Then She Did

The ability for a song to reach across decades to touch a part of my heart nothing else can always leaves me shocked. "Will you say hello to my mom? Will you pay a visit to her?" When I was in my 20's I cried my eyes out of my skull listening to those words every time. Say hello to my mom if you see her sleeping in a box on Skid Row or fighting the bees for breakfast from a dumpster or giving blow jobs in the alley for coffee money. Memories of the months we spent together playing cards while we waited for my oldest to be born. Or the time we sat on the balcony watching fireworks in the distance while drinking peach Schnapps. How we made each other laugh. The long drives. The punches. The insults. The tears. How I wanted her to love me. How I wanted to make her laugh. How my stomach still wretches at the thought of her being beaten far out in the desert time after time. The heroin. The blood. "She was unhappy just as you were." An addict just as you were. I put her there and walked away. Selfish tears from my eyes when I hear those words. How I long for the good days that were few and far between. And now I am gone. Aye. Oh. Where did she go? I don't know. Shame on me for abandoning her. Shame...

In a foreign land

Yesterday started just like any weekend. Loniliness gripping my throat all night, work in the morning. Despite all of the sleep and "normal" nightmares of the last few weeks, my bed is still a desolate place for this widow at night. The plan was to leave the little one with the Teenagers so I could work a full day to replace a day next week. Saturdays are usually quiet in the office. I can sit in the dark listening to music and trip away. The same old drama started just as one foot was out the door. Almost made it all the way to the car. Cringing, I walked back into the house, removed my coat and shoes. I am doomed. Nights followed by mornings like this make me want to throw my hands in the air and collapse on the ground until my body decomposes into dust. It is always the same story, always the same words, always the same ending.

 There are times I wake feeling like a bird about to take flight. Times I am ready for the day's adventure to begin. The only times it is good is when I am alone. The rest of the time with the largest smile on my face, I am pulled back into reality by the heavy metal schackles on my ankles. Makes it sound as though my children are a terrible burden. This is not totally correct. While it is true life is different when one lives with kids, it was ultimately my choice to bring them into this world. I made the concious decision to surrender my life to them. While I do not regret these decisions, sometimes there is only enough energy in my poor body to maintain only one person. 99.89 % of the time, I split this between them. Anyway, after almost an hour of gnashing teeth, I dressed the little one and we were off to work. I knew it would only be possible to work about 4 hours instead of the 8 I planned, but any time spent at work this weekend is less time I have to spend there next week. My baby girl was better than I could have dreamed. She sat quietly sucking her thumb while listening to music for the entire 4 hours.

I took her out for lunch to reward her good behavior and to buy us a little more time away from work. As we drove, she told me she had a nightmare last night but she did not want to tell me about it because she was afraid it would frighten me. I told her she could tell me anything because I am very brave. Suddenly, there were tears in her eyes. "Mommy, I dreampt you were dead. I never want you to die. You are my best friend and I would miss you forever." She knocked the wind out of me. She followed with, "Will you live with my Daddy again when you die? I am so glad kids never die because I am very scared to die."

There are times I can convince myself I am just a widow. My husband just died. There are times like these when I have to face the cold fact that I am a widow by suicide. My beautiful husband. My little one's loving father intentionally placed a 12 gauge shotgun into his mouth and blew his head off. Some day I will have to explain this to her. Although I will not use graphic detail. The fact remains that she asks often how he died. I understand the reasons he took his life, but will she?

What's the point?

Every day is a new adventure as I explore my mind without the adrenaline haze. It is hard to remember a time without crippling anxiety every moment. So many memories. So many experiences to examine through this new lens. Objective observation and analysis. For example... I have dated a little since Justin died. It seems the men who are available who are also interested fade away. Most of them have nothing in common with me. Music, books, experience, anything is workable. I am not interested in them. The questions are these...

Why do I fall for and want the men who are unavailable in some way? The point of dating is to relieve loneliness by adding a companion. Someone to spend time with. Someone to talk with. Someone to share the experience of life. As it stands, since the day Justin died I have been alone. Nearly every moment of my life is spent alone. Conversations with myself became old years ago. Loneliness sucks. Yet, it is as though I want to sabotage myself by allowing myself to desire men that cannot give me the companionship I so desire.

Why? Perhaps it is fear. I have never felt worthy of love or attention. I fear they will lose their love for me once they realize what a horrible person I am inside. Is it insulting to Justin's memory if I love another man? Is it a form of self abuse? Is it ignorance? I have only had a few serious relationships and I have only been in love twice. By dating an unavailable man am I allowing myself a taste of companionship without exposing myself completely to rejection? I get to hold a hand some times. I get to feel a warm body occasionally.

Truth be told, I have always wanted to be special to someone. Irresistible. I want to look into eyes that sparkle when they look into mine. I am tender inside despite my tough exterior. A chest to bury my face in when difficult times come. I want to be vulnerable but this is impossible to accomplish with a man I hardly see or speak with. Justin was this for me for 9 short years. He would greet me at the door with a gigantic firm hug that showed his genuine happiness I was home. This is one of the things I miss most about him.

Could it be I have read too many fairy tales? Justin always insisted women were stupid because they believed Prince Charming would ride out of the darkness on a white horse to sweep her away to a castle where they would live happily ever after. Is there a dream deep inside me somewhere which believes this will happen? For so many years I would repeat "It won't always be this way. Life will be better when I am big." to myself as my mother screamed at and beat me. The interesting thing is that I never had a clear picture of what my life would be like. My friends always imagined a husband, a big house a nice car, a great job, beautiful kids running around a manicured lawn. The only thing I wanted was not to be hit and yelled at. I imagined the blissful nothingness of death more clearly than any tangible future.

I wish more than anything someone would take my hand and lead me through this. Show me the right way. Help me...

Reflections of the way life used to be...

Friday night. I have listened all day to the chatter of couples and friends cementing the details of their various weekend plans: Dinner, drinks, road trips, quiet nights watching movies, family gatherings, trips to wineries, Las Vegas, coffee. I have listened all day to complaints about husbands. "He is so inconsiderate! He never asked me what I thought. HE wants to go out with his friends." All of it makes me sick in my stomach. It is rude and hateful, but I envy every moment of their lives. Everything about them makes the contents of my stomach turn sour. The terrible feeling of jealousy mixed with anger. Jealousy is obvious, but anger... If there were any sacrifice I could make, any prayer that worked, if the loss of voice caused by screaming and wailing at the top of one's lungs would make it possible to change places with any one of them, I would gladly pay any price. I would literally do anything if it could only open my eyes to find myself sitting next to Justin. Face buried in his arm, holding his hand. I would pay any price to have the security of knowing I was loved without question by someone I loved the same way. I would do anything to be in their place. I would treat a good man like a king. I am so ashamed of these feelings, I would not dare tell anyone. The years have left a sad longing deep in my core. There is a huge emptiness in my soul. I am lost. The only relief comes from imagining my own end. As I lay on the ground dying, I see him with the same golden brilliance as I saw surrounding him the first time I saw him. He is walking toward me. He reaches down to lift me. He takes me in his arms and spins me like a small child as I repeat over and over, "How I have missed you..." Tears come from a place so deep it feels like my soul is pouring out of my eyes. There has to be a limit to the number of times a person can cry this way. I think back to all of the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years my soul has spilled my life force out . Is there a final episode that marks the end? Is there a single tear that causes the body to collapse into a pile of dead meat on the ground? I fear this and secretly hope it is true. This may sound bad. I don't mean to say I am trying to steal anyone's husband. My friends have accused me of this since Justin died because I am nice to their husbands. I am nice because they are nice. Just because my friends are mean to them and don't appreciate what great guys they are does not mean that their men are garbage. When Justin was alive. I literally cherished every moment I spent with him up until he started to go crazy. So maybe the last 3 months of his life? Even at that, I was respectful and loving. He shut down which made this supremely difficult, but I still tried. I did hurt him in those months leading to his death. I have to live with that for the rest of my life. My poor behavior will haunt me until the day I die.

Roaches in the sink

So, being naive and gullible is for the birds. I believe I have really done it to myself this time. My new medication has allowed me to sleep, which has brought clarity to my thinking. I see now so many people in my life which take advantage of me. A couple are people I hold very close and dear. What should I do? I like the idealistic part of my personality. The part that believes there is good in every person. But reality is beginning to set in. My parenting skills, my morals and my common sense have been questioned heavily in the last couple weeks. This is heartbreaking to me. My mother was one of the bad ones. She brutalized me. I have done my best to raise my daughters in a non abusive, loving and secure home. So many mistakes, but for the most part I have been successful. At least I tried. This tears at my ego in a super painful way.

And for the man I am in love with... It has been coming for a couple of months now but as usual, I ignored the signs. We went from 90 mph down to 2 mph. Has his relationship improved? Has he found someone who he enjoys? Is he seeing someone else? Is he wrapped in internet pornography? All of these are possibilities. How likely are these scenarios? It is impossible to know what is in another person's heart. I knew Justin better than I know myself, and still I was surprised the day he died. Is my crazy paranoia getting the best of me? My fear of being the last to know? Or perhaps the dullness the medication has given me? Maybe I am too bossy or my insistence to over analyze everything? Maybe it is simply because I am a bitch. A bossy bitch who likes to control everything. I am not beautiful, young or undamaged. My brain is just beginning to show signs of life. No... I am ugly, fat, old and stupid. Who wants that, really? Even Justin, as much as that man loved me, came to hate me in the last couple of years of his life.

Sympathy is not given to mistresses. This is completely understandable. After being on the receiving end of the betrayal, I can say without doubt, it feels like crap. I wished slightly bad things for the women. Not death or physical injury. If someone wants to leave or be with someone else, it is their right as a free thinking human being. Wasting time with someone who does not make you happy is a shame. This leaves a real lack of people to talk to about this. So I post to my only friend and harshest critic. Myself.

Anyway, feelings that have been forgotten since 2000 are resurfacing. And what is most distressing is the feeling I have driven another person away. So many years of seclusion. So many lonely years. Is it wrong to want a chest to lay my tired head on? It is possible I may never find someone who I will feel comfort with. Justin knew me and loved me anyway. Twice in a lifetime may be a pipe dream. Everything might be okay. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing for certain. Time usually tells all. So much emotional exhaustion. Will things ever be good again?

Dear god

Okay. So I may alternate between bitch post and my story. Haha! I don't expect anyone will read any of my silly nonsense anyway. The last entry was intense. I found memories of my childhood taking hold of my heart. They won't let go. So many beautiful things that touched me before I was really aware of the world around me. When I think of these things, the thoughts are always followed by memories of what happened in subsequent years. I find myself overwhelmed with a melancholy desire to hold my child self and the desire to kidnap myself to save the little me. I have never had this type of feeling toward myself. I have felt something similar in the past, but always for other people. In a way, I have felt the circumstances in my life were the result of some pre-life-as-a-human evil. Some sort of celestial atrocity I participated in on a planet far far away. I wrote a letter to god...

I am sorry. The sorry a child feels when she squeezes the caterpillar too hard and it's guts squish out as she tries desperately to poke them back into it's belly. The sorry of someone who has gravely wronged someone only to find that person dead before she had the opportunity to apologize. The sorry a woman who turned her back on her mother feels when she receives a call her mother is gone. It feels trivial to apologize. Please forgive my wretched soul. Please. Please. Please.

You know the horrible things I have done in this lifetime. And presumably the horrible things I did before I came here. I have suffered greatly. Perhaps not enough to make up for anything, but I beg for forgiveness. My grandmother told me you are a vengeful but forgiving god. If crawling on my face for a month would absolve me, I would gladly do it.

The problem is that no matter how sincere my prayers are, you do not answer. Maybe you are, but I am not quiet enough to hear. Maybe I lack understanding. Maybe my life is the answer. I do not know. I have convinced myself there is something I am supposed to learn. I would appreciate a hint.

In the beginning there was light (Part 1)

Countless people over the years have told me I should write a book. I will do that now in the form of a blog. Perhaps this will be a confessional which will serve to purge my soul of the joy and sadness I have experienced in my time on this lovely blue marble floating in a vast sea of nothingness. I am shooting for a post each week. We shall see... Feedback is welcome : )

My parents are Theresa and Gilbert. Their beginning was typical for people living in Albuquerque at the time. Late 60's, early 70's were a time of great social change across the country. In our area, the Chicano movement was gaining momentum. There was a great sense of cultural pride and comradery which caused people to unite. My parents were introduced by my uncle Elmer and his future wife, Angela. Angela was one of my mother's best friends. They grew up together in the South Valley. My father had just broken off a long relationship he had with one of his 1st cousins. They were in love but this type of close relationship is frowned upon by the deeply religious followers of the Roman Catholic church. My grandparents insisted they stop. After the deaths of my grandparents, speculation began about the daughter she gave birth to months after their relationship ended. She never disclosed the name of the father. It is entirely possible her child is my sister.

My mother was born after only 5 months of gestation. My grandmother's pregnancy with her began only a month after the birth of my mother's brother. She didn't know she was pregnant. My mother weighed 1 pound at birth. This was back in 1953 when premature babies her size died. They did not have the same technology available today. No incubators or sophisticated treatments. The nuns at St. Joseph's hospital cared for her. When she was 9 months old, she was returned to my grandmother. My mother was featured in the newspaper because she was a miracle baby. Sometime after my mother was born, my grandfather died. According to my aunt, he had some sort of heart defect and volunteered for experimental surgery to fix it. He died on the operating table. He was 31 years old. I believe my grandfather's death and my mother's birth left an impression on her siblings that somehow she was responsible for his death. Kids have funny ways of connecting unrelated events. Regardless, my grandmother drank heavily and was out dancing most nights. She was several years younger than my grandfather. The kids were left alone most of the time. My aunts were several years older than my mother and took out the frustration of caring for the family on her. They beat her mercilessly. They bashed her head against the wall on a daily basis. I believe this abuse in combination with lack of oxygen as an infant caused my mother's mental deficiencies. We would find in her 50's that her IQ was one point above mental retardation.

When my grandmother was in her mid 30's, she found out she had a fibroid tumor in her brain. The doctors insisted she have surgery to remove it as it was causing terrible headaches and loss of balance. They gave her a 50/50 chance of surviving the operation. If she survived, they gave her 50/50 chances for retaining her ability to speak, walk, and see. She miraculously survived the surgery with speech, and the ability to see. Unfortunately, she was unable to walk unassisted. This additional stress on the family increased tensions between my mother's siblings.

My uncle Isidro, my father's 18 year old brother was in Vietnam. In March of 1971, my father's family received the devastating news he was killed. My grandmother was hanging clothes on the vast sea of clotheslines located behind the adobe house the family built. Military men dressed in their finest broke the news to her. She fell onto the dirt. I have found the official letter from the government regarding the nature of his death buried in a dusty cabinet in my father's house. It tells the story of his time in Vietnam in a brief matter of fact manner. My uncle Isidro drove a tank. They were under heavy attack. One of the other tanks was disabled. The men driving it tried to get away but the enemy fire was intense. My uncle drove his tank directly into the line of fire to draw it away from the injured soldiers. The result was his tank was blown to high heaven. He received a purple heart and a medal of honor for his brave sacrifice to save his fellow soldiers. My grandparents received a small box containing his remains several months later.

My grandparents had 8 children. 4 boys and 4 girls. My father is the forth born. He has two older sisters and Isidro was his older brother.

8 months after my uncle's death, I made my entrance into the family. I was born on Thanksgiving Day 1971. I was the first grandchild born to my grieving grandparents. I was the miracle that saved the family from self destruction. My grandparents (my dad's parents) baptized me. My grandmother, Bennie, gave me the middle name Grace because I was a Thanksgiving baby. My grandmother Louisa gave me the middle name Lucenda. To Roman Catholics, baptism is a big deal. The people who baptize the infant take on responsibility of 2nd parents and will assume care of the child if the parents die.

It is interesting to note that my parents lived at in a small house close to my grandparents when my mom was pregnant. My mom was close to delivery when she decided to bake a cake. She walked up the hill to my grandparent's house to borrow a cake pan then returned home to bake. A short time later, my aunt Debbie flew into the house crying. She was maybe 12. Her grandmother (my great grandmother), Pablita had collapsed and she was in a panic. Pablita had a pace maker which I assume followed a heart attack. My family is weird about sharing medical information so I may never get a clear answer about what happened to her. According to my mom, Pablita collapsed in the bathroom. When my mom walked into the bathroom, Pablita was lying on the floor and appeared to be dead. My mother placed her hand on my great grandmothers chest. My mom felt one heart beat, then nothing. My mom was terrified. Traditional healers say that if an unborn child is exposed to death, the child will suffer from susto. Susto is an overwhelming fear that emanates from deep inside. It is difficult to explain the concept in English. It is the fear someone experiences when they have a near death experience or from extreme danger to their lives as in war. Combat soldiers suffer from susto. I have always suspected two things about my great grandmother's death. 1) My mother may have been able to save her life if she called paramedics immediately upon her arrival to the home. This is unlikely as in the mountains, it takes a very long time for medical personnel to respond due to their location far from the fire station. I am shocked she did not try. 2) I was in my mother when this happened. She has extreme reactions to death. I believe the rush of adrenaline and the extreme fear had a profound effect on me. Who knows?

My mother was very young when I was born. She had not chosen a name during her pregnancy. She gave me the first name that popped into her head. Nice. She was slow and had no idea what to do with me. She agonized with the nurses afraid she would not have the ability to keep me alive. The nurses reviewed feeding and diapering with her over and over. She could not grasp the concept. The concerned doctors and nurses suggested she have her tubes tied. This was not a normal protocol especially for someone so young even at that time. Perhaps they saw something in my mother that made them fear she would reproduce again. I believe it was foreshadowing. From what my mother says, they told her it was a form of birth control but she would still have the ability to have another baby whenever she wanted. I don't think she truly understood what they were doing to her.

We moved into a house on Sunflower Road. I was around a year old. We lived there until I was about three. I have a few memories from the time we spent at that house. One Christmas there I received a little red metal pot/pan set. The kind that come with strangely good and repulsive smelling plastic vegetables and a weird dehydrated looking plastic meat thing. My dad drew stove burners on an empty moving box for me with a marker. I also had an amazing yellow metal spinning top. It had a handle to push up and down which made it spin. It smelled a lot like vanilla. Sweet and delicious. I played happily for hours. My room was large (to a toddler) and mostly empty.

My mother has two older sisters and an older brother. Angie, Frances and Juni (short for junior.) My cousins Jessica, Sandie, Mark, and Martin came to visit us one summer day. The house on Sunflower was located on a dead end road. There was a fantastic small playground at the end of the dead end road. It had a merry go round, a couple swings and a slide. This was paradise to me as a toddler. The merry go round terrified me but I took every opportunity to get on it as I could. I felt like head honcho because my cousins did not have a playground so close to their homes. I remember fearing for my cousin's safety as they ran down the street without their mothers to the playground. I was terrified to do this myself so my dad escorted me. 

My mother only gained a few pounds during her pregnancy. In fact, at full term, her belly was hardly noticeable. I remember my mother used to take diet pills constantly in an effort to remain thin. They were large gel capsules that contained tiny brightly colored balls. I would break open the capsules when my mother was occupied and eat each ball one at a time according to color. It was fun : )

My uncle Juni gave my parents an old police dog. It looked just like Lassie. She was a large Collie. She was a vicious dog despite her sweet appearance. My parents locked her in the back yard hoping to deter burglars since our house was adjacent to a shady part of town. One day while my mother was on a speed induced bathroom cleaning frenzy, I pulled a chair up to the back door and opened it. I wanted to pet the puppy. I remember toddling out into the yard. I put my hand on the dog's head. Next thing I knew, she was dragging me around the yard by my arm. I was badly mauled by the dog. My mother flew out of the house and punched the poor dog square in the mouth. It jumped the fence. We never saw it again. I remember looking down at my little hands and arms covered in blood and puncture marks. My mother was beside herself. Despite my mother's heavy drug use and my father's heavy drinking, those were good days.

We lived there for a brief time before we moved into the Canyon to be closer to my father's family. His family are original heirs to the land grant east of Albuquerque and all live along a single road there. I was around 3 or 4 years old. This move was the beginning...