Drowning

I stand on the shore, feet in the hot sand, and watch her.  She’s making her way out past the waves; jumping, splashing, smiling, waving.  She is happy.  And then, in a heartbeat, she disappears.  The deep sea of her disease overcomes her once again and she is drowning.  I yell for help.  I splash through the water trying to get to her but she is carried further and further away.   I push my body against the water reaching my arms to her, desperate to grab her hand and pull her out of danger, but she is always just out of my grasp.

I call to her.

I call to God.  I beg Him, “Please save her!

But there is just silence.

She is drowning.  And I cannot save her.

 

the d word

I’m depressed.  I hate to admit it.  It kills me to type this.

And yet I must.

I need to say it, if for no other reason than just to own it.

I’m not blue, I’m not “down”, I’m depressed.  And it hurts worse than any physical pain I’ve ever endured.  (And remember, I’m a person who knows what it feels like to have 800mv of electricity run through my body.)

It is a deep, surrounding, all-encompassing pain.  It clouds my view.  It suffocates my lungs.  It strangles me with the unrelenting squeeze of it’s power.

I gasp for air but find none.  I rub my eyes, but I cannot clear them.  I rage against the stranglehold but I cannot release it.

I panic, I cry, I scream, I toss and turn.  All in vain.  Nothing seems to ease the darkness.  Nothing lifts the heaviness from my chest.

I must get better.  I must.  I must.

But I can’t.

It has me, and it won’t let go.

 

Start of Something New

Let’s change the subject, shall we?  Lately it’s been all dreary here at funnygirl, but that’s about to change.  I mean, seriously, what’s the point of having a reputation for being funny if all you do is write the blues?  Oh geez, see what I did there?  I acknowledged the fact that people think I’m funny.  Now I’ve gone and killed the funny.  Dang it.

Last night I went to the first rehearsal for my newest project, The Drowsy Chaperone.  I am playing Kitty, a dimwit chorus girl a la Gracie Allen.  Boy is she a lot of laughs!  The nasal voice, the New York accent, the stupid quips…I love it!  AND….drum roll please….I GET TO DANCE!!!  Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

There is an immense joy that comes with the start of a new project.  (And no small amount of fear, either!)  Sitting around that table last night was a heady experience; many of San Antonio’s very best performers are cast in this show, and everyone brought their A game.  The script is genius, the music is catchy, the costumes are being built from scratch…there is much to be excited about.

So now the fun begins.  Who is this Kitty?  How does she walk, stand, sit?  How does she talk, how does she laugh?  What are her expressions, her subtle movements?  How does she feel about these people she’s onstage with?  What is she thinking as other performers are doing their bits?  Oooo, I love getting into a character’s head.  (Especially a dumb one; how much can she really be thinking anyway?)  I’m a geek, I know.  But I eat this stuff up.  ’Tis my passion.

Tonight we learn music, Thursday we start choreography and blocking, and in a few short weeks we’ll be ready to open.

Cue the “let’s put on a show” music, and we’re off!!

 

Brokenhearted

I hate it.

 

My heart, that is.

My stupid, broken, can’t-do-the-right-thing-on-its-own heart.

My heart that has a little umbrella sitting in it, closing a hole in the wall.

My heart that only works with medications to make sure it doesn’t beat too fast.

My heart that needs a pacemaker to make sure it beats fast enough.

My heart that needs a defibrillator to make sure it beats at all.

I wear the scars on my chest from all the invasions.  Vertical, horizontal, diagonal…they cross my chest like a poorly sewn quilt, making patchwork of my skin.  The lumps and bumps are many; the vanity I once had vanished long ago.   And always I know that there’s more to come.  More cuts, more seams – the external signs of the internal workings of this wounded heart.

It thumps in my chest, reminding me of its inadequacies; the gulp of a missed beat, the quick steps as it plays catch-up.  Each time I panic – is this it?  Is this the time it’s not going to remember what to do next?  Is this the one that’s going to set off that damn defibrillator, sending volts of energy through my body to force a beat?  It hurts, and though I can stand the pain, I don’t want to.  The kick is violently traumatic; it literally throws me to the ground with its force, so fast I don’t know what’s happening, but not fast enough that I don’t feel it with every fiber of my being.

I have a hard time reconciling my disease with this journey I’m on.  Wouldn’t it have been enough to lose a brother?  Did I have to have a broken heart too?  And did it have to mean I couldn’t bear a child, and that I can’t run, and that I can’t just live life free from worry?  Couldn’t there be a cure?

So many questions…so few answers.

 

I don’t want this.  I DON’T WANT IT.  But it’s mine.  So I’ll deal with it the only way I know how.

With a whole lot of heart.

Miss Independent

“For your information, mom, I don’t need you.  I don’t need a mother OR a father.  I don’t need this house or any of my stuff.  And I definitely don’t need YOU!!!”

 

Oh, my sweet precious girl.  I know.  I know how desperate you are to be independent; to do life on your own terms.  I know I drive you absolutely crazy with my audacious daily request to “do school”.  I know you want to do your OWN thing, every second of every minute of every hour of the day.

 

But here’s the thing, my love.  I’m getting you ready.  Every time I ask you to learn something new I am teaching you what you need to do life on your own.  When I repeat myself over and over to make sure you understand, it’s because one day I won’t be there, but my voice will play in your head, telling you what you need to know.   When I say no, it’s so one day I can say yes.

 

I want nothing more than for you to be independent one day.  You are desperate for it now, and I am desperate for it to actually happen some day. I could fail you in this; I could keep you too close, hold you too tight, never let you experience the pain that is independence. But I promise, my darling, I will let you fly.  I will kick you out of this nest one day, and you’ll fall for a time, but then you’ll find your wings and you will fly.

 

But not yet.  It’s not quite time, baby girl.  Soon, very soon.  But not yet.

 

Stay in the nest a little longer, my dear.  Let me hold you under my wing for a few more years.  Let me get you ready for this world.

 

And then, when it’s time, you will fly.

 

 

Motherhood is not for Quitters

I heard a brilliant lyric the other night that has stuck with me:  In the end, at least they’ll say “she tried.”  

That’s the thing with parenting a child like Sweet Pea.  So much of it is sheer sticktoitiveness.  Waking up, every day, and just TRYING.  Not necessarily succeeding.  Often times failing.  But always, always trying.

Quitting is so easy these days.  You don’t like something?  Quit.  Hate your job?  Get a new one.  Tired of your marriage?  Get a divorce.  Sick of your facebook friends?  Hide them.  But parenting is one of those things that you just can’t quit.  No matter how hard it is, no matter how badly it hurts, no matter how much you think you stink at the task.  No matter how loud she yells or how painful her words.  A mother can’t be a quitter.

I’m not gonna lie.  I’ve thought about it.  Who hasn’t?? When Pea is in a rage and our world is upside down I can think of a million places I’d rather be.  And there are times when I even say those words:  I quit.  Yep.  I’ve said it.  And I’ve run out the door and down the street.  I’ve jumped in my car and driven out of the driveway.  Because sometimes you just need to know you CAN.

And I raise my fist to heaven and ask God WHY and I squeeze my eyes tight hoping I’ll face a new reality when I open them.  I shriek from the depths of my gut, a horrible, wailing sound;  the cry of a woman in pain, in mourning for all that is and all that was supposed to be.

And then, eventually, I lift my head.  I open my eyes.  I inhale, and exhale, and inhale again.  And that little voice in my head, the one that speaks wisdom, says you can do this.  You HAVE to do this.  She is yours.  You cannot quit her.  

And I go back inside.

 

At least they’ll say “she tried.”

Worth the Wait

Why is it so hard to be patient?

What does it really require?  Sitting around, killing time…nothing difficult about that.

And yet I find that some of my most challenging parenting moments come when I’m forced to be patient.  My Sweet Pea is many things, not the least of which is never, ever in a hurry. Girlfriend is slow.  Turtle slow.  Molasses slow.  S-L-O-W.  It seems to be a combination of her perfectionism, her obsessiveness, and her complete inability to sense time.  Add these three together and you’ve got a recipe for slow soup.  And you know what they say, a watched pot never boils.  Ay, there’s the rub.

That soup doesn’t boil until I walk away.  But I can’t walk away or she’ll never turn up the heat and get cooking!  (Okay, enough with this metaphor, I’m getting hungry.)  Do you see what I mean, though?  If I sit back patiently it can take HOURS for her to complete what should be done in mere minutes.  But when I intervene it’s a sure thing that she’ll get frustrated and put on the brakes, slowing us down even more.

We’ve tried all the techniques:  timers, warnings, rewards, punishments.  Nothing works.  She is completely driven by her own internal forces, and until she decides to move, we’re not going anywhere.   And so I wait.  Patiently.

Sitting.

Breathing.

Drumming fingers.

Gritting teeth.

But always, always patient.

 

Until I lose it.

“Get up!” I yell.

“Let’s go!” I scream.

“I can’t wait anymore!’  I shout.

I stomp my feet and make a scene and she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind and says “just a minute” which turns into five which turns into ten which only infuriates me more and I yell again and then finally sit down in a humph and realize

I. Must. Be. Patient.

Sit.

Breathe.

Wait.

Again.

The minutes creep by but eventually we move on.  Always on her time, at her speed.  And then I remember

 

She is worth the wait.