Archive for Essays

Three Boxes

{ November 29, 2008 @ 11:28 pm } · { Essays }
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I peek at Ryan through his bedroom door. He doesn’t notice me, which gives me a moment to observe a process he’s perfected: putting his books in order. I watch as he chooses each book with thoughtful consideration before setting it on the bookshelf. I’m not sure if he chooses the books by size, color, or even subject. I am often perplexed and fascinated by the way he lines up objects in what appears to me as no particular order. I’ve even asked him how he knows which item goes where. “It’s my special order,” he replies, offhandedly. “I feel it.”
Ryan has always lined up his toys, even as a baby. Every time I put a pile of his little wooden blocks in front of him, he gave them a look as if to say, “This simply won’t do!” It didn’t take Ryan long to assemble the blocks in an almost perfectly straight line.
By the time he was four, Ryan had mastered the skill of organization and symmetry. His behavior never alarmed me or made me wonder if he was suffering from something serious, and it certainly didn’t occur that inside my son’s brain was a neurobiological disorder called autism.
Finally sensing my presence, Ryan turns and smiles. “I’m organizing my books,” he says with pride. With that, he turns back around and continues on. Taking this time to look around his room, I notice several things that seem out of place. “Where did you get the yellow chalk on your easel?” I ask. Ryan spins around, looking at the chalk in question. “At school,” he says.
His answer doesn’t sit well in my gut. Why would his teacher give him school supplies to bring home and use? Although it would be a nice thing to do, the school, suffering from budget cuts and loss of funding from the state, is not likely to pass out school material for fun. I ask again. “Where did you get this chalk?” He looks at me, eyes wide, lips hesitant to answer. His face collapses. “I stole it!”

I hold my breath, hoping I didn’t just hear him say he’s stolen school property. Ryan begins to cry. His tears are real, not an act or performance for my benefit, something only a mother knows for sure.

Not knowing how this scene is suppose to play out, I ask him why he did it. “I don’t know!” he shouts. It dawns on me: he really doesn’t know. Many thoughts swirl inside my head, but the most important is to stay in control of my anger. I was raised by a mother who valued truth above all else. The realization that my child stole something, consequently violating the core of truth, is almost too much to bear. How do I deal with this?

Feeling a bit suspicious, I take notice of every object in his room. I see several books, art supplies, office accessories, all of which I didn’t buy. “Ryan,” I say, “I am going to put a box downstairs on the dining room table. I want you to be very honest and bring all the things that don’t belong to you and put them in the box.” His chin squishes. “But you’ll be mad and yell!” “No,” I say in my soothing mommy voice, “I won’t yell. The most important thing is to be honest and do the right thing.” I sense that he is composing himself and contemplating the mission I’ve given him. I know that it is time for me to retreat and let him act of his own freewill. “I will be downstairs. Let me know when you’re done.” He nods. Don’t yell, I remind myself, just don’t yell.

Three boxes later, I sit bewildered on the couch, Ryan next to me, waiting for the hammer to drop. I reach out and stroke his back, reminding myself to remain calm. The implication of what he’s done really hits hard. How did he manage to get all of these items out of the school? Mostly, how did he manage to smuggle them past my watchful eyes?

I examine the contents of each box. Digging into the first box, I find a number of books. I stack them on the table and stare. Ryan peeks around the wall dividing the kitchen and living room. I feel his anxious stare. “Where did you get these books?” I ask, not looking over my shoulder. Again, tears fall down his cheeks. “From the book fair.” No, no , no! My son did not just admit that he stole merchandise from the PTO’s annual fundraiser! Then I notice he’s written his name in each of the stolen books with a permanent black marker. I want to curl up in the corner and cover my head to make it stop. I really, really want to yell!

My hip resting against the table, I motion for Ryan to walk towards me. I take both of his hands in mine to reassure him that I am calm and in control. “We have to take all of these things back to school,” I explain, “It’s the right thing to do.” He begins to sob. Gone are the sporadic tears rolling down his cheeks. In their place is a steady stream, and the saddest eyes I’ve seen. “I don’t know why I took them Mom! I just wanted to have them so bad!”

Because I understand autism, I realize the impulsiveness that goes along with it. Ryan first displayed this behavior by constantly flicking light switches on and off. Eventually, it became more serious as he, without being provoked, slapped his younger sister across the face. True impulsiveness lacks the element of control. For this reason, I empathize with his need to take things that look pleasing, or show pictures of things he’s interested in or loves. I notice that many of the items in the first box have pictures of animals on them, along with school buses and birds. The kid didn’t have a chance.

I explain to Ryan that on Monday afternoon I will bring the boxes to the school principal. This revelation makes him cry harder, as shame finally sets in. Although uncontrolled impulsiveness drove him to steal, I can’t allow Ryan to believe this behavior is acceptable. I’m not sure if he will be affected by the consequences that await him, but I have to try. The bottom line is that stealing is wrong, no matter what. It may take Ryan more than once to learn this lesson, but it is my job, as his mother and the one person who loves him the most in this world, to hang in there until he does.

I walk over to my sweet boy and wrap him in my arms, his head just reaching my chest. “I love you,” I whisper in his ear. He gives me a squeeze and whispers back, “Thank you for not yelling.”

 

 

 

 

 

Autism’s Mom

{ June 23, 2008 @ 3:11 am } · { Essays }
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I used to be a self-centered, self-indulged, pampered princess. I blindly went through my days seeking out people who stroked my ego and things I found exclusively pleasing. Although I wasn’t the deliberately malicious type, I often found myself involved in shallow judgment and frivolous gossip. The girl I used to be has since been replaced with a giving, patient, educated, and nurturing spirit. Now, as the mother of an autistic child, there is no room for selfish endeavors or insensitivity of any kind.

            My son, Ryan, was born six weeks premature after a long and complicated pregnancy. Plagued with pre-term labor, heart palpitations, and in the end, pre-eclampsia, it is amazing he made it at all. It took some time for Ryan and me to bond, as we were separated for the week following his birth so I could get well. I remember seeing him for the first time in the NICU, hooked up to monitors, an IV in his tiny arm. His heel was raw, as he received several pokes for the blood needed to check his bilirubin levels. I put my hand through the arm hole of the incubator, laying it on his tiny belly. I fell in love with him in that moment, crying and praying that God would keep him healthy and safe for all of his days.

            Ryan was diagnosed with autism after a harrowing kindergarten year. There wasn’t a day that went by where he didn’t cry or wish to come home from school. He displayed several OCD behaviors, like washing his hands over and over, and flicking the lights on and off. Because he was my first child, these behaviors didn’t register as alarming. It never occurred to me that lining up blocks instead of stacking them was a symptom of anything. The thing that led me to seek help for Ryan was his obvious sensory dysfunction.

            During practice fire drills at school, Ryan became overly stressed at the sound of the alarm, causing him to wet and soil himself. The principal felt this was fairly common amongst kids his age, and tried to ease my concerns. However, my concerns grew one night after taking him to a high school basketball game where he screamed and flapped his hands against his ears at the sound of the buzzer. We took him home immediately, knowing something was very wrong.

            It didn’t take the child psychologist long to ask, “Have you ever heard of Asperger’s Syndrome?” Her question led us to many books, articles, and a Psychiatrist. The doctor recognized Ryan’s condition immediately, finally giving a name to the behaviors that didn’t make sense. Now that I knew what I was dealing with, I embarked on the daunting task of parenting my son.

            As Ryan’s mom, my day usually begins when he wanders into my bedroom and announces the time. Ryan, like most autistic kids, put themselves and everyone in their sphere on a strict schedule. “Mom, its seven-thirty,” he prods. Of course, being woken up in this manner, I am annoyed. As it must, patience wins out and I stumble out of bed.

            Because Ryan is also bipolar, he is often severely manic in the morning and talks incessantly. Sometimes it seems as though he forgets to breathe. I put my hand over his heart and ask him to take a few deep breaths. This is something I began doing as a way to focus and calm him. It doesn’t always work, but it gives him a short reprieve from the madness.

            When we’ve completed his breathing exercises, I embark on the hated ritual of dispensing medication. This is an especially trying time for me. I remember, before becoming parents, my husband and I would discuss medicating children and how we vowed that we would never become “those” parents. Needless to say, every morning I take a bitter bite of humble pie. Ryan is on several medications, which come in different forms. I prepare his liquids in a cup and add a bit of apple juice to try and mask the horrible taste. In a small bowl, I crush two pink tablets, and then combine the powder with tiny peach beads from a capsule. I add vanilla yogurt to the mixture and hope I haven’t measured out more than two bites. Ryan will only take two bites; he does not break this routine. How this daily event goes lies most heavily on my son. Some mornings, it is smooth sailing, while other times he runs around the kitchen making siren noises and eventually ends up hiding under the kitchen table.

            There is always dramatic potential when it comes to getting dressed. Ryan has severe sensory integrated dysfunction. This is a fancy way to say that he is very particular in the things he wears, eats, touches, and smells. It is my job to make sure all shirts are tag free, pants have the “right” fit, socks are the same brand (Adidas) he’s worn since he was three, and shoes are a little too big. Making sure these variables are in place assures at least one harmonious task.

            Because Ryan has significant manual dexterity issues, eating breakfast is a tremendous undertaking. Like most children, he loves cereal. This poses a problem as he is clumsy with his spoon and usually ends up wearing half of his breakfast. I try to remind him to use a paper towel to catch the milk droplets and falling cereal, however, he hates the texture of it and won’t follow my suggestion. During most meals, he gets frustrated trying to manipulate eating utensils and usually gives up, resorting to using his fingers. Although I know this is a Miss Manners nightmare, I don’t feel it is productive to add more stress on an already high stress situation. I’ve learned to choose my battles cautiously.

            When it comes to brushing his teeth and manipulating the tooth paste tube, Ryan is no professional! I send him in to the bathroom to complete this mission and fret about what disaster I will find afterward. What I usually find are blobs of tooth paste clumped in the sink, smeared on the counter, and clogging the end of the tube. Instead of shouting at him or becoming enraged, I give him Clorox Wipes to take care of the mess. This way, he doesn’t feel bad about himself for not being neat, but independent for being responsible for his own mess.

            Before heading off to school, Ryan makes sure he checks the school lunch menu and decides on the choices given. Since he has displacement issues, he will not take lunch to school. In his mind, food made at home belongs at home and food prepared at school is strictly for school lunch. Despite costing $40 per month, I understand how Ryan’s mind processes this information and make adjustments in our household budget to accommodate the charge.

            If everything goes well, I will not get a phone call from Ryan’s teacher or the school principal. When I do answer one of these calls, they usually tell me that he is having a hard day and can’t seem to cope in his overwhelming sensory and social surroundings. On these difficult days, I exercise one of two options. The first is to visit him at school and see if I can get him to verbalize his frustration. For the most part, addressing the origin of his anxiety and talking it through works wonders. My last resort is to take him home and let him unwind. The most important thing for Ryan is that he has options.

            Before picking my son up from school, I make sure dinner is planned and in the beginning stages of preparation. Ryan has a strict routine when he comes home from school and an early dinner is one of the components, along with riding his bike eighteen times to the end of the street and back, and drawing parallel lines in the driveway with sidewalk chalk. The lines represent order in his world.

            Bedtime also holds a rigid routine. After dinner, I dispense his evening medication and then it’s off to bed. Because his dad works third shift and naps in the evening, Ryan crawls into dad’s bed and snuggles until he falls asleep. Yes, this means I’m never alone, even in slumber. When it’s my time for hunkering down, I take advantage of Ryan’s stillness and calm. I rub his head (something he doesn’t allow me to do during his waking hours), kiss his cheek, and wrap him in love. I know most people have issues with children sleeping in their parent’s bed, but I am not one of them. For Ryan, my bed is a safe haven where he can let his guard down and feel at peace. I could never begrudge him this retreat.

            Although I constantly feel overwhelmed and overworked, I parent Ryan willingly. I don’t find the need to blame God for his disability, or wring my hands with worry. I don’t feel guilty that I did something to cause his autism and I don’t make him feel that he is autism. I take each day and live it with him: laughing when he laughs, crying when he’s sad or hurt, and rejoicing in small victories. Most of all, I am proud of who I’ve become in the storm of Ryan’s autism.

Different Plans

{ June 7, 2008 @ 2:03 am } · { Essays }
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            The city was riding high as the Detroit Red Wings skated into the Stanley Cup playoffs. On the night of game 2 in the series, I decided that holing up on the living room couch in my jammies wasn’t an option. So, without a partner in crime, I set off to find a place where I could enjoy a big screen TV, an electrically charged atmosphere, and a delicious cold beer. 

            There was a new hot spot in town. I thought it would be a perfect backdrop for my “girl night out.” After selecting the destination, I did all my girl things: Curled my hair, put on make-up, and chose the perfect outfit. I could already feel the anticipation of the first puck being dropped on the ice.

            Imagine my disappointment when arriving at the Pub, not a single parking space was available. Determined to share this big night with strangers (which doesn’t say much for my social life), I drove around for twenty minutes in hopes that someone would leave, and I would attain my coveted space. This daydream was not to be realized, as it finally dawned on me, nobody was going to leave. 

Revising my plans, I chose a new destination closer to home and headed out, thoroughly disappointed.

I arrived at a bar and grill that was a few miles from my house. It wasn’t a place I’d ever been, but with my determination still intact, I reminded myself of my original purpose. I was not going to be alone on this Friday night!

Once I was seated, I ordered my long-awaited beer and a dinner salad. I didn’t really pay attention to others around me, just focused on the big screen at the front of the bar. When my order arrived, I was a happy camper. I felt I’d achieved my goal for the night, and smiled triumphantly. That’s when the unthinkable happened.

A large group came in. It was apparent, by the manner in which they were dressed, that they were the baseball team sponsored by the bar. That’s when I noticed my waitress approaching my table with a mischievous look in her heavily made up eyes. “There isn’t enough room for all the single people to be sitting alone,” she stated. I was caught totally off guard as she picked up my food and drink, and placed them at the table in front of me. I noticed a guy sitting to the left of where she positioned my meal. “Don’t worry, he won’t bite,” she said laughingly. I was not laughing. “Maybe I do,” I replied defensively. She didn’t respond to my flippant remark, just turned and walked away. There I was, stranded sitting next to a strange man, elbow to elbow.        

I suppose I could’ve gotten up and either found another seat, or abandoned my mission altogether. Completely out of character, something inside me decided to accept the challenge. I made a silent pact with myself not to talk to or look at the man.

He was not my type at all! Wearing black jeans, an old ratty Metallica shirt, and a baseball cap, he was far from the preppy athlete that normally rang my bell. Actually, I hadn’t even noticed him when I was originally seated at the first table. I did a mental rewind and realized I hadn’t noticed him when I first walked in either. Oh, well, I was there to watch a hockey game, not hook up.

As the night progressed, the game became intense and action packed. I was really getting into it and started commenting on the referees, plays, and penalties. After a while, he began answering my comments with comments of his own. Soon, we were talking to each other about the game. We were also drinking beer, which over time, weakened our defenses.

I found myself being drawn to Rob. He surprised me with his wit and warmth. I had misjudged him, but fortunately was given the chance to reassess my hasty opinion. We ended up missing the rest of the game to discuss our families, politics, religion, and whatever led to the next topic. We discovered a shared love for 80’s music and pop culture. We both knew our meeting was different than the rest: destiny.

I wasn’t prepared to meet my soul mate that night.  Like Rob, I thought I was off to enjoy a bit of social life and a hockey game.  That night has led to a ten year marriage (so far), two kids, a cockatiel, and a house in the suburbs. Once in a while, we rehash our first meeting with humility and wonderment. It is obvious that something greater than ourselves was in play that May evening. It is that awareness that causes us to remain kind, honest and respectful of each other and our life together. Our story was written in the heavens.

      

Ending Life

{ May 21, 2008 @ 1:33 am } · { Essays }
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I clutched the large phone book in my shaking, sweaty hands.  My heart was racing, my breathing shallow.  I clumsily dialed the number printed boldly on the yellow page.  “Thank you for calling the Women’s Center. How may I help you?” greeted the receptionist.  I closed my eyes as hot tears stung my cheek. “I’d like to make an appointment,” I said.  “We have an opening on February 14th,” she offered. 

Valentine’s Day, I thought.

I cared what my parents thought of me; respected their life experience and accepted their guidance.  In high school, I was a good girl who never stayed out past curfew or went to drinking parties.  I was your typical overachiever: cheerleader, student council member, newspaper editor. At twenty-one, I was horrified and confused when confronted with the reality of who I had become: a pregnant, unmarried college dropout.

The transformation began the night I went to see an acquaintance that played in a band. Oblivious to the danger of a girl alone in a bar, I ordered an alcoholic drink, enjoying the loud music and the strangers around me. Cigarette smoke swirled in the air as I danced. When the band finished their set, I went outside for some fresh air.  I went back inside as the band resumed their play with a bluesy, erotic rendition of Prince’s “Purple Rain.” I returned to where I’d left my drink and finished it before ordering another. 

When I woke up the next morning, I was lying naked on a blanket strewn mattress in the middle of a dark musty basement. Instinct told me something happened that I had not consented to.  I frantically searched for my clothes. When I was dressed, I made my way upstairs to assess the situation. Mike, the drummer of the band, was in the living room smoking marijuana. Gathering what courage and strength I had left, I hesitantly approached him.

“Where’s my car?” I stammered.

“Still at the bar,” he replied coldly, looking towards me but never making eye contact.

With no other alternative, I asked him for a ride. In a dismissive tone, he said he’d call a friend to take me to my car. Out of options, and with so many thoughts and emotions racing through my mind, I waited.

That was the last time I saw Mike. I felt disgusted and dirty for being so naive. I made a silent pact with myself to never speak of that night to anyone. Denial came to a screeching halt one day, six weeks later. I’d realized I’d missed my period. With an acidic burning in the pit of my stomach, I made my way to the local Rite Aid for a home pregnancy test. It was positive.

Shocked and in another phase of denial, I kept the pregnancy a secret. It was torture to keep something so life altering from my parents. In the beginning, I hadn’t even contemplated abortion or adoption. In my mind, I was going to have a baby. I made an appointment with an obstetrician and went in for the initial evaluation, which included a due date and ultrasound. Feeling somewhat detached from my pregnancy, I shopped for maternity clothes and pregnancy books. I told my friends, and finally my parents. I still kept the pact I’d made with myself that night. I didn’t divulge the details of paternity.  I found it easier to let the world think I was a loose irresponsible woman than admit the truth: I had been the victim date rape.

About nine weeks into the pregnancy, I panicked. My mother informed me that I wouldn’t be able to live with her after the baby came. How was I going to raise a child without a home? I struggled to find an answer to this question, but with an income that was barely enough to take care of one person, I was at a loss.

I made the choice to end my pregnancy for so many reasons: I was young and scared, financially incapable of paying for the care of a child, not to mention the criminal circumstances of its conception. I did not have the emotional resources to think from day to day and make a life plan that included a baby. 

I did not allow myself to believe that I was carrying a baby. At the time, I just wanted to make it all go away. I took what I thought was the easiest way out. Unfortunately, there really wasn’t an easy way out.

I never could have foreseen that one unguarded night would lead to the most devastating and life changing experience of my existence: the day I ended a life.

            I woke up early that morning, having slept little the night before.  I was told to wear loose, comfortable clothing.  Did I deserve to be comfortable?  I put on worn-out grey sweat pants and an oversize flannel shirt.  I chose to wear slippers with a hard rubber sole so I wouldn’t have to bend over to tie my shoes afterward.  I put my hair back in a ponytail.  I did not put make-up on.  I did not look like me.

            My sister picked me up.  My mother walked me out to the car.  I could see the regret and devastation in her eyes.  Most of all, I saw the look of a Mother’s love and concern, the look that said, “I will be here for you when it’s over.”  My sister got behind the wheel and started the engine.  I put on my seatbelt. Now I think about safety, I thought.  The drive was eerily peaceful.  The same route I’d taken to work every day, only somehow it was different.  I’d have to find a different route from now on.

            We pulled into the parking lot.  I took a nervous breath.  I was scared.  I got out of the car, my legs wobbly.  “Are you alright?” asked my sister. “Fine,” I said.  We walked into the office.  I checked in at the desk, looking around at the others who were waiting.  I wondered if they could they tell why I was there.

The waiting room walls were dressed in dollar store artwork with spotted glass and brassy frames. The dark brown paneling matched the commercial grade carpet plagued with snags and bald spots. I sat down in the ancient black vinyl chairs with duck tape covering their damaged state.

I looked at my feet, unable to make eye contact with anyone.  I was ashamed.  I picked up a magazine.  I couldn’t concentrate on the article, which went into great detail about the best hairstyle for any face shape.  I was screaming inside. 

The nurse called my name.  It was time. I could leave, I thought. 

            I followed the nurse to a room where she handed me a long, fat white pill.  Valium, it said, in microscopic black letters.  I took it with a tiny plastic cup of water.  I felt it stick to the back of my throat.  It left a bad taste in my mouth.  I took off my clothes and put on a stiff blue paper gown.  I started to shake uncontrollably.  I was so cold.  I was so scared.  I can’t do this, I thought.

The nurse came to get me.  I followed her down the hall.  She led me into another room.  Inside was a reclining table with stirrups at the end, pointing towards the ceiling.  At the foot of the bed was a large human vacuum, still soiled with someone else’s blood.  The wall looked like an artist had taken a paint brush and splattered red paint all over it.  There were many before me.

I lay on the table and put my feet in the stirrups.  The doctor came in.  He introduced himself and shook my clammy hand.  He gave me a shot in a horrible place.  “You need to relax your muscles,” he said.  I started to cry.  He turned on the machine.  It made an evil roar as it came to life.  The doctor put the vacuum inside me.  I screamed a loud, gut-wrenching scream.  Life was being sucked from deep within me.  I lowered my hands to try and push the vacuum out of my body. The pain was horrific.  The nurse restrained my hands and held them away from my stomach.  The doctor encouraged me to be quiet.  “We don’t want to scare the other patients,” he prodded.  I thought I would die.  Then it was over.  What had I done?

I don’t know if I will ever be healed from the consequence of my choice. Immediately after my abortion, horrific nightmares began of finding baby body parts in a warm, sticky pool of blood at my feet. They have now subsided and only occur when I am under severe stress.  During the early days of my marriage I suffered four miscarriages. I believed I was being punished for killing an innocent being.

I think of my first child often.  In my mind I have made him a boy with platinum blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.  In my heart, I know he forgives me for ending his life so violently, but will I ever be able to forgive myself?

 

 

 

 

The Fallible Father

{ May 19, 2008 @ 2:44 am } · { Essays }
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            Driving down the pot hole plagued road, I think back to our phone conversation.  I know I used my aunt’s death as an excuse to make contact. It has been a long and gut wrenching six years since I cut ties to my father. In my quietest moments, I still feel the overabundance of emotion that led me to make that choice.

            In the parking lot of the Big Boy restaurant where we agreed to meet, I hesitate opening the car door. My heart races as the enormity of what I am about to do settles in my gut. I have never confronted my father about his years as a drug dealer and abuser. I have never spoken of the childhood I was robbed of, or the elements I was exposed to: Hookers, pimps, criminals, and addicts. I know if I don’t have this conversation, I will never be emotionally healthy.

            I make the trip from my Ford Escort into the restaurant. My senses are immediately overwhelmed by the sound of dishes clanging together; the music of silverware against glass. I feel nauseous. From anticipation or the heavy stench of grease from the kitchen, I do not know. The interior is cavernous with its dark colors and close quarters. I spot my father sitting in a back corner, away from the crowd.

 As I begin the journey to my father, a woman approaches, “Tina, how nice to see you! ” I immediately recognize the woman as a friend of my parents. Her husband and my dad go way back, as they like to say. She has known me since I was born. “My, you have grown up,” she exclaims. I wonder if she knows why I am here, although, I am certain my dad hasn’t been bragging about his failure as a parent. “It’s nice to see you too,” I reply. “My dad is waiting for me in the back, but I’ll find you before I leave.”

I walk on, choking on a lump in my throat the size of a melon. I fight back tears. Now is not the time to show weakness. My dad stands up and looks me over. It’s been a long time. I am not approaching him as the child he knew, but as the woman I’ve become. Pain and regret are evident in his expressive eyes. I can tell he feels awkward in the way he drops his gaze to the dirty tile floor. I don’t feel the need to comfort him. I want him to feel the pain and awkwardness his legacy has left for me.

“I didn’t know if you would come,” he mumbles, “I’m glad you did.” His deep velvet voice is still soothing after all these years. “I needed to come,” I whisper back.

Grimmy’s Girl

{ April 12, 2008 @ 1:22 am } · { Essays }
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My brain begins its final descent from an exhausted sleep. Memories of the prior night invade my calm. My tongue is thick and thirsty. Overindulgence has left its nasty reputation behind for me to bear. I try to convince myself that I’ll never do this to myself again: Yeah, right.

I am taken on a musical journey by Tim McGraw as he croons Don’t Take the Girl. My eyes are still closed; however, I sense that I am not alone. Grimmy is beside me, his arm wrapped firmly around my waist, snuggling me close. I welcome his warmth, but am careful not to wake him. We are still in the “platonic” stage of our relationship, but playing a game of Cat & Mouse. I glance over at his sleeping face, thrilled with the knowledge that I will let him catch me – eventually. Until then, I will let him enjoy the chase.

Although we are not yet “official,” it is clear to all that I am Grimmy’s girl. This point was made one night under an onyx sky sprinkled with tiny bursts of light. The campfire, rising from a sandy pit and guarded by large rocks, provided either comforting warmth or scorching heat, depending on where you were sitting. It was in this setting, with alcohol free flowing like the Mississippi, that one of his friends made a noted mistake; he tried to woo me away. Grimmy did not take his friend’s trespass lightly and ended up yelling and violently punching his old beat up truck. From that night forward, I was labeled as “off limits” to the rest of the boys.

The midmorning sun, blinding at first, illuminates the room that has become, at least for this summer, our refuge. Devoid of parents, pressure, or rules, our paradise is Smiley’s basement, complete with a wet bar and sliding glass door which leads to the backyard and the lake. This is where we congregate at sunset.

            Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, long before the sun appears, we gather into the boat and take a ride. It isn’t a fast paced thrill ride, but a calm, leisurely jaunt. It is during these times, after drinking is done, our eyes half-mast, that Grimmy and I talk about our feelings for each other and our future. It is here that we talk of his pending departure for the Marines, and how we’ll make it long-term. It is a time where whispered promises and gentle caresses are welcome.

            As I take my first deep breath of the morning, my senses are assaulted by the remnants of our wild carefree night. The room is littered with sour smelling beer, still fermenting in an endless sea of glass bottles and aluminum cans. Sleeping bodies scattered about, some on pull out beds, while others are sprawled on the floor. Blankets are shared amongst the unconscious dreamers, twisted around legs and cocooned under chins.

            I disentangle myself from Grimmy’s possessive hold, regretting the loss of contact and warmth. He mumbles something incoherent and rolls over without

incident. I look around for my overnight bag, packed with toiletries and clothes. I am the only one with a place to be this Saturday morning.

            Having graduated from high school the year before, I am now a full-time employee with health insurance and a retirement package. I work long hours with few breaks or days off. I am focused and responsible- eighteen going on thirty. Well, that is, until I met Grimmy.

            Grimmy is everything I’m not: carefree, relaxed, and living in the moment. He is able to enjoy life in a way I’d never dreamed possible. After romping in his world for a bit, I am learning that my serious and mature nature has its place; however, not to the detriment of my youth. Grimmy has taught me that youth is fleeting and it is acceptable to indulge in it.

I make my way into the bathroom for my transformation from “party girl” to “business woman.” My denim Daisy Duke shorts with an eyelet lace ruffle and matching top are replaced by a beige pencil skirt, double breasted blazer and pantyhose. I fasten a string of pearls around my tanned neck, and then step into my navy pumps. The transformation is complete.

            Opening the door and emerging in a cloud of perfume and hairspray, I hear the slapping of bare feet against tile. Rough, deep morning voices are reliving their adventures from the night before. The boys are laughing and teasing each other about their antics while inebriated. The girls complain about headaches and nausea as they try to put on their best face. Beer bottles ping together in their clean up song as people with trash bags scour for used paper plates, dirty napkins, and empty pizza boxes.

            Grimmy is now awake. I see him across the room stretching his arms up towards the ceiling and making contact. Tall and well muscled, he is a welcome sight. I admire his confidence and laid back way, wishing I shared his disposition.

He grabs his sunglasses and slips on his shoes. It’s time to go. This has become our tradition; he drives me to work and then picks me up at the end of my shift. We drive in silence as my red Ford Escort charges down the freeway. We hold hands although we’ve never kissed. He pulls up to the front of my building to drop me off. Our hands drop and we look into each other’s eyes. It is understood that tonight we will return to our paradise with steaming hot pizza, an abundance of ice cold beer, and the friends we hold dear. Pressures from the outside world will not gain entry. And maybe tonight, in my Daisy Dukes and matching top, I’ll let him catch me.

 

Portrait of my Sister

{ March 14, 2008 @ 5:42 pm } · { Essays }
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 Portrait of my Sister 

     My half-sister Heidi stormed through the neighborhood, her cutoff denim shorts barely covering her generous rump, her tied up half shirt battling with her abundant bosom. She painted her eyelids purple and blue with bright pink streaks along her cheeks. Her dirty blonde hair resembled the famous Farrah Fawcet.     

     Through the years, Heidi has played many roles in my life: caregiver, abuser, protector, and adversary.  I have never been certain where I stand in her heart or her life. Although we have the same mother, our fathers are not the same.  I’ve never been sure what role a half sister plays and will forever wonder how to define it.        

    When I was little, Heidi regularly took care of me. She was unpleasant during these times, locking me in the hall closet or forgetting to feed me. I felt it was my due punishment for getting in her way. The unwanted responsibility of caring for her little sister was the first wedge in our relationship. As I matured into my teenage years, Heidi grew friendlier, although I still never felt secure in her love for me. Sometimes she took me for donuts and chocolate milk on Saturday mornings. I remember watching television in the living room, still cozy in my pajamas, when she would call, “Let’s get out of here!” I was eager to bond with my big sister. I felt that for a brief moment she was letting me in.         

      Many things happened to Heidi between my teenage years and early adulthood. She met a guy and after knowing him for only two months, became pregnant. She gave birth to a baby girl named Chelsey, and eventually married the father. It wasn’t meant to last. They separated three months from their wedding day. Heidi was a frustrated single mother who emotionally and verbally abused her daughter. It was devastating to watch her keep her daughter at arms length. When she came home from work, Chelsey would run to her mom and give her a hug. “Get off me,” Heidi said. Her little girl cowered away in defeat. “It’s none of your business,” and “You are so damn nosy!” were other phrases Chelsey became accustomed to.She went through a string of men. “Men are only good for one thing,” she said. “I leave them before they have a chance to leave me.”         

     Still, despite the chaos of Heidi’s life, I held on to our times of togetherness. I babysat, loaned her money that would never be repaid, offered words of encouragement even though she was responsible for her latest drama. I tried to be a good sister. It never seemed enough.       

     I eventually got married and moved away. I was sad to leave my niece, knowing what her existence would be without me.  Heidi became involved in an abusive relationship. I talked to her frequently, hoping she would get away. She said she was in love with him. I cried myself to sleep many nights, envisioning what was happening in that house. I pictured my sister screaming in pain as her abuser pursued her, of my niece crouched in her bedroom closet, weeping in fear.  I became aware that the trailer they were living in had no gas or electricity. I called protective services. I told the case worker of the abuse in the home, hoping they would take action and protect Chelsey. “There’s nothing we can do unless you can prove the child has been sexually abused,” the case worker explained. I pleaded with this man, cursing my sister for another family crisis.       

    Not long after that call, my sister fled to a domestic abuse shelter. My niece came to live with me. I found out that Heidi was pregnant with her abuser’s baby. I spent the next four years raising Chelsey while battling my sister’s twisted life. Heidi returned to her abuser twice with her new baby before he tried to kill her. He fled to another state before he was formally charged with domestic abuse. I fear he will eventually return to finish the job.     

     Raising my niece was no easy task. Despite my optimism, I was unable to reverse the damage created in her first twelve years. After being lied to, stolen from, manipulated and used, I returned Chelsey to her biological father. This made my sister furious, as she believed herself to be the better parent and further drove the mile wide wedge between us.         

    I have since cut all ties with Heidi. I am saddened by this; she is my sister, half or whole. As Thanksgiving came and went, I realized this was the first holiday we have not spent together. That’s the thing about Heidi, no matter what is happening in her life, she always shows for the holidays. She brings stocking stuffers and presents at Christmas; colorful baskets and chocolate bunnies at Easter. Every year, we pretend we are a normal family; no resentment, no blame, no score card.       

    Codependency is destructive. That is a lesson I’ve learned through the years. I wasn’t strong enough to break the cycle Heidi and I had created in our relationship. Now, I am resolved to accept her for whom and what she is. I cannot fix something that thrives on being broken.