RIP My Cousin The Nun

I discovered on July 5th while doing my occasional search online for obits I finally found hers, which had not popped up in any of my previous searches this year. 

Coincidentally, I was in New Jersey running errands and made a point to stop off at one of the two Thai restaurants my cousin and I would frequent, and the food was even better than I remembered it from 27 years ago. Sadly, it sis not even occur to me to try reaching out to her yet again. Regardless of the reasons why she never re-established contact, it always felt like a rejection to me. 

She passed away in March, on my mom’s birthday in fact, and I discovered the obit on July 6th. I can only deduce the obit appeared recently as her funeral was on July 2nd. 

Despite my best efforts at trying to maintain contact with her, she either did not want to or was unable to do so, as she suffered some level of memory loss after a truck hit her as she opened her car door. 

I analyze things too much. She was capable of driving to my dad’s funeral in 2008. 

When mom died in 2020, I sent a letter as her phone was turned off or changed and emails to her bounced. She also was able to maintain an Etsy shop, selling semiprecious stones from her collection. And yet she couldn’t manage keeping in touch with me or any of our cousins. 

My skepticism is a byproduct of my own traumas I experienced long before living with her. I know I thought unkind things, but the sort of unkind things only siblings understand. 

As I get older, I am realizing multiple things can exist simultaneously, and sadly I was not raised with any conflict resolution skills. My only skill has been to run away and avoid things that are too painful or too complicated for me to make sense.

Regardless of the reasons why she chose to isolate herself from the rest of the extended family, some of whom, like myself, who would have attended her funeral, I have to respect her choice; however, it is sad to think that she died alone. 

Having a room of my own, as challenging as it was, was something I will appreciate forever. It was either that, or I live in my car. Despite my best efforts to be as unobtrusive as possible, I am sure just my presence in her house was difficult for her & her solitude. 

In hindsight, however I felt at the time at how we left things when she sold her home and I moved out, she was my maid of honor when I married again in 2001, which she relished by showing up in her shabby nun’s habit and our wedding ceremony started with her clanging on a Tibetan singing bowl and reciting a native American wedding prayer for us.

In that moment, I know she was happy for us, and who knows? Perhaps she was happy to be a maid of honor. 

Similar to my mom, she was a challenging person to love. Similar to my mom, my cousin’s relationship with her father was emotionally damaging, not unlike my relationship with my mom, or like mom’s relationship with her own father. 

I don’t recall if my cousin told me or if it was one of my mom’s stories (of dubious veracity) her dad didn’t want her or any kids, which was not dissimilar to my early developmental years, mom reminded my siblings and I how she hated us and never wanted us. My cousin and I both carried the knowledge & the trauma all our life. 

So, I can quit searching for her obit. I can stop yearning to re-establish contact with her. I know where she is now, and after 77 years, mostly of struggle and loss, she is finally at rest & in the hands of her guardian angel. 

The Limberger Incident

 “The Limberger Incident”

This is one of those crazy life stories, which happened during what was my first transitional year when I left my ex and lived with my mom’s first cousin, who was also a nun.

Behold! The Limberger Incident:

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness” apparently did not apply to my cousin, whether it be her house, her FIVE cats, her car, or more specifically for this thread, HER BODY.

Living with her had its own challenges, namely the filth, the hoard, and her borderline antisocial behavior, and my discovery that I was allergic to cats. 

She made an agreement with my mom that I’d pay rent for my room, and i paid the entire bill for internet, and I found out after I moved in, indentured servitude was involved, cleaning the house the bathrooms were riddled with black mold, and cleaning the TWO litter boxes she had for FIVE CATS. 

Mostly, I just tried to avoid her as much as possible, as she’d vacillate from antisocial to something that appeared as an attempt at friendliness.  

The only way to truly know someone is to live with them. At the time i could not articulate how I felt living there; however, now it is 27 years later, I can say I felt like an interloper. She had crafted a narrative at her church that she was an orphan without any family who cared about her. And I suspect my presence in her home was proof to the contrary. 

She even went so far as to not let me know the date and time of her ordination ceremony. And the weekend of the ceremony when she realized I was not leaving to visit my parents for the holiday and my cousin realized she could not have her guest, a stranger, sleep in my bed, she grew hostile towards me and told me to stay to myself that weekend. 

I contacted her church to find out the date and time, and I attended the ceremony. Turns out, some cousins on her dad’s side of the family did the same. We all somehow found each other at the reception, and we all  remarked how her church family thought none of her genetic family existed. 

There were sublime moments living with her, but they were not a daily occurrence—namely our explorations of Thai restaurants that opened in our community and a neighboring town. She’d blurt out “want to Thai one on?” and off we went for dinner. 

For the most part, we got ourselves into a system, a habit. I’d come home from work and immediately take a nap (from 6 p.m. ‘til about 10 p.m., when she’d go to bed). I set my alarm and would get up when she was already ensconced in bed with her CPAP humming along. One night in particular is seared into my memory, and the memories of friends of whom I told this story to over the years.

On this night in particular, I got up, splashed some water on my face and dried off with her cute little fingertip towel (the fancy velour one with the angel aplique which she kept by the sink & I thought was a special towel “for company”) and wandered to the den to pop online.

I became overwhelmed by a most-unpleasant “aroma.” Fetid. Cheesy. Quite possibly *CONTAGIOUS.*

I sniffed my pits, and whafted air up from my crotchal region, taking a stink assessment, both of which came up with negative results on my parts.

I got up, and as much as it pains me to recall this, I dared to sniff the upholstery of the chair, thinking perhaps I was sitting in her filth. No dice.

The smell surrounded me like a bad Lynyrd Skynyrd song.

WHEREVER. I. MOVED. IT. WAS. ALWAYS. THERE….

So I retraced my steps from whence I woke up. I found myself back in the bathroom. 

At this point, I was very afraid and reluctant to pick up the fingertip towel (which for all intents and purposes APPEARED  CLEAN).

Reluctantly… hesitatingly… dry-heaving-ly, I put the towel up within sniffing range… and FUCK-ME-RUNNING-WITH-A-RED-HOT-POGO-STICK-THERE-IT-WAS!~

I can only conclude that my cousin used this cloth to either dry her vajoosh or perhaps take a swipe at the yeasty underfolds of her belly--OR BOTH. 

OH-YES-THERE-WAS-MUCH-PROJECTILE-VOMITING.

Here endeth the first story of my cousin. 

Day 32: Quick & Radical & Necessary

Very long boring story short—I made the quick & radical decision to retire early. Between mom dying 4 years ago and all the unresolved grief, and continuing to work in a toxic work environment which kept me highly emotionally activated and stressed out in a negative feedback loop, I did what was necessary for my mental and physical well being, and extricated myself, and retired. I did not feel psychologically or physically safe in that workplace, and I could not see myself suffering along for another six years until I reach age 62. 

Today is day 32 since my last day in the office, and besides a few moments of doubt, wondering if I did the right thing, it has been a solid gold decision. 

My husband says he thinks I am 90% less anxious and 50% less grumpy. And I have seen changes in how I respond to questions (such as “how are you?”which previously would have vexed me. 

I have also noticed I am not catastrophizing as much/if at all. 

I will take my victories where I am able. My trauma therapist, my psychiatric nurse practitioner (and myself!) all see this as an enormous improvement. For the first time in a very long time, I am seeing improvement, and I am daring to hope that moving forward things will be transformative. 

"I hope this happens to you"

So today's her birthday. She would have been 79 today. Right on time, this morning her sister sent me a text with nothing but a heart emoji in it. That's what my relationship with her has been reduced to: no actual communication, no substance, just emojis. 

Not to be out or underdone by my aunt, my siblings don't reach out to me on the birth and death anniversaries of our parents. I don't know why, but I suspect it might be because our parents did nothing outwardly to memorialize our grandparents on their birth and death days. The last time I recall going to one of our family cemetery plots was in the mid-1990s with dad. We planted some daffodils and tidied up the grave and snapped photos. And then, that was it. No more trips to the cemetery. My family moved to the shore in the mid-1970s, and it was well over an hour or so to get to the cemetery, and as my folks got older and life got in the way, the cemetery trips became less and less.

As I've blogged elsewhere, among the cruel things mom said to me over the course of my life was "I hope this happens to you" as she was struggling to climb the 15 stairs to get into my condo to attend my housewarming party 22 years ago--the solitary time she ever came to my home. Mind you, blogging about it loses all tone of voice and facial countenance, just envision Livia Soprano saying it along the lines of her quotable quote, "Oh poor you!"  

If I thought there were any therapeutic value in doing so, I'd inventory every hateful word she said. Sure as shit, there was an abundance of words than loving words--so much so, when mom did say something remotely loving, the words would go in one ear and out the other, and roll away like water rolling off a duck's ass, because why would I believe anything loving, when the bulk of what she used to say was so hateful. When you're programmed that way, no matter how much loving shit she'd pour out would just drain right through the emotional cups she provided us, cups with holes in them, ensuring that the cups would never be full, and we'd never be contented. But this is the legacy she left me with, a raging case of C-PTSD.

Lately, I have been on a quest of sorts to find someone to lift the curse (or curses) with which mom cursed me. Though I haven't found someone to do the traditional Italian ritual to lift the malocchio, my therapist highly recommended an energy healer out on Long Island, and my appointment is set for 3/28/24, and who knows, perhaps she'll have the key to unlock this trap I have been stuck in for so long.

I am not sure what I hope to evolve from the meeting with the healer. I need to focus my intent for that appointment. Right now, I am hoping to achieve some nebulous goal of the healer unblocking whatever it is that has me stuck in this cycle of suffering and grief and everything that is triggering my C-PTSD symptoms. 

Mom has been dead four years now, and I want her emotionally destructive programming expunged from my psyche so I can move forward with my life. She died at age 75 never attempting to extricate herself from the abusive trap her own parents set for her. I don't want that to be part of my journey anymore. And it's very hard work to try to fight against the learned helplessness she (and dad) ingrained in me, the "why should I bother trying, nothing works."

I made so much progress in 10-15 years before COVID, and in one fell swoop, like a tsunami, the pandemic, mom dying, my friend Susan dying, the constant state of stress from assessing my risks for EVERYTHING--it wiped out the life I had.  

I am tired of many things. I am tired carrying around this sadness and loneliness and feeling that I am worthless and a failure, all ideas or concepts planted by and designed by my mother--that I'll never be enough. I am tired of just existing or surviving; I want to resume THRIVING.

I have come to the conclusion that the purpose for my suffering is to possibly help others NOT to suffer as much. In this moment, I'm trying to help myself. It's a process. I vacillate between working hard and then allowing myself moments to just BE and coalesce before resuming more work, and just keep TRYING. Trying and failing beats the alternative of doing nothing. Sure, there's misery AND I guess comfort in doing nothing; and there's misery in trying and failing. But the hope with the trying is, I'm trying so many things, eventually I'll stumble upon the key to unlock all of this. Rather than fixating on the end result, I'll just try to focus on doing my due diligence, doing my work and abandoning attachment to the results, because if the results don't come, then I suffer more. Just do the work. Do my duty to myself.

Bye Bye YentaBeast

End of an era. And I am a hateful enough of a person to wonder why it didn't happen sooner, perhaps 20 years ago, but the YentaBeast, the wife or exwife or whatever she was to my brother, she passed away yesterday.

Though her passing at age 49 was not a surprise, the cause of death was the surprise. She died of cancer; however, she suffered from neurofibromatosis all her life, and trust me when I say that the physical manifestation of those fibromas were the least unattractive thing about her. 

She just was an awful contrary person to be around, and so much so, it made me cut back on attending more family gatherings when dad was alive--and after dad died, I cut back even more. I missed out on a lot of experiences because of her, and of course, because of my lack of conflict resolution skills to navigate that mess. The solitary nice thing I can say about her is that she made a delicious noodle kugel.

I struggle to find anything nice to say about her, she truly was a challenging person to be around. She and my brother communicated by bickering every chance they got. She ruined most family gatherings. And most family gatherings were punctuated by mom having a trip to the ER the day after due to cardiac issues brought on by undue stress. 

She'd grouse about every damned thing, and she'd try to find ways to attempt to extract money from us, then acted like we all were beneath her. But whatever, she's dead now, and the damage is done. She was just as bad as my mom, doing the "divide and conquer" routine, just as mom did to us regarding dad's family.

My niece informed my brother (her father) he was not welcome at the funeral, so by extension, none of us were welcome. My niece is now 18 and can do as she wishes, and I suspect she'll trot off to Florida to be close to her maternal grandmother and just forget about the rest of us. As my dad used to say, "Don't go away mad--JUST GO AWAY."

It's just as well. And while I don't know the intimate details of what it was like to live in a house with my brother and her mother, I can imagine it was similar to my own upbringing, and I can understand, probably better than others, her need to insulate and protect herself. And part of me is relieved YentaBeast is gone. One less person to attempt to make a claim on my estate when I die. 

In all likelihood I would not have attended the funeral; however, if I were to have attended it would have been for my own selfish reason: to ensure that she was, in fact, dead, and unable to hurt her daughter and my brother any further.

And so it goes

 After four years of grieving mom dying of covid & being in a constant state of chaos being triggered and overstimmed and overwhelmed by everything, after four years of diligence and sacrificing personal experiences, I caught COVID. 

How this came to be is a combination of conditions:

1. My boss insisting I attend a mandatory meeting with 30 people in an enclosed conference room for 4 hours—when I have been avoiding crowds for sustained periods of time and have medical documentation justifying my working remotely 2 days a week.

2. My inability to advocate for myself by pushing back regarding this because of the fact my boss has only perpetuated this dynamic wherein I feel and believe I am a problem, and by pushing back it would have only contributed more to this dynamic. 

3. A half century of both, a fear of failure and people pleasing as a byproduct of my C-PTSD, which was brought on by decades of narcissistic abuse from mom. I was unable to make my mother happy, and by extension, I’ll never make my boss happy. 

It is convenient for me to blame my mom, and have a white hot hate-on for my boss, for this. I lack sufficient conflict resolution skills necessary for me to navigate challenging situations like this. Convenient & a reasonable conclusion; however, I am weary and fucking bored of this trope, blaming mom, and of course suffering because I feel disempowered to advocate for myself.

I caught covid a month after being diagnosed with a DVT in my leg, so I was already distracted and overwhelmed before the situation regarding the mandatory meeting presented itself. 

In the 88 days since my DVT diagnosis and 40 days since testing positive for covid, not once has my boss nor my office manager bothered to ask me how I am doing. In fact, when others are brave enough to inquire, my office manager tone polices me when I dare to respond. 

The ultimate conclusion I have come to is neither my boss nor office manager gives a shit about my health, well being, or comfort—just as mom didn’t give a shit. 

Each day I manage to drag myself to the office, it is as if I were trying to work up an appetite to feast on rotten meat. And unlike all those years of family gatherings I avoided, I cannot avoid work. I need my job and its medical insurance which sadly I need more and more with each passing day. 

I have been unhappy since roughly day 45 of my initial 90 day probationary period, and I’ve attempted to extricate myself from this trap of misery by interviewing for jobs elsewhere, to no avail. 

I have tried to change my perspective to muster the fortitude to keep at it, and I have yet to make my peace with it. So, it is imperative I change my paradigm, and try yet again to find a new job. 

Just as I felt as if I never fit in, in my family, in school, in church, always an outsider looking in—I don’t fit in at my job, and I am tired of being a square peg being judged harshly that I am a fish who is being judged harshly for my inability to climb a tree. 

A Microscopic Shift

As I’ve said before, acceptance & forgiveness are not love languages I was taught growing up, and as a consequence, I struggle with as an adult. 

Recently, I changed one of my hundreds of passwords to involve the word “forgive” in some form or another, so every day, whether I want to or not, I have to type that word, repeatedly, hoping to elicit some benefit from doing so. 

Additionally, 2 weeks ago I broke down and called that co-worker who, for 17 years I thought was a friend, and who retired 3 years ago. I had been giving her nothing but radio silence in all this time—and she has done the same towards me. 

Anyway, I guess I was chasing some kind of dopamine hit by doing so, and she delivered by fawning excessively. Not sure why I did it, as this person showed their true nature by being carelessly cruel to me after I suffered an injury 4 years ago—an injury which still has me hobbled to this day. 

Perhaps I was “bread crumbing” her. I don’t know why else. Maybe I am lonely & craving interaction of any sort. The bar is set pretty damned low if that weee the case, but I guess this is better than calling random strangers just to chit chat. 

Anyway. My customary response as I am walking is to blurt out “Fuck you Nizuc!” (the resort where I suffered my injury), and “Fyck you Brenda!” (the name of the person who was carelessly cruel me. I don’t recall how many weeks it has been (1? 2?) since the password change, but I noticed yesterday when the script automatically started running yesterday, I managed just to blurt our “Fuck you Nizuc!”

Looks like progress to me. 

On Unlived Lives

There’s a quote by Jung that resonates with me: “The greatest tragedy of the family is the unlived lives of the parents”

That has put a fine point on the knowledge I have been struggling within myself, that I am not living up to my potential, and looking back on my upbringing is it no wonder I struggle with learned helplessness & its accompanying self worth issues, as neither of my parents were able to extricate themselves completely from the traps their parents created for them. 

At a minimum their lives are great cautionary tales for myself of things or a life I want to avoid—so I try to move forward the best I can. There is no alternative. 

Reviewing Old Blog Posts From 2018-2017

It is wild re-reading old posts, being reminded of a few things (i.e., the solitary apology I ever received from mom), and the instability of my relationships with mom, my sister, and her sister. If things were relatively peaceful between mom and I, then things with my aunt or my sister suffered, and visa versa. 

If mom was fawning over one of us, she was fighting or freezing someone else. And always triangulating. Someone always had to be the villain or scapegoat in her narrative. 

Damaged people DAMAGE PEOPLE. The collateral damage for me is I am left shattered, anxious and avoidant, and hyper vigilant—the last characteristic I am viewing as a super power that serves to protect me, but still it is exhausting constantly bring mindful and assessing risks. 

Mom is the one who physically died, and yet I am left behind feeling as if I were already a ghost and an afterthought. Sometimes I feel as if I were a ghost haunting my own grave that no one visits.

Mom wasted so much time creating & stoking chaos, it didn’t leave much time for love, though there were glimmers of it (or so I thought) along the way that got diluted in the chaos. 

Sadly what little glimmer of familial love or ties that remained in the aftermath of her death, the Trump presidency and the persistence of the COVID pandemic diluted things to the point where I am convinced there isn’t much left at all. 

Cruelty & Weakness

 

“This Is How Things Are Now”

I originally started this blog when mom was alive as a means of documenting and warehousing and compartmentalizing the abuse & absurdity I experienced in my relationship with mom.  

In the aftermath of her passing, I now see that it has evolved into documenting my relationship with myself. 

Before COVID, I thought I had a handle on everything: controlling myself, my thoughts, and by extension my feelings to the point where I was off antidepressants for 11 years. 

Back on medication & back in therapy again, to put myself back together again. Familiar territory. 

I have been re-reading the entries in this blog and reflecting back on the version of myself writing those entries, and so many thoughts come to my mind: the exhaustion & exasperation of constantly being vigilant and protective of me, Maharajah and our life, mindful not to share anything that could be gossiped about or twisted into something else entirely. 

I spent too much time being protective, vigilant, angry, resentful. I see the gaps in blog entries where I was documenting how many days I went without contacting mom, or days when she would call me an outlandish amount of times. 

Exasperation. Exhaustion. Control. Stress. Then her love bombing with a mere glimmer of what appeared to be love, which would dissipate back into the spiral of stress, and nothing ever making her happy, leaving me feeling like a failure—why bother? 

Spending that much time being hyper-vigilant, over stressed, feeling like the villain in the stories mom told herself and others didn’t leave much room for love—and to be honest, it is difficult for me to distinguish actual love versus trauma bonding & Stockholm Syndrome regarding mom. 

I learned too late in life what this is (or was): peptide addiction (the interplay of excess cortisol + dopamine depletion in particular). There I go again, doing what I do best, intellectualizing my trauma. 

Things toward the very end moved too quick, no time for tidy attempts at a sentimental goodbye. The last month of her life was, for all of us, high stress. And in a way, I am chasing my “next hit” of dopamine from a wave of love bombing that will never come. Closure has yet to darken the doorstep of my heart & psyche.

In her 2019 Christmas voicemail to me, in response to gifts she can no longer afford to give us she said, “Well, this is how things are now.” 

Indeed. This is how things are now. At some point I hope to progress from stone cold resignation to actual acceptance. In the meantime, I am trying to allow myself the grace to “just be” and sit with my thoughts and feelings until such time my sadness lessens and my resentments melt away.

On Familiarity

Jealous Of The Life I Used To Have

I think back on my life before the pandemic and how my mom, my sister, my aunt, and even someone I thought was a good friend all were jealous of the life I had that involved traveling and visiting my in-laws who are truly lovely people. 

After my divorce from the WASband left me destitute, literally bankrupted me, leading to me residing with my hoarder cousin and stealing day old bagels & rolls of TP from work just to get by between paychecks, you’d think they’d be happy for me that my burdens (in that regard) were lightened, but no. Misery likes company. 

Now *I* am the one who is jealous & resentful of that version of myself, and how I wish that were me now. I feel like I actually died back then, and this current existence is a posthumous, dystopian fantasy illusion. 

My husband is planning this lovely trip to Paris is like he is trying to resurrect that dead version of me, hoping I’ll happily look forward to this trip.  

I am very appreciative he is in a position to plan wonderful adventures for us; however, what should be happy anticipation is replaced with fear and anxiety and trying to estimate how many N95s I will need to pack and worrying about bringing COVID back as a souvenir. 

The pandemic has destroyed 10-15 (possibly even 20) years of diligent personal work & enrichment. 

Before COVID, I was risk averse, neurotic, and distrustful of most people. Now? I have to put those pieces of myself back together, AGAIN, and I am angry and resentful that I have to do this all over again. Luckily this is familiar territory, and it all comes back to self care and mindfulness, and a bit of encouragement & accountability from those of whom I trust. 

This is the nature of life: change. Even our bones don’t remain unchanged. The cycle of building up and breaking down is the natural order of things. Lather, rinse, repeat until the tipping point is reached and we can’t rebuild again. Into the breach once more. 

On Parenting My Parents When I Was a Child: Two Book Ends

As they are both no longer physically here, and I'm not doing much of anything these days thanks to the pandemic, this leaves me with plenty of time to just ruminate, and connect what dots I am able to, and just try to understand my trauma, and be in awe of the fact that I survived. I have a couplet of stories wherein I advocated for my parents, something neither of them ever did for me at a time in my life when it was truly necessary for my development:

Age 4-5

My mother's verbally abusive father was at our home. My dad and my grandfather both were outside doing yard work or some household repair. My grandfather was his usual verbally abusive, emotionally destructive self, verbally harassing my dad. All I knew at the time was he was being really mean to my dad. So, in response, I picked up the garden hose, and gave the old man a good dousing with some icy cold well water. This was long before RA had crippled him up, and he made chase after me, stopping once he got to our dining table, my hiding spot, a place he could not reach me. Dripping wet and seething with anger, he wanted my dad to punish me, and all dad did was shrug his shoulders and say, "tough luck, pops."

Age 12

At a family gathering at the home of dad's aunt (his mom's sister), my dad's mother decided (now that she had an audience) she was going to humiliate my mother for being fat. "I'll never understand how anyone could make love to a fat woman!" Which of course brought all conversation to a full stop. And not one of the adults in attendance, NOT EVEN MY DAD, interceded on mom's behalf. I gave it a moment, and then replied, "Well, grandma, I don't see anyone beating a path to YOUR door to make love to YOU." And much like in the first story, dad's mother asked if he was going to discipline me. Dad just shrugged his shoulders and say, "Why should I? She said the truth."

The parallels between the two stories is evenly balanced, and a consistent theme throughout my life--parenting my parents. And now, here I am in my 50s, and I need to parent MYSELF.

In Possession of My Tormentor's Weapon

In 1989, when I left home for the final time, and eventually married my ex, I grabbed a humble, well-worn wooden spoon. I have vivid memories of mom using it to stir bubbling pots of Sunday gravy, or mixing up batches of holiday cookies--and I'm realizing now, 900+ days since she died, that those were just surface memories and attachments I had with that spoon. 

Only recently did the other memories associated with that spoon bubble up from the depths of my subconsciousness, and I am remembering the spoon as an instrument of abuse. When enraged, she'd lash out and beat us with whatever she had in her hands at the time.

My sister always (ALWAYS!) would get stabbed during dinners, but for me, I usually got beat with the bristle end of a hair brush, or get beat with the wooden spoon, or a stinging open-handed slap--all met with m stony stoic silence until one day I snarled out the words, "Are you DONE?" And I don't think she ever beat me again after that.

I'm just now able to acknowledge my tormentor is physically gone, but her physical weapon remains in my kitchen--yet her psychological and emotional weapon remains deeply entrenched in my memories, my attachment style, persistent rumination, and fighting a constant battle against the negative inner dialogue and self-gaslighting. 

Somewhere I read CS Lewis said that it isn't JUST that his friend died--it's that the part of him that only his friend could bring out would never be brought out again.

Though not a friend--when mom died a big part of me died too, but which part? The dangerously vulnerable part? If so, I should be glad it won't be brought out again. But she is my mom, and she gave me life--something I had no choice in the matter, and I had no choice for 52 years but be resentful and resigned that the relationship never was AND NEVER WILL BE what I wanted and desperately needed it to be, and I just hope whatever I DID do for her/on her behalf was sufficient. And yet, all I still want to do is run away and hide.

Pieces

Thinking back on that quote attributed to CS Lewis regarding the death of a friend & grief. It isn’t just the death of his friend he grieved for, but also he grieved for that part of him that only his friend could bring out and which would never be brought out again. 

A refinement on a thought in another blog post—she is my mom and she gave me life—something I had zero choice in the matter, and I had no choice but be resentful & resigned that the relationship never was and never will be what I wanted & needed it to be. A sentiment in one of her last birthday cards to me, “Remember, this was a journey we took together” still resonates and makes me wonder how much of a choice does a zygote have?

I just hope whatever I did for her was sufficient. It HAS to be sufficient. 

Another Funeral

To be frank, when I got a call from my cousin David, I knew someone died, and at first I thought it might have been my uncle as he had heart surgery not that long ago. I never would have expected it was my cousin’s husband Dan.

Five years ago we attended their wedding. And here it is five years and two months later and we’re burying my cousin’s husband, age 38.

In all likelihood, he died due to COVID, but we will never know as my cousin opted out of an autopsy, which left me no other recourse but to do what I always do and connect the dots. 

August 24th my aunt (mom’s sister, who is his mother-in-law) tested positive for COVID, and has been sloppily adhering to limiting in person stuff to people in her pod/bubble. 

Three weeks later, he was found, stone cold dead on his kitchen floor. His co-workers came to the house when he wasn’t reached by phone. 

Entirely plausible he had been exposed to COVID, if not this one time but likely multiple times by everyone in their “pod.”

So, three weeks after my aunt tested positive, there we all were in the funeral home to say goodbye to Dan and try to (feebly) support my cousin who was in shock. 

The only people wearing masks in the funeral home besides myself was my cousin David & another cousin, and my aunt and uncle were both there bare faced. Of course my sister, brother, brother-in-law, and niece all were barefaced too. 

The funeral home was a full house, and several people in attendance had persistent coughs. 

This illustrates quite keenly my justification in avoiding family gatherings, that the majority of people sadly cannot be trusted to do the bare minimum to protect others or protect themselves. It is as if mom’s death meant nothing to them, and doesn’t even serve as a warning to them. Perhaps they have forgotten about her already. 

On Childhood Abuse RIP Anne Heche

Someone’s worth is what remains when we subtract one’s bad characteristics from the good, and the sim that remains is our true value. 

While I am not an apologist for the destructive behavior which sadly led to Anne Heche’s passing, as a survivor of childhood abuse, I do possess empathy for her, and sympathy for her friends & family she left behind. 

I know all too well, and all too personally, that when our tormentors die, all the damage that they wrought does not miraculously dissipate and correct itself. 

Ms. Heche’s death did make me pause for more than a moment and reflect how random it all is, how we survive and cope in the aftermath of emotionally destructive childhood abuse. 

I could have been a statistic in many ways. I could have been a pregnant teen. I could have ended up in relationships with domestic violence. I could have become an addict. I could have been many of those things, but did not. 

This is not to say I came out of my childhood, or my almost 54 years, unscathed. The after effects of abuse presents itself differently in everyone whose formative years were impacted by abuse. 

For me, most notably, I have had problems with nearly every relationship I have had with women in authoritative positions in my life: my grandmother, mother, aunt, women I encountered in the military, as well as my boss, and work associates older than myself. 

Perhaps this is one of the contributing factors behind my difficulties to find a job elsewhere. Then there’s the issue of spending my first 30 years totally lacking any self worth. 

All that is MY legacy of abuse. 

Recently Jennette McCurdy’s book “I’m Glad My Mom Died” was published. Much like Anne Heche’s book, “Call Me Crazy,” it is a biographical account of childhood abuse. I wish these were isolated books, but there are countless books out there (remember Mommy Dearest, by Christina Crawford?). And this isn’t unique to mothers & daughters—the very night my mom died, I watched Cracked Up: The Darrell Hammond Story. 

It is a predictably easy thing to blame our mothers for our struggles. It is easy because for too many of us it is true. 

I don’t need to publish a book or have a movie made about my abuse, and that doesn’t make my reality any less real than anyone else’s. But I do feel an uncomfortable kinship with these women (and Mr. Hammond as well). 

Reading articles & books or watching films depicting their abuses resonates deeply with me—it is so eerily familiar, we are all telling familiar stories, so familiar, it is as if we are sharing the same narrative, or perhaps we are distant members of the same family. 

Catharsis: This Is Us

It's been two years and two weeks since mom died, and I'm still unpacking everything (will the unpacking ever end?). 

And in keeping with where we are in the pandemic (yes yes! the pandemic continues!)--we're not at the beginning, and we're not at the end, we're at the beginning of the end. I can only hope I'm at the beginning of the end of that horrible initial phase of grieving.

What does a ruminator do? Ruminate! That's all I can do--it's not as if I can have any conversations with mom anymore. So all I can do is rehash everything and have conversations with myself.

Every detail. Everything happened so quick. From the moment mom was officially notified that the virus was in the nursing home, then she was sedated before I could say my final goodbye, and then roughly 10 days of radio silence, her borked out of her mind, shallow breathing and sitting in her own filth, neglected by the people who were tasked with caring for her, until the dreaded, inevitable call came through that she was gone. (She died on May 4th; and the nursing home that neglected her got their full monthly payment from Medicaid, basically rewarding them for doing nothing.)

I have been stuck in an existential feedback loop, truly sad that I wasn't able to talk to her. I wasted too much time trying to advocate for her, when I should have just talked more to her. I thought there was more time. Then she was gone. I thought I was prepared for it. I thought I was emotionally detached enough. Trust me, nothing prepared me for what I've been experiencing.

Last night, I watched the second-to-the-last episode of This Is Us. This was a show she'd probably have thoroughly enjoyed. The final episodes are devoted to the ultimate passing of the mother, Rebecca. The scenes of her transitioning from being alive to being dead involves her character on a train, encountering people who were significant in her life. Rebecca is young and vibrant, and though she cannot see the people saying their goodbyes to her, she can hear their voices as if they were in another room. 

As I had hoped while watching this episode, I had hoped I'd gain something cathartic and useful regarding the death of my own mom, since I wasn't able to be there with her. And fortunately, I had that catharsis.

In early 2014, mom almost died of a ruptured gallbladder. As was the case with most of mom's health crises, they always held off on surgery until she was at death's door, because the surgery itself could have killed her. This time they waited until she was in sepsis. 

I remember showing up at the hospital and she was in post-op recovery, totally out of it, and we weren't convinced she would pull through. I crouched down and whispered in her ear, "Mom. It's me. I love you. I still need you. I still need my mom. But if you need to go--go. Don't stay for me. I love you."

Coincidentally, she rallied, and managed to live another 6 years after. This was beginning of 2014, and by winter holidays 2014, she had caused a rift between me and my sister, which caused me to stop going to family gatherings as I was avoiding my sister. 

People are complicated; life is messy. 

Life is complicated; people are messy.

The universe saw fit to give her nearly 6 more years, and yet, because of her own words and deeds, it threw a monkey wrench into how that precious remaining time was spent. No matter how much time we think we have, it's never enough. I wish I were more prescient & present. But as much as I beat myself up, I am not a mind reader. I am a human just trying to make the best out of a less than ideal situation. 

From Xmas 2014 until July 2017, I avoided all family gatherings. I'd visit mom on Columbus Day, or a week before/after her birthday or Mother's Day. And sadly, Mother's Day 2017, the universe fucked me. I had an issue with the lock on the front door to my home, and despite the car loaded up with gear and food for a weekend at mom's, I had to stay home and deal with a locksmith, as Maharajah was in the UK on business. 

Life is what happens when you're busy making plans. 

Man makes plans, and God says "HAHA!"

Before I knew it, July 2017 she took a series of tumbles at home, which resulted in her deciding to stay in the nursing home. Columbus Day 2017 was spent helping my sister empty out the house and prepare it for sale. I didn't visit mom that time because I was filthy and exhausted and angry--angry at her, and angry at my useless brother. 

Winter holidays 2017 was spent heading to Singapore for a cruise, and dispatching the last of dad's cremated remains at the Equator January 3, 2018--the start of the 10th calendar year since his death. November 2018 we headed to India for the wedding of a cousin. I think I might have seen my mom one other time, perhaps Columbus Day 2018 which again was a thankless visit. 

My final visit with her was December 2019, when I visited and dropped off a bag of treats for the holiday. It was a good visit. I stayed with her for two hours, of nonstop chatter. It was a good visit.

Not much happened from Christmas until mom’s birthday in March. Shady Pines was quarantined a couple times, allegedly due to the flu. We hoped for the best & hope this mess would pass soon. 

Then in mid-April 2020, my last chat with her, she was exhausted, and was "presumptive positive" with COVID. Despite the fact she claimed she was feeling better--I think that might have been the ativan talking.

My last good bye was what I'd call an "every day" type of goodbye. Unlike all other times, I concluded the call with an "I love you," which was out of character for me. 

I spent too much time being angry with her, and too much time waiting for an apology or a true reconciliation that never happened. The best I could muster was a silent resignation and granting her or the situation amnesty. 

I always wished things were different, and I have always suffered because of this attachment or reasonable expectation or hope for things to be different. Hope, to me, has always been a dangerous thing.

For two years I've grappled with the finality of all this. I've grappled with the fact she was depressed for possibly her entire life (and my entire life, too)  and intensified immensely after the passing of my dad in 2008, and not even the passing of her abuser, her father in 2012 elicited any change in her mood or mindset.

I knew for a long time she didn't want to be here. I remember in 2008 when dad actually survived the surgery (which there was only a 10% of survival), her response wasn't a THANK GOD!, rather, her first words were, "I guess he forgot what a fucked up world this is."

For two years, I've tried to find some solace or greater meaning in her death, that she got what she wanted--to cease to exist. Her physical suffering was over. 

Sometimes I feel that way myself, but that's just the surface shit--the reality is, I want to cease suffering. And isn't that exactly what death is? The discontinuance of suffering?

So while watching This Is Us last night, I was reminded that I did say my final goodbye (albeit in 2014). I want to think there was some greater meaning to me thinking upon that last night watching This Is Us, and I shouldn't quibble over whether I said it in 2014 when her death seemed to be imminent but wasn't. 

Perhaps this is my subconscious self telling me to be kind to myself. That it doesn't matter when I said it, but the fact remains I said it at all.

Two Years Ago, Exactly

Hard to believe. It's been two years since this last voicemail from mom, the voicemail wherein she tells me she was informed the virus was in her nursing home. 

I spoke to her a couple times on the phone after that, relatively casual conversations given the dire circumstances. I was reassuring her I was contacting the ombudsman and the NJ Department of Health in regards to it--to no avail. And the last few times I tried calling her, either she was on the phone with someone else, or her voicemail was full and I wasn't able to get in touch with her.

Quickly thereafter (within a week thereabouts), she was "presumptive positive." One by one, each resident in the wing of her nursing home either died in their beds, or were whisked off to the local hospital to die. Eventually her roommate went to the hospital. At this point, mom was hysterical, screaming out for my father (who died in 2008). 

Hospice came in to sedate her before I even had a chance to say goodbye. She languished for another 11 days until her ultimate passing, pretty much neglected by hospice as well as the nursing home itself whose solitary task was to care for her. There was one CNA for 67 residents. They weren't even able to put her phone to her ear so I could talk to her. 

The sad thing about having a vivid imagination is that I can totally envision the position of her body, I can totally smell the neglect, I can totally hear the shallow inconsistent breaths. I can envision her corpse being handled with disrespect, and I can envision her corpse languishing in a refrigerator unit for fifteen days until it was cremated. 

I wish her final voicemail to me was something else. Something where she feigned being upbeat or cheery. Even one of her patented vague voicemails, in a terse clipped tone, "It's your mother, call me."