Summer Self-pity Festival, Final Days

Summer spends its first day in Chicago being passive-aggressive. It scoffs and pouts. It's been threatening to storm but can't commit to that either. Go away, longest day of the year. Give me a thunderstorm or leave.

Today I want to drive somewhere. Alone. No one riding shotgun and no Graco seats in the back. No dogs slobbering down the windows. No diapers, no poop bags.

That’s not going to happen. I slam down the phone. The dog barks, wakes the fussy baby. Damn it.

Lisa's been working overtime. Last week she saw an array of famous people like Richie Cunningham and Ellen Degeneres (on separate days) at the museum. I was too tired to care. She just called to say she has to stay till 9 tonight. We need the money, but I've been working OT too-- dishing out the bananas and the oatmeal and the baby-Zantac and the teething gel and the kisses on the bumped heads. Oh, and today Effram is barfing and has a fever. Whine, whine, whine. I know it's my choice to stay home with them. And really, I love it. I love that I get to know these babies. I know their happy, sad, mad, sick or tired sounds. I know every tiny scratch and red mark on their precious little bodies. Lucy is crawling too now; she's funny. She sort of scoot-crawls. EBear is still army crawling but it works for him. He's fast on his belly with his legs swimming on the floor. Our little water frog. Sometimes I just shake my head at them, like, "You guys are just so beautiful and cool." But lately, it’s mostly me anticipating their moves, putting up gates, and following them saying, "Wait! No! Don’t put your fingers in that door jamb! Ugh!" I'm so grateful that they're healthy and developing as they should be. But I'm also exhausted and going through some weird emotional stuff.

I think I need to do something I'm good at. I keep forgetting what that is. Sure, it takes a special talent to maneuver a clean diaper onto the bottom of a mobile infant. Make that two. Still, my self esteem is clogged. I want to do something I enjoy. I want to write, read, and work on art projects. I want to teach myself to paint. And run. And swim.

Instead, I’ve been having a self-pity festival. I swear, it's fun. I've been doing it for years without knowing it and am still going strong. Want to join me?

Here are the requirements. Do you:

Tell a good sob story?
Become easily offended?
Let a complete stranger who gives you a dirty look ruin your whole day?
Act like a victim?
Act like a martyr?
Try to fix other people’s problems and get too involved?
Judge yourself constantly and project it onto others?
Blame your parents/childhood for all your shortcomings?

If so, you’re invited!

We can talk about how hard it is to be us. We can discover the hilarious irony that we have no self-esteem and simultaneously feel superior to everybody.

Sound good?

My friend Jimmy once asked me, "Why were you so mad all the time?" regarding when we were kids. Apparently, I was very mean to my fellow fifth-graders. I remember my science teacher had nicknamed me "Crabface" but I never really thought that was a negative thing. I sort of reclaimed it.

me, in fifth grade

I used to think that everyone’s family history included alcoholism, addiction, anxiety, depression, perpetual money problems, poor health, divorce, and/or suicide. At sleepovers, I probably boasted to my friends that my great grandfather hung himself, or that I never met my real grandfather because he left my grandma for booze when my dad was just a kid. I thought these stories had a sort of dramatic flair to them. “Did you know that my dad got so drunk that he wrecked eleven cars in eleven years!” I’d say, just like I heard my mother say over and over. “And then my mom beat him up with the heel of a boot and he finally stopped!” Ha ha! I picture the little Mary Bess as the only one laughing and imagine the awkward silence that followed.

Clearly, I'm the one with her arms crossed and the sarcastic half-smirk.

Eventually, I learned that these were not the kinds of things a person should brag about. In college, I gravitated toward the people whose lives involved the most chaos. If you were angry, emotionally unstable, bitter, or had a rotten past, you were definitely more interesting. I could find a way to get into a relationship with you. I can't believe I ever graduated with all the drama I created.

Through therapy and Al-anon, I’ve learned that I have picked up certain cognitive habits and behaviors and coping mechanisms that I once thought were perfectly normal, but aren’t, and don't serve me in a positive way. It all scares the hell out of me when I look at the sweet, happy faces of my babies, because I really want them to be well-adjusted and emotionally healthy. I don't want them to grow up seeing me so angry all the time, or to worry about the next time I'm going to get angry. So I’m beginning to work on my hang-ups, and I’m hoping to dismantle the long-running self-pity festival going on in my head. Ryan Adams says he’s “fallen out of love with pain”. I think I finally have, too. I’m not so drawn to chaos anymore. I’m sure I haven’t gotten completely over it though. Especially when it’s attractive and comes in costume.

I used to think that being “difficult” was cute. It’s not. Neither is being hyper-critical. It’s tiresome to be judgmental all the time. Even about stupid things, like tanning beds or Republicanism. Cancer and Sarah Palin should be fought, but negativity for the sake of negativity is wasted energy. I want to take care of myself and contribute positively to this world somehow. I want to do the things I love to do and am good at doing, have healthy relationships with normal boundaries, and raise my kids to be grateful and kind. That’s enough.

So far I’ve defined myself by the struggles I’ve been through. To change that means I’ll have to do something other than struggle. That's harder than it sounds! But I no longer think that a child has to grow up like a phoenix rising from adversity or atrocity in order to become a good person. Challenges make us stronger, but not if we keep clinging to the things that challenged us in the first place, or seek and find those same challenges in other forms or locations.

Summer of 97, somewhere along the Oregon coast.

I have a tattoo that I got when I was 18. It’s supposed to resemble a hieroglyphic, but it looks more like a robot or an alien with a key hole in his chest.  My teenage self related to this drawing. I suppose I felt locked inside of myself and thought it was a powerful idea. My first girlfriend named the tattoo "Key Man." She took these pictures (the second one is cropped to enhance the tattoo).

In my 20s, I criticized everything. I made fun of myself for thinking that the concept behind my tattoo was deep.

In my 30s, I’ve been looking everywhere to find a key. I think it’s more like a code—a new way of doing and responding to things. I’ve been trying to break the old code. “Key Man” is still very much a part of me, but I’m not using that locked up cave man as a metaphor to define me anymore.

                                                            

Lucy pulled herself up and felt the grass under her toes yesterday for the first time. She was delighted with herself. My hope is that I can unlearn some old habits that weigh me down so I can do the things I’m scared of—teaching, writing, creating, parenting—with that same uninhibited delight.