one of these mornings...

....i'm gonna rise up singing...

this morning, we were awakened by the sound of the phone. if our phone rings early in the morning or late at night, we assume something is wrong, since most family and friends know that i am a late sleeper, and most folks won't call late at night, unless something is wrong.

but this morning, at 8am, the phone rang. at first, i thought it was my mother-in-law calling to say that our sister-in-law had gone into labor (she's suffering from preeclampsia, and the doctor is afraid that the baby will have to come prematurely; our niece is not due until June 2). the husband got up and answered the phone, then came into the bedroom and said, "it's your sister, something's wrong." i bolted up, grabbed the phone. "what's wrong?"

my sister could hardly answer me, she was crying so hard. she had to repeat herself several times before i could understand her. apparently - due to a misunderstanding, as i later found out - my mother had blown up and flown into one of her famous rages, and it was apparently bad enough that it really and truly scared my sister. my sister is 26 years old; she said she was so scared, she was hiding under the bed, afraid to come out.

there is nothing one can do when my mother is in one of her rages. if there is anything about my childhood that i would change - and there's not much i *would* change, truly - i would wish that my mother did not have the temper she has. she's always been bad about bottling things up then flying off the handle, unable to listen to reason or explanations. in most cases she will apologize later...several days later, when she finally calms down. she'll stay in these rages for days. she won't talk to anyone at home, she won't interact with anyone at home. she still functions, just not in the family setting. she'll slam doors, scream obscenities and profanities, throw things (just in general, and at us), and lock herself in her bedroom.

my father and i took the brunt of most of these rages, when i was growing up. we both seemed able to anger her enough to set her off. it's never deliberate, mind you. my father is a smart man, but he's still human, and sometimes she can't forgive him for his humanity. she and i are a lot alike, and we butted heads frequently, particularly when i was in my late teens.

and when these rages coincided with her monthly cycle, she was a force of nature, downright terrifying. luckily that's no longer an issue, as she's gone through menopause, but she's still something to be reckoned with when she's like this.

in the last few years, my sister and my mother have gotten to where they butt heads a lot. unfortunately it's because my sister is starting to be more like my mother and less like my father. this morning's blow-up is partially my sister making some bad decisions with regard to interacting with my mother, and partially my mother being who she is - it's as though she willfully misunderstands things sometimes, like she chooses to be angry.

i have my mother's temper - i believe i am the only one of her three children to have inherited it. i am quite capable myself of flying into rages, too. sometimes small things add up, and i reach my limit. when i was younger, i would indulge those rages, though i never threw things or slammed doors, but i certainly would scream at my siblings. i certainly would refuse to interact with the family and would lock myself in my room. as i grew up, i realized that i didn't want to have my mother's temper; it was not something to be proud of, it was not a behavior that benefited anybody. i could not get rid of the temper, but i could certainly control it. consequently, i do not get truly angry very often; anger is tiring, impotent, useless. and i truly try not to reach the tantrum level, though my mother will go all the way there, obviously.

that's what she did this morning: full-on tantrum mode. but you know what's sad and funny at the same time? i called mom this morning at her church library, since i knew she'd be working. she answered the phone cordially, sounded tired but happy to hear from me, and in general behaved as though nothing were the matter...though i knew differently.

home will be hell for the next few days, for my sister and father. my sister texted me, told me mom was "crazy mad" and doing all the tantrum things she does when she's like this. my sister feels like shit because it's mother's day, and here's our mother ranting and raving because of a simple misunderstanding - a small, inconsequential misunderstanding that could have been easily rectified if my sister had made some better decisions and my mother had not assumed, or had been calm enough to listen to reason.

this all seems really sad when you consider that it's mother's day. it's sad because i thought the days of her rages were behind us. it's sad because my sister is terrified and guilty and sad, and all i can do is assure her that it's okay, that mom will calm down soon, and that all will be well shortly. tell her that i love her and she can come stay with us, if she wants. tell her to stay out of mom's way.

i can do nothing for my father, innocent bystander though he is. he will have to endure mom's wrath, though he's done nothing. it is the price he pays, for love.

mom will be 61 this year, though she neither looks, acts, nor seems like she's in her 60s. she seems like a woman in her 40s. the point is, though, that she is not likely to change now, and though she's intelligent and more self-aware than your average person, she's not self-aware enough to realize the damage she does when she's like this. and even though most times she apologizes for her behavior later - makes amends - it does not change the damage she's wrought.

during one of these rages she told me she didn't love me and didn't give a damn what happened to me, and to get the hell out of her house (her words, not mine). she had a right to be angry at me - I'd missed curfew and hadn't called - but when i tried to defend myself against her anger, she'd lost it, and spat those words at me. needless to say, i left the house. when i came home later that night, my sister greeted me at the door and begged me to forgive mom, that she knew mom was sorry for what she'd said and that she hadn't meant it. i went to my room and got in bed. soon my mother came into my room and apologized for what she'd said, though she said she wasn't sorry she'd gotten mad, that she had a right to be mad. and i told her she was right: she had a right to be mad but no right to say what she'd said. we made up that night, and things were okay afterward (it was probably one of her shortest rages), and i know she loves me and does care about what happens to me...but i've never been able to get that night out of my head. did it leave emotional scars? no. i'm tougher than that, have endured worse psychological torment. but i certainly have not ever been able to forget that night. i don't know what it means that i cannot forget it, even though i have forgiven her, but it's certainly an unforgettable moment.

i wish i could call mom and clarify the situation, calm her down. but i can't; that would only make things worse. i wish i could make her see how awful she is when she's like that, but i can't; it would only make things worse.

i'm pretty sure my mother suffers from bi-polar - more specifically cyclothymia. it's a mood disorder on the bi-polar spectrum. actually, i'm pretty sure my mother, both of her sisters, two of my cousins, my sister, and i all suffer from either bi-polar or cyclothymia. only once in her life has my mother even conceded this possibility, and that was some 6-7 years ago, when my sister went through a really bad depression and exhibited signs of dysphoric mania. mom called me and said, "i think your sister is bi-polar, and i don't know what to do!" i told her then: therapy and anti-depressants. it's sad and funny, though; my mother has a master's degree in counseling and therapy, but she's never been good at understanding her own children, and she doesn't like the idea of using medication to treat mental illness (which is a mistake, but that's another entry). but she got my sister into counseling, and they tried anti-depressants.

i've said to her since then, on several occasions, that i believe that bi-polar runs in our family, and that her middle sister suffered from full-blown manic-depression, and it's likely that's why her grandfather - my great-grandfather - committed suicide, but she doesn't really want to hear it.

my sister and i recently had a conversation about bi-polar. she used to not respond when i would say that bi-polar ran in the family and that it was part of the reason mom is the way she is. but on this occasion, she nodded her head in agreement. when i told her that i thought that she and i were both also bi-polar, which she usually did not respond to, she nodded her head again. she asked me if i'd ever taken anything for it, to which i said no, i'd always employed cognitive behavior therapy in order to manage my mood swings, and i felt like she - my sister - had probably done that, too, though not as deliberately or methodically as i had, since she was not familiar with CBT. i told her how i managed and that i would continue to manage in that way because i had no intention of ending up on medication. my one foray into medicating mental illness did not go well nor end well, and i'm not anxious to repeat it.

admittedly, though, on the one hand, it is difficult to be this way - even i can't always predict my mood swings. i hate the depression, i hate the mania (though i actually suffer from hypomania, since true mania involves psychotic features), i hate the mixed states. but on the other hand, the depression, the mood swings, the mania - they've all contributed to the person i am and the creativity i possess, which is characteristic of individuals who suffer from cyclothymia (and other disorders on the spectrum): they often go undiagnosed and untreated because they don't realize they have a mood disorder - they attribute how the feel and behave to the forces of creativity. i can understand and appreciate that; that's why i wouldn't want to be on a med for it, i would want to run the risk of dampening or interfering with my creative force.

i think my mom is the same way. but again, she's not likely to change at this point in her life, or employ CBT, or try medication. i wouldn't really want her to medicate, but i certainly would appreciate the use of CBT. i know this unlikely, though, and we must endure.

all that being said, though? i love my mother dearly, and i am blessed to have her.

...has it come to this?...

...it's not as heavy as it seems...

spent most of the weekend, when i was driving around (especially when i was alone), with the windows down, the music loud, singing at the top of my lungs, and it made me feel better than i have in a long time. i know something's missing, but i'm not sure what. i know something's wrong, but i don't know what. it's on the tip of my tongue, on the cusp of realization.

it would be easy, easy, easy to fall into the trap of regret, of remorse, for breaking or losing or misplacing whatever element is that's left me feeling empty. it would be easy, easy, easy to put it down to age, to put it down to disappointment with where my life is now...but, with the exception of not living in New Orleans, my life is pretty awesome. i've never been a long-range thinker when it comes to my own life; my desires, my goals are simple. there was no need to plan long-range. and i still see no need to plan long-range; i've got mechanisms in place for retirement, etc.

when i was younger, i didn't think i'd live to this age: figured i'd eventually kill myself. either i'd find the courage or the right motivation and follow through. obviously that didn't happen, and it's not likely to happen, despite periodic moods of self-destruction. not to sound cliche, but i have so much to live for, and i do enjoy living. but believing that one would be dead, and planning was unnecessary, means that the habit didn't take, and i don't see long-range, other than practically - seldom emotionally, or psychologically, or whatever.

maybe i'm too moody for long-range planning. one way or the other, my path will take me Home; i am sure of this. maybe my husband's pagan fatalism is growing on me. maybe my existential leanings are growing again....

...turn mistakes into gold...

i don't really know what i want in life, beyond living in New Orleans, and traveling....gonna rise up, find my direction magnetically....i have the husband, the love; my family; wonderful friends; a steady job with just enough money. i don't know what else i need or want in life. my enduring worship of self-denial perhaps has compromised my ability to identify pleasures and desires, or, when i can recognize them, to admit them, ask for them, pursue them, or otherwise obtain them.

but this is life, yes? exploration, discovery, determination: to learn, about the world, about the self. to reach beyond despair into understanding, and through it, contentment.

Another day that whispers...

....leave it all behind, start over, get away, throw away keys and kindness....

But I would never. It's madness, plain and simple, and I recognize that voice anywhere. It's saved in the databases of my brain, recorded, preserved, archival and accessible. It's evidence and comparison, witness and perpetrator.

Mostly: I'm tired of people again. Tired of this body. Tired of fighting this flesh. Tired of not knowing how I feel, and when I do know how I feel, I can't express it meaningfully. I feel like my times, they are a-changin', and I'm not sure why. I'm grateful for it and am ready and willing for change. I think it's time. Don't know how things will change, in what way, but it is time for things to change. Time for a new phase.

There are days, like today, when the world weights heavily. Not that the weight of the world is on my shoulders - it's not, and I don't feel that way: it's that everything seems so much denser and more complicated than usual. I feel like despair is close at hand, and depression creeps in. I haven't been able to conjure a manic fit, real or faux, for some time now. I need them, periodically, for balance, and for accomplishment. I hope one hides behind the horizon, and that it comes to me soon.

Birthday: twelve days away. Mom wanted to know if I wanted a party, like last year. I said no; just family, at the country house. Badminton, boardgames, and a bonfire. Homemade Mexican food. I want it to be a small, cozy, quiet affair. Older I get, the more quiet I want, I need.

I wonder, sometimes, if that need for quiet isn't my introversion asserting itself more aggressively and rebelliously, since my job demands extroversion, and because I've given my heart to my loved ones in the guise of the jester, the Self saying Be calm, they will love you anyway, even if you aren't talkative and laughing and ready for anything; they will love you even should you be high priestess instead of fool, temperance instead of empress. It's a strange feeling, trying to trust that one is worthy, to accept the truth that one's loved ones offer every time they open their arms and hearts: that one is worthy, that one is loved, regardless, that one's love is always echoed, reflected, returned.

Comes on, like gangbusters...

...the desire to hide away, to sequester, to lock the doors - literal and metaphorical - and leave the world behind. Even better: on a train, non-stop, to everywhere: private sleeping car, big windows, warm blankets, hot coffee - full of chicory, caramel, and milk - when I want it, Captain rubbing my feet, helping the circulation. Want my days full of books and papers, music and videogames, sleep and seclusion. I love the Road, but these bones need warmth and soft, still and easy. This mind needs quiet and peace, solitude and slow.

It comes: the mania, the depression, the inevitable emptiness as the year dies. I'm never sad to see a year go; hope persists because change can happen, and change comes with time, with movement. The year must die for the next one, frost melting for the soil. The year must pass away to make room for the next. Hope needs room.

I need hope. I need quiet. I need...so much.

...ever learn to keep your big mouth shut?...

...because when it comes to Home, I can't be silent, ever. Going this weekend, admittedly for some sad business, but my bond with Her is so great, even my sadness is overcome.

My sister is returning to NY for the holidays, to spend them with her husband. He's in his residency at a hospital up there and can't take off for the holidays, so she's going to him, which any couple in love can appreciate. But it means we won't have her for the holidays, and that makes me sad. But: one more huzzah before she goes - the immediate family is all going down to NOLA to see her off at the train station. The parents are driving her, and my brother and his wife are riding with the Captain and me. We're staying in a hotel down near the Quarter, near the train station, off Canal.

The caravan of cars (all two of them) will leave Friday afternoon. We'll check in to the hotel, unload, go grab some dinner, and then head to Christmas in the Oaks. Saturday we'll see the sister off, have breakfast at Cafe Du Monde, wander around, see my aunt in LaPlace, then head home. It'll be a brief visit to the City Beneath the Sea, but any visit is worth it, any time I can spend there is precious, heirloom of the ages, anchor of the manic spirit.

...let me see the lines on your hand...

It's supposed to rain at Home this weekend, but I don't care. It doesn't matter; just being there will be enough, and being there in the winter, in the cold and the wet - never is She more beautiful than then, except at Mardi Gras, when She loses all abandon.

But never am I more happy than being in the City Park Botanical Gardens during "Christmas in the Oaks," when the Gardens are draped in Christmas lights, and it's cold, and the sky is amethyst. If I have the Captain with me, it's fantastically better, but being alone there, too, is also wonderful.

This week will be difficult - all I can think about is going Home this weekend. I doubt I'll get much work done...

...but I'm going Home, if only for a little while, and that makes everything okay.

...thought I couldn't tell how to fall out...

...And I'll be anything you ask and more...

Those that know me and love me best know that I am an introvert, that extroversion is a mask I assume for my job, to function in society. Solitude is one of the greatest balms for what ails me, and most of my friends understand and respect that.

Then, I ask, why are some of them - including the Captain - disturbed by my silences? Silence for me is energy conservation, thinking time, and sometimes just a natural downtime, like for anybody else. Then why does it seem to bother others so? I think, just like everybody else, that I'm entitled to some downtime, to some wordless time, to some silence.

I want to tell people, when I'm wrapped in silence, that it's okay, nothing's wrong, I'm not mad, not upset - just in a natural state. Yes, silence is natural for me. I need it, like any other natural introvert.

...I'll be anything you ask and more...

....and no, I wouldn't let you think so...

Why is my silence so terrifying to others? My job means I wear a mask of extroversion, but those that know me best know I'm a natural introvert. Those that love me respect that introversion.

But even those that know me best, that love me, that respect my introversion, seem sometimes thrown by my silences, anxious to fill them, anxious to cover them? I wish they would just accept them for what they are - energy conservation, thinking time (of which I need much), and a little natural downtime.