1:51 p.m. - 11/29/03
faring better than the turkey.
Today could well be the "after" in a before-and-after advertisement for anxiety meds, though actually I haven't even needed to take the as-needed ones yet. I plan on needing to, but I haven't had to yet. I'm aware that this visit is approaching, but it seems so surreal, and everything else that's going on makes it feel minor, which I much appreciate. I still have one brother (Joe) sleeping in my house, Dale just went home this morning, and John's been in and out for the past few days. I haven't had the time alone I had to obsess about it all on Monday and Tuesday, and I've been socially engaged and distracted enough to feel like two more people are just two more people. Is it weird to think of seeing someone I haven't hugged in nearly three years? Yes. But it's not pushing me near to panic attacks (knock on wood), so "weird" is fine by me. It could even be "fun." Now wouldn't that be "weird."
I'm honestly in shock that I haven't cancelled. Thursday morning, I woke up in such agony, thinking about the day that I had before me, and panicking over the day (today) I'd have so soon afterward. Like some other people with anxiety disorders I know, I've come to depend on the right to pad my days of exertion with days of complete convalescence. The idea of consecutive days with uncomfortable challenges terrifies me, and I spent most of this week feeling like I was back in school, back in an endless cycle of impossible expectations. Like my running skills (crippled by both my lack of training/ practice and my breathing inabilities) I manage several short sprints almost impressively, but don't have the endurance for one uninterrupted race. As I considered what it might mean to stay with my mom for Thanksgiving, I was more strongly pondering the possibility of calling Shandi up and cancelling right then. Subtract that anxiety from the equation. I did something somewhat unprecedented, though. I told myself that cancelling Friday, or even Saturday, worked just as well as cancelling Thursday, so long as I allowed myself to suspend being anxious about that day. I still had faint hopes about worrying less after the holiday, if my theory about using this anxiety to cover my worries about the divorce-Thanksgiving-equation proved accurate. So I didn't cancel! Go me. I threw a semi-resentful glance at my mother, staged an exaggerated smile, and went into the sanctuary of my brother's black truck, where a rather articulate minutes-long exchange of "This is so fucked up" began a serious venting session. John sang me a They Might Be Giants song I hadn't heard or didn't remember, which had been in his head since his birthday last week. It was a fabulous remedy to all that ailed us. I think They Might Be Giants could qualify as the less political, more random relation of my beloved Moxy Fruvous, and the verse of "Older" that John applied to the holiday (this day will soon be at an end/ and now it's even sooner/ and now it's even sooner/ and now it's even sooner/ this day will soon be at an end/ and now it's even sooner/ and now it's sooner still) while having some grammatical issues was spectacularly well-fit. He also had a new version of "an old classic" - a song to which I don't know the actual lyrics, only those my father always sung on Thanksgiving: "I've got plenty to be thankful for/ I've got my Max, got my Mary/ got my Dale, Joe, and my Sar-y/ I've got plenty to be thankful for."^ I told him I was ready, but I still laughed myself nearly into tears when I heard his version. "I've got plenty to be thankful for. I've got my-"
And then silence. For about five seconds. Until the person he'd sung it to either bent to comfort him or doubled over with laughter. He started to list all the really fucked-up things he's been through this year, which made me feel really understood; I realized there are several people in my life who've had as horrible a year as I have. People who normally have less-than-stellar lives, for whom this year was still notably vicious. We commisserated a bit about how many times we've said to ourselves or those in our lives that we've reached the breaking point - we can't take one more painful puzzle piece - only to be blown away by another entirely unjust tragedy. It was also nice to find him better informed about the circumstances that led my mom to file for divorce; I think he and I know the most about it, having been around, and having the doctor to...not exactly break confidentiality...but to help steer us away from the misinformation we were originally fed. Still, the drive to Brigadoon went way too quickly. When we reached the final turn-off: Left to Brigadoon, right to the community in which we spent our community theater summers, I begged him to go back to the theater building, so we could kill the day there. He turned left. Minutes later we went through the vortex into 1950 and pulled into the parking lot of my dad's, grandma's, and great-aunt's apartments. "Go now," I said, "before they see us from the window. If we go now, no one will know. We can pretend to have car trouble." John pulled the car into a parking space, and I sighed.
"And now it's even sooner," John sang, and I nodded, stuck the song on my mind's record player and stepped out of the truck.
My dad greeted us at the door; he had a poor-quality but nonetheless cute snowman, hanging on his door, wishing Happy Holidays to all his guests. His "Happy Thanksgiving!" felt ridiculous, the image of Dale and Joe on his couch begging to watch something other than the re-run of the Macy's parade (which Joe informed us they'd already seen three hours of, earlier that morning) equally so. My grandma greeted me with absolute sweetness; she was really lovely pretty much the entire time. She even made vegetarian versions of side dishes without my having asked her to do so. And I escaped the painful pushing to eat more that my brothers had to endure on the basis of a reality I'd been complaining about: the way she played to the boys. I was allowed to eat a typical meal and nibble through the afternoon while everyone else complained they'd never feel hungry again. And I didn't have to miss my mom's turkey (which even my grandma likes better than my grandma's) because, obviously, I wasn't eating it. And I barely got any crocheting done, although I'd brought enough yarn to supply me through a few days' worth.
Right after we arrived, Joe led the sibling band out into the park across the street, and we threw a football around, as - apparently - all Americans are supposed to do on Thanksgiving. Highlights for me included hearing Dale say, "When did you learn how to throw a football?", replying, "I didn't...obviously", and hearing, "I think you're doing the best of any of us" in response. John agreed that I was definitely the draft pick of the day, and I laughed. I'm not used to my brothers' jokes affirming me so that was cool. I told Dale that Joe had given me some pointers two Thanksgivings ago, and indeed did so again this Thanksgiving, but I wasn't sure he (Joe) would want to be associated with his pupil.
We had some fun. Dale and my dad went in after a whole five minutes of activity, but Joe, John, and I "ran plays" for awhile longer, playing a ridiculous game of football with a bizarre yet simple scoring system, and a whole lot of dramatizing. Later, we went to the playground, read the rules (I believe we managed to break all of them by the time we left), and went in. We were rather amused (or was it disturbed?) by a lion we all remembered as being totally kick ass. His head is open to roar, like Luna Lovegood's hat, and from a distance he looks fantastically tough. However, when you close in on him, you find he's wearing the most fantastically affeminate expression possible, with some bonus sky blue eyeshadow. We laughed ourselves silly talking about ways to use distant and close-up shots of this terrific beast, and Joe decided to work on throwing a football through a hole, in what I suppose was a door, at the bottom of the bridge/slide/tunnel structure. He managed it in about five tries; it took me about forty. (But I'm relentless - I mean, persistent - and did continue until I forced the sucker through.) They pressured me onto the merry-go-round and I consented, insisting - when they finally quit turning it - that the thing was still spinning. But by then, some "actual kids" were approaching the park, with some trepidation apparently on our account, so we stumbled back toward the grass and rock lots, played a little more football, and had Dad call us in for feasting.
We played musical chairs (minus the music) for a few minutes, until I finally ended up completely trapped in my seat, just as I dislike. My great-aunt arrived; I had only found out that morning that she was coming, and I greeted her fondly from inside my trap. We ate food. We told jokes. Joe kept a mental tally of how many times someone said "bastard" because he was determined on hitting 100. (My grandma had apparently told him that "bastard" was a Lastname word; that was the word "we always" said...and Joe, very much amused that our grandmother considers this certain profanity part of our heritage, did manage to pass 100 by the end of the meal.) Sooner than later (as much as my dad and grandma love a holiday meal, even that won't outweigh their desire to hurry through to whatever comes next) the meal was cleared away, and I managed to escape from behind the table. I walked over to Effie (my great-aunt), gave her a big smile and a "proper hug", asked how she was doing, told her I was ok, held onto her fingers a little longer than necessary, just like always. I so love her. I feel bad, sometimes, like there's a competition between my grandma and her, like loving her or having a good relationship with her means I love my grandma less...but it doesn't. Effie and I just tend to be on the same page more often. Which made it all the more inappropriate when the second thing my dad said to me upon arrival was, "Effie's not doing so well. Nana thinks she might not be around much longer." I stared at him and said, "Happy thoughts!" in an almost abrasive, disgusted tone, to which he replied, "Well, you know, she's been having lots of troubles." I shook my head to try and find a way to respond to him. Finally, I said, "Hi. Dad? My life is filled with pain. Would you like to add to it?"
"Why, no!" he said. "I didn't mean it like that." He then proceeded to ask me why my life was full of pain, before asking what my mom was up to and mentioning that he'd invited her over for the holiday, but he guessed she didn't want to come. He let me know she was invited for Christmas Eve also, and I just waited inside myself to see whether I'd manage to keep cool and simply roll my eyes, shake my head, shake it off...or if I'd explode and tell him how crazy he is, and how obviously Mom isn't coming over because they're divorcing, and if he honestly doesn't want that to be the reality, he needs to stop bullshitting everyone (particularly himself) and face the fact that he's the one in the way of a reconcilliation because he's the one refusing to get help despite how sick he is. ...John and I bitched about this extensively on the way home, both feeling similarly, until John said he really didn't think Mom and Dad would get back together, and I said I honestly had no idea whether they would, and John said he just tends to expect the worst for safety's sake. I felt criminally callous, but I still said, "I'm no longer sure their divorce is the worst that could happen." But he nodded, sighed, and revised his statement. "I guess I just focus on one bad thing and hope it's the worst that could happen," he said. I nodded, depressed by how entirely cut off we were from the purpose of this holiday. Not to imply that I don't feel a great deal of gratitude or recognize blessings in my life...but the holiday itself had brought up so little of that and so much of the darker side of family life. I know that's how holidays have worked (at least in my family) from the beginning of time, but I still feel like pouting about it. The good news about Thanksgiving is it's never been a favorite holiday of mine. Sure, there were the good old days, pre-eating-disorder, pre-separation, with favored guests and a whole day of sneaking tastes of things I wasn't allowed to eat until later...but I still didn't really understand the use of a holiday with so little partying. My favorite holiday has always been Christmas Eve, which I know will make Christmas even more difficult than Thanksgiving was... Christmas Eve was so magical for me growing up; I liked it better than Christmas. And now it will take place in that same weirdness, in my dad's apartment where my mom's art and photos decorate the walls, where the man equivalent to my great-uncle lived and died, where I try to pretend Mom's just out for a walk or in another room. I'm going to have to face it eventually; I know that. And maybe I'm facing it a little bit now. I refuse to dive into it, though. And I refuse to wait until next October to have a good holiday. I'm going to start my own days of celebration, like the post-Thanksgiving holiday, on which we celebrate our gratitude for the fact that it's no longer Thanksgiving. Or something cooler which involves tremendous costuming and abstract silliness. Always the best parts of a holiday. Connection with loved ones excepted, of course.
Speaking of not diving into things (it's a few lines up, but I was speaking of it, so ha), I realized that might be a bit of what I did "wrong" - of what didn't work out - with scheduling and anticipating the Tuesday visit. Very much like the day I went to the library and completely freaked out, and many other days...I tried to pretend that I don't have agoraphobia, that it wouldn't be a problem just because I was in a good mood, that it wouldn't come up because I wanted to go out, that my desire and my strong will would effectively counter the fear. Dangerously wishful thinking, that.
I need to finish this later. Same url, Godd knows what time. To be continued, et cetera.
chord
^My sister's name is converted to rhyme with mine in many of my father's inspired lyrical renderings. Max is a nickname only used by my parents, or my other siblings and I when impersonating our parents, for John.
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