Wanting To See A Connection To Choices We've Made

It's been over 17 months since mom died, and she hasn't seen fit to visit me in my dreams. I vacillate between thinking death and the afterlife (if there is any) gives us the ability to go wherever we want to be. I just have not felt her presence. I felt a splinter of her presence, with a very vague sense she apologized for leaving, but not something as vivid as the dream I had where dad visited me. Even in death with infinite possibilities of being able to move her energy wherever she wants to be, she isn't visiting me. 

Death is like being permanently & relentlessly abandoned and rejected.

Seventeen months of silence has given me nothing but time to ruminate and even question what I remember. I feel as if I were gaslighting myself, questioning reality as I experienced it, "Was she as bad as I remembered?" "Was she a good person who did or said hateful things, or was she hateful with intermittent moments of good?"  

I am pretty firm in my belief I wanted better things for her than she wanted for herself. And initially after she died, I was furious, and in some ways I still AM. I am not resigned to it yet, but my prevailing emotion these days is just pity. 

All this time also has made me analyze choices I've made in my life, namely chasing after men who were otherwise unavailable to me, whether they were married, or a different religion, culture, or skin tone.

My first husband was Jewish. And after four years of marriage, I converted to Judaism, in preparation for us to have kids. In a way I hoped also it would lead to me finally being accepted by his father. (This never happened.) 

I also think of how my first husband was a byproduct of domestic violence & rape, and he was also LITERALLY an abortion that lived. He was not wanted by his father, and quite frankly, what kind of mother tells their son they were an abortion that lived? (His fraternal twin was aborted, and by the time they realized this, it was too late to do anything about it.)

I think of the devastation of my divorce, and I cannot help but think of similar themes with my siblings.

The lesser of the parallels is: my sister married a man who was the byproduct of an affair. His birth father didn't want him--and still doesn't want contact. His birth mom died, and he was raised by his maternal grandmother. Despite this genesis story, my sister's marriage has lasted 30 years, and seems healthy/functional enough.

The greater of the parallels is: my brother married a woman, who, like my exhusband, was Jewish. There are far more parallels between my brother's first marriage and my first marriage. Stunning parallels, in fact. 

(I now wish I had asked my parents what thoughts they might have had where 2/3 of their kids married people who were from a different religion than our family was.)

Just like me, he went through the conversion process (though there is a lot to be said about his conversion!), and he had a Jewish wedding. 

After several abortions (after genetic testing they realized those fetuses carried the gene for the health issue his wife has), they finally had a child together.

Not only was his first wife Jewish, but she also hung around, benefitting from his regular paycheck. Unlike my first marriage, she stuck around twice as long as my ex did. And just like my ex, she left him emotionally devastated and destitute, just like my ex. Within a week of her leaving him, she left him with the mortgage in arrears and the house about to be foreclosed. She destroyed his world.

I see parallels between all three of these spouses--though my sister's seems the most functional of all the "first spouses."

I see us all as having some degree of abandonment or rejection life trap/schema. Each of us gravitating to people who were either damaged goods, or with tragic genesis stories. 

I say this not with any snobbishness, but I feel my choice in my second husband was more grounded than my first. I wasn't making a desperate choice. I wasn't looking to be saved. I wasn't looking to save anyone. I wanted someone with less emotional baggage than I had--and I think I got exactly that. 

I see us all as having made similar choices in mates. And even though I have remarried, I married someone who isn't from the same culture or religion I was raised in--yet despite that, his family have accepted me completely. I truly feel like Ruth from the bible.

I am not sure if this post is cohesive, or if I just merely WANT it to be cohesive. I know I want it all to make sense. And therein is my suffering: my attachment or expectation or need for things to make sense.

I see each of our marriages as byproducts of being emotionally abused--byproducts like how water ripples when you cast a stone into it. 

The First Year Elapses: Sweet Sue

Hard to believe it's been a year and five days since my friend Susan died. And one would hope that the last blog post would have been THE LAST blog post wherein I detail her widower showing his ass. Alas, you know how that old quote goes about "Those who feast upon hope..." do (they die fasting). 

So where we left off with the widower, like any true, malignant narcissist, he worked his way through all the contacts in Susan's cell phone, attempting to both, try to control the narrative, as well as try to put the squeeze on everyone for money, presumably for her funeral expenses (which we all know Susan's 87 year old mother on a fixed income paid for everything).

So it's been a year, and Susan's mom paid to have a headstone put on the grave, with "Susan K." No last name, as she is interred in the family plot. This detail incensed The Asshole (who didn't pay for funeral expenses, nor did he pay for the cemetery expenses). The bee in his bonnet is because HIS last name was not on the headstone.

Rather than just let it go, he decided TO SPITE her mom, he's going to pay to have Susan's body, as well as the body of their infant who died, dug up and moved elsewhere. One would assume if he is going to all this trouble, it would be to have the bodies buried elsewhere, at an inconvenient distance, so that Susan's mom can't visit the grave. This is where you and I, dear reader, would be wrong.

He is going through the trouble to obtain the proper permit necessary, as well as the expense to dig up the bodies; however, this is where it gets even crazier: he is having them buried elsewhere WITHIN THE SAME CEMETERY.

Fortunately for me, after last year's attempt at shaking me down for money, I blocked him from communicating with me further; however, I am in contact with Susan's cousin who keeps me updated on what's happening out with Susan's kids and her mom. 

Despite Susan's mom owning the deed to the family plot, Susan's widower is technically her next of kin, and is well within his right to do whatever he wishes to do with the bones. 

Fortunately they live in a relatively small town where everyone knows everyone else, and either the owner of the funeral home or the manager of the cemetery is a friend of Susan's cousin, hence we know where the bodies will be moved. 

Even in death he continues to control Susan. Even in death he continues to be a raging asshole. 

One of my dad's favorite sayings was, "Don't go away mad--JUST GO AWAY." This asshole refuses to realize no one wants him around--and this includes his own family (who, mercifully for them, live on another continent).