beautiful, funny, sad & true

I’m not really sure what to write about the last week.  I started about ten different sentences, and all of them seemed inadequate.  This may be a long entry.

The week was a flurry of activity, and much of it was either painful or surreal.  Mom’s friend was with her overnight to hold her hand and get her through the worst of the tremors and fits of sadness that woke her in the middle of the night.   The phone would start ringing early in the morning, and it wouldn’t stop until late in the evening.  The three of us (Brother, Mom’s friend and I) screened all the calls and relayed the messages, but after a couple of days we let the answering machine do what it was designed to do.  Everyone was very sweet and wanted to offer their condolences, but it was too much for Mom to deal with, so we handled them as tersely and courteously as we could.  We made sure that one of us was with Mom at all times, because she had occasional meltdowns, and whoever was around would go and wrap their arms around her while she sobbed.

We each had a thousand different feelings about this whole situation, and we spent lots of time discussing them.  We talked about the good things Stepdad did for us, the predicament he left Mom in, the personal quirks he had, and the mountain of tasks that lay ahead.  Brother started going through her finances, and luckily she was well taken care of in that respect.

In his note, Stepdad said that he wanted to be cremated, and that he didn’t want a graveside or memorial service.  “Cheap everything” was what he specified.  I’m glad that Mom decided to have both services, though, because it’s been hard enough to make sense of it all, even after seeing him at the funeral home.  In fact, when we arrived for the viewing, the woman asked if we were with the family, and we said we were.  I stepped up to go in first, and the woman motioned for me to walk down the hall.  I was expecting a chapel or something, with a little room on the side, so when I walked in to the tiny viewing room, I found myself right in front of the coffin and was very much caught off guard.  Stepdad looked like himself, and they did an excellent job of restoring him, especially given the nature of his death.  When Mom was able to go in, she made a point of touching his hair on the ‘natural’ side of his head that had been unaffected by the gun shot.

There were lots of family gatherings, as you would imagine.  They went surprisingly well, despite the fact that some of us had not seen each other for many years.  Times like those were when I felt the most estranged and uncomfortable, because some of the people there were ones I’ve made a conscious effort to keep a safe distance from.  I have a pretty low threshold for intense socializing anyway, but I had to ignore my impulses to flee and had to just tough it out.

Stepdad’s daughters scanned a ton of pictures and made a great slide show for the memorial service, which was very touching and honest.  They also had some pictures enlarged and placed on the table in the entry of the church, along with some things of his to remember him by, like his fishing equipment and tool bags that he took everywhere. That was a really nice touch.

The pastor of the church was friends with Stepdad, and he knew him well enough that the service felt genuine and unforced.  The church belongs to a very conservative denomination, and until very recently, they believed that when someone commits suicide, they are instantaneously banished to hell.  Thankfully for Stepdad, that belief has been tempered by modern knowledge of depression and mental illness, but I’m sure that some of the older folks in the congregation will be struggling to reconcile that.  The pastor said that this was his first time dealing with a suicide, and he was very candid about the fact that he did some research and found that the banished-to-hell idea came from Constantine instead of “from God”, so he felt very sure that Stepdad was where he wanted to be.  He spoke a great deal about depression being an illness that Stepdad struggled with, and that it wasn’t the work of evil forces or anything.  The previous pastor spoke a bit as well, and there was a lot of talk about Satan and evil, in a way that left a bad taste in many of our mouths.  That stuff is fine for a church service, but not for a memorial.  Incidentally, I still remember the last time I went to that church (we sort of went along with my mom for a while), and the theme of his sermon that day – “We Think Too Much” – was diametrically opposed to my spiritual ideologies, which were (and still are) tenuous even in the best of times.  The nicest part of the service, I thought, happened when they had an ‘open mic’ time for family and friends to share their memories.  There was just the right blend of laughter and tears, and it was very beautiful.  Brother read one of the Psalms earlier in the service, and I played cello during the slide show.

The rest of the week was spent taking care of Mom and of her house.  We all pitched in to do some of the things that needed to be done, and Brother’s Wife spent a bunch of time cleaning the house thoroughly.  We’d spent so much energy planning the service, and making the programs, and all the zillions of things that you have to deal with during the worst possible time, that by Friday, we were feeling a bit claustrophobic and needed some time apart, so Brother and I asked if we could have the evening free to meet up with a friend or two.  She readily agreed, and we gladly took the opportunity for a night out.  Brother and I went back to our respective homes on Sunday.  My drive home was pretty scary, since northwestern Oregon got hit by a particularly heavy storm that night.  It was so hard to see the road that I stopped in Cascade Locks to eat a veggie burger and calm my rattled nerves.

Since then, we’ve all been struggling to make sense of everything.  It still doesn’t seem real.   Both Brother and I have been feeling a distinct lack of motivation.  I had a few things that were planned already, and I’m doing them all, but I’m doing them on auto-pilot, and I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience a lot of the time.   This is Halloween weekend, too, so there are a thousand parties and things happening, but my first inclination is to give them all a miss.  This would ordinarily be a week of celebration, since my birthday was a week and a half ago, and the previous few birthdays have all been stretched out into two-week extended parties, but I’m just not up to that right now.

There are more things, good and bad, that I may add to this later, but I wanted to write a little bit and start the process of focusing my thoughts again.  This kind of thing never makes sense, though, and many questions will always remain unanswered.

My stepdad committed suicide yesterday morning.

I got the call from my mom yesterday afternoon.  She asked if I was sitting down, and I told her I was.  I expected to hear that one of the dogs had died, or that one of her elderly friends was suffering from cancer or something, but she said that she came home from exercise class and was surprised by some notes Stepdad had left for her, then she went into the garage and found him dead from a gunshot wound.  None of us had any reason to see this coming.

He’d been suffering from a subtle chemical imbalance for three decades, and it had been well-managed the whole time, but his illness had taken a turn for the worse during the last couple of years, and he’d been unable to slough off his hopeless and obsessive thoughts.  He would sit listlessly in a chair, with a book in his lap, and stare off into space.  It was heartbreaking to see him at such a low ebb. He felt guilty for things he’d done, and for things he’d left undone, and for things that were outside of his control.  A year or so ago, his doctor had found a medication that seemed to work, at least for a while, but for the last few months, none of the various medications had taken hold.  Two weeks ago, the doctors discovered that he had low levels of testosterone, so they added some new medications to the anti-depressants they’d already prescribed.

I have to be honest; our relationship was challenging and difficult, even in the best of times.  We were about as opposite as it’s possible for two people to be.  When I was in high school and college, we could barely speak to each other without arguing.  Once, he even pushed me backwards down the hallway after a particularly ridiculous argument.  When I walked out the door that day, I knew I was saying the harshest and most shocking words his conservative Christian ears could hear:  “Go to hell.”

Over the last ten years, things have been much better.  He and I have mellowed with time and age, and my mom has been very good about creating bonds, as well as family events and traditions, and Stepdad and I became much closer.  But, as is the case with so many families, it’s never been easy.  That being said, he’s made great strides (and so have the rest of us) and I would say that this branch of our strange family tree is definitely the better for it.  He was the strong, silent type; always quick to help in whatever way he could.  He could fix absolutely anything, and he had an uncanny intuition for the way things worked, even if he’d never set eyes on them before.  It didn’t matter whether the things were cars, washing machines, or fruit trees; he somehow knew exactly what it took to make them flourish or perform at their best, which is an amazing gift.

I can’t help but think that the solution to his chemical imbalance was a mere week or two away, and that if he’d been able to hold on for a short time longer (or if he’d used pills instead of a gun) he’d still be here, and we’d all have that much more time together to sort out the medical issues.  For the last few months, he was gamely going along with the regimen of pills, and checkups, and everything that goes along with that sort of thing.  The e-mails and phone calls from my mom have been hopeful and promising.

I don’t know what else to say.  I can’t imagine what my mom must be going through.  I’ve had a couple of friends who have attempted suicide (both of whom are thriving now, thankfully), but Mom and Stepdad were married for almost twenty-five years, and they have countless links and ties to each others’ lives.  Luckily, Mom has people she can turn to for support during this terrible time, and she has a close friend who’s staying with her until my brother and I can get up there and be with her too.  Brother is heading over tonight, and I’m going tomorrow. Sister-in-Law and Niece will be joining us later in the week for the funeral service.

Please send some good thoughts (it’s too soon for phone calls) in my mom’s direction; she’ll be needing them.  And for God’s sake, if there’s someone in your life that you appreciate, do them a favor and let them know it.

I saw this on Craigslist and thought it was extremely insightful (and well-written), so I wanted to share it here to spread the word and to save it for posterity, since CL postings only stay up for a week.

There was a large party in NW on Saturday night. I was talking to two friends I hadn’t seen in over a year, when you came up and starting throwing the charmer moves. You had one of those family names that were at one point male, but are now usually female, like Ashley (but not Ashley) – and you felt the need to interject a few defensive sentiments about it, even though no one was ridiculing you. Then you introduced yourself to me, held on to my hand a little too long, and really started with the praise.

“You’re so beautiful! So radiant!”  So this! So that!

You were at least fifteen years older than me, and this level of come-on was too much, so I inched closer to my friend. You remained on the porch, dramatically telling everyone about your likes and interests. “I am an actor!” you declared. Obviously, not a great one. “I love theatre! I love Shakespeare! I have studied Shakespearian theatre!” You never mentioned anywhere you actually studied or any show you’d actually participated in, and I knew that you were lying. You asked me my feelings about Shakespeare, and whether I had studied anywhere.

“I have a master’s in literature,” I said. “I’ve read a fair amount of Shakespeare.” For emphasis, I recited a few sonnet lines.  Meanwhile, my friends got up off their bench and went inside, saying they’d meet me momentarily. You sat down where they had been sitting, moved way the heck over to one end, and extended your arm in an invitational gesture. I kept standing, moving closer to the door.

“Well,” I said – and reached for the handle.

“Listen,” you said. “I have a question for you.”

I turned around. You were trying to pin me with your eyes.

“Do you know what the two greatest discoveries of science are?” you said.

“Uh,” I said. “I think that’s probably somewhat subjective.”

And out of nowhere, you underwent the trademark I-Am-A-Wife-Beater Jekyll/Hyde transformation, and you started shouting at me.
“You think that science is subjective?” you yelled. “Can’t you even recognize the truth? You can’t even admit the truth?”

“You appear to be angry,” I said. This obviously made you more angry, as you started shouting even louder.

“All of you women and your high and mighty shit – I am educated! I know what I’m talking about! You can’t even look at the truth! You won’t see the truth!” And then you launched into a sentence that I doubt I’ll correctly replicate (and I doubt you could, either) – but it went something like this: “The spherical unity of the nature of humanity must absolutely be subjected to universal correctness.”

Then, you started – is it challenging? – me. “Define universal correctness!” you yelled at me. “Define universal!”

“Hm,” I said. “I think I’d rather not engage the anger.”

Meanwhile, your very out-of-context and loud shouting had attracted the attention of two girls down the porch stairs, and another one of my friends came up to us on the porch and stationed herself in front of you, more or less between us.  “What’s up?” she said.  So you started shouting at her.

“Can you accept universal truths?!” you shouted.

“Um,” she said. “I don’t know.”

It was at this point that you reached into the box of Coors Light sitting on the bench next to you, took out a beer, shook it, and proceeded to cover my friend and the two girls at the bottom of the porch with beer. Ironically, the one person who had pissed you off – me – was far enough to your side so that you missed me completely, and wound up soaking the one person who hadn’t been talking to you at all.

Luckily, you’d come to a generally drama-free group. Now that the finality of your stupid action occurred to you, you were temporarily stunned into silence, and my friend held up the hem of her shirt, looked at you, and said, “Look at this. Look at what you did.”

You started yelling again, and she interrupted you.

“Look again. Look at this. Look at what you did. Look around. Why did you do this?”

Surprisingly, you actually did look, this time. There was a long silence. Then, still holding on to the hem of her shirt, she said, “Now, apologize.”

There was another long silence. Finally, you cupped your hands in front of you like Oliver Twist, and in the most sarcastic tone you could manage, said, “I’m sorry.” But then you didn’t say anything further. You got up, and then defeated, you left, probably to continue scouring the city for prey.

—

I feel for women who encounter men like this, and don’t recognize the patterns of abusive behavior. It’s always the same, and the great thing about alcohol is that one gets to see the Ugly Faces of Drunks long before one ever would in a regular social situation. Ashley, the second you opened your insecure mouth and actually thought you could start an argument over something as ridiculous as the “Two Greatest Discoveries of Science”, you morphed in front of my eyes, from a human into a thing – a lab rat – a situation to be studied and analyzed for further emphasis. See Abnormal Psychology section 4. Put the rat in the maze and see how agitated it gets when it isn’t sure which route to take. Shock it whenever it pets a white rabbit. Look – it’s fulfilling the characteristics for eventual violent relationships.

The thing is, I know you – and based on my very profession – I’ve read works by my students that, terms and years apart, repeat the same systematic patterns that eventually led to broken bones and black eyes. Ashley, I had a student hold up a hand to a thick black scar that disappeared underneath her eyebrow, and say, “My ex-husband. He didn’t like the beer I got, so he broke one of the bottles on my face.”

My grandfather always said, “Beware of charmers. Charmers are liars.”  And they are. They are predators and their women are prey. They seek women who need to be validated – usually intelligent but insecure; usually with a history of a nurturing, caretaking role – ones that are willing to forgive. And it always starts the same, and ends the same. Oh, Ashley.  You’re not only a thing, you’re a thing that’s a statistic! Here are the combined stories of maybe fifteen students out of over one thousand, who lived this life.  Sound like yours?

Shower her with flowers, gifts, compliments. All eyes on you, girl. You are the central star in the sky, you are the light of his life and fire of his loins, you are with somebody who cares enough to shower you with flowers. And you buy it – the compliments, the flattery – you don’t see why being the only thing in someone’s world is ultimately destructive, and you don’t see that pretty words and pretty things mean nothing. Instead, you’re finally the one that has the attention – *his* attention.

And usually, the first slip-up is accidental, or non-physical. He says something utterly disrespectful and tasteless, out of nowhere. One of my friends was with a guy for four weeks, and one day they were watching TV, when he said, “You know, all you’re good for is sex.” When she was late for work, he started throwing cold glasses of water on her face in the morning. And it STILL took her another two months to leave him.

Or he throws something and in the process, it just *happens* to hit you. A vase. A porcelain doll. Immediately he apologizes, he’s just got X and Y stressing him out at work, you know how much he loves you, yada yada. You think it was a random event but lady, there are no random events. Everything goes back to wonderful-cookies-and-puppies for a while.

And then one day, just when you’ve adjusted, you iron the wrong dress shirt or misplace the ballpoint pen, and he explodes, and strikes you, or pushes you. It’s brief, and when the color comes back to his eyes, he apologizes profusely.  It’ll never happen again; just the one time. And by this point, you’ve been with this guy long enough so that he’s a longtime boyfriend, fiance, or even husband, so you forgive this event because you feel that you have to. You tread on eggshells. It was your fault, after all.  You’re the one who misplaced the ballpoint pen. You’re always giving him a hard time when he’s had a hard day.  Hell, you couldn’t even remember what kind of beer he liked, that’s why he hurt you!  So for several months everything readjusts, and when you’ve finally convinced yourself that it was just The One Time, it happens again.

Of course, there are other issues he gradually develops.  He hates himself, woman, and he wants you to hate yourself as much as he hates himself every moment of every day. He hates you talking to your family and friends, and he’s usually distant and angry, so you start spending less time with your mom on the phone, less time with your friends on your days off. If you come home late, he accuses you of running around, even though you’re way too scared of him to consider it.

So anyway, one of two things happens. Either the man succeeds in damaging the woman’s self-confidence so thoroughly that she essentially becomes a thing and a statistic, a shell – or she eventually realizes that the guy is a horror and takes off.

That’s you, Ashley. And the second that your eyes became swollen with rage over nothing, I saw my students’ stories written across your face. At heart, you are a weakling, and you couldn’t very well perform an act of physical violence without being beaten to a pulp by the men who actually lived at the house. So, you did the next best thing appropriate for an insecure dumbass; you attacked – with beer! And then, drunk and dumb, you sat there blinking.

You aren’t most men, Ashley. Most men, at the very least, aren’t violently-inclined Frankensteins, and in my experience, most are just good, everyday folk. And it’s true that there are plenty of abusive women out there. However, if a man resorts to fisticuffs, he’s likely to cause more damage. I’m under 100 pounds. I can no more physically battle an average 150-pound guy than he can hope to get pregnant someday. Unless, of course, your balancing tool of choice is a Colt 45.

Ashley, I wanted to tell you that I pity you. Pathetic – a man nearly my father’s age so insecure about himself, that he has to argue over large, irrelevant issues to feel like he’s not the loser that he knows he is. And I hope that more women out there can see the warning signs long before they turn into a pattern of abuse. When it starts becoming angry, observe it.  See how it struggles to find the entrance in the little cardboard maze. Remember. . .nothing that comes out of its mouth has any relevance to anything at all, because that thing hates itself for being the thing it is.

You, Ashley. A middle aged child, too broken to ever be fixed, and doomed to keep missing your connections.

This beautiful little animated short film needs to be shared with the world.  Fans of the accordion and of Hugh Manatee–a.k.a the human spirit–will find it particularly touching.

/>