Tag Archives: responsibility

The Places That Scare You.

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If you haven’t been watching the news or following the Twitstagrambook feeds of your friends and loved ones in New England, we’ve been effectively hobbled by repeated “significant weather events” for several weeks now. We have been buried under many feet of filthy, dog-pee-and-car-exhaust-riddled snow. It’s not Currier & Ives; it’s the Apocalypse. Roofs have collapsed, snow emergencies and parking bans are everywhere, and public transportation has become a terrible, terrible joke.

Because of what I’ve learned in recovery, I am grasping onto a precious few straws of gratitude in the midst of all of this. One is that we have not lost power during any of the meteorological pummelings we’ve received. Another is that my mother-in-law is snug and warm in the memory unit of the assisted living facility she’s been in since late June. I cannot even fathom how awful all of this would have been had we still been in daily, on-the-premises charge of her care. I frequently have to stop and remind myself of this as I start to complain about the 10’ piles of snow outside our house which are obstructing our view of the 10’ piles of snow across the street.

But in the midst of all of this, we’re trying to move. Granted, we’re just moving from our downstairs apartment into the upstairs apartment formerly occupied by my mother-in-law. But this has required Herculean amounts of organizational skills which I do not possess. Purging a three-bedroom apartment of possessions and clutter acquired over a period of decades, when the former occupant is still among the living, is emotionally trying and just plain shittyawfulhorrid. It is constantly second-guessing and attempting to determine value, both sentimental and monetary, of these things. What goes to charity? What gets saved for the grandchildren? What gets thrown out? I try to be efficient, and wind up wandering weepily from room to room, overwhelmed to the point of distraction.

I have, however, managed to get most of this packed up. There are boxes and boxes and boxes of stuff that can go to charity at any time, except that it can’t really, because of the aforementioned piles of snow. They have turned our fairly wide street into a barely-plowed-out path flanked on both sides by pee-stained, icy behemoths. No truck could idle there for even 10 minutes without drawing the ire of our neighbors and those who use our street as a throughway to get onto Route 1 more quickly.

I am beyond stressed about this. We have to be completely moved upstairs in a matter of weeks; our friends are moving into the downstairs apartment and must do so by the end of March. The whole shebang requires trucks. Big trucks. If I think about it too much I start getting wheezy and unhinged. I mean, more so than usual.

So I’ll talk about one thing I managed to do which I’d been putting off for a long time, and that’s empty out the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Most people would think, “What’s terrible about that? You toss a couple of bottles of Drano and a few old hairbrushes, right?”

No, friends – that cabinet was filled not only with the things you’d expect to find in a bathroom cabinet, but a whopping load of real bad mojo.

As some of you know, the final year of in-home caregiving for us was pretty bad. My mother-in-law’s mental state had deteriorated to the point where she could not/would not care for herself in the most basic ways. Brushing her teeth. Bathing. Properly disposing of toilet paper. Her Alzheimer’s had also ramped up her pre-existing OCD, causing her to scratch and pick at her skin, leading to a constant threat of cellulitis and other infections. Mornings and evenings were spent donning latex gloves and coating her hands, arms, and ankles with both prescription and over-the-counter antibiotic ointment. Because she would slap at me and yell if I tried to get her to take a bath, many times I had to give up that particular battle and use pre-moistened washing mitts, which she would permit, up to a point, when she would then threaten to scream if I came near her with them. And when incontinence became an issue, the cabinet was then the home of the flushable wipes and Depends.

So this cabinet was something I’d been trying to avoid, even with the knowledge that I no longer was responsible for any of these things on any significant level. I just didn’t want to go there. I didn’t want to open the scary bathroom cabinet and deal with the physical and symbolic throwing away of these things. I felt guilt, remorse, sorrow, fear, and resentment, in varying order and degree. It felt very much like avoiding looking under the bed, or into my psyche, really the same thing if you think about it.

But one afternoon about 2 weeks ago, I grabbed a trash bag and did it. Out went the prescription ointment, the latex gloves, the Depends. What I could handle saving, I saved (boxes of gauze pads and BandAids, hand sanitizing wipes). I tied up the bag when I was done and brought it into the room where we’re storing all the stuff that needs to be thrown out/trucked away.

Here’s where I’d like to say that I felt as though a great weight was lifted, that I was washed clean in the light of my bravery or some such bullshit. It didn’t feel great. It felt sad. It felt crappy. I have to do this. When faced with any seemingly insurmountable obstacle, my mantra has always been “It’ll get done because it HAS to get done.” You’d be surprised how calming this actually is. It’s much more of a soul balm than “You don’t have to do it alone!” or “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle!” Because I’ve found that neither of those things are necessarily true. Sometimes you do have to do it alone. You have to go to the places that scare you, even when it’s just under the sink, and you have to do it alone. Because you HAVE been given more than you can handle, and this is one less thing you have to worry about.

The Culture of Meanness.

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How many more times are we going to have to read about kids pushed to the point where they don’t see any other way out?

This little girl was ten years old.  TEN.

Each time I write about this, I get the same reactions (either in my email or my comments or in conversation).  Many of these reactions are positive.  However, I am also told that I should have gotten “over it” years ago.  I am told that what happened to me “wasn’t THAT bad.”  I am told that I shouldn’t express any compassion at all for the bullies.  I am told that I should stop writing about how there needs to be accountability for teachers, administrators, parents and any other ADULTS who see this sort of thing happening yet do nothing about it.  I am told that because I have decided NOT to have children, that I don’t have a say in how children are to be treated in the schools that I help support.  If you’re tired of reading about it, then just don’t read it.  I am tired of hearing that kids need to get a tougher skin, or that this is a “rite of passage” that’s just to be expected. You know what – NO. I’ve been there; the scars never fully go away.

It’s been almost 30 years, but I remember, with alarming clarity, what it was like to wake up every morning full of dread.  I remember what it was like to have my every move ridiculed.  I remember what it was like to look to the few kids that could have said something, only to have them turn away, because they didn’t want to become victims themselves.  I remember taking no joy or solace in any of the things that used to make me happy, because I had learned to stop expressing myself.

I am fortunate in that my parents listened to me.  They didn’t tell me to “try harder” to fit in.  They saw that their kid was in pain.  They pulled me out of a school where learning had become less important to me than did just getting through the day, where a handful of desperately unhappy (and therefore mean-spirited) girls dictated the climate of the classroom and where the adults who had a RESPONSIBILITY to ensure that we all felt safe refused, in my case, to intervene.  My parents got me professional help at a time when a) they could scarcely afford to do so, and b) “therapy” for a 12-year-old was not something that was looked upon favorably. I had resources, but even still – I didn’t come away from it totally unscathed.  Nobody who has been bullied does.

Get over it?  I’ll “get over it” when everybody stops acting like this is NORMAL and ACCEPTABLE.

People are expressing bewilderment that these children are even aware of suicide, that taking their own lives seems to be a viable option.  They think nothing could be that bad.  I understand these kids.  When you’re a child in the eye of a hurricane of incessant, daily, mental and verbal abuse, you have NO concept of it getting better in a year, or two years. You just want to stop hurting.  Fact:  kids are learning this kind of despair at an earlier and earlier age.

I really believe that we’re inundated with meanness right now.   We’re in a culture that rewards boorish, bullying behavior.  Just tune in to any one of those “Real Wives…” shows (or most any “reality show”) and you’ll see what I mean. The nastier you are, the more you backstab, the more airtime you’ll see, the more people will tune in. People don’t seem to make that connection. I’m not saying BAN that kind of programming, but see it as a part of the larger picture, because it all plays a part in how we interact with one another.

It’s everywhere, from what gets shown on television to the current state of “political discourse,” where anyone who disagrees with my opinion is an “idiot,” a “moron,” a “dumbass,” or a “Nazi,” and there’s no room for rational debate or compromise.  If we as adults can’t get out of the middle school cafeteria, mentally, how can we expect kids to act any different?  We can all watch those “It Gets Better” videos, we can all express sadness over the latest child suicide on our Facebook walls, but then we turn around and watch young men and women gleefully eviscerate one another on “Jersey Shore,” we openly mock those who have differing views on public policy, we call each other names because it’s easier than attempting to understand all sides of a story.  Perhaps I’m overreaching, but I don’t think so. These are angry times we live in, people are frightened and fed up, and children are soaking in this negativity.

We are the teachers, all of us.  All of us have a responsibility to teach – by example – empathy and compassion, whether we are parents, teachers, or have children in our lives that look up to us.

My heart breaks for this little girl and her family.  No child should have to be driven to that point, and no child should have to bully another child because it’s the only thing that makes him or her feel validated or secure.