Month: June 2015

Confessions of an inexperienced blogger

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I have been a blogger for almost a month now. I am a “cave man (mom?)” blogger. I don’t know what I am doing. I can barely figure out how to capitalize letters much less add pictures. And talking about pictures, should I add one of myself? Will people know who I am? Is that ok? I’ll be completely honest, I was going to link my blog to my Facebook account but I couldn’t figure out how to do it. But then I thought, how am I going to be completely honest if people that don’t really know me really know me. When asked if the dress makes you look fat, I usually say green really is your color. I change the subject when I really want to say that dress makes you look fat. So I decided it would be better to share all the personal experiences in my life with complete strangers. 

I’m sorry I never “liked” your blog, I did like it. Sorry I never responded to your comments, I haven’t figured out how yet. I always knew I would end up being a writer. As a child, I would sit in my room and write novels on paper. Yes, paper! Who ever thought something like this would be possible? Now I could never write fiction. My walk through life so far has been so interesting and crazy that I couldn’t be imaginative enough to make half of this crap up. I will work harder to try to figure out the technology end of blogging. These are the crazy thoughts that keep me up at 4 AM. 

Daddy issues

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I wish that Hallmark would come out with a new line of Father’s Day cards for dutiful children whose dad never gave a crap. I opened many cards that spoke of loving advice, warm embraces, and gentle guidance. Nope, nope, and nope. I’m probably not the only one out there that feels this way. 

My dad never hugged me or told me that he was proud of me, even when I graduated from college. My dad never told me I looked beautiful in that dress, even on my wedding day. There were no father daughter “dates”. We didn’t go out to eat together, to the movies, or anywhere. He showed up to events when he “had” to. Warm fatherly words of advice consisted of “shit happens” and “life’s a bitch, then you die.” Ok, you get the picture. I never dated anyone without daddy issues either. 

My husband, Paul, is a 1960’s love child. He was born to a single, unwed, high school dropout, teenage mother in Chicago. They were dirt poor. Paul spent the first half of his childhood in low income housing in Chicago. His mother enjoyed a brief marriage while there, just enough to change her name. When the city started to get rough and gang activity started heating up, his mom moved him out of the city along with his retired, widowed grandma. They moved up to a small town in northern Wisconsin. Talk about culture shock! Paul did get teased because he had the same last name as his grandma. His mom had a different last name, but still no dad. What a small town scandal in the 1970’s, for sure. 

Paul has a brilliant Mensa level mind. He earned his MBA while starting up his own successful business. He is always sought out to help organizations with their finances or in leadership roles. He is also a great dad to our children. But where does he go for fatherly advice? He has a great step-dad now, but his only two sons both got out of prison last year. Probably not the best place for advice. Certainly not my dad either. 

Paul’s mother is a little slow, she never could complete her GED. She would rather play the slots than play with her grandkids. There were countless occasions where she would cancel out last minute, not show up at all, or come hours late. When she did show up, sometimes she would leave angry spewing out obscenities. For all of her shortcomings, I have to thank her for not aborting my husband and for moving him out of the city. 

For all of you dads out there celebrating Father’s Day this weekend, have a good one! If you are struggling to be a good dad, it is never too late for change. You can still lead a relatively happy life with daddy issues. If you have a Hallmark card dad, tell him how much you appreciate him before it is too late. 

Cats, part 2

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I grew up outside of a small town with a population of 200. It was a bustling little town in my day with a creamery, a grocery store, a feed mill, an oil company, a bank, two bars, and my family’s business which was a garage that sold and fixed cars along with a gas station. The town also had a train running through it. Before my time, it used to have a passenger train, which grandma told me stories of her sister standing outside to wave good bye to her future husband going off to war. 

My parents build their house on about 10 acres of land outside of town. There was a barn on the property and also a foundation for a house. Legend has it that the original house on the property burned down. The property contained several buildings including the barn which was used for lumber and storage. The barn was also the home for several stray wild cats. 

There was one scrawny little starving cat that would always eat at our compost pile. One day Mark and Luke thought it would be a good idea to catch this cat. They caught her and locked her in our garage along with the two antique cars. One that I never saw driven and one that my mom would bring out once or twice a year which was a real treat for us to ride in. I fed the wild cat and spoke softly to her, eventually gaining her trust. She knew my voice and I was the only one she would come out for. I tamed her. She was my first “friend” in the home bound years. 

My brothers went in the barn and caught 2 more kittens after that. They were little and had to be fed with a dropper. The gray kitten didn’t make it and the  black cat got hit by a car. Never fear, he didn’t die. He lost all of his fur and his tail curled up like a pig’s. He earned the name Piggy. He was an ankle biter and the black sheep (cat? pig?) within the cat community that at one time was about 20 cats strong. Matt never bothered the outdoor cats. 

Marathon training, week 4

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Yesterday I pounded out 12 miles on the pavement. I was going to wait until Thursday to start up again after the 10k this last Saturday. But I felt no pain, no need to recover. I still feel some disappointment over the 45 seconds. What I didn’t tell you earlier is that the whole week leading up to the race my acid reflux was eating away at me. I sat with the garbage can next to me at work. The morning of the race I took my Prilosec, liquid antacid, and tums and still was in a moderate level of pain three quarters of the race.  I was more disappointed that no matter what I did I could not control the nawing pain inside of me. I know that it is silly to feel disappointment when I did the best I could under the circumstances. I also know that it is silly to feel anger when blogging about something that happened 30 years ago (guardians). But I will take feeling any day over the alternative. There was a time in my life that I did not feel any negative emotions. What a great way to protect yourself from pain you can’t handle. But guess what? I couldn’t feel any positive emotions either. I was just a shell of a person trying to survive. 

I have a new running partner. I would like to say that it is my son who ran the 10k with my husband and I. He was egging us on quite a bit with talk of beating us without training. He did not beat either one of us, but would like to try again with a 5k. Whatever gets him off the couch.

My new running partner is my daughter’s 17 year old friend. We got a mile into our first run together when a man in a service truck whistled at us rather loudly. I laughed for the whole next mile. It really isn’t safe for women to run by themselves on deserted country roads. My first running partner is super model gorgeous and you wouldn’t believe how many local service truck guys stopped us to ask for directions. My new running partner said she was more likely to be kidnapped by her dad who is stalking her instead of a service guy. Both of my running partners, like me, are outrunning many demons. They are both younger and faster too. They could leave me in their dust. Don’t worry honey, I have your back. Literally. 

Drowning Luke

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It was an unseasonably warm day for May. My parents decide to take a day trip up north to check on the cabin. I am six years old, almost seven now. The next door neighbor has his dock in already and the boys want to wade in the water. I can’t go in the water very deep because I have my pants on. I am too old to strip down to my underwear like the boys. Matt is 5, Mark is 3, and Luke just turned 2. Mom and I watch the boys “swim”. My dad keeps calling my mom into the cabin saying that Alissa can watch the boys. 

My mom leaves me behind to watch the boys. I can handle this. The boys were splashing around having fun, but Luke likes to push things. He keeps wading deeper and deeper in the water. Now he is flailing around in the water. Mark keeps yelling excitedly that Luke is swimming. I think that Luke needs help, but I have my clothes on and am not supposed to get wet. I stand up with one leg perched over the water ready to jump in. I can’t move, I can’t yell for help. Panic froze me like a statue. I am watching Luke drown. 

Thankfully, my mom felt uncomfortable inside the cabin because she could not see the kids in the water. She came out to check on us. She jumped in the water with her clothes on to save Luke’s life. It was a cold ride home for her in wet jeans, but my brother is alive. I would have let Luke drown. 

Crayfish

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I have made the conscious decision this decade to face my demons, challenge my stereotypes, and overcome my dislikes and fears. I will also try, with the help of God, to give up a little control. It’s not like I have full control anyway, I just like to think I do. 

I have always loved water. Swimming, the feel of sand beneath my feet. My mom always feared water, but she would watch my brothers and I swim. I could swim all day. Even though we had a cabin up north on the water, we didn’t like swimming there in the weeds. My grandpa built a dock and we did try raking the weeds, but it was an overwhelming task with all of the trees and lily pads. The neighbors a couple cabins down were neighbors at home and they let us swim in their sandy area. They did not always like having us around. I can’t say that I blamed them especially after the time I threw their decorative rocks off the end of the dock. Splash!

My dad came out swimming with us one day. He thought it was funny that I didn’t like weeds. He grabbed me and took me out far into the weeds. He planted my feet in the weeds and laughed as I cried. I was so afraid. The weeds were slimey. There were sticks under my feet and God knows what else. After he let go of me, I had to run through the weeds to get to shore. He found a dead crayfish and threw it at me, hitting me in the leg. He laughed, called me names, and swam back to our cabin in the weeds. I am still afraid of weeds and the things that lurk underneath them. 

45 seconds

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Yesterday was the first anniversary of my first race. I ran the 10k for the second time yesterday. It was a roller coaster ride of emotions. At first I thought I beat last year’s time (woo hoo), then I realized that I did not (boo hoo). 45 seconds off! You are thinking, what is the big deal? I am a highly competitive person which has always been a great strength and a great weakness. I also believe the misconception that if you work twice as hard, that you will do better. The false belief that if you brush ten times a day and floss ten times a day, you will avoid that cavity that is starting. If I am training for a marathon, I should beat last year’s time when I was just training for a 10k. I felt discouraged, mentioned the word quitting, and was downright pissy. Then I checked the results online, realized I moved up into the next age group, and saw that I was in the top 7% of my age group. I will take it! I will try harder to not beat myself up over the 45 seconds. 

Grocery shopping, just something not so simple…

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“Hands on the table, won’t come off. Now my hands are stuck on the beard.” Matt repeated this mantra over and over in a monotone voice with a slight fear filled crescendo at the end. Matt had a lot of night terrors as a young boy. For a period of time, he was afraid of men with beards. Before you read anything more into this, Matt was also afraid of tires for awhile too. 

When we were little, mom would take us all grocery shopping with with her. Those were the days before child care in stores, but they did take the groceries  out to the car for us. Mom would have one kid in the cart, one kid under the cart, one kid holding on to the end of the cart, and one holding on to the front or walking beside her. I was worried because after awhile they put up a sign that said that the bottom of the cart was for groceries only. 

On the best days, my mom would give Mark and Luke quarters for the gum ball machines. One day there was a big sign that said there was a watch in one of the machines. Mark said that he was going to win it. Mom said that there wasn’t a watch in the machine, they were trying to bleed us dry of quarters. But much to her chagrin, Mark came back with the watch after one quarter. 

On the worst days, Matt would act up in the store. When Matt acted up you could almost guarantee that Luke would act up too. Luke did not want his older brother stealing the show. He demanded that mom buy him what he wanted or he was going to kick her. Mark and I would stand there shell shocked. Two introverts trapped like deer in the headlights. Sometimes mom would run out of the store crying, leaving behind a cart full of groceries. I always worried about what happened to the groceries that were left behind. Mom said she didn’t care. 

On one particular day, we made it all the way to the check out when Matt saw a man with a beard. This was at the height of his fear. He started screaming in horror, a high pitched I’m being murdered wail. All eyes on us. Mom held him down on the ground with her foot so she could write a check for the groceries while everyone stared. Just another day in the life. 

Irrational worry?

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This morning I posted a blog entitled guardians. I was going to share another cure for autism blog instead, but I couldn’t. It was too hard. I am feeling anxious and unsettled today. That feeling you would feel if you were driving along the road and you hit a dog. Your stomach drops, something is wrong. Acid reflux. My stomach burns. I can’t eat without feeling nauseous. 

I spent the first two decades of my life in hell. I spent the next decade looking at other people’s lives and thinking about how wrong things were in my first two decades. I spent the last decade trying to forget about it. A new decade, what shall I do with it? Make peace with my past, it seems. Face my demons. 

Every time I tell you a story, I feel those raw feelings again. This morning I felt angry. Angry that people who were supposed to be supportive walked away. Is it my brother’s fault that he is autistic? My mom’s? Mine? I can understand if you can’t handle it. We couldn’t either, but we had too. Living with a violent autistic brother was no walk on the beach. We didn’t want it. Matt did not want it either. If you are looking for a Special Olympics success story, look elsewhere. What you will find is a raw story of what life was really like. 

Irrational worry? A lot of my irrational fears have already happened. 

Guardians

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My mom said that if something ever happened to my dad or her that we would live with my aunt and uncle. She said that I would like it there because they had a piano. My aunt was also a schoolteacher. Unlike my dad, who is an only child, my mom has many siblings. Every year my aunt and uncle, the guardians, would bring their two young sons over to go to the county fair with us. It was always the highlight of the summer. 

One year my mom invited them over to eat supper with us. Now this was a high risk venture as meal times were always stressful. We did not have people over for supper. Something happened at the table, what happened I could not say because I don’t remember anything out of the norm happening that day besides having company over for supper. I think that Matt had a meltdown and maybe attacked someone. I think it was my mom. Nothing out of the norm, so I don’t remember. I just remember Matt screaming. My aunt ran out of the house and locked herself in her car. She was upset and crying. I don’t think we made it to the fair that year. 

My mom was crying, she said my aunt and uncle didn’t want to be our guardians anymore.