I don't want to be like my mother

When I went to therapy back in my BYU days, my counselor offered this observation: "Your biggest fear is being like your mother."

Back then, it was.

Mom's midlife crisis destroyed us. Yes, she was in a crap marriage, far worse than mine, with a partner she couldn't rely on in any way (but who at least adored her). And yes, she deserved happiness. But she went about it in the worst way possible. She replaced martyrdom with utter selfishness.

God was the first to go, because who needs guilt? and she pulled the rug out from under our family's faith. Then she and my dad both gave up on parenting. I felt utterly abandoned. While I had muddled through with some success, Joyce fell off the deep end and stayed there. And I felt responsible. Someone had to. I had a roof over my head and food on the table and no support whatsoever. 

They never talked to us about any of it. Mom's new religion, new philosophies, and then new boyfriend snuck in amid shadows and whispers and dropped leaflets and breadcrumb trails. And if we asked questions, she shut us out. Or disowned us. She took backpacking trips "alone," bought an SUV for the canoe she wanted, and she went backpacking in Italy. She moved to London for months.

Mom threw out the old plates and silverware, replacing them with things she thought pretty but weren't microwave or dishwasher safe. The moss-green glaze chipped off the plates, showing the ugliness underneath. I remember once, talking about my mom's sudden new independent life and bawling over the silverware. They were the symbol of her "out with the old" philosophy. 

Then she divorced my dad.

I never want to be like that. She couldn't handle her own emotions, didn't know how to process them or how to instigate healthy boundaries and helpful change. She couldn't face her trauma, so she ran from her responsibilities. She just said, fuck it, and left us all to fend for ourselves so she could follow Thoreau and find herself. She abandoned us in chaos so she could chase momentary pleasure. And when the glaze chipped off, the damage was irreversible. 

She did not just leave God and Dad. She left us all. And it took years to forgive.

I know that I am unhappy with the current dynamics of my marriage and with the direction of my life right now, but I will not--WILL NOT--throw away what is good or betray the trust of my children, God, and husband to go chasing something shiny and new. I will not let my pain become the catalyst for my life's destruction. I will find a way to fix it, to rebuild, to strengthen. Not destroy.

Compromises

You know, I came back from the painting retreat full of gratitude to my husband, who kept things running in my absence. Things were looking up. For almost a whole day.

I want a dog. Andrew is allergic, so I routinely check the animal shelter's website for Doodles. They are rare enough, and often they get snagged right away, or they are too old, or bad with kids. Today, I found a golden doodle, four years old, trained, good with kids and other dogs, loves to cuddle. 

Kevin does not want a dog. I know this. But I also know that we've had a dog before and let Michelle's cats live with us. I broached the subject of the Doodle. 

"He sounds great for someone who wants a dog."
"I want a dog."
"Absolutely not," he snapped and walked away.
I texted him next. "I want the dog."
"I don't like pets."
"I don't like feeling like an inferior in our marriage."
"I'm not trying to be controlling. I truly hate pets. This issue is a 9/10 for me."
"Like me wanting more children?"

He hasn't spoken to me since. And, though the dog is still there today, I have not just gone and gotten him, because I know that for Kevin that just may be a divorceable offense, and I haven't decided if it's worth it.

I know that he doesn't want all the things I do, but why is his opinion more important than mine? As long as we don't agree, we stay in limbo and nothing changes, which is what he wants. Our simple inability to compromise on these issues means he gets his way by default. 

We knew going into our marriage that we didn't always see eye to eye, but we did discuss the big things and find common ground. Over the course of our courtship, I got talked down from wanting ten kids to five. I wouldn't budge below five. Kevin kept dropping his number every time I lowered mine to compromise. He started by saying he couldn't go above six, then five, and, finally, he sat at four and wouldn't budge. 

I remember the conversation that ended the stalemate. 

I had never had a single baby, and I couldn't guarantee that I'd want more. But if we were in it together, we would be on the same page. The things about big families, I had said, was that they put family first. That is the priority. Family. Family prayer and scripture study, family meals, family vacation, cuddling in bed together, gardening together, serving together. That's what I wanted. Kevin agreed. He remembered his dad coming home from work too tired to do anything with the kids, laying on the couch and napping, while his mom played catch with the kids in the yard. He wanted to play with his kids. 

I get that life has a way of getting in the way, and Kevin couldn't know that his job would become more and more demanding. But he has also adamantly refused to do anything about it. He will not look for another job. Will. Not. He also stays up late every night, so can't possibly keep his eyes open after work. He lays on the couch, using the same exact phrase about "horizontal studies" that his dad used, and naps until the kids go to bed, then stays up late playing around on his computer until well after midnight. 

Meanwhile, I continue to want more children, while he dropped his number first to one, then two, then three, trying to get us to stop after each one. He gets mad that I keep telling everyone that I want two more babies, but I have never been the one to change my mind on family.

When my kids were small and waking up early, I felt too tired and too distracted to study scriptures. I began getting up earlier and earlier to have an hour to myself. Eventually, a 4:30 alarm became the routine, which necessitated an early bed time, too. It hurt our marriage. I found I had to stay up several more hours and nap during the day in order for us to have any meaningful time. It's still the case. Either I stay up until I'm nauseated with fatigue or we are ships passing in the night. 

Never does he try to switch his sleep schedule, to go to bed early or wake up with me. Hell, he won't even change his pillowcase to match the rest of our bedding. Fourteen years in, we have cream sheets and a brown comforter. His pillowcase is the same green plaid that he had before we got married. Like he just can't bring himself to change. 

The Thanksgiving of 2007, when he told me he wanted to marry me and then immediately retracted, he also told me I should have pets. I squeeeed at the sight of a bunny, and he thought I was adorable. I guess he forgot that later. 

That's not to say Kevin hasn't compromised. He has. He moved to Colorado three years ago. Of course, it took me five years to convince him, and it only happened because he could keep his job and work remotely. If he hadn't been able to keep the same job, he would not have moved. Full stop. He agreed with me on adopting, even though it came with a dog. He later allowed Michelle to move back in with us, even with two cats. In both scenarios, he did it because it was the right thing to do, and Kevin is a good man. 

There have been good times. Really good. Even long stretches, years at a time. But there are always these really big issues between us that don't go away. I have coping mechanisms for when I am lonely and hurt. I find fulfillment in the gospel and my children and my sisters and my writing. But when I look forward, as I have been doing of late, and I see myself continuing to compromise my wants and feelings, I burn with resentment. I don't want to do this for the next forty years. I shouldn't have to cope with my marriage. My marriage should be what strengthens me to cope with everything else. I don't want to compromise my happiness for the rest of my life, and there is so much of my life left.

I want to fix my marriage. I want date nights and temple trips and time spent together. I want real compromise. I want to feel loved.

And I want that damn dog.

Essay

I'm at a painting retreat up in the mountains for several days. We paint a new piece each day, and I will show pictures later. We also had a writing assignment. The topic was cars. Here is my essay. It is not what I felt in the mood to write, but it fit the assignment and length. I basically stole it from my blog 14 years ago.

It started with locking my keys in the trunk of my rental car.

I had flown into Austin to be maid of honor at my friend’s wedding, and I was crashing on her mother’s couch. The events didn’t start until evening, so I decided to take the morning to meet up with an ex-boyfriend for a tour of the city. I hauled my suitcase out to the curb and heaved it into the trunk of my lime green Chevy Malibu. Then I thought, I don’t need my purse today, and tossed that in for good measure. Even as the lid slammed down, I realized my error and stood in paralyzed horror. I had dropped the keys into the bag. Then, no matter how many times I patted my pockets or rattled the door handles, no miracle occurred to absolve my blunder.

About the time that I knew I was good and truly screwed, Kevin arrived on the scene. It is one thing to do something stupid in isolation. It is another to be humiliated in front of friends or even strangers. Screwing up on that scale in front of an ex-boyfriend for whom one still harbors romantic feelings? The stuff of nightmares.

First, I called the rental car company. Did they have a spare key I could come get? Of course not. Because that would have been too simple. I called AAA who said they’d send a locksmith.

To escape the growing July heat, Kevin and I sought refuge in his green Honda, blasting the air conditioning. With nothing to do but wait, we talked for hours, while first one and then a second professional failed to break into the Fort Knox of family-sized sedans. Together, they did manage to open the cab, only to discover that the trunk release lever didn’t function. So began another round of lockpicking attempts, this time on the trunk itself.

Just about the time the third locksmith arrived to help, I hit my deadline. I had to leave or be late to the reception. Kevin offered to drive me, and a neighbor, a complete stranger to me, volunteered to wait with the locksmiths and retrieve my keys for me. Mercifully, my bridesmaid’s dress was still hanging in the closet inside my friend’s childhood home. In borrowed, ill-fitting black flats, I climbed back in the passenger seat of the Honda and braided my hair while my ex drove.

My plans had completely derailed. What was supposed to be a casual catching up now became a date to a wedding, and my hopes for poise and composure were shot all to hell. I was bug bitten and sunburned, flustered and famished. My makeup had all melted off hours before, and I didn’t have a single bobby pin to my name. I burned with embarrassment, convinced that Kevin just wanted out but was too kind to say so.

Still, he put on a tie and danced with me at the reception. I managed my toast with grace, and I even caught the bouquet. Then, Kevin and I sat up till the wee small hours of the morning, whispering in the dark of his car, somehow unable to say goodnight.

The next week, he told me he loved me. When he told me he wanted to marry me, we were in that same green Honda, driving back from Thanksgiving at my mother’s house.

Eight years after the wedding in question, four years after our own, he totaled his sedan during an ice storm. He spent an entire month scouring the whole of Texas for another green 2001 Honda Accord, not yet ready to let it go. But it wasn’t the car that was special. It was the memories, and I am forever grateful that I locked my keys in my trunk all those years ago.

Hurt Feelings

Yes, I am depressed, and that is skewing my perspective on things.  Then today, the sun came out. Literally, not figuratively. My depression eased, and I could see things a little more clearly. 

My husband is a good man. A kind man. Funny and insightful. He doesn't lose his temper. He reads bedtime stories with voices. He goes to the store super late on Saturday so we'll have milk Sunday morning. He changed diapers and he unclogs toilets and he takes out the garbage. He does his own laundry and makes his side of the bed. He is responsible and reliable. When I am sick or overwhelmed, he steps up and does more.

I am grateful for him. I know things would not be easier for me if he weren't in the picture. I can't even sleep when he's not home.

There have been plenty of good times in our marriage. But the thing with my depression is that the best times in our marriage have been when I am in the best mental health. When I am fulfilled in other ways, when I have goals and projects and good friends and I'm doing my best with scriptures study, temple attendance, and prayer. When I'm good, the marriage is good. 

But if I have emotional needs...

When I was pregnant, I felt fat and unattractive. I expressed this to my husband while we lay side by side in our bed. I cried. He literally turned his back on me. Rolled over so he didn't have to deal. I learned to cry in the shower instead.

He is a partner in parenting, in household operations. But not emotionally. If I struggle, if I am hurt--physically or emotionally--I am on my own. He might step in and take care of additional things around the house, but he doesn't take care of me.

Andrew's birth is a funny story that I love to tell. Kevin unconscious on the couch while I pushed. His aversion to blood and pain led to many humorous (afterward) misadventures. But it becomes less funny when he goes quiet when we disagree, when he rage cleans the kitchen with his headphones on, when he makes passive-aggressive comments and won't own up to it, when the silences stretch so taut that a person could break herself on them. 

I know Kevin is feeling stressed by work and by his calling, and now, additionally, he is frustrated because I've rejected his recent advances, after the birthday thing. But I am tired of him taking out his emotional constipation on me. And when I say something, he withdraws. We never talk about our problems; we just wait them out.

Today was better, because the sun was out and I was feeling better and he was less stressed, we had pleasant conversation and even laughed together. He did a celebratory dance when I got my acceptance letter to the nursing program. It was almost normal. 

But again, it was because I was feeling better. I can share the good things with him. I can even express in words anger or sorrow if it doesn't relate to him and if I don't become emotional. 

But if things become messy, if I become weak or mad or sick, he shies away. And I am left alone with my emotional wounds hemorrhaging. I have learned not to expose them. To keep them bottled, close to the chest, protected and cradled. To cry in the shower or my pillow or the car. 

Kevin supports me, and I don't just mean financially. He supported my idea to go back to school, picking up my slack on household chores while I was in class. He agreed to move to Colorado for my sake. I am going to a painting retreat this week while he has the kids alone. I can trust him to take care of things and to have my back. 

I just wish that I could trust him as unreservedly with my heart.

Exit Ramps

I once had a crisis of faith, where I could see the end of my activity in the church looming ahead, just off the highway and the exit drawing closer. For the first time since my parents left the church when I was fourteen, I could actually envision making the same choice, ending up like them. That shook me to the core.

What grounded me was tithing settlement. Tithing is a principle of which I have a perfect testimony. I could never not pay it. Back when I was employed outside the home, paying tithing was the very first thing I would do with each paycheck. I knew I couldn't leave the church, because I needed to pay my tithing.

That experience taught me to always go back to the things I do know, before I give up due to what I don't know. I have not faltered in my testimony since. 

After the events of last summer, and then again recently, I began to see another exit ramp looming ahead; or perhaps I began to look for it. I am not yet forty years old, and despite all feelings to the contrary, my life is not ending. It's not even winding down. I have forty more years ahead of me.

And I don't want to spend them like this.

But as I lay awake at night and think through all my choices, past and future, I feel overwhelmed by despair. I made covenants, and I have children, and there is no exit ramp that I can take from my current challenges, that I can live with. And then, I think abut not living with it, just not living, and I terrify myself into remorse. 

Something's got to give, But not that.

The Thief of Joy

My sisters and I have periodic dinners out, and oftentimes we end up griping about our respective husbands. It's harmless stuff, that we just need to vent about, reassure each other, and recharge ourselves. Like how all moms do about their kids.

Honestly, these dinners often leave me grateful for my husband. He never leaves me alone with the kids for weeks at a time. He never lies, never spends money without consulting me, never loses his temper. He can cook dinner and put the kids to bed. He pulls his weight around the house and as a parent. He is righteous and conscientious. 

But I do not feel like he is attentive or affectionate.

My birthday and Mother's Day left me in a bad place. Left our marriage in a bad place. It was already on the waning side, coming down from a really good peak, but that took it from meh to bad. So, it was my turn yesterday to vent the most and need the most comfort and strength. Heather reassured me that we all know what it's like to go through a bad patch. Everyone gets it. And they do, I know. 

But some people have really loving marriages.

Kevin and I once had people over for a game night, and one of the men casually reached out and played with his wife's hair while he was talking. That was all. And I felt a ridiculous surge of envy, loneliness, and anger. Emilie posted several years ago on her husband's birthday about how he was the best man she'd ever known, etc. I actually reached out to her to ask if she meant it, as surely not everyone does. "Yes!" she'd replied. "I had no idea that marriage would be this fulfilling!" 

They say comparison is the thief of joy, and that envy is its death.

I am envious. 

First World Problems

I feel ashamed of my depression when I see the news. My heart breaks for the many families who suffer in the wars of evil men. Dear God, the babies. 

Dashboard Confessional - Again I Go Unnoticed

Riv Reunion

Last fall, thinking about my high school reunion, I reached out to friends from college and asked if they wanted to get together this summer. I received a lot of support for the idea. We voted on a date, people replying that they would be there, 100%. Then it fell to me to plan it, because I had started the ball rolling. 

Side note: it's not ever really a good idea to put introverts in charge of event planning.

I sent a message detailing some ideas. Got no response. I reserved a park pavilion in Provo, near where we used to hike, so we could do a cookout and bring families. The invitation has been ignored. I also planned to rent an Airbnb for that weekend and hang out there with friends. Maybe make a reservation for dinner somewhere. 

But after receiving no further encouragement, I am reticent to make further commitment. I should be buying airline tickets, but I haven't even looked. I am afraid that the others' 100% commitment was merely a reflection of momentary enthusiasm.

These are some of the people that I love most in the entire world. I might go years without talking sometimes, because I am a terrible introvert, but I would drop anything to help them. I still send texts on birthdays, and I have organized girls' nights via Zoom. These are the people who began this blogging in the first place, nearly 20 years ago. The ones who loved me and stretched me and taught me and made me into who I am. 

And I fear, deep in my soul, that I have loved them too freely, above what they feel in return; that I have let my hope run away with me and mistaken their conciliation for enthusiasm, their civility for affection; that I have let myself love unrequitedly. Again.

Dog person

I used to think I was a cat person, but I was wrong. Turns out, I'm a dog person.

Back To December

My Birthday

My sisters took me out the day before my birthday, so as to not step on the toes of my husband and kids. They took me to dinner at a brewery with fantastic food, and it just so happened to be trivia night. The theme: 90's music. We came in second place. We went back to Heather's house for cheesecake she had made for me, watched some foxes play, and then headed to Nora's for a regency-era chick flick. 

The next day, Kevin greeted me with "Happy birthday." And then proceeded to do nothing else. Katie asked him after school if he could take her to the store to buy me a present. He said, "maybe Saturday." A couple weeks earlier, he had asked me what I wanted for my birthday dinner, but come dinner time there was nothing. I fed the children cereal and ordered myself a pizza. Days before, Katie had asked to help him make my cake. But there was no cake. No present. Absolutely nothing.

I have never felt so invisible and forgotten.

I got apology flowers the next day, but no other acknowledgment. On Saturday, he did take the kids to buy me presents: combination birthday and Mother's Day, he said. 

He asked me what I wanted for breakfast for Mother's Day. I said, whatever it is, I want bacon and orange juice with it. He did cook bacon and scramble some eggs. No juice, though. And that is the last acknowledgment I received for Mother's Day. Though he was home, and didn't have meetings before church, I still had to get all three kids dressed and ready. I didn't get to shower. I asked him to sit with the family during first hour, as he was neither presiding nor conducting. He said he wanted to, but... I ended up leaving early with the kids who wouldn't stay in their seats. I got no nap, because Kevin asked me to put in the oven the casserole he made to take to his mom's dinner that night. Then, he wouldn't even drive when I asked him to, because driving was making him sleepy. Then, he took Michelle home and I had to do all the bedtimes by myself.

The anger lasted for days. The hurt has lasted longer.

And the really messed up part is that I feel guilty bringing it up, either to him or even on here. I felt guilty for wanting to express my anger and hurt, because it might hurt his feelings. But the other option is to let it fester, as so many wounds have done before it. 

I just want to be loved, and too often I have wondered if I am.

Rejections

 Last spring, I applied to the community college nursing program. I had perfect grades, perfect test scores, perfect application. And I got rejected.

The entire process was determined by a point system. Up to 3 points for each qualification. I had 24 out of 30 points, because I had not taken microbiology (which could be taken up to the first semester in the nursing program) and I had no relevant work experience. I got my CNA license but I did not work in the field, a combination of not having the time with kids at home and also not wanting to.

I got passed up in favor of those with work experience.

I felt at a loss. My plan had been the nursing program in the fall. I had worked hard and done everything I could to fulfill the prompting. It was a serious blow to my confidence.

I have since taken, and aced, microbiology. I also applied to UNC. While I got accepted to the latter, I cannot apply to their nursing program until next spring, after I take chemistry prerequisites that don't exist at the local community college. I also applied again this spring to the community college nursing program. I now have 27 points, but I do not have the last three for work experience. 

The applications were due May 10th. I have not heard back, which means I have likely been rejected again.

And I do not know what to do. I feel crushed and overwhelmed and lost. I don't know what my future looks like. And that is messing with my head.

 

Sound of Silence

Hello, lurkers, my old friends.
I've come to talk with you again.
While in my mind you've been peeping,
You read my thoughts while I am sleeping.
And the writing that was meant to entertain
Is now restrained
Amid the sound of silence.

I write this blog to feel less alone, to get out into words the fears and dreams that have been secretly my own. But I have found that I get many hits, sometimes daily, and I don't know the identity of my readership. For the most part, I don't mind. I imagine my friends reading, people who know me and understand. Some friends, I would go so far as to wish were reading this, like a message in a bottle washing up on its intended shores. But then there are others. Namely, my mother, who does not always appreciate personal boundaries. Since discovering the traffic on my blog, I have grown silent amid feelings of trust violated. If you are not she, read on. If we are friends, please let me know who you are. I probably miss you.

Little Women (2019) - I Want to Be Loved Scene (7/10) | Movieclips

Same Panic, Different Disco

Life has been a little overwhelming of late. The entirety of November got taken hostage by various illnesses, and after the flu came finals, Christmas preparation, and the insanity that is the holidays.

We're fine. We're all fine here now. How are you?

What I found was that I was able to keep myself pulled together through all the challenges and chaos. I even managed a better-than-perfect score in my class this fall. But once it ended, I suddenly felt swamped by anxiety. It was like agoraphobia but with my time. I suddenly had no structure and all the things I had postponed either since summer or just since the final stretch of the semester suddenly loomed and demanded my attention. 

I froze.

I couldn't even return the overdue library books on my coffee table, because the task felt too overwhelming. I am not one prone to anxiety (depression is more my cuppa) but this crippled me.

It took some mighty praying to get my feet back under me and a plethora of lists to begin grasping all I needed to do. The load actually seemed more manageable when I saw it written out, despite the absurd length. At least it wasn't stuck in my head, running randomly and causing traffic jams with other information. I got it out.

I have tried to organize my time based on importance and urgency. Some choices might seem peculiar at a glance, but I prioritized my tasks based on what would give me the most mental relief. Up first, I took control of my environment. I reorganized the basement after Michelle moved out and vacuumed the hell out of that carpet. Cat hair, gone. Allergies, still present. Feeling unwelcome in my own home, gone.

Each day, I start by reading scriptures alone in my office (well, ok, I start by getting my kids out the door and THEN I retreat upstairs) and making my daily to-do list. Sure, there are the cyclical things that will never go away, like laundry and laundry and laundry. But I have gotten out of the way many one-time things, even finishing all my Christmas shopping to my satisfaction. My list hasn't really gotten shorter, but the anxiety has completely dissipated. 

I even returned the library books.

One Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest

The last time I got the flu, I was in college, living with Nora. Up until that point, I had assumed the flu was, essentially, a bad cold. Catching it was a rude awakening. Nora and I lay on the couch, moaning and taking turns getting the medicine. 

I have not missed a flu shot since. Not until this year, and it was really only a matter of having not gotten it yet. I was too late.

This time seemed worse, or maybe that's just the effects of memory and fifteen years.

I have been miserably sick for the last ten days. The coughing began a week ago Wednesday, and the body aches the day after. I had to max out on pain pills just to function, and by "function" I mean sleep without pain. I crawled out of bed only to get the meds. I soaked in a hot bath as often as possible, and I slept around the clock. The fever and pain eased up on Sunday. I went to the ER Monday night/Tuesday morning, when my throat closed in what I've learned is a laryngeal spasm. An albuterol inhaler and resuming ibuprofen for the inflammation has eased my ability to breathe, but I have continued weak, fatigued, and coughing since. 

Let me tell you, school has not been fun this week.

While my family has all contracted it as well, they've all recovered already. It's been a blessing that the flu touched my children so little. A day or two of fever and pain, and they were back to normal. 

Though Kevin got sick, he reacted better to medicine than I did, and he has taken care of everything. He has the week off work, by pure random happenstance, and it has been such a blessing. While I lay and moaned, shaking or sweating, and coughing up a lung, he made all the meals, went shopping, put kids to bed and got them out the door the next morning. He did laundry and cleaned. As miserable as I have felt, I cannot imagine having to do this without him. He was my hero this week.

Today, I finally feel like my mind is less foggy, and, though my chest feels tight and fragile, I am coughing less and might be able to function normally in the next couple of days. 

Next year, flu shots in October. 

I Don't Want to Be Like Dad

My dad was a very kind man, but he was also rebellious and irresponsible. Couldn't or wouldn't keep a job, blew through money, and never, never listened to doctors. Taking responsibility for anything, but especially for his health was way out of character for him. He used to say that he didn't want to live longer if it meant following all those damn health rules. He wanted to go out with a Pepsi (later Coke) in one hand and a Snickers bar in the other. 

The problem is that his chosen lifestyle did not result in his early death, being not quite James Dean enough. Instead, he spent twenty years in his recliner, unable to have a life, while his health grew worse and his body grew bigger. He opted for a wheelchair over physical therapy and soon required the care provided by a nursing facility, despite being twenty years younger than most residents. 

His rebellious insistence that he not follow the rules took away his autonomy and independence. He was miserable for twenty years. I want to put a stop to this pattern before my teeth fall out and my knees collapse and I can't buy clothes at common retailers. I do not want to go out with Coke in my hand. I want to live a long, active life and die surrounded by great-grandbabies. 

Barbie (2023) - The Revelation Monologue