Defining Moment

"What do you do?".  It seems like an innocuous enough question. And it generally is.  However, for me, it is a loaded question, one which is a scathing judge.

I was prepared to meet this question head on at my reunion.  People are curious and most venture out every morning to some building where they spend the majority of their time and collect a paycheck.  I was never particularly good at spending that much time away from home.  Even when young, I was borderline agoraphobic.  I begged to be rescued from sleep-away camp and I cried myself to sleep the first week of college.  I like familiarity.

For the last seven years I have hidden myself under the cloak of motherhood; I was staying home for my children.  I had no such excuse when we lived in Austin and found myself coming up with snarky responses when posed with the question (I'm a social critic.  I'm the CEO of the Gray Establishment).  With both children now in school, I find myself in a precarious position again.  People judge you, define you by your work.  What if you don't work?

I used to tell people that I would've made a fabulous courtesan, before I realized that the term actually means "high class prostitute" instead of a dilettante.  I can hold a fascinating conversation about Juvenal's Sixteen Satires and can wax poetic on Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Leonard Cohen but I am pretty sure I would have no clue how to function as a cashier at Trader Joe's much less trade stocks during the day at home.

When I was suicidal, my obituary sometimes came to mind.  Macabre, I know.  I wallowed further into depression thinking that the obit would be no more than two lines.  When you're bipolar, you frequently define yourself as either "good" or "bad".   I'm good now... on my meds, seeing my psychiatrist regularly.  Should that be enough?  Have I used my depression as an excuse so that I do not have to try to accomplish more than just healthy?  I read that Madeline Albright didn't go to law school until she was in her fifties.  So why, at 38, do I feel as though I have hit my plateau?  Is being bipolar holding me back or is there a deep seeded fear of failure that I need to confront?  What goal can I set for myself?  Who do I want to be?

The triumph of the Scarlet Hurricane

There are sometimes when I sit to write that I can barely breath as I viciously attack the keyboard.  And then there are times like tonight when I know there is something to tell but drawing it forth is an epic endeavor.

This past weekend cannot go by without being duly noted in this blog.  A 20th reunion is a celebration to say the least.  Celebrating it with people you would still chose to befriend 20 years later, is astounding.  Our "reunion" for a class whose school no longer exists, was pulled together in 45 days.  Out of 105 graduates, thirty-something people gathered.  David Martin flew in from the other side of the country.  There were a dozen or more people who represented the hometown and then various others scattered along the eastern seaboard.  We called and heckled those who couldn't make it.  We reminisced and drank and laughed as though twenty years had passed in twenty minutes.  There were athletes and preps, homecoming queens and drama queens, country boys and city girls.

I'm sure there were some who were curious about old flames, some who had something to prove, some who wanted comfort and some who wanted a good time.  Reunions are a smorgasbord for the curious.

It was a lazy afternoon, cerulean and warm.  The river drifted gently past as a handful of small boys rippled its waters.  People mingled and hugged, repeated their stories endlessly, hoping for glimmers of understanding, reckoning.

The night settled amicably and the beer flowed.  We gathered as we had years ago at a friend's house, whose parents were out of town.  This time we bought beer legally and drank responsibly.  We talked about children and housing markets, football teams and high school memories.  

Our time is fleeting.  The sun can set too early upon your best planned day.  My past has not always been easy to look back upon but if I hadn't I would have missed the opportunity to reconnect with so much of what was good about my youth.  That little high school of 500 in the Blue Ridge mountains housed giants. Its so good to know that they all still walk among us.

Crap shoot

I am lucky beyond my wildest wishes.  Don't get me wrong... I've put in some serious time.  If misfortune builds character, I have more than a Shakespearean play.  However, when I climbed out of bed at the luxurious time of 10 AM today, I felt like a queen.  Both children in school and the day rolls out in front of me like a red carpet.

I know luck.  Good. Bad.  Luck and I have waged war.  I've won airline tickets to France and I have been suicidal twice.  I've had my heart broken, more than once, and I found the love of a lifetime.  I can take Luck on.

Yet I am powerless when Luck goes bad for those I love.  I have offered to help.  I've given what I could but sometimes that is not enough.  I have offered money, my home, my shoulder... sometimes, there is nothing you can give.  Watching someone suffer is painful.  Luck is a brutal mistress.

I was fifteen the first time I tried to take my life.  My parents were separated, I was abysmal in school and pocked by acne.  My mother was drowning in her own desperation and my brothers were young.  I overdosed on tylenol.  More of a cry for help than actual attempt?  Probably.  Yet I was thrashed by bad luck  and wanted to end the pain.

I'm thirty eight now.  Medicated, happily married with beautiful children and a lovely home.  I am lucky.  Lucky that I married someone with great health insurance to cover the outrageous cost of my medication.  Lucky someone loves me.  Lucky I lived this long to find love.

Tonight I feel especially lucky... and sad.  I have dear friend who is not so lucky.  She is brilliant and brave and she followed her dreams and they led her to a sad reality.  Friends are harder to care for than family.  They are squeamish about receiving aid, especially financial.

In addition to my brave, brilliant friend, I have a family member who needs a savior.  She calls upon her God.  I want to convince her that God choses angels... that maybe I am one for this person.  Can I work a miracle for her?

Luck.  Good. Bad.  The roulette wheel constantly spins.

The price of life

The daily struggle.  What am I, who am I, without this disease?  What would it feel like to walk after being immobile?  Your whole life spent on the sideline, watching the game, cheering for others.  Yeah.  It's like that.

Facebook is a marvelous tool.  Frightening, but marvelous.  As I dredge up old memories and old friends, I wonder, who did they know?  Who was I?  I remember so well riding in a bus back to school after a tennis match... Jim Osbourne was reading some poetry of mine that I had recently submitted to an English teacher as part of an independent study.  Drewry Atkins queried, "Isn't it good?" and Jim said "It's all so depressing".  But could I have written a word without being depressed?

I take 5 pills a day to function.  Just one of my prescriptions alone would cost $450 monthly without insurance.  It is no small feat that I sit here today pondering my existence.  I estimate that it takes about $700 a month to keep me alive, barring food and drink. Am I worth it?  Can you put a price on what you contribute to your family, your neighborhood, the world?

Recently I read that a Stay-At-Home mom would earn an income of about $150K annually if paid.  What is the measure of quality?  Do my children get $150K worth of a mother?

The bitter side of blessings

The milestones of my life - graduating from college, my wedding, the birth of both of my children - are momentous and to be treasured.  However, a deep love was instilled in me as a child and the memories are precious yet simple.

 The taste of lemon chess squares, the sound of Gran's high heels on the sunroom's brick floor, the rose scented hand lotion in her bathroom. Gran.  The deepest well of memories I hold, contains memories of Gran.

At three in the morning, I lay awake.  I can feel Gran slipping away.  Each time I call, she sounds a little more frail.  She has lived with cancer now for 2 years.  She is 88.  

I cannot imagine not being able to hear her voice.  She is my constant.  I have never known a moment when I have not felt completely loved by Gran.  I have questioned the love of my parents, my children, my husband, even God but I have never questioned Gran's love.  Knowing her has been my blessing and losing her shall be my curse.  

September 11

I am sitting at my study window watching droplets of rain run down the screen.  The clouds are low in the sky and the day feels heavy.  I am blinking back tears as I sit to compose.  I guess not many people would begrudge a little sorrow and reflection on this day.

The day was crystalline in Austin eight years ago.  I was lying in bed watching the sunlight filter through the crepe myrtles next to my window.  It was after nine AM central time when my phone wouldn't stop ringing.  I was twisted in the sheets my husband had left warm just a little over an hour before and reluctant to begin my day, irritated that it was punctuated by the incessant ringing of the phone.  I picked up after the fifth call.  Tim sounded excitable and I tried to gather myself to pay attention.  He told me to turn on the TV; that the World Trade Center had been hit by a plane and that the general belief was that it was not an accident.  

I turned on the television and called Gran.  We watched together, 500 miles apart, as the towers groaned to the ground.  I wept as I thought of the servers at Windows on the World, who had amused us on our last trip to NYC.  And then the reports that the Pentagon had been hit began to trickle into the newsfeed.  My heart seized as I thought of of all of our friends and family back in DC.

As many have, I have thought endlessly of those who lost their lives or their loved ones on that day.  I know people who were directly affected.  This day always gives me pause.

I think it is fitting today... the rain, the low sky, the darkness during day.  I think we tend to speak a little softer on days like today.  Afterall, it will never be again a day for crystalline skies.

the next stage

a deafening silence

the empty house

the chores yawn out before me and I cannot be persuaded to act

I have longed for this

and now I am at a loss

what to do with myself

now more than the ever

the past creeps silently around me, chiding me for my failures

all that could be done, all the needs to be attended

and I sit, unhindered and yet uninspired

words needle me and blank screens menace me and my chop shortly at the keyboard

I am, am I 

bereft