anymore. Last year this time, my therapist said to me something along the lines of, "I know that it's hard and it's horrible that you went through that, but you need to learn how to deal with it. Because it could happen again. Right now, the next time you are with someone you love, it could happen all over again. And you need to be able to still live." I was so mad, for weeks, after she said that to me. And then it hit me... it's true. I have to learn how to deal with this because I couldn't control it then and I can't control it now. The boy could die on his way to work tomorrow and I have to deal with that. I absolutely cannot continue to define myself by that one hour of my life, that one moment of perceived failure... I have to define myself for the many moments that happened after, the strength that I didn't even know that I had and the fact that, for the first time in a long time, I honestly didn't remember how much it hurt to feel this way...

My acupuncturist asked me a couple of days ago, when I went in all squidgy and distraught, if I would trade places with any of my family. Privately, I've often told myself that I would, especially when one of them would say how jealous they were that I got to be there. But, my old, public answer was always "no", at least in regards to the other grandchildren, my twin and my cousin, because of a couple of reasons. One, I didn't want to seem like a shit. Two, I honestly think I was the best choice at the time. See, the thing is, I'm often horrible with my own problems, but with other people's, I get some sort of super cool, take-control power. For all the guilt that I feel, I know that I made sure that only one grandparent died that day when I forced my upset grandfather to take his heart medicine when I saw him have symptoms... I honestly don't think that my cousin, who has continued to struggle in his life with depression and addiction, would have had the clarity of mind to focus on the mission at hand--get Grandma to medical attention and make sure we keep Grandpa alive. My sister probably could have handled the 911 and all that, but she didn't realize that my Grandpa needed to take nitroglycerin for his heart and wouldn't have known to say anything. I happened to know, so I thought of it in the middle of another crisis. Am I a superhero or special? No. But did I do at least one thing right that day? Yes.

However, that's my old answer. On Friday, for the first time, I started to say what I always said and then paused... and eventually answered the same thing, but for a totally different reason. When she asked me, "would you trade," instead of saying no but meaning yes, I said, "Yes, if it would mean the same outcome and Grandpa didn't go too." And then, I thought for another second and said, "No. I wouldn't. I wouldn't trade because I wouldn't want anyone else to feel the way that I've felt for the last four years... I would never want my sister or cousin or mom or dad or aunt to feel this horrible, for any reason. So, no. It's something that happened to me because it did and that's just the way that it is."

So, it seems that my body (or soul) still has scars and somehow remembers when that awful day happened... It likes to remind me through dreams and crying and nausea and panic and anger. And that's okay. Because I'm sure I'll never forget what happened that day and I shouldn't. But, I can honestly say that I can live with it.

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Please Donate

I've been thinking a lot about friendships this week... What they mean to us, what we expect from them, how they change or grow or go away, how they make us who we are... In particular, I've been thinking about a very good friend of mine, Cathy Fleming, who many years ago helped me see the beauty and creativity and fun in me that I didn't even realize that I had... and that I never imagined others would appreciate and, even, cherish.

Sadly, one of the main reasons that I've been thinking about her and the changeability of friendships is because five years ago yesterday she passed away after a life-long struggle with diabetes. She was one of the best friends that a person could have and I feel so blessed to have been a part of her life, in any small measure. She was kind, and loyal, and loving, and smart, and funny, and witty, and a true spark of life... never complained about anything (well, except how Arkansas wasn't her native Chicago... and Republicans), especially not her health. To this day she is an inspiration to me whenever I begin to let the little things in life turn me into a cranky, negative shrew.

The world is a tiny bit dimmer without the light that she shined on those lucky enough to know her.

Please read this memorial written by her family and consider donating to help other children who have diabetes live a full and happy life.

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So Simple, So Hard...

This gov't memo from Delaware is almost laughable in its obviousness, except that, well, people still act this way! Gawker has highlights, but here's the whole thing if you want to read it:

DIVERSITY SPOTLIGHT
Spring Edition
2009
Delaware Department of Transportation
Comments you never want to make to a coworker
WORKPLACE FAUX PAS

Curiosity is natural; and with a diverse workforce, inquiring minds always want to know. How you communicate
your inquiries can keep you from offending your co-workers.
How can you go about interacting with your colleagues without putting your foot in your mouth? How do you keep
from getting the cold shoulder and creating friction in the workplace? Understanding how others are affected by
your comments will help build an inclusive and diverse work environment.

It is always better to be honest and acknowledge your unfamiliarity when you are curious about a person or a topic.

It is never inappropriate to build a better working relationship with your co-worker by getting to know them. You
can never go wrong by saying “I really don't know that much about...” or “I’m curious about this, would you be
offended if I asked you….?” People will have greater respect for you when you are sincere and admit you are
genuinely interested in learning about them.

Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender Co-workers

Employees who make the decision to “come out” are
usually apprehensive about the kinds of reaction they
will receive from colleagues.
• What did your family say?
This is personal and not an opportunity to
start gossip.
• I don’t consider you gay.
This is insensitive.
• Have you thought about getting help?
You are stereotyping, telling the person
there’s something wrong that should be
fixed.
• Never call a coworker a “fag” or “homo.”
This is derogatory, rude, and totally
insensitive.
• I didn’t need to hear that.
If you are not interested in the person’s
personal life, simply say “Thank you.”

African American Coworkers
• The “N” word
You may have heard comedians or African
Americans use the word “n*****” casually.
It is never, ever acceptable to use this word
in any context. You are asking for trouble;
leave this one alone.
• You people
Let’s just say you are asking for trouble
when you make this reference. Your focus
should be on the individual, not the race or
culture.
• Should we order fried chicken or
watermelon for you?
This is stereotyping and shows ignorance.
• You are articulate, or you speak very well.
As opposed to what? You may be implying
that most African Americans are not well
spoken or well educated. Remember a vice
presidential candidate made this mistake.
• I am not prejudiced against black people,
my neighbors are black.
You are saying it’s all right to treat people
differently because you know a few people
of the same race.

Asian Co-workers
• You must be the new IT person.
All Asians are not IT professionals.
• You speak English very well, or did you
learn to speak English in America?
You are assuming that everyone who speaks
with an accent is foreign born. The fact is
that we all speak with an accent; e.g., New
England, Southern, British, etc. The
appropriate approach should be “I’m not
familiar with your accent, may I ask where
your accent is from?”
• What’s your native language?
Don’t assume because people look
differently or speak differently that they are
not natural-born Americans or are from a
foreign country. Remember we have
military bases all over the world; and don’t
forget the Peace Corps or Fortune 500
companies with employees and families
spending the bulk of their lives overseas.
• Can you recommend a good Chinese
restaurant?
All Asians are not Chinese. Take some time
to study a world map. The world is made up
of continents with many countries, regions,
cultures, and sub-cultures. Remember the
news reports about a vice presidential
candidate who thought Africa was a country.
• Wow, you are from India! My neighbor
Ashok Shah is from India; do you know him?
Think for a minute … do you know every
American - or everyone who lives in Dover
or Wilmington?

Older Co-workers
• You know Wal Mart is hiring.
This is not funny. An older employee has
experience you could benefit from.
• When can we start planning your retirement
party?
With this kind of attitude you are creating an
unfriendly work environment.
• You are just warming that seat.
DelDOT values the contributions of all
employees regardless of age.

White Co-workers
• That’s how a typical white person acts.
You are suggesting that all white people are
the same by putting them in the same
category. The behavior may have nothing to
do with the person’s race.
• I don’t trust white people; they are all
racists.
This is stereotyping and totally
insensitive. Get to know the person or
discuss why the actions may have offended
you. Don’t generalize.
• White trailer trash.
Why would you think that referring to
someone as trash is acceptable? This is
derogatory, and should never ever be used.

Co-workers with Disabilities
• You don’t need to date; your life will be
better without a woman/man causing you
trouble.
Being disabled does not mean the person is
socially challenged.
• You don’t look disabled. Why do you have a
handicapped sticker?
The person may have a non-visible
disability.
• Never refer to a co-worker as a “retard.”
This is an insult to people with mental
disabilities.
• Never refer to a co-worker as handicapped.
Always remember person first. It’s not the
“disabled man.” It’s the man with the
disability.

Hispanic/Latino Co-workers
• You know we should send all of you back
across the border.
Don’t assume because people look
differently or speak differently that they are
not natural-born Americans. Where did
your ancestors come from?
• It is never ever acceptable to refer to a
Hispanic/Latino co-worker as a “spic”
“wetback” or “hot footer.”
This is
derogatory.
• Can you help me out with my landscaping?
Why would you assume that all
Hispanics/Latinos are landscaping experts?
• Can you recommend a good Mexican
Restaurant?
This is stereotyping and shows ignorance.
All Hispanics/Latinos are not Mexicans.

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Moving on...

So the "Purple Tunnel of Doom" has been getting some press and we're getting some apologies and some free pictures of Obama and Biden. I'm personally trying to keep it all in perspective: that Obama is president, that what could have been a dangerous situation wasn't due to the goodwill and spirit of those of us trapped down there, and, as a coworker pointed out, that we were still a part of history... not all history is good, sometimes it means being part of a huge organizational snafu, like the Purple Tunnel of Doom, but it's something that'll be remembered for a long time... 10 years from now I can tell my nephew that, "Hey, I was one of those 4-10 thousand people trapped underground who never got in that they always talk about! Isn't that awesome?!" Sure, I'll never get the moment back, nor will any of the people who never heard anything more than the canon shots, but for my own sanity, I have to reframe this in my mind or I'll never be able to enjoy the moment and all that it means. Am I still pissed? Hell, yeah. Would I turn down a redo? Hell, no. But, in the end, there's nothing I can do about it...

As I kept telling myself the four cold hours I was trapped on Tuesday, "Find your Zen, Elizabeth, find your Zen."

Zen being found...

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Elizabeth and the Tunnel of Doom

So, the boy and I were lucky enough to get purple tickets to the inauguration, got up at the ass-crack of dawn, walked from LeDroit Park, and patiently waited in line. In the 395 tunnel. For four hours.  AND NEVER MADE IT IN. 

Sufficed to say, I'm pissed. I'm sad. I'm angry.  And an apology is not enough.  I won't ever get this experience back... and I'm one of the lucky few who lives in DC, knew where to go when I finally got the fuck out of there, and got home just in time to see the speech.  Thousands of people (way more than the four thousand bullshit number they are throwing out) were in the tunnel behind me and thousands were in front of me and all of us were turned away, many of whom were black Americans who had waited years for this day, never dreaming that it would be possible.  And we couldn't hear a damn word from where we were crammed and jammed and standing.

I want a redo.  And I want it NOW.

PS I have to say, though, that I am still a fairly happy camper... Obama is president, his speech was lovely (loved the shout-out to us non-believers!), I got to go the Mayor's Inaugural Celebration and see T.I. and Wyclef (thanks Em and Paul!!!!!!!!!!!), and Jenn and Tish came into DC for the event, so, I had lots of love and lots of hope.  It's just my hope wasn't floating quite so high after I got out of that damn tunnel...

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Not Rape

I know that this is a bit heady for what is essentially my "end of the year" post, but I had to put this article up that I found on Jezebel.  It's about "not rape," those experiences of sexual assault, harassment or coercion that many women experience and don't know how (or have the power) to frame.  And that society continues to support by blaming the victim or making excuses because the individuals are otherwise "good" men or by teaching woman not to offend people and speak up.

An excerpt:

Entering our teenage years in the sex saturated '90s, my friends and I knew tons about rape. We knew to always be aware while walking, to hold your keys out as a possible weapon against an attack. We knew that we shouldn't walk alone at night, and if we absolutely had to, we were to avoid shortcuts, dark paths, or alleyways. We even learned ways to combat date rape, even though none of us were old enough to have friends that drove, or to be invited to parties with alcohol. We memorized the mantras, chanting them like a yogic sutra, crafting our words into a protective charm with which to ward off potential rapists: do not walk alone at night. Put a napkin over your drink at parties. Don't get into cars with strange men. If someone tries to abduct you, scream loudly and try to attack them because a rapist tries to pick women who are easy targets.

Yes, we learned a lot about rape.

What we were not prepared for was everything else. Rape was something we could identify, an act with a strict definition and two distinct scenarios. Not rape was something else entirely.

[...]

Not rape came in other many other forms as well. No one escaped - all my friends had some kind of experience with it during their teen years.

Not rape was being pressured into losing your virginity in a swimming pool pump room to keep your older boyfriend happy.

Not rape was waking up in the middle of the night to find a trusted family friend in bed with you - and having nightmares about something that you can't remember during the daylight hours.

Not rape was having your mother's boyfriends ask you for sexual favors.

Not rape was feeling the same group of boys grope you between classes, day after day after day.

Not rape was being twelve years old, having a "boyfriend" who was twenty-four and trading sex for free rides, pocket money, Reeboks, and a place to stay when your mother was tripping.

My friends and I confided in each other, swapping stories, sharing out pain, while keeping it all hidden from the adults in our lives. After all, who could we tell? This wasn't rape - it didn't fit the definitions. This was Not rape. We should have known better. We were the ones who would take the blame. We would be punished, and no one wanted that. So, these actions went on, aided by a cloak of silence.

Not rape was all those other little things that we experienced everyday and struggled to learn how to deal with those situations. In those days, my ears were filled with secrets that were not my own, the confessions of not rapes experienced by the girls I knew then and the women I know now.

So, not to be a party pooper, but I think this was good food for thought.  May all of us be harbingers of peace and kindness next year...  and have a great 2009!

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wtf, obama, wtf?

I mean, I get trying to meet in the middle--some of my best friends have opposite views than me on LGBT issues or abortion rights, but you know what??  I'm not getting sworn in by them to be President... and if I was, at least I could say I was FRIENDS with them...

Pick somebody else, dude! 

http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/12/17/obama.warren/index.html


ps I know that Obama is smarter than me and probably has a plan...

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Goodbye Mollygood

Mollygood, my go-to for celebrity gossip, is going away and I'm sad. I know it might seem superficial to lament the end of a gossip blog, but in a cyberworld where so many websites either "tell the news" by ignoring pertinent information in lieu of brangelina gossip (ahem, I'm looking at you CNN.com) or, if focused solely on gossip, do so in a horribly misogynistic, crass, banal, and stupid way (e.g. Perez Hilton, yeeeah, tmz, idontlikeyouinthatway, etc., etc., etc.), Mollygood was refreshing.  It offered a daily dose of mindless distraction, but did so with respect and awareness for different lifestyles and diversity.  Its commentors were often above-par intelligence and funny as hell, its posts were refreshingly political, always fun and snarky, and, without fail, plain ole' smart. 

In a world where ignorance is lauded as a "traditional" value, I will be sad to no longer have a place to get my gossip without having to dumb myself down.

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