what matters now

Write.  Just write.  Keep writing.  My anti-depressants allow me to live a "normal" life but they also rob me... of my creativity.  It is a curse.

I scratch... at my surface and try to get deeper.  What do I have to contribute if I am not emotionally raw?

Happiness?  Does anyone want to hear about happiness?  About satisfaction?  About contentment?  Don't we all want to hear about soul searching, gnashing of teeth, finding oneself?

I'm left pondering what I have left to contribute...My anti-depressants work.  My husband comes home.  My children are happy.  

Of course, I have deeper issues, but I am left wondering if they are worth raising?  

My best friend is going to have a baby.., any day.  Her second baby.  A girl.  Another girl.  She and her husband are overjoyed.  I am so happy for them both.. . for them all.  For the mother who will love her child like an only one, for the father who feels so blessed, for the beautiful sister who is overjoyed to have a sibling .... and for myself.  To know finally how a family reacts when they are blessed with two daughters.  To know that a father can honestly openly welcome two lovely daughters... a father who couldn't be more masculine... a father whom everyone suspected could only welcome sons.  I am humbled by his love and devotion.  I am awed.  I shouldn't be I know.  But having come from nothing....

Living with life

8 pounds 15 ounces.  Charlie and Cari's baby came into the world just 57 minutes past Gran's 87th birthday.  

I remember the night Charlie was born.  I was 4, the age Annelise is now.  We lived in a borrowed home in the delta town of Clarksdale, MS.  I was lying in my bed, watching the shadows of tree branches across the ceiling.  I can recall it so well because there were great flashes of lightening.  That night is the first thunderstorm I can remember.  

Charlie was a quiet baby.  He was a Mama's Boy.  He was also a planned pregnancy.  And a son.  My father was thrilled.  I was thrilled too.  I had someone to love.  

I dressed Charlie in my clothes and used my Barbie make up to turn him into Charlene.  I made mudpies in my Little Lady oven and fed them to him.  I read him stories and pinched his fat legs when my mother wasn't looking.  

There was an old wing chair in our den.  It was not placed strategically for TV viewing but it was the most comfortable chair in the room and therefore the most coveted.  When I came home from school, I liked to curl up in the chair and watch Scooby-Doo or the Adams Family.  I was about 7 now and Charlie was 3.  We actually fit into the chair rather nicely together but the novelty of having a little brother had long worn off and I was weary with sharing.  One final time, Charlie pushed and shoved his way into the chair with me and I pushed him back out.  He let out a shriek and I ran to my room, unsure of the gravity of the situation.  A staple from the upholstery had come undone - a large upholstery staple.  It sliced through Charlie's right thigh.  He bled upon the cream floral fabric.  He bears a scar and I can still remember being spanked.

Many years later, after we had moved to Lexington, VA, Charlie and I fought our way through my early adolescence but when our parents divorced, we found a strange mutually parental relationship.  We took care of each other.  I taught him how to drive, on Sunday mornings down our old country road to the house where we no longer lived.  He asked Raleigh Mason, my crush, to take us both out to dinner for his 12th birthday; it didn't work though - Raleigh never asked me out.  

Then I embarked on my circuitous college route, crisscrossing the midwest trying to find the right school which would magically rid me of my nagging depression.  Charlie himself sunk into a dark place that neither of us have ever discussed.  We exchanged a few letters when he was sent, briefly, to boarding school and talked shortly when I called home.  Our paths were no longer convergent.

I stumbled blindly through my twenties but I did reestablish my friendship with Charlie while he was at Ole Miss.  Our lives were more parallel now, with deadlines and failing relationships.

I don't think Charlie knew quite what to do when I landed at the psych ward at UVA.  I supposed I was a bit like a bird with broken wings...you know you can't pick the bird up and bandage it.  The best you can do is feed it and let it heal by itself.  I knew he was there even if neither one of us knew what he should do.

When I had healed sufficiently, I told my family I was moving to DC.  This was met with much concern.  I was not whole yet and wouldn't be for many more years and I had to fight to function.  Even though, I managed to find fulfilling work and friends and kept my head down.  Somehow, I ran into Tim.  

Charlie was unimpressed that Tim's favorite band was Pearl Jam and even less impressed that he drove a red Ford Escort.  He nearly doubled over when I brought Tim to his first Ole Miss game, in 98 degree heat, wearing a tie.  They fell into an easy friendship, one that has been tested and solidified.  

Charlie is my best friend and my husband's best friend.  He is my little brother but at times he was the father I needed.  No one, ever, will be a better Daddy.

the number 6

My brother and his wife entered the hospital tonight.  Cari is going to have Charles Hyde Davidson VI.  

Charlie was able to tell Sandy, practically upon his deathbed, that he and Cari were going to have a baby.  I think it was comforting to my brother to know that he had imparted this knowledge to his dying father.  For me, it was bitter.  Bitter because I had had two children and their births had never changed anything in our relationship.  Also because Charlie would never know how Sandy would have truly reacted to the news.  Sandy was not able to communicate.  My heart was halved; I wanted for Charlie to believe that Sandy would have become the father he had never been and I wanted for Charlie to realize that Sandy would never become the father we had wanted.  

Sandy never became communicative again.  He made facial grimaces and fluttered his eyes, but it was impossible to know what he understood.  As he lay in that hospital bed, I leaned close to his ear... I thought of all things I could say, of all things a daughter should say, of everything I wanted to say.  I could not, even rapt with pity and sympathy, bring myself to say "I love you".  I passed my hand over his forehead and whispered that I had to leave but that I would bring my children back.  My father turned his head and opened his pale blue eyes wide.  I felt myself quickly inhale.  I felt my eyes sting.  In 37 years, my father had never conveyed as much emotion as he did wordless at that moment.  

I could write that I fell upon his bedside, embracing him, feeling his warm hand on my hair... but it did not happen.  I retreated within myself.  Sandy faded away under a morphine cloud.  

But Charlie soldiered on.  Charlie stood strong for my father's wife.  He cried and held his father's hand.  He told him that he loved him and that he would have a child that would carry his name.

I told myself I pitied Charlie, for his hope, his abiding love, his trust.  In truth, though, I pitied myself.  I had become as jaded and hollow as the person who made me that way.

Define Yourself

I sleptwalked through 25 years of my life.  As an undiagnosed bi-polar depressive, I shuttled through life bumping into one experience after the other.  I was undefined and unprepared.  Life miraculously pushed me along and even after going to 4 colleges in 5 years, I graduated and was given a piece of paper which I believed entitled me to peace and prosperity thereafter.  At 26, the ride ended.  Unemployed and bereft from a failed romance, I fell into a deep depression.  Suicidal, I finally realized that I needed medication.  At this point however, I was only defined as "depressed".  I was put on mild anti-depressants.  The cycle would continue.  I would experience extreme elation and plunge into creativity only to wash up weeks later onto another shore, depressed and unable to function.  Again, I shuttled along, only now the stakes were higher; I was married with two children.  Last summer, as my father's health began to flounder, I finally found the right psychiatrist and medication and woke up at age 36 wondering where I had spent my life.

 

Suddenly, I realized I had choices.  Life had happened to me all these years but now I realized that if could happen for me.  Serendipitously, I had married well and produced two beautiful children.  The task now is to find out who I really am so I can parent these incredible little people.  As I stated earlier, I know these three things are true:  I am bi-polar, I am southern and I was an unwanted child, by my father.  These are accurate descriptions but they are also only part of the puzzle.  The other pieces I can fit in are Wife, Mother, Sister, Granddaughter.  But what makes up who I am uniquely?  Am I a writer?  An aspiring designer?  Could I rejoin the work force, and if so in what capacity?  Does your work define you?  Your station in life?  How do you most readily identify yourself?  At 37, I still feel undefined.

An apple from the tree?

How much should you view your children as an extension of yourself?  

I love my son; he is a beautiful, intelligent, articulate child.  He is also the greatest challenge in my life.  I am aware of the parallels between our relationship and the relationship I had with BioDad.  Teddy is a first child, as was I, and he is, of course, from the opposite sex.  The dynamics of our relationship continue to emulate those of my father/daughter relationship.  Teddy and I are both strong willed and opinionated.  We struggle for power over each other.  I wonder now if I am more like my father than I had believed.  Was I a threat?  Did I challenge him?  I try not to act like BioDad; I am demonstrative and affectionate.  Teddy has been showered with love since he entered this world.  He is a cherished child.  However, I will admit that somedays I have to force myself to be loving.  Is this normal?  Am I going through motions to be a "good" parent?  Since his conception, I have worried that Teddy would be bi-polar like me.  I carefully assess nuances; why does he call himself "stupid" when reprimanded, is it OK for a 6 year old to cry this much, why hasn't parenting him become any easier?  Is it harder to parent Teddy than Annelise because he is more like me?  Is it possible that instead of being the narcissist I thought him to be, BioDad disliked himself and therefore disliked the child who seemed most like him?

Growing up, I always believed that I would be a better parent because I had experienced a bad one.  Instead, have I grown up to become the same parent as my father?  Or does simply asking myself this question make me a better parent than Sandy?

Just breath

When I hurt, the depth is such that I find trouble inhaling.  I wish that I could report that those times were few, but in truth, I have often found myself struggling for breath.  Certainly, BioDad gave me many an occasion to strain to breath.

His wife was here this weekend.  A devout wife and devoted grandmother, she makes frequent trips to here... to see both her grandchildren and to visit her deceased husband's grave site.  I don't know how to respond to her grief.  I don't know if she knows the whole story... the whole story about how my father broke his vows, how he bedded a colleague, how I found the photographs... I don't think she knows any of that.  But it is not my place to tell her those things.  I want sometimes to slap her, to educate her, to inform her about his past; I strongly suspect that he lied about the circumstances involving his divorce.  I don't think she had a clue about his infidelity.  Is it my place to tell her to get over him because he was never who she thought he was?  Should she, would she grieve for him if she knew who he truly was?

Happy Birthday

Well, one thing I have learned from blogging is reread your work prior to posting.  My father was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer; there is not, of course, a stage VI.  

Yesterday would've have been Bio-Dad's 60th birthday.  I nearly forgot his birthday last year.  Our relationship was tethered by holidays and birthdays.  Those days aside, we rarely had any communication.  The curious thing is that I always put twice as much thought into his gift than for those whom I truly loved.  I didn't necessarily spend extravagantly on him, but I did agonize over the choice.  Oddly, I usually delivered well.  Last year though I realized within a day or two that his birthday was upon me and I stalled.  My life was rather tumultuous at the time and I became aware a month later that I still had not acknowledged Sandy's birthday.  Rather thoughtlessly, I ordered him steaks from Omaha, not realizing that he was having difficulty eating.  Actually, now that I think about it, Father's Day was the occasion I forgot.  His birthday I did indeed send a thoughtful gift though that too was belated.  I can't remember the title or the author now but I do recall that he was impressed with the selection.  I always felt both thrilled and annoyed that he enjoyed my gifts.  Why was he so surprised that I could give so generously?

When I was in high school he began buying me gifts from Tiffany's.  Initially I was delighted to be presented with that distinctive blue box.  However, each gift more readily revealed he had no idea who I was.  His selections seemed odd, like gifts he had bought for someone else, someone older, perhaps a girlfriend who had moved on.  Big seashell earrings.  Large graduated silver beads.  I let my mother borrow them.  I nestled them in their flannel bags and packed them into the back of my lingerie drawer.  

This year, as with the others since my stepmother came into our lives, I received a nice sweater which she had bought.  However, Sandy kept leaving me messages.  He seemed so desperate to reach me.  Each voicemail seemed more urgent than the last.  A week after my birthday, Ifinally  picked up the phone and his relief was palpable.  He NEEDED to wish me well.  It seemed so odd.  He sounded beaten.  Then he shocked me.  The Major General was tired.  He told me how sorry he was that my Gran had to go through the same hell he had endured.  I wanted to care.  I wanted to feel something deeper than curiosity.  Even now, I'm still not sure what I felt that night.  I told him he had fought the good fight.  He was in the ICU less than a week later.

So then I thought, maybe I should just stick to what I know.  I really can't divorce myself from what I write.  However, I can better define who I am as a writer.  First and foremost, I am bi-polar.  Secondly, I am southern.  However, these two important elements aside, I am also my father's (unwanted) daughter.  It is impossible for me to discern which of these characteristics has impacted me the most.  Rather I view them as interwoven.  In fact though before I was accurately diagnosed as bi-polar, I suspected that my depression stemmed from the inherent understanding, even at an improbably early age, that my father could never love me.  

I can still feel those days... the sharp summer sun, the steamy Mississippi mornings, skinned knees and mosquito bites.  I remember pushing a play mower behind my father as he mowed our lawn.  In the wilting heat, he had taken off his shirt.  I wanted so much to be embraced or at least recognized.  I took off my shirt too.  The scathing disdain.  I can remember that.  I cannot remember being kissed by anyone other than my grandmother or grandfather.  I can remember however the tacit disapproval and knowing even at 6 that I had earned it just by existing.

Years later, after our relationship had yawned into vacant formality, my father was diagnosed with stage VI lung cancer.  When my husband delivered this news, as he had retrieved the voicemail first, I felt a slight shudder.  I cannot recall though if I willed myself to feel nothing more or if I simply was unable to dredge up anything else.  For months, I kept the news within the family.  My brothers and I had hurried emotionless conversations about cancer and its impact.  When I finally did share the news with friends, that "Bio-Dad" as I had called him for years, was dying, I was surprised and slightly annoyed when they offered their sympathies.  

Maybe a blog shouldn't be so personal.  Perhaps you need to divorce the person from the writing in order to get a genuine story and not just a therapy session.  I didn't give that very much thought before launching into this blog.  Of course, everyone feels their story is compelling or else stories wouldn't be told.  In truth, of course, not every story IS compelling.  I wanted to start a blog to figure out what to do with life after motherhood and how to begin a possible career writing.  Maybe instead of giving the biographical background, I should just start the story.  However, not today.  Today I still need to hammer out details.  I received two very useful yet vastly different responses to this blog.  One was a criticism particularly relevant to the construction, hence the thought that perhaps I was on too personal a tangent.  The other was a heartfelt response to the nature of what I wrote.  Both comments were helpful, even if one was one more palatable than the other!  I would like to know how to create a story which is genuine without getting mired in personal reflection.  Is that even possible for me?  Could I write a story without using ME as the topic?  When I think about the best writers and the stories I admire the most, I doubt many of them are very autobiographical.  I'm sure every writer draws upon personal experiences but how do you avoid adding to much of yourself into the story?  

So I'm still getting used to this whole idea.  Do I use this as a diary, albeit with understanding that it will be viewed, or do I use this as a sounding board for my submissions for publication?  How about both?  Besides, right now, I really don't have to worry too much as to whether someone else is reading this or not!

With all that has transpired in the last year, I feel I have a wealthy of material to tap into to begin writing, whether its poetry, short stories, or even a short novel (I guess that's a novella, eh?).  I haven't sorted through this jumble in my head in so long.  I know it's all there... it's just matter of sorting and filing.  I tried to explain to a therapist once how I catalogue thoughts for writing... she prescribed some really strong medication after that session!  The best way I can describe it is that I have a running script during the day.  I walk into a room and I think "She walks into the room".  I flip through a mental rolodex (remember those) to find the right adjectives for the lighting, the climate, the smells... I thought everyone thought that way until I had that therapy session.

So maybe, you are wondering, what transpired this year?  How about betrayal, tragedy, loss and redemption?  Coupled with drastic weight loss and a bad case of hives but I think I can omit those parts.  Here's the rub; its not over - neither the year nor the impending tragedy yet to befall.  My Gran is still battling cancer and will have to stay on chemo until she decides she simply doesn't want to do it anymore or she dies.  The question is, has the last year prepared me enough for her death?  Certainly, the year was cathartic.  Oddly, it is the death of my estranged father that has left me the most battered.  I struggle to define how I feel.  Not just about his death, his life and our relationship but how all of those things left me feeling as a person.  I really am at a loss to describe the way I feel about anything and everything since his death.  There is a story in that, I am sure.  Not a story about Sandy or me or even a father/daughter story.  A story about feeling indescribable, about finding yourself surprised that you are standing in your own kitchen, about feeling altered but not necessarily affected by the specific situation.

Death throttled me this year.  The loss of people, of trust, of innocence and understanding.  And in its wake, I felt oddly buoyed.  

begin the begin

So I've often wondered what we could come up with if I wrote one sentence and passed it on to someone, who in turn wrote another sentence and passed it on... what kind of story would we get?  Since this is my first blog, you can go ahead and assume that I haven't gotten very far with my idea yet.  I guess its sort of an expanded mad lib.  Still I think it is an interesting idea.  And I need to entertain my interesting ideas!  As a stay-at-home mother of two, its not every day that I can come up with something interesting much less coherent.  Where will this go from here?  I don't know but I guess I will keep coming back.