10:40 p.m. - 07/17/03
midnight train (of thought.)
While I was away, I had all these big plans about what I wanted to write (and not only in this journal...in other journals...and in forums entirely unrelated to journaling! oh, the ambition!) ... and now it has come to be 10:40 after a very long day, and I'm seriously doubting if I'll even make it through all of what I wanted to say here. My plan, such as it is, remains to tell as much as I can before I feel compelled to collapse from fatigue, bang myself over the head with the keyboard, bang the keyboard against the wall, and/ or shut down. (Shut down emotionally, not shut down the computer, though the latter is important as well.) So off we go, with this plan as my map - even if it is ten years outdated and being read sideways/ upside-down.
While in Brigadoon^, I really missed my journal, and oddly enough, recognized the longing's intensity by a growing desire to "pray" - not so much as I pray now but in the "say how things are and ask for what I need" pattern of my childhood. I even found myself compelled to make the sign of the cross before doing so - something entirely bizarre considering how far (by some definitions) my spirituality has strayed from a Christian path. But those rituals of Catholicism that were once engrained in me do still hold power. It wasn't so many years ago that I made the sign of the cross over and over and over again, to convince myself I was safe. (Compulsivity...) It was interesting to realize that journaling, like talking to myself (as well as responding) or therapy, meets some of that same need to express/ communicate/ solve the events of my life.
Now, I have the medium back, and I'm using it to talk about my thoughts on using it when I wasn't using it. So very sad...(I'm still obsessed with Harry Potter, too. Dreadfully. Marvelously. And I just got an e-mail from my Diversity teacher, an individual I'd generally given up on ever knowing...interesting - in just that manner, I haven't read the e-mail yet - considering I told Dr. R today that I had lost hope regarding something else. Maybe this is a sign that my hope serves greater purposes than controlling whether or not things happen... such as allowing me to feel. The doctor said that my not feeling hopeful now serves to let me grieve, and that's an important thing. Now isn't that interesting? Aren't you glad you read this long parenthetical paragraph that started out with mundane minutiae so much more like what one expects to read in journals than the previous patter about journaling? I thought so. I bet you even want to read more about the appointment. Well, you know I'm not one to skimp on therapy accounts. Count on me to indulge your odd li'l' curiosity. Woot...)
(I've been trapped in a small town where it was very important for me to verbalize *every thought* that ran through my tormented little brain in order to avoid awkward silences. This message serves, hopefully, to pacify any urges you may be having to check for abnormalities in my medication levels, the state of my brain, or my general behavior. It's post-small-town-syndrome ((pstd)) ... I believe it's temporary.)
None of these are the things I wanted to write when I didn't have access to a computer. Brigadoon, obviously, doesn't know about computers. I have no idea how my father's DVD player slipped in...
So, I'm going to back up and try and attack all the subjects scrambling around in my brain (like sugar-intoxicated children playing musical chairs) chronologically. Starting with the fact that my dad did indeed come and pick me up on Tuesday and take me to Brigadoon. His picking me up was very, very weird because for the first time ... in weeks... (I think the second time since Mom announced the divorce) my mom was here when he arrived. And there was all this weird "his not-so-fun coping method of oblivion meets her plow-through-it-all madness", made even more interesting by the disappearance of posessions from "our" house to "his." I really didn't want to see him carrying things away to a different home. And I'm not at all used to having to "feel" about the divorce (in general, but especially) around my dad, considering that most of the time I'm wondering whether or not he's aware it's happening. I ended up yelling a little at my mom (who I see more, and whose pretending she's fine, therefore appearing more stable - though less so, now that I'm back) while my dad was outside, and then feeling bad that I hadn't given him an equal taste of the "you both suck for doing this" anger. I don't give him any in general, and that bothers me. I really do feel that if this is someone's "fault" (which doesn't seem like the right way to look at it; it's more their responsibility, their decision, than it is "the malicious act for which they should be blamed") they share the role of "someone." I want to show them equal angst. However, I also have the urge to wrap my dad in bubblewrap, and hang onto the end really tightly so he doesn't slip off into the mist surrounding Brigadoon. He's living in a town people never leave in an apartment complex where 70+ yr olds balance a routine and orderly life with growing preparation for, erm, death...People go to the beauty parlor to have their hair done, have set schedules for doing their laundry, and spend significant amounts of time at wakes. I can give a much more positive perspective on the place, but this version is the one that I don't want him living in. This is the dimension of the town that seriously scares me. My dad has tried often in his life to slip into the role of other men and those before him in Brigadoon, and I'm not fond of ...any... of it. But especially the part about dying before you're sixty from some sort of heart-problem. That's shit. And I don't want him returned to his pre-Dr-R, sitting-immobile-for-hours-on-end, depressed-almost-to-catatonia state either...something that seems frightfully likely living in that town, in that apartment complex, directly across from his mother. (Who I respect and love dearly but could possibly influence him in not-just-healthy ways.)
This is all of what I felt the moment we arrived at his apartment, as familiar Brigadoon sights and smells crept in, along with the realization that he was living in my dead great uncle's^^ apartment. (Also creepy and reeking of, "You'll turn into a zombie any minute! You'll be one of them! - The last word of which shows that part of what needs to change is my perspective. But seriously, some of this he needs to reject. I need him to reject some of this.)
The town is good in several ways including - it is not D!@#$%^, it has real community, it has strong family ties, and simple offerings. It is not D!@#$%^ was more than astonishment at the idea that this minuscule town was so different from where I live. (Another topic I wanted to discuss was how small suburban towns which have such common characteristics really are different from impoverished rural areas. We don't have creepy clone-like people here. Then again, we don't have people to begin with...Actual cloning might have come in handy. Notice the past tense. That'll be important later. Oh, hell, screw chronology. The house might have sold tonight. Someone came back to look at it for the second time after seeing it Tuesday, and that person won't need to seek loans or anything if it she/he decides to bid. I could be out of D!@#$%^. Life could improve dramatically.)
And, even more bizarrely, I'm glad I went. I want to go back. To begin with, I love my great-aunt. She's my grandpa's sister (though she raised him), and I've always bonded with her over the (rare) drive she had to see the world outside of Brigadoon, the fact that she was an avid reader (she once told me a story about reading a book and having people treat her like it was seriously riske, only to discover that the book - A Tree Grows In Brooklyn - was my then-current interest), et cetera. Like with my maternal grandmother, I was fond of her fondness for telling stories as well. She told me all sorts of stories about her own exploits (similar in many ways to darling Francie Nolan's), as well as giving vivid accounts of historic adventures sometimes regarding my grandpa as a small child. I particularly love those stories, as I only knew my grandpa when a very small child myself. Anyway, this visit gave me a chance to see her for the first time since last October, and confirm for myself that she was doing better, after a seriously bad spell that landed her in the hospital. She still looks strong to me. Needs a little help getting in, out, and about, but she has her internal fire back, and it shows on the outside, clearly. I was glad to see that. It's amazing, when I think about it, how oblivious I've managed to be, to the number of strong women in my life who helped me model it. She's one of them, I saw her, I felt all socially-confident (cool, considering that in the past, I bonded with her in part because I felt so shadowed by Sarah's ability to talk "easily" and the number of common interests she - Sarah - had with my grandma - and now I was confident, even in my difference), enough so that after picking her up (without my exiting the car) and driving to a custard stand (oh, yes) I walked up to her and said, "Time for a proper greeting," and shared a nice hug. We talked good talk and both had strawberry sundaes. I haven't had that particular custard in eight years. (Weird, huh? But I watched David Letterman with my dad while I was there, and a comedian on the first night talked about how vegetarians always seem to "brag" about how long they've gone without eating meat - to which he responds, "So what? I haven't had a banana in a month..." which I, as a peaceful vegetarian, found amusing and remembered. And it's true that I haven't had that custard since I was doing community theater with three of my siblings in 1996 - a good year or two or three (who remembers now?) more than I've spent as a vegetarian...
I also saw my grandma, who I've talked about in here before, and so perhaps do not need to describe in such detail. Sufficeth to say, I felt much less anxious around her than I expected to, and really enjoyed both seeing her, and seeing her delight in my visiting. I had a bit of a hard time with the fact that she was in the same apartment complex and so knew when I was home alone, et cetera, (I felt guilty for not spending every spare second with her, basically) - but otherwise the visit was really nice. She cooked me a family dish made-vegetarian the first night I was there, and it was delicious. I doubt she's ever made a vegetarian meal in her life. So definitely love.
Oh, and she had this funny habit of saying, "We figured it all out," when asked what we'd been up to...as if in the intervals between my dad's comings and goings we had managed to solve all the world's problems. I thought that was wonderful.
My dad and I were good as well. He was having a hard time believing that I was really ok, that he was really doing a good enough job with everything (and I, in turn, had a hard time feeling like I was doing a good enough job reassuring him and making it clear that I was having a seriously decent time), but other than that, (and the continued silence regarding divorce shit) we did well. We watched the All-Star game Tuesday night, I found David Letterman honestly funny (for the first time in years, though I rarely watch him...his political commentary was smart and funny, and that's enough to win me over), and there wasn't one terrible experience around food. In fact, I began to understand how food became a big deal in the lives of Brigadoon citizens ... (Brigadoonians?) ... there simply isn't a hell of a lot else to do.
The best thing my dad and I did involved watching a recording of a months-old PBS special on Mr. Rogers. We're very good at being inactive together, at sharing something that doesn't involve conversation - though we can be good at talking, too. We're just both capable of being in a quiet place where we don't really have the energy for words, and when that happens at the same time (often) passive pastimes work best. Anyway, we watched this documentary that I'd called him to say was on (originally) and which he'd been planning to tape to show me (see how connected?), and had yet to see. It was a pretty terrible piece, in terms of its own art form. It was poorly put together, sort of thrown together at some points, not well-edited. At the same time, any footage of Mr. Rogers talking, from the time he started Children's Corner to the time just before he...died...^^^ is seriously brilliant and capable of making people tear up so that held our interest. I run a mr-rogers diaryring (and I do it as more than a nostalgia, this-is-what-I-grew-up-with, sort of thing...Mr. Rogers is not the same to me as Ghostwriter...or Treasure Trolls...or other things that I still remember fondly but didn't shape huge aspects of my life) which only begins to explain my feelings for him. In the past 48 hours I've learned that I'm one of (at least) four people in my nuclear family who consider him phenomenal. My dad calls him his hero, my mother an avatar; my brother (Joe, who works in television, and who for years never showed anything to me that looked like emotion, individuality, or "weakness" ...a.k.a. non-stoicism) credits Mr. Rogers with a great deal of who he has become (another very good man) and I no longer have words for every relationship I feel exists between the two of us. I see him as a hero and an avatar, also. On top of this, I see him as a neighbor (of course), an interested adult (priceless in my experience), a genuinely good spirit, a person who really did live from their genuinely good spirit, an artist, Daniel Striped Tiger, Henrietta Pussycat, X the Owl, a friend from *every age* (so much so tha the can effect me at several different developmental points - all those faux-alters I have), a spirit guide, a presence that has transcended death, and most recently a true and important mentor. The mentor, or perhaps it's better to say "career consultant" (he's always been a mentor) aspect came up most recently, just while I watched this documentary. I knew Fred Rogers was amazing...obviously. But I did not know the context in which Fred Rogers is even more amazing. What do I mean by this... I mean that, watching Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, at all different ages growing up, I could feel how incredible he was, and knew he was doing an incredible service through that program (and through his everyday life.) I didn't know that he started working to develop that program before public television, children's programming, educational programming, (and to a great extent even television itself) existed. He left a stable network (NBC) to join a small group of people in Pittsburgh intent on trying to put a public television station on the air. (It wasn't even on the air when he left New York.) He was one of only two people in that group who cared about programming for children, and so he and his partner formed Children's Corner entirely out of their own creativity and their own funds. He learned children's developmental psychology through mentors that he found and stayed in good contact with, and mastered the art of being Mr. Rogers by spending his free days at places - such as hopsitals and nursery schools - that "served children." He was a minister (that part I knew) who considered the space between himself and his television neighbor "holy ground" - and he would not sully it with consumerist American shit. No merchandise was marketed; the show stayed extremely low-key. It remained about his simple and exquisite offering: a genuine respect, love, and understanding of children. He honestly saved public television when Nixon attempted to cut its funding in half (by bringing a surly senator to goosebumps with his gentleness, passion, and lyrics - "What Do You Do WIth The Mad That You Feel"). To make a long story summarized, he did not simply offer an amazing final product. He created the medium through which that product was offered. To me, it's as if he didn't simply produce a great painting; he created painting. He founded a form of art that allowed him to give the message he knew was important. And in my confused little head, (which is growing excited about its year - or whatever - of independent studying and growth), so determined about what it needs to do and so confused about how it can do so, that's terrifically inspiring. I feel like I have him as a mentor despite his death. I feel like he's actually guiding me, not just inspiring, but guiding...
And I think, in terms of the move into the city, that if Daniel Striped Tiger can go onto the Tonight Show - and speak on live television - I can do anything. (That was my other hugely inspiring moment. But I am entirely in love with Daniel. I mean, I run a ring for him as well...)
Alright, I think that actually covers the time in Brigadoon. (Whew, we're about halfway through my day now. Jesus. I'm not even telling you how much time has passed.) I had an appointment with the doc today (as previously mentioned) for which my dad dropped me off, and from which my mom picked me up (and so the child is exchanged.) Dad and I left early, bummed around an unrecognizable mall of my childhood (brilliantly redone, but entirely different), grabbed lunch, and went to the doctor. I have to say my favorite part (better than when I said, as I have a few times before, "Don't worry about" buying me that item I mentioned liking; "I'm good just being with you") was when we were in this awful CD store and I asked if he'd checked to see if they had any John Costa (musical arrangement for Mr. Rogers...I wasn't the only one profoundly affected by this sucky piece.) He said no, and we went to look, even though the possibility of finding any John Costa, and especially of finding the album where he plays music from the show, was basically nil. I flipped through the alphabet and said, "It doesn't look like they have him."
"No," Dad said. "I'm not surprised. It would have been a miracle if they had that."
"I know," I said. "That's why I thought we should check."
...Now, honestly, I'm slowly building up self-esteem from literally none, but when I type that response, I can't help thinking I sound damn cool. I mean, that's the sort of thinking that leads me to believe I would want to know me.^^^^ And that belief, as well as the belief in miracles (which my dad was glad to know I have...I said hey, if I need to hope the house in D!@#$%^ is going to sell, I'd best believe in miracles) really is a lovely thing.
Actually, there was a lot of the trip that made me think about spirituality. I know mine is skewed, but the elements of Catholicism present with both my grandma and dad (my grandma prays the Rosary twice a day, in part that our house will sell; my dad, you may recall, studied to be a priest) reminded me of early beliefs, and the needs for them. Needs that still exist today and are filled in other ways. Thinking of old beliefs brought up thoughts on how those beliefs have changed, and what they've changed to...There was the un-ignorable point of being sufficiently irritated by the use of past tense in the documentary ("Mr. Rogers was a great man"), signifying that I don't believe he's gone, i.e. I don't believe death is an end. The recent thoughts regarding the intense push for theistic spirituality in our culture that seems to give an ultimatum: "Believe in God or believe in nothing." I realized a bit more about my own beliefs, which I'll elaborate on later (as in, not in this entry), helped along by Bill Mahr's comment that fundamentalists' opposition to homosexuality can be explained by the simple fact that, "Some people believe God wrote a book." I know it's a line that will offend some people and make others grin a bit, but I'll have to bring it up again, when it's not the time I'm not telling you it is.
So, spiritual awakening leads to...the waiting room at the doctor's office. Bad waiting room with its annoying smooth jazz and other patient who does not strike up a conversation with me. Grr. I wait, aware of the fact that I have an overloaded backpack with me, and that the doctor will be aware of this, too. The doctor comes out. He's wearing a bright yellow shirt (I can catch colors without making eye contact), and he smiles really fully, genuinely and says, "Good afternoon," in a way that actually sounded sincere. (This impressed me.) He then spent a long, long time talking with his receptionist about something I'm sure was important before inviting me into his office. I grabbed my stuff, we went in, he commented on my stuff, and I explained to him that I was coming from Brigadoon.
Quickly, this conversation becomes about the divorce, and the even more important topic of home. Divorce is one of the many supporting topics that leads back to my main subject of home, and we spent quite a bit of (not so comfortable) time there. I talked about how my dad seems oblivious and my mom seems callous and even vicious sometimes. He asked a bit about how I imagined it had happened- i.e. did I think it a mutual decision, something one of them chose and the other was victim to, et cetera. We talked about how I believe it's a decision they both made, that neither one of them was at fault individually, that technically I didn't believe either one of them was at fault to begin with, and that the ratio of who drove it more isn't something either of us can know. We can guess, but we can't know. He said he doesn't know because he's only known their relationship for two years (and it's gone on for almost thirty.) I don't know because I can't ask, and I would be told fundamentally biased tales if I did. We also talked about the annoyingness of being able to express "upset" feelings around my mom but not my dad regarding the topic...and the annoyingness of seeing fragility in my dad but not in my mom (when she really needs to be feeling something. First of all, it's impossible that she's not. And secondly, the idea that she could not be is painful. She's definitely seemed more fragile since I've returned, though. Which feels hard and good simultaneously.) Oh. And we talked about why I'm able to view my parents' relationship and decision the way that I do. (Without choosing sides.) I realized that it has a lot to do with the strong dose of each parent's temperament in my own: At given points, I've really needed and been cared for well by my mom; at other given points, I've really needed and been cared for well by my dad, and so I can't very well choose sides. Five minutes after I take my dad's side, I end up seeing my mom's side. That's something that was true growing up, and remains true now. I quit picking sides in small, consistent things between them, and that makes it easier to not do so now. Plus, I don't want to. I don't want to pick sides, and that helps.
And then I told him about the possibility of moving in the near-future, and he said I seemed restrained as I said it...Then he asked if that restraint came out of not wanting to get too hopeful, to jinx the possibility by wanting it so much, or from some other feelings about the move (non-happy ones) that we hadn't talked about. I told him both, and we discussed the latter - because he already understands why I want to run, run, run from D!@#$%^ into the city where things will be so grand. I don't even fully understand why I don't...so obviously, we chose that course of discussion.
Basically, it comes to this. I really, really want to go home. (It always comes to that, doesn't it?) I constantly feel that need; having my bag next to me made me feel again like the traveler who shuffles around, always with a roof and walls, but never with a home. I told him about those feelings, and I told him about the newer pain of not wanting to live at my "mom's place." This is the last house we'll have shared, and as long as we're here, and my dad is pretending there's hope, it's easier for me to believe that this isn't really happening. I don't want the (inadequate) attempt at home that I've had all these years to be split in half. It already isn't enough.
And of course, I mentioned that calling Rogers and solidifying (again) that connection made the inconsistency of home here more easily handled. I told him about being at siblings' houses/ apartments, wanting to come home, and realizing I couldn't. I even told him about being young and saying over and over again to myself, "I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home," only to realize I was in my own bedroom. I cried and laughed as I said it. It's laughter but real pain. There's no denying the real pain. I tried to cast it off a little with an old method (self-blame)...by saying "I'm such an ingrate." He did what he generally does: be brilliant. He finds a way to tell me what I need to hear (which is why I'm saying thoughts I "know better than" - even emotionally, thoughts I'm basically past, if only for this moment) without being so extra-affirming that I'm compelled to tell him bad things about myself all the time to hear disclaimers. (This is also stayed by the fact that he consistently helps me feel better when I'm not demeaning myself.) And that's what he brought up in my defense this time, too: consistency. I did not have a consistently stable, supportive, there-for-you, understanding environment. He said, "It would be an injustice for anyone to act as though your parents are villains in this situation. And it would be an injustice to deny your very real past which you know already: that what you were given could never be considered 'home.'" He said that my feelings were legitimate, that actually, legitimate was not a strong enough word. I mentioned Rogers, the real home, and how I lost it "because I decided to get better." I said that last part with all the absurdity of its truth, and he understood the laughter and the tears. He says his wish for my family is that my parents find a way to offer us a home, whether it be one home or two homes: that there be a stable environment where we can comfortably go and enjoy our experience. (The one home or two home thing results from my dad's hope, which I think is false hope, but which could end up being accurate. One never knows with these folks. Which sucks.) I told him that I didn't even have hope for that anymore...that's why I felt like an ingrate, I said. Because I didn't even *have hope* that they could be my family. Hope was separate, I said. Separate like Rogers. I was seeking it elsewhere. He said I had it in me now to find and build, and that I would do so. He said I'd be surprised when I'd created a stable home, how many places could feel that comfortable as well. I nodded a lot then, a bit lost for words.
Then I said, "This totally sucks," and he laughed and repeated it. "Well, almost totally," I amended. After all, I'm learning quite a bit about myself. (Speaking of, I'm already less freaked out by that earthshattering entry of five days ago. Sweet.) On the way back, I felt for the first time since she announced the divorce, like I wanted to tell my mom I was sorry. Not to apologize, but to say I'm sorry for her loss. It's not something I'll feel all the time, I'd guess, considering I still have a lot of being really mad at them to do...but it was nice for a moment. To recognize the pain that she's in and wish that she weren't in it. To know that no one took the easy way out here, even if I believe they took the wrong prong (!?) of the fork in the road.
I also acquired a copy of We Were the Mulvaneys on the way back. I think it's going to be too relevent, but I need to reread it anyway. I wasn't even thinking about the familial disintegration. I was thinking about the shit with rape earlier this week, and Marianne Mulvaney had been on my mind. Joyce Carol Oates sucks (me in whether I want her to or not); she's amazing.
Oh, and there's one more Brigadoon story I want to tell. The first time we went out to lunch, I was a little anxious because I was going to order for myself (like I've been trying to do) and I hadn't taken my extra anxiety meds...and when we walked into the restaurant, they were playing a song from Britt's mix album, the chorus of which ends, And she flies to a place where she's loved... Well, I had a home charm in my pocket, part of what I'm going to give myself for my "real birthday" which is still over a month away. And I touched that, and I thought about flying above everything to the place where I'm loved, and all the people who will be there...and I felt immensely better.
Better is good.
chord
^I'm fairly certain I've used this term before, but since I don't use it often, and don't think I've added it to the "cast" (and important terms) list, I thought I should refresh memories. Brigadoon is where my paternal grandma (and almost all relations on my dad's side) and now my dad himself reside...it's the name of the mythical Scottish town which awoke each morning after a century had passed...though honestly, my Brigadoon, is only about 5 decades behind...(still enough to make a girl squirm).
^^I'm not actually sure that's his relation to me, or that we're even related to begin with, but if it isn't the relation, it's the explainable equivalent. Is explainable a word?
^^^I'm going to start using that word. Because I am going to redefine it to fit with what I believe about Tracy and Mr. Rogers. And in order to redefine it, I have to stop cutting it out of all my ramblings.
^^^^"Now I know what I've been looking for all these years......myself! I've been waiting for me to come along and now I've swept myself off my feet." -Seinfeld
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