tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28827925469577637902024-03-13T19:51:38.826-07:00Roses in DecemberMemories, and our experiences, in large part make us who we are. These are some stories...Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-64964177359664869692021-05-08T17:02:00.001-07:002021-05-10T10:08:25.783-07:00Continuing on<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qHw4wPgbukY/YJckh-SMuoI/AAAAAAAAAvU/gN2iG04L0og36lA1gD20mmcZnmTv_vZPQCNcBGAsYHQ/s640/If%2Byou%2Bwant%2Bthe%2Bmoon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="272" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qHw4wPgbukY/YJckh-SMuoI/AAAAAAAAAvU/gN2iG04L0og36lA1gD20mmcZnmTv_vZPQCNcBGAsYHQ/w363-h272/If%2Byou%2Bwant%2Bthe%2Bmoon.JPG" width="363" /></a></div><br /><p> <span style="font-family: arial;">I am now in my 63rd year of life. I have been clean and sober for over 31 years now, and I am still looking behind me, to a certain extent. I am the second of four children, three girls and a boy, and all that's left of us are the women, three very flawed women, two who live in the same house and more than halfway across the country - along with our mother. Out of the three of us, only one had a living child, a boy who is now an adult. We are all separate and yet irrevocably connected by that familial bond, though we are not close. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I am now a full fledged therapist with five whole years of experience. I find that to keep my sanity and not be overwhelmed I must keep those hard-won boundaries, in spite of being easily available by text message or phone, as I use the phone for virtual sessions. Seeing clients from the comfort of home, at times I feel like I am carrying them with me, especially the younger ones. Though in fact they are all younger than me. I am boundlessly thankful that I can understand nearly every problem that is brought to me, most especially the emotional difficulties: The loss, the grief, the insecurities, the fears, the anger, endless and circular thinking, the over attachment to, or distancing from, others, the feeling the that the world owes you something -- all of it is me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">What I have lost in terms of intimacy, of being childless, of stability, of any real sense of permanence, I have gained in acceptance, flexibility, and at times actual peace within myself. I don't know why, after all the years of searching for love, both trying to get it and trying to give it, I don't feel the need to search any longer. One could say that I have given up but to me it feels more like giving over. Yet I still feel the need to examine my life and find some meaning, and perhaps pass some of it along. </span></p>Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-10372207638143665072010-05-01T23:36:00.000-07:002010-05-08T19:29:41.421-07:00I found something I didn't know I'd lost<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/S95E1OTeu0I/AAAAAAAAAQk/xcMTG6Dkc9Q/s1600/img-setCAZDIVWW.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 282px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 279px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466882678837918530" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/S95E1OTeu0I/AAAAAAAAAQk/xcMTG6Dkc9Q/s320/img-setCAZDIVWW.jpg" /></a> <div></div><div></div><div>Last night I found an old letter. It was from an old boyfriend with whom I believe I had the "real thing". Love. In the letter he confirmed the feelings he had for me - for the first time, at least to my limited recollection. We had broken up and he wanted me back. That in itself is not that remarkable but...<br /></div><div><br />We had met at the hospital where both of us worked as housekeepers. For him, it was a summer job. For me, it was a job close to home; I was working to save money so I could move to the city and get my own apartment. Each of our plans were already in the works when we fell in love. And we fell hard. The short time we had together was like one of those Nicholas Sparks novels - magical, but destined not to last. </div><div><br />After the summer we kept up a long distance relationship, writing letters and seeing each other when we could. At times he came up to the city, other times I went downstate to visit him in his dorm. Needless to say, it became too difficult, with each of us trying to adjust to new circumstances.<br /><br />One day I was returning home from the train station, and a man approached me and we talked in a friendy way as I walked home. Being very <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">naive</span></span> and young, and lonely - and very hung over - I thought little about letting him come in for a few minutes. The next day when I came home, he was waiting for me in the hallway with a knife. He forced his way into my apartment as I unlocked the door, he raped me, and he stayed for hours until I could convince him to leave (I had no phone yet) - by agreeing to see him again. Foolishly, I did not go to the police then. I had a male friend come over the next day, and he chased the man down the street when he arrived. The next day my apartment was broken into, my little bit of jewelry stolen, my cats gone out the open back door. I did go to the police then. My rapist was eventually caught on another charge.<br /><br />My enjoyment as an independent young woman in the city was short lived. I moved to a hotel temporarily, then found a roommate. Thus began many years of living in fear and -- while I no longer blame myself for being a victim -- behavior that attracted dangerous circumstances to me and vice <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">versa</span></span>. Drinking and using drugs to the point of oblivion became my primary occupation, though I did have a day job.<br /><br />My boyfriend? He was as kind and anyone could be. On his campus, he joined an anti-rape group. He tried his best to be there for me, but it was too much, because my behavior (what little I can recall of it) was pushing him away. At the same time, I was insecure and needy, wanting him to be there more than he was able to. He decided it was best for me if we broke up, so I would not be in a position to be hurt by the separations. I did not believe that was his motive at the time, but I think differently now.<br /><br />After running into each other at a concert some time later, I must have sent him a letter. I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">received</span> the long letter that I just re-read last night as if for the first time. In it, he said he never stopped thinking and worrying about me. In it, he said he wanted to get back together. He said he knew he had been too selfish but he wanted to try to do better, and that probably he would fail at times. His other letters had been full of chatty information about school, along with little jokes and cartoons he had drawn. This one was different. Serious and sincere. And how did I respond? I have no idea. For all I know I never did reply. In my journals at that time I stated I did not want to commit to anyone, that I wanted attention from men, and I wanted to party.<br /><br />This man was a few years younger than me. I had already had two serious boyfriends. I had been <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">pregnant</span> and lost the baby. I had dropped out of college. However I was <em>his</em> first, his first serious girlfriend - his first. Looking back I knew that he was my first also - first love. Maybe the only one. And now having read his letter, I really GET it. For a short time I had love. Not friends with benefits, not someone who was using me, but the real thing.<br /><br />And so Steve, if by chance you ever read this, thank you. It was no one's fault that the timing was wrong. And it was not your fault, or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">any one's</span>, that I have this disease of alcoholism, which caused me to pour booze on top of pain, which created more pain, which would then need more booze...<br /><br />That cycle has been broken these past 20 years, thank God. And now another little piece of my past has gently fallen into place. I was loved, I did love, for however short a time. It did happen for me - and it could happen for me again. Thanks to you, I believe this now. </div><div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/S95DB7KxZGI/AAAAAAAAAQU/qQc1ASLyDD8/s1600/snow-brave-red-roses.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 279px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466880698016162914" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/S95DB7KxZGI/AAAAAAAAAQU/qQc1ASLyDD8/s320/snow-brave-red-roses.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-351862811944896222009-08-15T20:38:00.000-07:002009-11-21T18:34:23.152-08:00Only Shooting Stars Break the Mold<div><em>I must take issue with the term 'a mere child,' for it has been my invariable experience that the company of a mere child is infinitely preferable to that of a mere adult.<br /></em><a href="http://www.quotationspage.com/quotes/Fran_Lebowitz/">Fran Lebowitz</a><br /><br /><br /></div><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 245px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370402843287144546" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeA7q7gyGI/AAAAAAAAAO0/rCQae0aKO78/s320/star14.jpg" /></p><div>What can you say about six year olds? Their basic personalities have formed, they have made it through toddler hood and have already learned to conform to society's norms, they have begun to learn to read, write, and understand a lot of basic concepts about this complex world we live in. They are not miniture adults but they are fully formed human beings.<br /><br /></div><p><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeFUIoKRjI/AAAAAAAAAPE/BAZhh_W8WSE/s1600-h/image271.jpg"></a></p><div><br /></div><p>Not so very long ago, I had several opportunities to work with children of this age. One, a job through the university, was tutoring first graders in reading. The school was in the Pilsen neighborhood, comprised primarily of Mexican Americans. The neighborhood is colorful, with murals painted everywhere and old style below the sidewalk houses. The school on the inside was not much different than most public grade schools but was very well maintained. I was assigned to work with two or three boys who had some difficulty reading, and at times assisted other students. The teacher, a young woman full of enthusiasm, was very passionate about her work; she knew if children did not have a basic grasp on reading early on, they might never catch up.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeStA2eNyI/AAAAAAAAAP0/n2enAiI7eFQ/s1600-h/schoolchildren4.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 216px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 226px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370422382682847010" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeStA2eNyI/AAAAAAAAAP0/n2enAiI7eFQ/s320/schoolchildren4.jpg" /></a><br />Talk about life affirming! I experienced pure joy each time I first entered the classroom. Whoever spotted me first would shout my name and about half the class or so would come running up to me and hug me. I was embraced in a circle of waist high love. There is nothing, no about of money, that could replace that feeling. </p><div>My two main students were Issac and Carlos. Issac was much like a little adult, with his myriad facial expressions of sarcasm, at times an aloofness, yet other times the class clown. A complex personality. I could see him, as I could some of the other boys, becoming involved in the gangs as a teenager. But in first grade the boy was determined to read. He may have had a learning disability; the teacher had requested he be tested. He had trouble with the alphabet and distinguishing the vowel sounds in spite of the fact that the class had to repeat the alphabet out loud at least once a day. At times he would get frustrated and angry with himself ;sometimes we just played a little bit, to calm him. Using the picture word cards helped him a lot but we had to vary different ways of learning or he would get bored.<br /><br /></div><p>As for Carlos, he simply did not want to try and he didn't care. He was a chubby, sad boy who wanted to play or draw. He was so withdrawn, I had to be extremely gentle and patient with him. It took some time but he did begin to respond and to make an effort. He c<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeRiLq0NZI/AAAAAAAAAPs/PmAnL1KeQsA/s1600-h/pilsen.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 255px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 217px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370421097096557970" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeRiLq0NZI/AAAAAAAAAPs/PmAnL1KeQsA/s320/pilsen.jpg" /></a>learly was starving for some type of attention. I could see him as a teenager – the kid who stays home, is antisocial, and plays video games. </p><p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeMCQyXX9I/AAAAAAAAAPM/uTWZ_-sMLAY/s1600-h/Chicago_Cubs_Back.jpg"></a></p><div>They all knew I would leave at the end of the school year, but Carlos - after warming up to me so very slowly - he couldn't accept it. He hid in the coat closet. I found him in there huddled on the floor crying. He just said he didn't want me to go. He finally opened himself up to se me and and there I was abandoning him. Of course it was not my choice, the job was over, but his poor little heart could not understand. I tried to tell him there are other people in the world who are kind, who would pay attention to him, but he didn't believe me. There was nothing I could do or say to make it right.<br /></div><div> </div><p></p><div>The summer between semesters during graduate school, I got a job with an organization that works with special needs children. I was to work at a day camp in an affluent town, and I was assigned one child to work with for the entire time. Ben.<br /><br /></div><p>Ben would always say to me “you are the best aide I ever had” and I had to correct him, “I am not your aide, I'm your <em>companion</em>”. Ben was in a wheelchair and had been and would the rest of his life. He had spina bifida. The goal for the special needs kids was to integrate them into “normal” day camp as much as possible. With Ben this took numerous forms: pushing his little wheelchair, helping him change clothes, helping him in socialize with other kids, explaining why he was different, and what about him was the same. </p><p></p><p>Ben was first and foremost a thinker. Actually I think first a foremost he was a kid who loved sports and playing, and had he been able he would have been playing kick ball and baseball and running around the playground with the other kids. It was perhaps the fact that he was paralyzed from the waist down that caused him to become more of a thinker, and a dreamer, than one would expect at that age. </p><p>His parents wanted him to have as normal a life as possible, and they attempted to treat him as if he were a normal kid. To a certain extent his made sense. But a day came when the boy looked at me and asked “why am I different”? </p><p></p><p>But I get ahead of myself. When I first saw Ben I had a chance to observe him in “class” (Tuesdays and Thursdays were Arts and Crafts, and the other three days regular camp (where there was games, all kinds of activities, swimming etc). I don't know why I should have been surprised at how delicate he looked; he had a thin face and body, and big eyes, dark blondish hair. He looked like a little waif – like a Tiny Tim. Perhaps that is why he seemed familiar to me. His voice was thin, too, with a bit of a squeak to it at times.</p><p></p><p>I introduced myself to him and could see he was a bit shy and uncertain how to behave around me. I told him “you know, I had an operation on my spine, and though I don't know what it's like to me in a wheelchair I was in body cast, and I know what it's like to have a crooked spine”. Honestly I didn't know if this would be a good thing to say but he warmed up a little. Then I said I had thought that we should tell the other kids about him right up front so he wouldn't have to answer a lot of questions over and over. questions. He liked this idea, and when I asked did he want me to do the talking,he said yes. So with the consent the teacher I explained to the kids that he was not injured, that he had been born like this, and that he could not walk, but he was OK, and there to have fun like everyone else. There were a few questions and he jumped in and answered them himself. The next day we did the same thing at the other camp. Though subsequently throughout the summer there were some questions from kids in other sections, it was not too difficult for him. It later turned out there were a few children from his school who knew him and helped served as a buffer from stares and questions. The main question from other kids: "is he hurt?"<br /></p><div><br /></div><p>My birthday is in early July, and I had told Ben that, since it was a weekday. By then he was already telling me I was the “best aide”, and on my birthday he brought homemade chocolate chip cookies. He had had his father make them.</p><div><br /></div><p>There were a lot of times we were alone. For one thing he had diapers that needed to be changed, once a day at least, twice if he went swimming. He was not able to tell if he was wet , so we had a general schedule. I had to lift him from the chair – not an easy task for someone with a bad back (not to mention pushing that low chair, though he did at times wheel himself) but he was not that heavy and helped with his arms. He was always trying to talk me into skipping the diaper change; I know it emphasized his difference, and we tried to go into the disability bathroom when kids weren't looking. The child was clearly embarrassed. During the task we always talked and later, when rehearsing for the big end of summer show, sang, and he held my eyes to keep me looking at his face as much as possible. Anything out of the ordinary we made into a joke. We laughed a lot – and it became a special time. <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoePM8TNk8I/AAAAAAAAAPU/WrsVZSPp5qc/s1600-h/FranklinStPlayground260307VER2.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 274px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 178px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370418533170516930" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoePM8TNk8I/AAAAAAAAAPU/WrsVZSPp5qc/s320/FranklinStPlayground260307VER2.jpg" /></a></p><div><br /></div><p>Ben hated arts and crafts. His mother had signed him up for it. Me, I love all those little projects with clay and paint and Popsicle sticks, and I had a blast. I tried as much as possible to make it enjoyable for him, but he would get frustrated and often wanted me to do things for him. Once again, accommodations had to be made; we had a table that was lower than normal tables, so he could reach. </p><p>There was a time when my back was in bad shape, and I used my aunt's old cane to get around. I had a small taste of what living with a serous disability would be like. This was before I had gotten my driver's license (I had lost it during my drinking days) and just getting to the bus stop, much less getting up the steps onto the bus, was difficult. And I felt like everyone was staring at me. In a wheelchair, you have to take the long way around if the curb is high, when others are cutting across the grass you have to take the paved path, and when others are climbing and running in the playground you have to sit and watch. </p><div>Once, I had another worker help me get him on my lap, on a swing. We were not able to go very high but at least he got to swing a little. Another time, a young girl, a camp counselor who was strong and energetic, helped me get him up and down the slide, on the see-saw, and some other playground equipment. Oh, he had so much fun! We kept him moving and laughing the whole time.<br /><br /></div><p></p><p>That was an extremely hot and humid summer, and three days of the week I spent doing physical activity with no air conditioning. I think I was exhausted most of that summer. And I would not have traded that experience for anything. </p><p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeMCQyXX9I/AAAAAAAAAPM/uTWZ_-sMLAY/s1600-h/Chicago_Cubs_Back.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 160px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 160px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370415051156447186" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeMCQyXX9I/AAAAAAAAAPM/uTWZ_-sMLAY/s320/Chicago_Cubs_Back.jpg" /></a><br />Ben liked to play imaginary baseball. He was big Cubs fan and he knew the game well. While the others were off running around after lunch, sometimes he would lie on the grass and recite an imaginary game for me, with himself as one of the star players. He also loved to dance. On rainy days the kids would be in a big room in the grade school that was the camps's home base, and play games and put on music and dance. Whoever was still moving when the music stopped was out of the game. Ben would pop wheelies and spin himself around and around in his chair, steering the wheels in opposite directions. He would have this blissful grin on his face, and the other kids just loved watching him. Sometimes I would “dance' with him and push him around. His favorite songs were “I like to Move it” from the movie “Madagascar” and “Hey Now You're a R<a href="http://media.photobucket.com/image/chicago" target="_blank" o="51"></a>ock Star” from “Shrek”. </p><p></p><div>Besides lunch, the other part of arts & crafts that Ben liked was theater. The teacher would bring out a huge box of wigs, hats, scarves, and all sorts of clothing and accessories, and the little girls loved dressing him up. When it came to acting out a scene, he was shy at first but let himself be talked into doing a little acting, though he preferred the roles with only a few lines. The same held true for the big show that included the whole camp at the end of the summer. Lip syncing with arm movements were the standard act; the boys from our section did an old '50's song. Ben refused to do it at first, but eventually was talked into it and learned the words. I was so proud to wheel him on stage for that show! His parents were not able to come; his father had said he would be there but he didn't make it. He did come to the show for arts & craft class, however. The story they acted out was about a circus, and Ben was an elephant. He had no lines but he came out and dance with all the other animals. I made him elephant ears for that show, but never did get a copy of the pictures.<br /></div><p></p><p></p><div><br /></div><p>Ben loved getting out of his wheelchair and crawling around using his arms, playing with the other kids on the floor. Oftentimes his pants would come down from dragging himself along, and his diapers would show. I once heard a kid say “it looks like he''s wearing Pull Ups" and I gave that child a glare. Ben thankfully didn't hear, or he would have been mortified. After that I would discreetly yank his pants up whenever I saw them coming “down”. </p><div><br /></div><p>He also liked to get physically close to me when he was out of his chair; he would often crawl over and snuggle next to me. There was the time he had gotten sick after eating a snack – perhaps a combination of heat and excitement - and I took him to our empty classroom where he wanted to just lie next to me and talk in the dusky quiet. That was the day he asked me if I had ever seen a shooting star. He wanted me to describe all the times I recalled seeing one, and what it was like. He had never seen one -- in fact, he said he was not allowed outside at night so he had rarely even the night sky. </p><p><br />Several weeks before the end of camp, he asked me why he was different. Of course I was unable to give him an answer. He said “it's not fair that I can't walk”. I said “you're right, it's not". I discussed differences between him and other kids, which were mostly physical, and then went on to talk about the ability to think and experience feelings, and how in those ways he was very much the same as everyone else. To his questions born of necessity, I applied what wisdom I'd gained so far. He appeared to find some solace, if not answers.</p><p>On our last day together we were both very aware that we might never see each other again. We spent a lot of time talking, and at the end of the day moved away from the others to talk, before parents dame to pick up the kids. We had done so much together: swimming in the lake, the pool, traversing hallways and pathways, sitting in the grass, dancing, singing, acting, talking....we had spent a small lifetime together.<br /></p><div><br /><br /></div><p>Then there were Cheeto's. The puffed variety -- Ben loved them. On the days his mom put them in his lunch bag, he would take them out slowly and look at me slyly saying, “I have Cheeeeetos” dragging out the word. Then he would proceed to to eat each one, slowly and carefully, not allowing anything to distract him from his pleasure. It got to be a running joke with all the kids. “Ben's got Cheeto's”! they would shout and giggle. He confided to me he didn't want his mom to know how much he liked them, for fear she might not give them to him as much. That last day at lunch I pulled out several small bags of Cheeto's for him, thinking he could save some for later... but he ate every last one of them and his face was a happy orange hue. </p><div><br /></div><p>I had two more gifts for him that day. One was a beaded bracelet I had made in craft class – I had made two, one for me and one for Ben. He said “so we won't forget each other?” I said it can be, but I know I will never forget you. During that last week, not only was he repeatedly saying he would never forget me, asking would I always remember him, and he finally acknowledged that I was not his aide, but his companion. The last gift I had for him was some simple print outs from the Internet, from a child's web site about astronomy. It explained some basics about the stars and space. This was the gift that made him glow, and he held those papers close to his heart. Then I told him about Stephen Hawking, the physicist/astronomer in a wheelchair, who cannot even speak but is considered one of the smartest scientists in the world.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeC7JWZatI/AAAAAAAAAO8/aHu7x81s0OE/s1600-h/blur+me+&+Ben.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 237px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370405033296358098" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SoeC7JWZatI/AAAAAAAAAO8/aHu7x81s0OE/s320/blur+me+%26+Ben.jpg" /></a></p><div><br /></div><p>His father took a photo of me & Ben that last day, and emailed it to me. I saw him once more, a month or so later, when the agency was looking for a substitute “aide” and I happened to be available. How wonderful, to see the look on his face when he got off the bus and saw me there, and the slight shyness, and then the joy as we talked and played. When his dad picked him up we talked about my visiting Ben over the holidays.</p><div><br /><br /></div><p>I emailed his father when it was close to winter holiday time, and he replied with approximate times that would be convenient, but after replying again I never did hear back from him. You just can't insinuate yourself in the lives other people's kids, unless they welcome you.<br />I think about Ben often – he would be ten now – and wonder how he is, and if he has not forgotten me. I know, like the little elephant, I will never forget. I learned a lot during my time in graduate school, but I believe he was my best teacher. </p><p><br /></p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SwihfnlFKJI/AAAAAAAAAP8/Bo-hoVcaK5s/s1600/shooting_stars_screensaver_27778.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 256px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406748917230807186" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SwihfnlFKJI/AAAAAAAAAP8/Bo-hoVcaK5s/s320/shooting_stars_screensaver_27778.jpg" /></a><br /><p></p><p align="center"><a href="http://media.photobucket.com/image/shooting" target="_blank" o="'1"></a></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Hey now you're an All Star get your game on, go play</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Hey now you're a Rock Star get the show on, get paid</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">(And all that glitters is gold)</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Only shooting stars break the mold</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">(And all that glitters is gold)</p></span><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Only shooting stars break the mold </span></p><br /><p><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">– Smash Mouth<br /></span></p>Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-35690007005920508522009-04-23T21:37:00.000-07:002009-04-28T16:10:35.655-07:00Counseling 101 (More experiential learning)<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><em>"One hundred years from now, it will not matter what my bank account was, how big my house was, or what kind of car I drove. But the world may be a little better, because I was important in the life of a child." </em></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><em>-</em></span><a href="http://www.quoteland.com/author.asp?AUTHOR_ID=912"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><em>Forest Witcraft</em></span></a><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328138180167369074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 229px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 210px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFZcfcSgXI/AAAAAAAAAKw/96xC1a8AfbU/s320/16466039_8a267a7c48.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br />I finished college at the age of forty. After years of participating in life in various ways, that included running a group home for women as the unpaid director, I was able to document and use my experiences, as well as old college credits, a few classes, and some independent study, to graduate from “University Without Walls” - a school within a school that allowed returning adults a unique educational option. Because I was working with women in recovery from substance abuse, and because I was such a woman myself, this subject was the focus of my studies. I was working on a paper I had been researching for some time; a kind of thesis on women who are addicts/alcoholics and identity. I was brought before a board of advisors who were to make a judgment whether or not I could graduate. I handed out this last paper, but to this day I don't know if anyone read it, since I got the call soon after that they had voted to allow me to graduate with no further requirements.<br /><br />There been several times in my life when I had a feeling of being infused with a sense of higher purpose, with the absolute certainty that there is a power greater than myself and that I have something to do, or a reason to be. Getting that call was one such moment. I remember standing in my kitchen with my arms raised up high, and I felt an energy flow into me – never before had I felt such pure hope commingled with pure joy. Because I had finally finished college so that I could do something to “help people”. I knew I needed a degree to get a decent social service job. I didn't know specifically what I wanted to do; although I hadn't given it much thought, in the back of my head was a sense that I would be good with kids – in particular, with adolescents.<br /><br /><br />Three interviews later, I was hired as an outpatient substance abuse counselor for teenagers in a diverse north side neighborhood. The interview could not possibly have gone better. I was full of eagerness as the woman explained to me the job -- working with kids who were involved with the courts and police, who had family issues, substance abuse and school problems, and about being an advocate for youth. She asked me at the end why did I want to work with kids. I said no one has asked me that, and I have been thinking about it and, I don't know why, I just feel like it's something I would be good at. When I left she said don't worry about not knowing why, she said: “I think it's a calling”.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFg8vSx2oI/AAAAAAAAALo/aFnCoTG4RBg/s1600-h/5939756-md.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328146430759656066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 248px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 178px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFg8vSx2oI/AAAAAAAAALo/aFnCoTG4RBg/s320/5939756-md.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Before I was given my first client, I spent hours reading everything I could find on adolescents and counseling them; how to run groups, on theories about relapse, and harm reduction, and family issues, and working form their strengths. A lot of this I had learned and experienced but only from the woman's perspective. I suppose it was fortunate that my first client was a girl, a 16 year old Mexican girl who was having trouble with her strict parents. I had my first experience of many, in those little counseling rooms, of being a channel, of saying things I did not know I could say, understanding things I didn't know I understood, and doing things I did not know I could do. I was where I was meant to be. I had to learn to continually push myself past what I was comfortable with, to reach out to others. In the first few years most of my clients were Latino, and it was the beginning of an education about various cultures within the generic “Hispanic” demographic. Then there was the gang education; something which in spite of some reading (and a training) on the issue, no amount of academics could have prepared me for. Most of my clients, for the first two years at least, were boys, and most of them were either in a gang or on the periphery of activity. They were my teachers.<br /><br /><br />My first such client was Juan. He had been in inpatient treatment for his marijuana use and was now adjusting to a return to the outside world. He was on intensive probation which is extremely strict; there are three Probation Officers who keep close tabs on their charges. Juan was a quiet boy, and shy, with me at least. Clearly he didn't know what to make of me - a middle aged white lady with a cheesy sense of humor. He liked the fact that I understood recovery language and for the most part he'd enjoyed his experience in treatment. After some time however our sessions became awkward – he was not about to share other aspects of his life with me, and he insisted he was not in a gang. I believed him. I always believed them when they lied to me. Even when I learned to suspect or spot the lies I still believed them.<br /><br /><br />That was my role, to be trusting and trustworthy and non judgmental and to believe in them, even when they didn't believe in themselves. What I discovered in a short time was that this is what kids need above all else. It doesn't matter how much they push the adults in their lives away, they want the adults to continue to be there and to believe in them. They want to be good, even if they think they are bad and there's no chance of changing. They want the respect of adults. However this respect is only valuable if the adults can be respected – meaning if they are open minded. This does not mean to ignore wrong actions but to accept the kid as a whole, and to affirm that there are always choices.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328145909969443154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 263px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 199px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFgebMt2VI/AAAAAAAAALg/Szl-fo1MO4c/s320/DSC01743.bmp" border="0" /> Poor Juan, I was so naive at that point, and I learned more from him they he did from me. For instance, once I arranged for him to meet me at an AA meeting but he didn't show up. When I asked him about it he admitted he didn't go because the neighborhood was dangerous for him. I apologized for not understanding this -- which really disarmed him. Still, I was so disillusioned when he told me, truthfully, that one once he was off probation he did plan to smoke “weed” again. And when he did smoke again (I heard from another client), I felt I had failed. I had yet to learn to lower my expectations and to understand that small changes can mean big progress. </p><p><br />Another early client was Lester, a mild mannered boy whose mother had found suicide notes he'd written; we had many discussions about life and family and why he should stick around. “You have to stick around to find out why you should stick around”, was one of the things I told him. Naturally it was not that simple, but we did manage to work through a few things.<br /><br />Everything intensified for me when Andre and then his little brother Sammy came into my life. At thirteen, Sam was on probation for arson; he'd set fire to a garbage can “to see how it would burn” and it unfortunately caught the nearby garage on fire. I saw him through a drug overdose, an arrest for stealing a gun, various court appearances, the suicide attempts of his brother, mother (numerous ones, in her case),and eventually his own suicide attempt. I helped him look at his issues with marijuana, school and education, the fierce independence that kept him out of gang life, his ongoing fascination with psychic abilities, dreams, and life on other planets -- he wanted to be an astronomer – and his overwhelming questions abo<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFe-DDNuqI/AAAAAAAAALY/D16e2IebPNY/s1600-h/DSC01631.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328144254219696802" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 222px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 159px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFe-DDNuqI/AAAAAAAAALY/D16e2IebPNY/s320/DSC01631.JPG" border="0" /></a>ut the existence of God. In time he also was able to talk about some family issues and his experiences in foster care. When he was almost 17, and I saw him for the next to the last time, he said to me “you changed me”. He said he would still getting into trouble with the law, or something worse would have happened, if I hadn't been there. And I knew that if I did nothing else in my life I had at least had a positive and profound effect on one person.<br /><br />Other clients had equally difficult situations; Angel was shot in the back for trying to get out of his gang. The bullet went through his body and out his stomach, miraculously missing his spine by a small measure. He had to leave the neighborhood to stay safe. Tom was shot in the leg with a sawed off shotgun – a rival gang situation – and almost bled to death. Virtually every kid I knew had witnessed violence and known someone who had died a violent death. There are so many untold stories.<br /><br /><br />Though I was rapidly becoming familiar with this underworld I had been ignorant of, I did relate to a kind of shadow life because of my addictions. I knew what it was like to not feel like a part of mainstream society, no matter how much you try to go through the motions. Teenagers don't have as many resources as adults to attempt to fit in, and combined with the need to experience some independence, they rebel. This was something I instinctively understood. I also understood what it was like to suddenly lose someone close to you due to violent circumstance, having lost my brother. <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFcmkCsy2I/AAAAAAAAALQ/YYq9ROuUpzM/s1600-h/revolt.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328141651735792482" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 181px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 119px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFcmkCsy2I/AAAAAAAAALQ/YYq9ROuUpzM/s320/revolt.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I learned about the fear of simply walking down the street, if you were not in your own, familiar territory. Fear of being with the wrong people at the wrong time was something I already knew; two of my female clients had been raped by members of the same gang, when they were supposedly just hanging out. Having been a victim of rape more than once, I was able to understand their feelings.<br /><br />Our branch of the youth agency was smack in the middle of a territory dispute that is, as far as I know, going on to this day. Police were involved in various incidents on the streets nearby, and occasionally paid visits to our office to question us or the youth. Yet rival gang members could be in the same group and cooperate with each other. There was a girl who first came into the office when she was 11 years old, and would quietly play with Lego by herself. Gradually another girl joined her, and they would play Uno on my office floor. She eventually asked me to be her counselor, and for the next 6 or 7 years she was a daily visitor at the office, trying to avoid the streets and her alcoholic stepfather, continuing to go there after I left. She was everyone's client. At the age of 18 I helped her move into her dorm room at college.<br /><br />There was a boy who was a 'good kid', (not a gang member or drug user) who had stabbed another kid with a sharp pencil. It took a group of his friends and months of work before a breakthrough occurred and we could understand why.<br /><br />There was another boy who had hit an old lady on the street; he was later accepted to a college prep school. Then there the boy who was expelled from a college prep school, who was brilliant in math but could not stop smoking weed. I watched his mother get sober, I watched him graduate from a military school, but he was arrested again as adult due to drinking and driving.<br /><br />There were the two older boys who had been in jail, separately, from the ages of 16 to 18. I stuck by one through an adult arrest and a short prison sentence, and he has successfully completed his parole. The other had been in adult prison for conspiracy to commit murder. He was painfully honest about everything he had done, he was able to see all his past choices clearly, and we worked with his symptoms of PTSD – he always had to sit with his back against the wall. When I first met this young man he was like the violent criminals you see in movies; his eyes were hard and cold and frightening. A few years ago, along with some other ex-clients, he helped me move. One of the last time I saw him, he was carrying a pan of homemade brownies. He had graduated high school and was going to cooking school. All I did was listen.<br /><br />Another older client was the most likable boy you could imagine. He was friendly good-humored, and helpful. Unfortunately he could never open up, and always kept certain things to himself. Today he is in prison for attempted murder. <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFb6d1MF-I/AAAAAAAAALI/wHaKdaRJm64/s1600-h/bld075036.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328140894154266594" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 91px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFb6d1MF-I/AAAAAAAAALI/wHaKdaRJm64/s320/bld075036.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />One of my long term clients was Ben, a violent gang-banger who admittedly liked to start fights. When he was 15 and had run away from home to sell drugs, he told me he used go around with a baseball bat and start trouble. He admitted to committing numerous vengeful acts in a matter of fact way, but when I met with his parents and heard his father, who had disciplined Ben physically all his life, tell him he didn't want him in the house anymore, I saw the 17 year old youth break down in tears. I do not know what happened to him. He taught me so much about the “thug life”, and introduced me to a lot of rap music; he would bring cds in and we would listen during our sessions.<br /><br />There was a girl who was a client for a brief time, but she had been abused by her father and was afraid. I lied for her to help her run away to be with her mother in another state. It was not the first or last time I would break the rules. Ethical and moral choices were almost a daily occurrence for me; and I tried to base my decisions on what I thought was best for the client.<br /><br /><br />A lot of the kids knew each other and had dealings with each other both in and outside of the office; it was sometimes hard to keep straight who knew what about who, and which situation. There were drug deals that went down, thefts, relationship dramas, and there were all kinds of boundaries being crossed because as a youth counselor I was encouraged to take the kids out to eat, to go on field trips, give them rides, do home visits – all of these things were conducive to making those all important connections and trust building – helping them to be comfortable and to open up. There was fun and tragedy in equal measures. Yet I always felt theconfusion and stress to be worth the price, for those those times of real connection. At the time, I did what I felt was best, and later I dealt with the consequences and emotional effects.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFbFf9y5AI/AAAAAAAAALA/pRCvB80-HSo/s1600-h/434008192_ba120f46a3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328139984194167810" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 155px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 147px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFbFf9y5AI/AAAAAAAAALA/pRCvB80-HSo/s320/434008192_ba120f46a3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />One slow summer (the office was always busier when school started) a young couple brought their arguments to the office and I would attempt to mediate. The girl was a chronic runaway who had been sexually abused by her father and in every other way by her mother. She had alcohol and drug problems, and made spending money by selling her body. The boy, actually a young man in his 20's, was a little “slow” and kind hearted, always taking in “strays” like his mother did. His mother and I, two adults trying to look out for a lot of neighborhood juveniles, became friends. Her son was in a gang, he liked the status it gave him and it built up his ego. He tried to be tough, but over the years I knew him what I saw was a sweetness of spirit, and I sometimes wished he had been young enough to be my client.<br /><br />At the end of my fifth year of counseling, I had given a month's notice before I went to graduate school, and I got a call that he had been shot. He had been at home celebrating his birthday, opened the kitchen door when someone knocked, and was shot in the chest. He died in his mother's arms. I waited outside the building and watched them take the body bag out, before being allowed upstairs to attempt to console my friend.<br /><br />It was fitting that this was one of my final experiences as a counselor, officially. The memorial service was crowded with so many young people from the neighborhood – some of rival gang affiliation. It eventually came out that the bullet had been meant for someone else. The “someone else” was also a boy I had worked with.<br /><br />I was exhausted and full of grief. Yet I could not completely let go. For several more years I remained involved with a small group of kids and I am still in contact with some of them. I became like an aunt to some boys (written elsewhere) -- who, to this day, have an odd combination of innocence and street smarts.<br /><br />I have been lied to, cheated, manipulated, and stolen from more times than I can count. I have also been treated with respect, apologized to, thanked, and shown consideration and concern in countless small ways.<br /><br />I have seen the look in a young person's eyes when he (or she) realizes I am not judging him, when he sees I am not going to tell anyone his secrets, when he sees me show up at his court appearance, or his house, or I take him to McDonald's for lunch. I have seen cold<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFaOV_6WVI/AAAAAAAAAK4/v1k1E0gBV44/s1600-h/Picture+202.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328139036625885522" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 221px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 184px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFaOV_6WVI/AAAAAAAAAK4/v1k1E0gBV44/s320/Picture+202.jpg" border="0" /></a> eyes warm up seen relief in a hard face as they realize it's still OK to have some innocent fun, to be a kid. I have heard their chuckles as I laugh at my own mistakes, and have heard their confessions, their hopes, their dreams.<br /><br />I have seen the body language change from sitting tense and alert, to a relaxed slouch as he/she becomes more comfortable; and the intense leaning forward to listen as I give some insight I didn't know I had.<br /><br />I have seen the surprise when I show I'm familiar with Tupac's lyrics, or use a street reference they would not expect an adult to know.<br /><br />I have heard those magical words: “I never thought of it that way before.”<br /><br />Would I do it all over again? Absolutely. Would I change some things? Absolutely.<br /><br />I wanted to get these kids to tell their stories. I wanted to try to make others understand them and how important, how crucial, it is for adults to be there and to continue to be there. I wanted to be there for them in the way I wanted an adult to be there for me, when I was a kid. To experience unconditional love by giving it. And I succeeded, for a time.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328136436851838034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 262px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 189px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SfFX3BFejFI/AAAAAAAAAKo/m4wcJ91IuiU/s320/rose-thorn.jpg" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">You can't cheat kids. If you cheat them when they're children they'll make you pay when they're sixteen or seventeen by revolting against you or hating you or all those so-called teenage problems. I think that's finally when they're old enough to stand up to you and say, <em>'What a hypocrite you've been all this time. You've never given me what I really wanted, which is you'</em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">-John Lennon</span></p>Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-48925074464426816402008-12-29T12:45:00.000-08:002009-01-23T11:25:10.714-08:00I needed a better boat, not an anchor, not a safe harbor<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVlKanoIDeI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/7YeZcvUIfVE/s1600-h/htr_stpatrick.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285337458870324706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 189px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 197px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVlKanoIDeI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/7YeZcvUIfVE/s320/htr_stpatrick.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div><div><div><div><div><div align="left">Twenty years ago I had my last drink of alcohol -- Hopefully, for good. It is still a bit of a mystery how I got here, in this sober world – how I have been able to seek and find help when so many do not or cannot, even if they want it. What I know for sure is that my life had become full of fear- terror, really, and liquor was my medicine, my life, my comfort, my curse, and so much more. It took me to places I never thought I would go -- Hazy nauseous experiences. Bold and spontaneous actions. Giving up of all illusion of control, being a victim, a willing victim, of circumstances and life and people -- especially of men.<br /><br />Once during those years of promiscuity and desperation, years of of continually believing I was falling in love, that I was going to find the one man to save me – or maybe I was going save him - a man said to me “you need an anchor”. At the time I really didn’t think much of that, but it stuck in my head.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVlJfcySzhI/AAAAAAAAAJs/w4OH2cYH02A/s1600-h/SinkingOilShip-8.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285336442347900434" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 347px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 245px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVlJfcySzhI/AAAAAAAAAJs/w4OH2cYH02A/s320/SinkingOilShip-8.bmp" border="0" /></a><br />For years I had nightmares about water. Small waves, tidal waves, flowing water, calm water, and even ice – I was afraid of it all, in my dreams. Therefore it is interesting to me that, years later, I heard a boat analogy to describe addiction. The simple version is this: those who have a genetic predisposition to addiction start out life with a smaller boat, and it tosses them upon the big and powerful ocean. The experiences life throws them can make it even harder to stay afloat, and to navigate. If one is not an addict (or without other illness) the boat they come into the world with is larger, or built better, and they have better control over the journey (even when the oceans get rough).<br /><br />In real life I loved water and loved to swim, in spite of my brother’s drowning. They say in dreams water represents the spiritual, or one’s emotional life. Over my years of being sober the water gradually became less fearful to me; at times I could put my feet in and wade; later, I was able to swim. Now I have some of the old dreams but much more of the new.<br /><br />It was fear that got me sober, really. Fear that my life would never be what I expected it to be, fear that I was going to be a victim, again, of rape or worse, fear that while I wasn’t sure I wanted to live I was not ready to die either. I saw myself going down the road of losing what little self I had completely; I was tired of working, paying rent, trying to keep up the appearance of being “normal. I was drinking and smoking pot alone at night in my studio apartment with the burglar gate locked to keep people out, having been broken into. I was effectively locking myself in my own prison.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVlGVBxrgyI/AAAAAAAAAJk/X6JqLRItKgc/s1600-h/Drink_me_article.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285332964763992866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 236px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 199px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVlGVBxrgyI/AAAAAAAAAJk/X6JqLRItKgc/s320/Drink_me_article.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />When I began my recovery, the neighborhood I lived in was not good; there were many liquor stores (convenient for me, since I didn’t have to go to the same store every day - didn't want the store owners thinking I had a problem) and there were frequent drug deals and gunshots in the area. I had a job that I loved, and I was still able to go to parties with my coworkers and no one thought it odd that I would pass out on the floor and get up in the morning and get on the bus to go home. They were those kinds of parties. Outside of that, though, I didn’t like going out anymore. Having been a victim of rape more than once, and in general not wanting to be bothered with strangers in bars, I drank at home. I was less into to the parties as well, because of the shame I felt about my behavior (often raging), the passing out, blacking out, and of course at times throwing up. I was thirty years old and in despair.<br /><br />I’d fallen in love once again, or so I thought. This time the man was much younger than me, and he was sweet and kind to me. In spite of trying to cut down on drinking, I caused him embarrassment and treated him badly. I had to give him up -- but I pined away, wishing I was not such a mess.<br /><br />Drinking at home alone, smoking pot, listening to sad songs, and watching old movies, and crying. These were my common pastimes. I knew there was something wrong with me but could not figure out what (even though I had called AA some years before, and had thought and even wrote that I might have a problem with the booze). Like depression, alcoholism/addiction is a disease that tells you don’t have a disease. Because it wants to destroy you.<br /><br />My immune system was shot, I suppose, because I kept getting some bad sinus infections. When I‘d go to the doctor he would give me a shot of antibiotics before sending me home with more in pill form. One day I mentioned to the doctor that I thought I had some emotional problems, and I needed him to refer me to counseling. I don’t know why but he asked about my drinking, and I answered honestly. At that time my tolerance had changed; whereas for most of my drinking years I was able to consume large amounts of alcohol, but now I was able to feel drunk on two or three drinks. Not drunk in the wild and crazy sense but it simply felt normal. The marijuana also made me feel normal, and I smoked it daily for about ten years. I would keep a bowl next to my bed and smoke first thing, when I work up. I told the doctor that it was starting to scare me, because I was worried that if I were not able to get pot that I would drink in the morning -- and all day long. The doctor told me “You’re an alcoholic, call AA”. And he even told me a little about it, that there are open and closed meetings, that I don’t have to say anything if I don’t want to, and some other tips. I wonder, now, how he had such detailed knowledge.<br /><br />My first thought was, “fuck you”. I went back to my usual way of living and drinking. But there came time for a trip with my job – I was working with Greenpeace and the toxics campaign was in Kentucky to bring attention to a highly polluted area. We were planning a large march and I s<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVlARe5xCuI/AAAAAAAAAJc/qs_nijCRWCM/s1600-h/143047~Marijuana-Girl-Posters[1].jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285326306793294562" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 206px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVlARe5xCuI/AAAAAAAAAJc/qs_nijCRWCM/s320/143047%257EMarijuana-Girl-Posters%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a>tayed at the campgrounds helping out, making signs mostly. Though I wasn't at the office I tried to wait until noon each day to start drinking (there was plenty of beer everywhere). I remember waiting for noon, craving it. Almost everyone drank at least some, but I had been throwing up and doing other embarssing things. I had a big chunk of hash and I gave most of it away to someone while drunk; the next day I wanted it back.<br /><br />The details aren’t as important as the feeling I had, which was growing and consuming me, that I was just going through the motions of living, that I was putting on an act, and not a very good one, of someone who had a life, who enjoyed life, who knew how to live life and take care of herself. In reality I was drawn to that other part of me, the dark part, that was getting stronger. I found the idea of living in alleys and selling myself for booze and money, attractive. I was always drawn to the underworld, I was always a risk taker and often enjoyed living on the edge, but this was going to take me further down – to a place from which there would be no return. And I literally could visulize it, and the sick part of me longed to embrace it. In my mind, I could see a crossroad.<br /><br />Back in Chicago the drinking and crying continued. I went back to the doctor. He again told me I was an alcoholic and told me to go home and call AA. And this time I did. A woman called me back, and I agreed to go to a meeting. I was a little high from pot when I went to that first meeting with those two ladies, but I have not had a drink since. I was offended because while driving they were talking and gossiping and hardly paying me any attention; I thought they should respect the fact that this was a momentous occasion in my life. I think in retrospect, had they been very serious and attentive, it might have scared me off.<br /><br />At the meeting people talked about being violent, going to jail, divorces, throwing up, blackouts, and shame. And they laughed about it all. They said “it’s the first drink that gets you drunk” -- I'd never even suspected such a thing! They said “when you drink, if you cannot predict the outcome, you’re an alcoholic”. And I knew that was me – because sometimes things were fun with no consequences, and sometimes I appeared calm, though I wasad twisted up on the inside. They said “this is the beginning of a while new life for you”, and I believed them. And <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVk_kW70x7I/AAAAAAAAAJU/2bI3hHYkw6E/s1600-h/aa-title.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285325531560331186" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 228px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 191px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVk_kW70x7I/AAAAAAAAAJU/2bI3hHYkw6E/s320/aa-title.bmp" border="0" /></a>it was. </div><div align="left"><br />Now, to say it has been all smooth sailing and wonderful would be false. For one thing I did not quit smoking marijuana for a year; there were months of being clean followed by getting high (also once took hallucinogenic mushrooms, the last thing was cough medicine with codeine - and I did not have a cough) I tapered off my daily pot smoking with the help of a therapist. I did start attending to the emotinoal issues, which were quite real. To say that I’ve gotten the life I always wanted would be false. To say that I’m happy, finally, would <em>almost</em> be true, however. The main thing is I have been, over the years, learning to be ok with myself. </div></div><div></div><div><div></div><br /><div align="left">It is hard not to go into a long dissertation about alcoholism; but what I do know is it's a mysterious and chronic disease that is always present. I know there is no cure. My dreams tell me so – in my dreams I sometimes drink, and I make excuses, I tell myself its ok to have just one, that no one will know, that it isn’t affecting my life. But in those dreams when I drink, or think about drinking – or smoking pot – I feel like I am a piece of garbage, not a human being at all but some kind of monster masquerading as human. They say if you drink you die. It’s true. Not physically but inside. Twenty years later I am still learning how to live. Happiness is not the point -- that much I know for sure. Having the things I want – a man, a house, a good car, vacations, a family – that is not the point. That much I also know for sure. These are things I have learned over years, and have spent years trying to accept. Recovery, for me, is about living a spiritual life. It comes from the inside, it’s about those sappy things like love, tolerance, forgiven<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVk92H21ACI/AAAAAAAAAJE/jrSSlXh4-OY/s1600-h/JRLJKCAJPI453CAZGTTLBCAUJ9V9BCAF0GRVXCA87P91VCATQT7LRCANRS48RCAII6J5UCA6WRBWSCAVWTVIRCA0VM7GACAY26UWNCAOSJ7B2CAJ17BU5CASPTJS0CAC384NJCA6JAPH0CA0TF2Y7CA0J0F7B.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285323637727232034" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 112px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 112px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVk92H21ACI/AAAAAAAAAJE/jrSSlXh4-OY/s320/JRLJKCAJPI453CAZGTTLBCAUJ9V9BCAF0GRVXCA87P91VCATQT7LRCANRS48RCAII6J5UCA6WRBWSCAVWTVIRCA0VM7GACAY26UWNCAOSJ7B2CAJ17BU5CASPTJS0CAC384NJCA6JAPH0CA0TF2Y7CA0J0F7B.jpg" border="0" /></a>ess, and understanding – and learning to apply those things to myself as well as to others. It's about healing. It's about being able to give, at times, with no expectation of getting anything in return. For me, it’s not about religion; I like to say God is much too big for any one religion. I don’t always care for the term “God” (and often say “higher power” instead) but it’s convenient. I have not done everything you are “supposed to” in AA and I don’t believe it is necessarily the only way to stay sober – but that would be a topic for another time. But I will say that AA is one of the tools, the primary one, that I have used to get help.<br /><br />I learned a long time ago that trying to live life doing the right things – what I consider the right things alters at times, but I have developed some core values – is more important than trying to be happy. And like Bill Wilson said, along the way there are “moments of real joy”. This is not a small thing.<br /><br />So here it is December, and nineteen years from the last time I got high, twenty since I had alcohol, and I suppose one could say I found my anchor – something that keeps me grounded. However I would prefer to say I have built a better boat to travel in, or perhaps have learned to better navigate the waters.<br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285321577237199602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 206px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SVk7-L7uOvI/AAAAAAAAAI8/bO9xpw51fx8/s320/SeafaringShips-Pic1.bmp" border="0" /><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">A ship in harbor is safe, but that’s not what ships are built for”<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">- John A Shedd</span></p></div></div></div></div></div>Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-54370475071237832222008-11-12T17:56:00.000-08:002008-12-16T10:04:11.983-08:00The millennium and beyond<em><span style="font-size:85%;">We don’t see things as they are. We see them as we are.<br />-Anais Nin<br /></span></em><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SRuRhE0pluI/AAAAAAAAAIc/YkYaoOWXNQw/s1600-h/7730120-lg.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267964186556208866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 357px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SRuRhE0pluI/AAAAAAAAAIc/YkYaoOWXNQw/s320/7730120-lg.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div><div>It was eight years ago in November when my family fell apart.<br /><br />Dad was a distant man, for much of my childhood. He could be angry and critical at times, and at others he was fun and playful. He liked travel and games and adventures; he took our family camping and some of us skiing, to movies, and out to eat. He as generous with presents for birthdays & holidays. Most of the time, when he wasn’t at work he was watching TV or sleeping. Or he’d be in the basement with his books and puzzles, drinking beer. When we were younger he was in night school so we rarely saw him, but when he graduated college we were all there to see it. He was an electronic engineer, and very smart. After the death of my <a href="http://rooanne-rosesindecember.blogspot.com/2008/09/beyond-forgiveness.html">brother </a>his behavior became warmer with his remaining three children – his three daughters, now in our twenties. He talked more, listened more, and was more present. After I sobered up, and my younger sister also, he even drank less and sometimes didn’t drink his beer when we were visiting.<br /><br />When he retired, dad wanted to move to someplace warmer, and to get out of Chicago. He and my mother had continued to travel frequently so they were considering various places and finally settled upon Albuquerque New Mexico. My father’s reasoning; there were no earthquakes, floods, or hurricanes, or landslides (as opposed to California or Florida). Both my parents liked the mountains and the desert. They bought a new house, to be built in a gated community. In early summer of 2000 they moved to an apartment in Albuquerque to await the completion of the new home.<br /><br />The last time I <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SRuRRUZ2tQI/AAAAAAAAAIU/SgZrvIn3r0I/s1600-h/unoblur.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267963915860882690" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 268px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SRuRRUZ2tQI/AAAAAAAAAIU/SgZrvIn3r0I/s320/unoblur.bmp" border="0" /></a>saw my father was on Father’s day; we had a small barbeque at my grandmother’s house and played one last game of Uno. Drinking and sober, it had been our favorite game to play together. When I said goodbye, I heard dad was giving his car to my brother in law. For 20 years I had been taking buses, trains and getting rides, having lost my license when I was a teenager. I had finally cleared up my record and was getting ready to take the driver’s test. I told him this - I had before but he’d forgotten - and he felt bad he wasn’t giving the car to me, and I said it’s ok. We hugged, and said goodbye as if it was any other day.<br /><br />Over the summer, waiting for the house to be finished, my father would call from New Mexico. In Chicago he almost never called but now he was excited, he was enjoying having a cell phone for the first time, and calling from a mountain or some other interesting place. They saw a lot of rainbows. It was good to hear him so happy. </div><br /><div>On November 5th – it was a Sunday – I was at a restaurant with my sister and her husband after an AA meeting. We were just about to eat our pancakes when my sister got a call from mom on her cell phone. I knew instantly. Dad had had a heart attack and had died at the hospital; he had told them to let him go. It was his second heart attack; he’d been smoking since he was eight years old and drinking almost as long. On the day they were moving into the new house dad insisted on helping the movers, which was when it happened.<br /><br />Both my sisters flew to Albuquerque right away. Since I knew my mother was not alone I decided to wait; I was working with teenagers and did not want to just leave them. My supervisor thought I was crazy for going to work but I needed to. I was also hoping to find my nephew, who was living in a college town without a phone. My brother in law drove there and got him and I was able to fly to New Mexico with my nephew. On the way to the airport, I stopped to vote, since it was Election Day. I wanted to make sure to cast my ballot against George W. Bush.<br /><br />That night, in my mother’s new house, she told us she had seen a rainbow over the mountains on her way back from the hospital. She thought it was a sign – that she was supposed to live there by herself and for the first time have the experience of being on her own. She had been married young, and had never been alone before.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SRuQ7tOQVpI/AAAAAAAAAIM/Oq5UX0923sw/s1600-h/369592297_2244e79f04.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267963544565995154" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SRuQ7tOQVpI/AAAAAAAAAIM/Oq5UX0923sw/s320/369592297_2244e79f04.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />So we stayed up late that night in a darkened room with very little furniture, lying on the floor watching the election returns until we realized Al Gore didn’t really win Florida, or maybe he did, they were not sure….</div><br /><div>During those few days we were all together, there were some family difficulties, though the actual "funeral" - a viewing of the body - went quite well. The five of us gathered in a small room at the funeral home with the open casket. We spoke of some memories, told dad we loved him and said goodbye. We all held hands and said the Serenity prayer. </div><div></div><div>Later, my older sister called me a bitch, and I comforted my younger sister when mom upset her. This sister is in recovery also, and one night we went out to find an AA meeting but got very lost, driving through the unfamiliar city at night. At one point I remembered we still had Dad’s ashes in the trunk, having picked them up earlier in day. They were inside a plastic bag in a cardboard box. I mentioned this to my sister, laughing about driving around with Dad in the trunk (I liked that because he did so like to travel). I found it comforting in a strange way; my sister was not amused. It spooked her. Eventually we found a meeting and it was a warm and friendly place.<br /><br />My elder sister and nephew left a few days later. Mom, my younger sister and I took a drive up to the Sandia Mountains to scatter Dad's ashes. This was Mom’s idea; I never actually knew why she wanted to do this but who was I to question my mother?</div><div><br />It was a grey and chilly day with snow lying in patches, and as we drove over winding roads we finally found a spot with a bit of a view that sloped downward, right off old Route 66. Here we found that ashes did not exactly scatter, but my mother manged to dump them on the hillside.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SRuNCEKoDXI/AAAAAAAAAIE/gJ02FpOJzLE/s1600-h/rt66x3.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267959255757491570" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 291px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 190px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SRuNCEKoDXI/AAAAAAAAAIE/gJ02FpOJzLE/s320/rt66x3.bmp" border="0" /></a><br />I have photo I took of my mother and sister standing there on the mountainside with the empty cardboard box, smiling as if on vacation. To me it epitomizes the dysfunction of our family.</div><br /><div></div><div>Since that day our family has never been the same. There have been no get togethers, if one doesn't count my grandmother's funeral (which is the only time Mom has come back to Chicago). Communication has been sparse, and becomes more so as the years wear on. We have our separate lives, in separate places, and although my older sister is in the area, we rarely talk. Lacking the context of family as a unit, it doesn’t seem that we can. It has gradually dawned on me that my father was the glue that held us together. Never mind that he had moved across the county, if he had lived we would still be connecting, in our own way. </div><div> </div><div></div><div>Eight years later I still cannot grasp how my reality has shifted to such an extent. </div><div></div><div></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267958687870135218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 231px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SRuMhAnuq7I/AAAAAAAAAH8/XPF6U41khNs/s320/4163.jpg" border="0" /> </div></div></div></div>Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-14379538836893558502008-10-30T21:16:00.000-07:002009-11-21T18:15:21.515-08:00An ending, a beginning<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SQv2v7mdCRI/AAAAAAAAAHU/4lem7EqALE0/s1600-h/5138827-lg.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 381px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 253px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263571892825819410" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SQv2v7mdCRI/AAAAAAAAAHU/4lem7EqALE0/s320/5138827-lg.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SQv2v7mdCRI/AAAAAAAAAHU/4lem7EqALE0/s1600-h/5138827-lg.jpg"></a><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;"><em>Strange to be no more of Earth,<br />To quite half learned habits.<br />To view roses and their kind<br />No more in human terms.<br />To be no more a babe in arms<br />That ever fear to drop you.<br />To leave the name you are known by like a child leaves<br />A broken toy.<br /><br />Children who have gone do not require us.<br />Weaned, they need no mother’s breast.<br />Our joys and sorrows don’t concern them.<br />But we, for whom the mysteries are golden,<br />Still unsolved, our very sustenance –<br />Can we exist without them?<br />Grief is our spirit’s fodder.<br /><br />- Rainer Marie Rilke</em></span></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;">******************************************************</span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;"></span></em></div><div></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;"></span></em></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#99ff99;"><em>We all know life has its twists and turns, and unexpected events. My life has had so many – in the younger years – that to write about this part of it feels like I’m writing about a different person… </em></span></div><em><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></em></div><br /><div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">She had always wanted to be a mom.<br /><br />Like most little girls growing up in the 60’s she assumed she would be a wife and mom, just like her mother. She had no way of knowing that loss and grief and addiction would take over so much of her life, which started out (to all appearances) in a normal middle class suburban home. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">During school she was a well-behaved, quiet girl, In high school she found a group of friends, and involvement in what was to her a fantastical world. The darkened theatre, with it’s prominent stage, and the lights, the actors, the smell of freshly sawed wood, and the satisfaction of being a part of creating something behind the scenes. Add to this the silliness of a teenager, parties with lava lamps and incense, listening to Bread, Jethro Tull, and Jesus Christ Superstar (no drugs yet), walks in the park, swinging on swings beneath the Summer Tree with her best friend, singing and talking, and the feeling of learning to be independent from her parents. It was a fine time in her short life, for the most part, in spite of having major surgery, insecurities, and some dark thoughts.<br /><br />When this time was over, life for Rose became a serious of misadventures and rebellion as she tried to find her own way, punctuated by increasing amounts of alcohol and the use of many types of drugs – marijuana and hallucinogens being in the forefront. She tried college, and various jobs, but was carried away by the events and connection she had with some younger adolescents. During the course of these experiences – driving around, getting high, and “partying” - she met Don. He was nineteen, lived on his own, with a roommate, in the apartment complex behind the high school, and primarily sold drugs for a living. One day Rose realized one day she was living there with him. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">After months of taking acid, PCP, speed, mescaline, and other drugs -- along with a constant supply of alcohol and marijuana; after some episodes of violence and police searches; after losing her savings to a bad drug deal, Rose realized she was pregnant. This made her and Don very happy, and they took this as a sign they needed to change their ways. In fact they decided to change everything, and went to Wisconsin to live in the country and start anew. Neither had drivers’ licenses by then, they were driving a car with illegal plates, and had no real plan. But, oh, it was thrilling, driving so fast on those back roads!<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In a short time they were broke, homeless and hungry. While exploring a small lake area the young couple met a man who was temporarily living at the campground, and he took them out for drinks. There was Rose, pregnant and hungry, drinking beer – she was close to<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SQqXXg7crYI/AAAAAAAAAG0/nW57St7FxCM/s1600-h/Train%20Cars_420_315.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 234px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 182px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263185544767909250" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SQqXXg7crYI/AAAAAAAAAG0/nW57St7FxCM/s320/Train%2520Cars_420_315.jpg" /></a> passing out. Finally the man bought them some food. He let them stay in his tent over the weekend while he was gone, then introduced them to his girlfriend. This woman had a nice house and some small children; she let the couple stay with her while Don, who had found a construction job, went to work and Rose cleaned, cooked, and took care of the kids.<br /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">One day, riding in the back of a pickup truck on the way to visit someone’s farm, she saw graffiti written on the side of an old train car in large letters: TEENAGE WASTELAND. She was nineteen.<br /><br />Not long after, the idea of having a life with Don and trying to survive seemed empty and wrong. She wanted to go home. She called her best friend who came and took her back to her Illinois suburb. But Rose’s parents didn’t want a baby in the house; at least one of them was against it, she did not know which one. They fought over the situation while she slept on the couch, since her bedroom had been given to her brother. Her mother found a place for her to go. It was a “home” for unwed pregnant ladies in the city, run by Catholic Charities. It was, in fact, in a build<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SQqW3eFJI7I/AAAAAAAAAGs/RXVLgSRswK4/s1600-h/mombaby_001.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 184px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 215px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263184994247451570" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SQqW3eFJI7I/AAAAAAAAAGs/RXVLgSRswK4/s320/mombaby_001.jpg" /></a>ing that used to be a convent. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Living with other pregnant young women was not easy. To cope, she still had a few drinks now and then, and smoked some pot when she got the chance. It seemed like she went through a hundred indescribable emotions daily. Everything was new and strange, being in the city, and once she had an episode of fear and disorientation that left her standing on the sidewalk while others walked around her. She saw the garbage, grey skies and brick walls, and was frozen in abhorrence of the time and place. Pregnancy, however, agreed with her physically since the morning sickness had passed, and she was healthy and strong. She was hired to work in an office at the catholic hospital affiliated with the “convent”. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">The months went by in an odd sort of haze, in spite of the need for a decision -- to keep the baby or give it up for adoption. She wanted to be a mother very badly but she also knew she would be on her own, and possibly on welfare; although there was still communication with Don, she did not trust him to help raise a child. She would never know what the final decision would have been.<br /><br />A week or so after acting as partner for another woman’s delivery, holding her friend’s hand while giving birth and then watching her hand the baby over for adoption, Rose felt some odd cramping. Earlier that day she had been out with her mother and had come very close to being hit by a bus, so when back in her room she smoked some pot she'd hidden. It was more than a month too early to go into labor, and the pains were not strong. However when they did not abate she went to her friend’s room for advice, and they called the doctor. He advised her to walk around and if it was false labor the cramps would go away. They did not go away. The two women took a taxi to the hospital, and in no time at all the birth was over, and the baby boy was taken away. Rose saw him twice – once when was first born and once in the incubator. He had red hair like his father. She and Don had decided if it was a boy he would be named Daniel Christopher – a long name for a tiny baby. </span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></div></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Because a lung had collapsed little Daniel was taken to the children’s hospital. It appeared that Rose had been only about six months along, rather than seven as she originally thought. Sometime during the next day she was told the other lung collapsed and she had to make<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SQv18Iap06I/AAAAAAAAAHE/wzH-YcNk-yU/s1600-h/6a00d8341ca5f853ef00e54f2ee2798833-800wi.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 284px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 183px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263571002912789410" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SQv18Iap06I/AAAAAAAAAHE/wzH-YcNk-yU/s320/6a00d8341ca5f853ef00e54f2ee2798833-800wi.jpg" /></a> a decision. Let him go, she said.<br /><br />Her mother brought wine for them to drink -- the usual family response to any event. Later that evening they went downstairs to the cafeteria. The lights were dim, there were strange decorations hanging down and some people were wearing costumes. Rose felt like she was in some odd kind of half nightmare world. It was only then she realized it was Halloween.<br /><br />After, there were more troubles: with people, with depression, pain involving a good deal of dental work, finding a job she could walk to (back at home in the suburb again), and a grief that defined her for many, many years. (Which she poured alcohol and drugs on top of, but did not numb it). Rose believed she was supposed to be a mother. Oh, there were other chances to have children, but none of them were the right time, or place, or with the right person. And underneath, always the fear – fear of hope, fear of loss. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 220px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263570356217141074" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SQv1WfSZV1I/AAAAAAAAAG8/gNQYcz3VVLo/s320/7551978-lg.jpg" /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#99ff99;"><em>It wasn’t until around the age of forty when I began to accept that it was OK not to have children, and that it didn’t mean I was a failure as a woman. Around that same time, having finally obtained a bachelor’s degree, I began working with teenagers. Inappropriate though some thought it was, I was able to put nearly all of my energy into being there for those kids for a number of years. I don’t regret it because I know I made a difference, and because of all I learned. They say everything happens for a reason; what they don’t tell you is it can take a long, long time to find out what those reasons are.</em></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-20842612366145066832008-09-27T10:35:00.000-07:002008-09-27T12:31:21.250-07:00Beyond Forgiveness<div align="center">"Forgiveness is the answer to the child's dream of a miracle by which what is broken is made whole again, what is soiled is again made clean."</div><br /><div align="center">- Dag Hammarskjold </div><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><p><br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250758919443546802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="290" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SN5xauKlgrI/AAAAAAAAAGU/HS-XYAbDWtU/s320/rose-thorns-yinyang.jpg" width="291" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:180%;">O</span>nce upon a time I had a brother, he was my only brother, the youngest of four kids in the family. Jim. James. Jimmy. He was the long awaited only son, but by the time he came along my parents were tired, busy, and as they had always been, emotionally unavailable. Although I was the second eldest I looked after him quite bit. When I was younger my mother read stories to myself and my sister at night, later I read stories to him.<br /><br />He was a legend from birth in our family because he was born in the car on the Kennedy expressway. My mother delivered him while my father was speeding to the hospital. Dad was in a panic; she was calm. It was her fourth delivery after all. She was on the evening news and few days later there was an article in both major newspapers, with a photo of all of us at home, Mom holding the new baby.<br /><br />I like to tell people how he was in the newspapers when he was born and when he died, almost 21 years later.<br /><br />It would be nice to say there was a good story to tell about his life, but in truth I learned more from his death.<br /><br />The basics about him are; sometime in his mid teens he shot up like a weed, and was over 6 feet tall. He was good looking, sensitive, mischievous, and very intelligent. He loved other animals but kept parakeets as pets. I think he had a hard time in school, with rules and fitting in. He played electric guitar, a little. He started getting into music at a young age; Pink Floyd was his favorite, then David Bowie, but he had quite a varied record collection by the time he left this earth. I know, because I carted those albums around for years, and still have some of them. </p><p><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SN5w8jksMnI/AAAAAAAAAGM/xL-DF95pDv0/s1600-h/3370116-md.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250758401204171378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="205" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SN5w8jksMnI/AAAAAAAAAGM/xL-DF95pDv0/s320/3370116-md.jpg" width="307" border="0" /></a> He started drinking at the age of 12, and taking pills sometimes. I remember hearing he was falling asleep in school. You could say we started drinking and getting high around the same time, though not together. His Greek friend would steal Ouzo from his father & bring it over. Our older sister would bring him beer & he’d lower a bucket on a rope to her in the driveway and pull it up to his room. I had been away from home and he got my room when my parents didn’t think I was coming back. I came home for about a year to get myself together in order to move out again, and Jim’s room was the party room, where we would drink, smoke pot and listen to music. Then when I moved out on my own, several years and numerous apartments later he came to the city and stayed with me for a while. His first real girlfriend was a friend of my boyfriend at the time. Perhaps a year later, after going back and forth from suburb to city he got himself a room at a hotel that was an “el” ride from my newest home. We spent a lot of time together, talking and talking – about war, life, nature, what it all means. I got him to listen to Bruce Springsteen with me, and he started to appreciate the lyrics. We had both decided we wanted to listen to the blues more, and went to the Blues Fest together; he held my hand in the crowd. He was my best friend.<br /><br />July 21 1985. He was at my apartment and I was getting ready for a date with a new guy. We were going to a street fair right near Jim’s hotel I kept asking him to meet me there. He had his own plans though. He was going to go to a pier on Lake Michigan he and he his friend had discovered. At night people hung out at the very end of the pier around a garbage can fire; they would climb to the top of the narrow steel tower to drink and get high. So I went to the street festival and all I could think about was where my brother was and why he wasn’t there. On stage the band was playing the blues, it was Muddy Waters Jr. I kept thinking I have to tell him, he missed it. And I kept looking and looking for him.<br /><br />Next morning I got a call from my mother. With no preliminaries, she said “Jim’s dead”. I said “no”. My parents had already identified the body. It had washed up on the rocks. I then had to call both of my sisters to tell them the news. My younger sister was living in St. Louis. I had visited her only a few weeks prior, for the 4th of July, and I brought back some fireworks for Jim. Being a typical delinquent in many ways, he liked to light them and throw firecrackers in front of people. I specifically told him not to do that when I gave them to him.<br /><br />But that was exactly what he did that night. He and his friend Alex, who survived and has told me the only account of the incident I know, were up on the tower drinking cheap wine and smoking pot. And lighting firecrackers, and throwing them down at the people on the pier below. There was one guy in particular who became enraged. He and some friends climbed the tower to beat Alex and my brother up. There was only one way to get away and that was to jump into the lake. Alex said he was yelling at Jim to jump and my brother was saying he didn’t have his glasses; I guess they had been knocked off his face. Alex then jumped into the lake and made it to the beach I don’t recall how he got home but he did not wait to see what happened to my brother.<br /><br />Alex had jumped into the shallower side of the pier, but my brother was found on the other side, the deep side. We do not know if he eventually jumped, if he fell, or was pushed in. The autopsy showed numerous bruises, including heel marks on his face. My older sister and I didn’t see the autopsy until after the funeral; it explained the thick makeup on his face and why he was almost unrecognizable in the casket. We also visited the detectives and cleaned out Jim’s room at the hotel. The police said they had questioned people who were on the pier that night and no one really knew what happened or were not telling. They did know that the leader of the guys who attacked my brother was a white guy with a lot of tattoos named George. He was familiar to the police, but they had not been able to find him.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SN5wkXxENZI/AAAAAAAAAGE/nuggfhAawjQ/s1600-h/DSC01137.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250757985717990802" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 343px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 258px" height="252" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SN5wkXxENZI/AAAAAAAAAGE/nuggfhAawjQ/s320/DSC01137.JPG" width="336" border="0" /></a><br />My sister picked me up that day we got the news, to take us both to our parents’ house to wait for our younger sister to arrive from St. Louis. Once there, all I remember of that day, of the next few days, was sitting in the dark smoking joints and cigarettes, and drinking. That first night I was sitting in the driveway on lawn chairs with my father. The man who rarely showed any emotion was drunk and yelled and cried and regretted he had been in conflict with his only son. Later, as we sat there drinking Dad said he was worried about me, because I had been closer to Jim than anybody. I said, oh don’t worry about me, I’m happy for him. He got out of this life. I just wish it had been me.<br /><br />Several years later I had gotten into recovery and was sober for about three years when I met my friend Linda. By this time I had been living by the lake -- very close to that pier. I liked the neighborhood and wanted to be near where my brother had last been alive. I thought maybe I would be closer to his spirit.<br /><br />One summer night Linda and I were sitting on the beach and, with the pier in our sight, I told her about my brother’s death. When I got to the part about the guy George with the tattoos she said, “I know him”. Not that long ago she used to party with this guy and some of his friends and she knew that they went out on the pier often to hang out, and light a fire in the garbage can. A blond guy with tattoos. She said he was a Vietnam Veteran and he was drug addict. She said she remembered in the summer of '85 he did disappear, left the state for a good long time, maybe a year. She said he was back in the Chicago area, she’d heard, and thought she knew where to find him.<br /><br />I really only thought about finding him for a moment. What would be the point? This was what I thought, but really it was more of sense, a feeling: Jim was a peaceful kind of guy, in spite of the mischievousness; he’d only been in one fight that I knew of. He and I had talked about the futility of war, especially Vietnam. Then there was George, a Vietnam vet. Jim, with that side of him that liked to push the edge threw down firecrackers, and George reacted, most likely because of post traumatic stress. So if you look at the three of us, I was an alcoholic and addict, my brother I believe was also, and George was a addict. We were the same. Any one of us could have been the other, given the circumstances. Had I been to war and was addicted and someone threw firecrackers I would have been enraged. George could have been he one in recovery. George could have been the one throwing down firecrackers; Jim could have been the person who had been in Vietnam. There have been times in my life, and this was the first, when a feeling has swept over me and, like a fresh breeze, blown away any resentment or anger I might have had. What I have been left with is sweet, clean air.<br /><br />There was no need to find George, to try to make sure “justice” was done. I know, without a doubt, that he was living in his own hell, not that I wished that on him. My foremost feeling was that, given he was living nearby, perhaps someday he would get sober and I would meet him in an AA meeting. And what I felt, really, about the whole situation was beyond forgiveness – it was, I think, Love.<br /><br />So there the saga ended and yet it has never ended. I heave never seen nor heard anything about George since that day. Linda did not talk to her old friends anymore. But Jim, well, he’s with me all the time. In fact many days I believe I am living life for the both of us – as best I can. In the beginning I had many dreams about my brother, some were scary, and he was bloated and covered with seaweed. Another type was a recurring dream where he was walking along silently beside me in a field of grass stretching out to infinity on his side – on the right. I was on the left, on the edge of a cliff, below me was a rushing river with a forest on the other side, and there were animals frolicking in water and woods. Jim was speaking, trying to tell me something, but I could not hear his voice.<br /><br />One day, a few years later, I realized I had not had the dream in months, not since I had stopped drinking. I credited that with helping me to get sober; to choose life. This was what he was trying to tell me. I had gone from wanting to die in place of my brother, to wanting to die because he was gone, and acting in self-destructive ways, to finding something to live for – that had to be some force greater than me. The dreams I still have occasionally – this summer I had them more often, perhaps because I had been grieving - are the best. In them, my brother is alive, and we are talking and hanging out, and it’s as if he has just been away for a while and now he’s back. As if he was never gone.<br /><br />As for George, if you are out there – I forgive you, and I know he does too.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250757156727399586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 378px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 248px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="238" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SN5v0HiTpKI/AAAAAAAAAF8/PC9r_axrfnE/s320/7879770-md.jpg" width="350" border="0" /> </p>Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-30148089075164731592008-09-11T17:06:00.000-07:002008-09-27T19:18:44.775-07:00The DNC, Illinois, and Group Empathy; a theory<div align="left">A caveat: I am a supporter of Barack Obama. However the following is meant to be more in the nature of a sociological essay than a political one. It is primarily about my unique (I think) point of view of the situation, and due to my current (and probably unhealthy) obsession with everything election related. Comments are welcome. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="center">** ** ** ** ** ** ** **</div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SMnyeIL4x_I/AAAAAAAAAFc/cO6KNzxLNsM/s1600-h/116652390_10904baea5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244989840456992754" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 259px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 204px" height="196" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SMnyeIL4x_I/AAAAAAAAAFc/cO6KNzxLNsM/s320/116652390_10904baea5.jpg" width="259" border="0" /></a><br />Approximately nine years ago I had the good fortune to hear Barack Obama give a talk at a small youth conference I attended when I had just started counseling teenagers. He was a state senator then, and though I didn’t pay much attention to what his role was I did notice that the way he was introduced was as if he were someone very special. He spoke about youth – particularly inner city youth, as was appropriate – with knowledge and empathy. Not knowing his background I assumed he had been raised on the South Side of Chicago. One of the things that really stuck with me was how he discussed the (false) viewpoint that African American boys don’t read, and that it’s not considered cool by their peers to be a reader. This was one of those vague concepts I think I knew but had never heard anyone speak out loud.<br /><br />I was so impressed by this thin, well spoken black man that I wrote down his name on the program (it was not listed). Years later, when he became U.S. Senator and gave that now famous speech at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, I actually looked for and found that program to confirm that he was indeed the person I had heard speak that day.<br /><br />Hearing him talk about changing the 'us vs. them’ mentality, I thought to myself if he ever ran for president I would support him. The buzz on all the local news stations was that “everyone” said he would be president one day. That day is almost here – if he wins, that is. I never expected him to run so soon and I was torn, at first, because I did want to support Hillary, but the message of conciliation quickly won me over.<br /><br />My one experience volunteering for the campaign was wonderful. I went to Gary, Indiana to help out on primary day. There were so many volunteers I had little to do, but just being there around the diverse group of supporters, including a retired life-long steel mill worker and Republican (a white man), was invigorating. Obama lost Indiana, but by a lesser margin than anticipated by the polls – in large part due to volunteers helping supporters in the Gary area get out and vote. Few thought he would win the state, though the hope was great. It was, for lack of a better term, an experience in group optimism.<br /><br />This brings me to my most recent experience with the campaign, which to me occurred completely through my television and internet connections (a virtual experience). This was the most recent Democratic National Convention, starting with the candidate’s wife -a strong woman if ever there was one - and ending with a stadium full of supporters who were just as excited as I was. The glimpse I had of Mayor Daley in rolled up sleeves, with his hair in disarray, bouncing around, was one I will not soon forget! </div><div align="left"><br />What sort of phenomenon do we have here? Brainwashing? A cult? These are some of the accusations I’ve seen by critics. Obamaniacs, some call us. Lately some say we think he is the messiah. I don’t know, they could be right, I could have been brainwashed and am in denial. But I have a different idea, perhaps just as wacky, but everyone has the right to their opinion. I call it group empathy.<br /><br />Just to clarify, the definition(s) of <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/empathy">empathy</a>:<br /><br />- The intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another.<br />- Identification with and understanding of another's situation, feelings, and motives. (American Heritage Dictionary).<br /><br />I did a little reading about group dynamics – very little, actually. Just enough to be able to say there are various theories about group behavior. One believes a group will follow a charismatic leader, others believe that groups take on a personality of their own, yet others say that it is the members in the group that reinforce each other. In any case, it does appear true that the phenomenon of group belief and behavior can be for negative or positive reasons/purposes. In this candidate’s situation, obviously, I choose to believe that it is for the good.<br /><br />On the one hand, in his critics’ minds, you have Obama the elitist and out of touch candidate, on the other you have the community organizer who doesn’t have leadership experience. I would say neither is true. My belief is that Barack is like me and millions of ‘ordinary’ people who attempt understand others, to find what is common and similar in others, rather than to focus on our differences.<br /><br />For example, some may think that since Barack didn’t come from the South side, didn’t grow up with the same disadvantages that many poor African Americans did, that he can’t understand them. He doesn’t really know what it’s been like for them. I disagree, and, using me as an example, here is why: I grew up a as middle class suburban white girl, someone with no idea what it was like to be poor, a minority, or involved with or witness to violence on a regular basis. Yet I immersed myself in urban youth culture for more than five years, and I can attest to having an understanding of these kids -- <em>because I put in the time and effort</em>. I watched, listened, asked questions, and was present for, or near, numerous disturbing events that they became involved in. I know enough to say that I know. </div><div align="left"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SMnzLAq75qI/AAAAAAAAAFk/_LszTNuL8EM/s1600-h/obama_invesco_11.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244990611533850274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 298px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 208px" height="234" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SMnzLAq75qI/AAAAAAAAAFk/_LszTNuL8EM/s320/obama_invesco_11.jpg" width="352" border="0" /></a><br />Empathy is also, in part, the ability to put aside one’s ego and personal beliefs, at least while in the service of the other person(s). I would never claim to completely understand someone who has walked in different shoes. However complete understanding is not required for empathy, for “intellectual identification”. All of us – all human beings – are capable of feeling the same feelings. Almost everyone knows what it’s like, for example, to feel angry over having been unfairly treated – regardless of the reaons. </div><div align="left"><br />I say all the above to say this: I think what we witnessed at the DNC was an ideal example of what I call group empathy. Because the candidate attracts people who identify with him, who identify with his call to service, to his vision of working together in spite of differences, having had some experiences in these areas ourselves. We identify with him because he identifies with many of us; we believe he is authentic because he has put in the time and effort to understand people. Also, with his example (which meshes with many supporters’ values) of taking the high road, not bashing his opponents and sticking to his beliefs I believe others were also able to take the high road.<br /><br />Had Barack been saying things for example, similar to what John McCain says about him, regarding Hillary (had he insulted her) would she have wanted to stand up at the convention and not only support him but ask her supporters to support him? Would she really have placed the unity of the party first, without his example? Had Barack reacted to Bill Clinton’s comments, would Mr. Clinton have gotten up on that stage and said what he said -- to the point of saying Obama will make a good president? I doubt they would have been able to put aside their egos that much – it’s only human nature. (I realize that people in Barack’s CAMP said things about them, but the man himself did not).<br /><br />It’s the golden rule. It’s Karma, it’s what goes around comes around. No wants to be shown up as being petty and a sore loser when the winner has always been gracious. They cannot complain that he said this and such about them, because he did not. He didn’t cheat them, lie to them, or manipulate them in any way. In fact he lauded Hillary and is helping pay her debts. Perhaps it’s safer in the long run to be cynical. But I did not see resentment in Bill and Hillary’s eyes. Perhaps a bit of envy or nostalgia on Bill’s part, but at that time their anger appeared to be subdued. I saw Bill Clinton’s face, when Barack acknowledged him, saying he was a president who cared about people. He looked – humbled. </div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SMn37Hc2AmI/AAAAAAAAAF0/GZstlhBsvUU/s1600-h/daley-300x206.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244995836034024034" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 246px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 157px" height="199" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SMn37Hc2AmI/AAAAAAAAAF0/GZstlhBsvUU/s320/daley-300x206.jpg" width="290" border="0" /></a><br />To add to all the good feelings, there was the Illinois contingent at the convention -- <em>hugging</em> each other!! I don’t know if this was shown on national news but a description of what happened is <a href="http://wbez.org/Content.aspx?audioID=28519">here.</a> The short version is that Jesse Jackson, Jr., gave a speech about reconciliation and proceeded to hug some people who were his political enemies (then Mayor Daley hugged him), then insisted that our governor and the speaker of the house hug and make up – these two who had not spoken in years!<br /><br />I am not so naïve to think everyone will all get along back in Springfield, because of a hug, but for that moment they allowed their common humanity to come to the forefront, due, I believe, to the example and the atmosphere of the people in the campaign. What I do believe is this is not brainwashing, that a cult would emphasize an “other”, people who are somehow different, as opposed to trying to bring people together. Empathy is inclusive.<br /><br />The news had almost nothing negative to say about the DNC, except to comment that it wouldn’t last, or that they still have to deal witch the McCain camp. Well, I don’t have cable, so I mention only what I saw. And what I saw, and felt, was empathy.<br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244991293111447586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 389px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 327px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="285" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SMnzyrvssCI/AAAAAAAAAFs/ThVBdFuPk8c/s320/the+harbor+at+dusk.jpg" width="362" border="0" /><br /><p align="center"></p>Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-47040702769709809912008-08-20T20:58:00.000-07:002008-08-20T22:36:14.845-07:00The Operation and the Quest for Truth: the Beginning<div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ccccff;">The universe is like a safe to which there is a combination. But the combination is locked up in the safe. </span></em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></em><span style="color:#ccccff;">~Peter De Vries, Let Me Count the Ways, 1965</span></span></div><p><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000099;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color:#ccffff;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I have been a seeker all my life; seeking God, the truth, understanding of myself, others, and answers to almost anything else. Once I had heard the 1970's adage : “Question Everything” it settled into my soul and remained there.<br /></span><br /></span><span style="color:#ccffff;"><span style="font-family:arial;">That was a little later though; it hardly seemed like I had any thoughts of my own until late adolescence -- aside from fears, fantasies, and daydreams. For the most part I did what I was told and what was expected of me. I think, now, that I was somewhat depressed even then. As a teenager I always had a sense, in the back of my mind, that I was going to die young. Thus, when it was finally determined that I needed major surgery, my shadowy thoughts were more or less validated. I had scoliosis, a sideways curvature of the spine. Left untreated the deformity would eventually become worse, to the point where the rib cage would be compressed and breathing difficult, perhaps one day impossible.<br /></span><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#ccffff;">For several ye<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SKzq_PWh4yI/AAAAAAAAAE8/PF04qqy2bP8/s1600-h/scoliosis-2020.jpg"><span style="color:#ccffff;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236818838898729762" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 186px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px" height="280" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SKzq_PWh4yI/AAAAAAAAAE8/PF04qqy2bP8/s320/scoliosis-2020.jpg" width="203" border="0" /></span></a>ars I knew something was wrong with me, but when I tried to tell my mother she dismissed the notion. One day she finally noticed I was crooked and I began going to doctors. My mother: this was </span><span style="color:#ccffff;">the same woman who would get angry with me for losing so many pairs of glasses - which I had to wear from second grade onward (once I saved up lunch money for months to get a new pair, so she wouldn’t know I had my lost my glasses yet again). I had been reluctant to cause my parents any more problems but once the operation was scheduled Mom was there, every day.<br /></span></span></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#ccffff;">I was in the hospital for almost a month, and in a body cast for nine months - the cast was changed every three months – so that the fusion of my spine could heal. I took this all in stride; I suppose I was glad for the attention, because my mother was always around and my father was the one who drove me to the doctor’s visits. My grandmother called me a “little trooper”. I don’t recall feeling much in the way of physical pain or discomfort, with the exception of an allergy to the bandages.<br /><br />It may seem odd but I look back on what could have been one of the most difficult times of my life with fondness. Because of my situation I was noticed at home and received some sympathy, although once the next school year started (my junior year) I walked a lot and did almost everything I used to do.<br /><br />Back to ‘normal’ life after the cast was removed: I had a curvy figure, a new haircut and new clothes and I began to have some experiences with boys. I continued my involvement as a member of the crew for theatre: helping build the sets, running the spotlight and anything I could get involved in (except being on stage).<br /><br />When did I begin to question everything? I think a few things did enter my mind after the operation but it wasn't until after high school and the beginning of a love/hate relationship with alcohol and drugs that my search for truth really began. I have written<a href="http://rooanne.blogspot.com/"> elsewhere </a>about this and how I became involved with juvenile delinquents the first time around. My rebellion against authority began in earnest when I tried to think for myself. It was adventurous but not very pretty. </span></span></p><p><span style="color:#ccffff;"></span></p><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em><span style="color:#ccccff;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Everyone's life is a fairy tale written by the fingers of God</span><br /></span></em></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#ccccff;"><em>- Hans Christian Andersen</em></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#ccffff;"></span></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SKzrspEhZXI/AAAAAAAAAFE/WTnN7FVUOng/s1600-h/110_fantasy%2520castle.jpg"><span style="color:#ccffff;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236819618896635250" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 222px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 173px" height="189" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SKzrspEhZXI/AAAAAAAAAFE/WTnN7FVUOng/s320/110_fantasy%2520castle.jpg" width="233" border="0" /></span></a><span style="color:#ccffff;"> </span><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#ccffff;">When I was a child, I had light blonde hair, and my mother called me her “blond princess”. I never felt like a princess though, I had freckles and prominent front teeth for which there was always the threat of braces, and I was the middle sister of three girls –Still, as young girls do, especially those like me who loved to disappear into books, I dreamt of being Rapunzel or Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty one day. I believed in happy endings with no clue of the beginning or the journey ahead.<br /><br />So when I graduated high school with no real direction in my life I began to drink, use, drugs, and to think about why I always followed the rules or did whatever people told me to do. I began my wild drunken exploring, acid, discovery, questioning years. I also began years of going to dentists, having teeth pulled, root canals, crowns and bridges installed - this has continued until this day. You could build a city with all the effort and money spent on my smile.<br /><br />The freckles have faded, blond hair has long darkened – now with silver strands, the eyesight has worsened, and the back problems have also. As I wrote about myself not long ago: “There was no prince charming, and she was no longer the blond princess. Her hair had turned to brown, and princesses don’t have crooked spines, root canals, or wear glasses.” </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#ccffff;"><br />And yet God, or whatever greater power that exists in the universe, is not, I believe, entirely random. This power has indeed created some tales for me to tell. I have to supply the words, and some interpretation.<br /><br /><br />Will there be a happy ending? Each episode, so far, has had something resembling happy, or at least "OK". I have survived, even thrived. Really, to me it’s been more like a soap opera than a fairy tale. And as such I continue to question the answers I have found – and they always lead to more questions. </span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"><span style="color:#ffffff;"><span style="color:#ccffff;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236820142608022882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="93" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SKzsLIDC_WI/AAAAAAAAAFM/yRYaXp2LrA8/s320/EINSTEIN.jpg" width="306" border="0" /></span> </span><br /></div></span>Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2882792546957763790.post-9299832903724770382008-08-08T16:11:00.000-07:002008-08-09T14:28:49.464-07:00Prologue<blockquote>“<span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><em>God gave us memory that we might have roses in December</em></span>”</blockquote><p><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJze9dbW5bI/AAAAAAAAAEc/8hz-QBRywb0/s1600-h/449050-md.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232302014550435250" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 227px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 222px" height="236" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJze9dbW5bI/AAAAAAAAAEc/8hz-QBRywb0/s320/449050-md.jpg" width="261" border="0" /></a> Recently, I was made aware of this quotation for the second time in my life. By the same person. I had forgotten it. I have forgotten many things from my youth; often what I do recall are the small details and nuances of my life…<br /><br />………. The orange-brown carpet in our house, worn and dirty in certain areas; the chill of the basement floor, the cool sensation of grass under bare feet, the smell of clover, making clover chains, watching ants in the ground march into their tiny craters of dirt. Living in a young suburb, there was nature abundant, including a dirt road that led to adventures of the imagination. There were wild roses in the summer, violets covering the wooded floor; in the tall fields were black eyed Susan’s, Queen Anne’s lace, tiger lilies…<br /><br />………I remember playing by myself with little dolls, blocks, cars, and creating stories in my mind. I recall crossing the soybean field – one row at a time - as a shortcut to school; breaking in the window downstairs if we forgot our keys, while Mom was still at work. I rememb<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJzfvwf3Z4I/AAAAAAAAAEk/zp-MxZTYZtw/s1600-h/6632834-md.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232302878663075714" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" height="281" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJzfvwf3Z4I/AAAAAAAAAEk/zp-MxZTYZtw/s320/6632834-md.jpg" width="165" border="0" /></a>er the smell of mothballs at grandma’s house, and the long staircases; the colors and taste of homemade Christmas cookies, scent of pine from the tree; the crisp air of the first cold snap and bright stars in the vast December night sky. </p><p>These are elements of my childhood, imprinted in my being. There are other elements, other memories, but most of my interactions with people are blurred -- this in spite of my two sisters, little brother, and family vacations full of new experiences and sensations. Of those trips, the event I recall the most vividly is a walk in a pine forest, the feeling of warm sunshine filtering through, the soft blanket of brown needles underfoot, and a light summer breeze. I had the sense that I was by myself but most definitely not alone – it was pure magic. To this day, I cannot smell pine without feeling a slight twinge of recall, that, coincidentally or not, is the same as the scent of a Christmas tree.<br /><br />December is the nighttime of the year, the closing down, hibernation if you will, of much of nature. For me, it is a time for remembering and a time to prepare for and celebrate both old experiences -- and new beginnings. <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJzgoRPfG_I/AAAAAAAAAEs/rCOtKRqvd00/s1600-h/200570-lg.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232303849525418994" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" height="190" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJzgoRPfG_I/AAAAAAAAAEs/rCOtKRqvd00/s320/200570-lg.jpg" width="283" border="0" /></a><br /><br />While the childhood memories, like roses in summer, seem bright and colorful, not all my memories are pleasant; many are quite the opposite. Roses have thorns, as it has been pointed out often. I am not going to get into the philosophical reasons why something that represents love can also cause pain. Better minds than mine have tackled these subjects; I have my beliefs and some of them may come out in the course of telling my stories. For that is what I feel compelled to do. Many are quite thorny and have been painful to live through. I am also very aware that others have more dramatic stories; more tragic, painful, and more transcendent.<br /><br />Yet I can only write what I know. And I know that there are valuable conclusions I have drawn, so far, from these painful episodes. A great deal of what I’ve learned, especially in more recent years, comes from experiences with other people and I will be telling some of their tales as well, where our narratives intersect.<br /><br />One could argue that it is not good to dwell in the past. I would argue that our stories are all we have, the only valuable thing - certainly the most human thing – that we have to share. I do not wish to dwell in the past but I hope some of my memories may be of use to someone, maybe even inspire others to tell their stories. </p><p><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJzhW4tVQZI/AAAAAAAAAE0/FfUpQLDSgB4/s1600-h/PeterPan1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232304650393567634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 199px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 307px" height="338" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJzhW4tVQZI/AAAAAAAAAE0/FfUpQLDSgB4/s320/PeterPan1.jpg" width="249" border="0" /></a> I also hope to regain some more lost memories; connecting with my high school friend brought back events and qualities about me that I had no recall of. It has helped to bring that picture of myself and my youth a little more in focus. I think during that time of my life, adolesence, when I began to experience a new kind of freedom, I knew those experiences would never come again and they should be treasured. It is therefore ironic that I should forget the quote I liked so much (so much so that I gave my friend a bouquet of roses, she said) and other events during that time. What is even more peculiar is the source of that saying – J.M. Barrie, the author of “<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Pan">Peter Pan</a>", subject of one of my favorite movies: “<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0308644/">Finding Neverland</a>”.<br /></p><p>The story of a boy who did not want to grow up! While I cannot say I relate to that sentiment any longer, there was a time when I did not want to be a grown up, no, not at all. I knew it was a frightening world. I would have preferred to stay in that child’s world of little toys and big dreams, fantasy, color, sounds, sights, and smells; the comfort and safety of the small things, the magic in nature and in stories. Yes, I do believe a part of me is still in Neverland.<br /><br />Thanks to Google, I know I’m not the first to use the Peter Pan metaphor, and certainly won’t be the last. Yet there’s a reason a good tale resonates with so many, for so long. It speaks to a truth. I hope my stories do also, and that the roses will balance out the thorns.<br /><br /></p><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJzb3E6pj_I/AAAAAAAAAEE/aV4BiRsUZ60/s1600-h/1000033222.jpg"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJzb3MNFBVI/AAAAAAAAAD8/itd_kdY6Wd4/s1600-h/PeterPan1.jpg"></a><p></p><p><br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232301224218434530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 386px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="266" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2ejqxMhOem4/SJzePdNhm-I/AAAAAAAAAEU/Jq8QTrL_ZRE/s320/3811289-md.jpg" width="382" border="0" />Rooannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15432596569073207710noreply@blogger.com2