There is no pain, you are receding.” Roger Waters

Hopefully I will never be called upon to write an obituary or deliver a eulogy. To sum up the life of a loved one; I would end up writing a novel. Over the past few days I have experienced shock, pain, disbelief, guilt, anger… I seem to be moving through these emotions quickly, but it is a cycle that I am sure will repeat several times. I am even aware enough now to know that years, even decades after the loss of a loved one, I can suddenly be reminded of them and the pain will wash over me as powerfully as it did the first second I found out.

I took a break from writing here to let myself feel this and to let my thoughts drift from memory to memory. I could use words to describe our friend, “son, father, husband, soldier, friend”, I could talk about his laugh that always made me laugh or his enthusiasm for having a good time no matter what. I could tell you that he at one time was such a fixture in our home that I always set an extra plate at meal time and I had a stash of pillows and blankets for him to sleep on the couch always at the ready. I could try to convey the way his face lit up when my husband came home from work; such was the power of a friendship that had started when they were boys. I could describe the way I used to listen to him whispering softly to our baby Nathan as he danced him around the living room while I cooked dinner.

Out of all of Alex’s friends he was the only one who ever bothered to get to know me. The hours he spent sitting with me talking, listening, just letting it be O.K. to be silent, won’t be forgotten.

The events that led to him going from a near permanent fixture in our house to someone we only saw occasionally aren’t as important as I had thought. The fact that I heard about his death from my sister, who read it in the paper, and that it was too late for us to go to his funeral because it had already happened are horrible reminders of how sometimes life moves on and people slip away from us. I could sit here feeling guilty and I do, sometimes. I can think that it’s not fair that he was only given 37 years. I can feel that someone should have been able to save him; that we should have tried harder to help him, but deep down I know in my heart that you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

The last time that we spoke was Christmas day. I had tried to wear a dress and do my makeup and hair but I still was spending the day avoiding the cameras; feeling as if I was ugly, fat, and frumpy and a downright mess of a human being until he rang the doorbell. His face was beaming as I opened the door and he reached out to hug me, and then held me out at arm’s length, taking a good long look at me before exclaiming, “Wow! You look beautiful!” before he pulled me close and hugged me again. For that moment, when I heard that laugh that always got me started laughing, I saw through his eyes and I believed him. I felt beautiful. I told him that he looked beautiful too. I am glad that we had that chance to see him. I am happy that he had the opportunity to see our kids; to exclaim over how much they had grown and how much they look like Alex and me.

Once again I am reminded that I need to take every opportunity I can get to say thank you to those I have been blessed with. I need to learn to not be afraid to say “I love you”. Letting it be alright to feel is what I am doing now, after so many years of trying to become comfortably numb.

My sister called about an hour ago to notify me that she had found an obituary in the paper. The man who died was Alex’s best friend, and when Alex and I met in 1986 he quickly became my friend too. I last saw him on Christmas day when he stopped by with ice cream for the kids and beer for the adults. He was very special to me and it feels important right now to just take some time off to remember him. Thanks for understanding.

Tuesday my Mom and I went to pick up my daughter from school. She rushed out of the doors all excited about free cone day at Ben and Jerry’s. Seeing how important it was to her I did what any good Mom would do, I offered to take her for ice cream at Coldstone or Baskin and Robbins or anywhere but Ben and Jerry’s. You see, we have done the free cone thing twice before, and waiting in a line that wraps all the way around the block for over an hour for a free cone just isn’t worth it to me. I would rather pay for a cone and get in and out quickly. She of course started whining, and all of her friends were going and my mom did the whole, “Oh Tammy, you have to let her go.” I caved. We ended up sitting in my mom’s car parked where I could keep an eye on her in line.

My Mom and I started talking and she brought up the shootings at Virginia Tech. I didn’t really want to talk about it. These events don’t seem to shock me; they just sadden and sicken me now. Plus, it seems that the media turns the killer(s) into some sort of celebrity every time something like this happens and I try not to get caught up in the frenzy.

“He was from Korea” my Mom said. “Uh, huh”, I replied. “North or South?” my Mom asked. “I don’t know!” and at this point I shot her a look. “I guess he was a loner and nobody really liked him”, she continued.

“And they certainly don’t like him now!” I exploded. I mean what the fuck?

Yes, he sounds as if he was a mentally ill man who had been suffering for quite some time. Yes, possibly he could have/should have been helped, but where can you really lay the blame for that? He obviously had it together enough to plan out the massacre, film his videos, and mail them and to go forward with the shooting.

I think it was Dennis Miller who said, “When someone gets to the point where they get off by offing others it’s time for them to do the world a favor and just off themselves” and I agree.

My heart goes out to everyone who is suffering as a result of one man’s sick actions.

When Polly was little she went through this stage where we couldn’t get her to stay in her bed at night because she was afraid of monsters. I used to sit by her bedside and try to calm her down by softly whispering, “There are no monsters.”

“Do you promise?” she would whisper back and when I did promise I would think of murderers, rapists, pedophiles, kidnappers and the lot and wonder how on earth I was ever going to be able to feel safe letting my children out into this world alone. I still wonder.

Today is the 22nd anniversary of my father’s suicide. I decided last night that I was going to spend the day trying to remember good things about him, rather than getting angry and depressed.

Here goes. I remember the way he used to look down at me and smile when I said something funny. I remember the way he would come home from work, change into more comfortable shoes and a cardigan sweater like Mr. Rogers did, lie down on his bed with his arm out, and let me snuggle into his arm so we could talk about our day while we waited for dinner to be ready. I remember how much pleasure he got from a good meal. Once I found a diary of his from the 50s and 60s. I was so excited to read it. I thought it would help me get to know the man who was gone. It ended up to be a travelogue of sorts, but instead of details of his road, rail and air travels all over the United States and Europe he detailed all of the meals he had. At first I was disappointed, but as I read it I found it to be a good read. I too love a good meal.

I remember how he used to tickle me under the chin and ask me if I was going to be his little Mathematician, his Chemist, or an Electrical Engineer like him when I grew up. I’m sorry Dad, I kind of fell apart after you died and I haven’t made it through school yet. I am trying to get well and to be a good parent to my kids and a good daughter and a good wife and a good sister. I have tried to take care of Mom for you since you’ve been gone.

I am sorry that you felt so down that you decided that death was your only option. I am sorry that you couldn’t find the mental health help that you needed. I know now that you tried going to doctors and you went to church everyday and prayed. I am sorry that you missed seeing your four kids grow up. I think you would be proud of all of us. You have nine grandkids that you never got to meet. I think you would have loved them all. I miss you. I did love you, even though I pretended that I didn’t at the end because I was angry. I couldn’t understand why you couldn’t stop drinking and yelling and hitting us. I understand now. I forgive you. R.I.P.

Your Daughter, Tammy

I was all set to sign up for classes and for some reason they froze my account, saying that I didn’t pay my registration fee, which I did, and it took so long to get this “freeze” off of my account that I missed the first day of school, which was today. I tried to register for several classes that start tomorrow but they were all full. I am so limited because I have to attend in between dropping Polly off at school and picking her up so I have to stick to the campus that isn’t so far away because I’m on the bus. Anyway, I can go down tomorrow and see if there’s any room in any of the classes they told me were full because the woman on the phone said a lot of people don’t show up on the first day.

Alex told me to just sign up for something fun and I’m inclined to head in that direction, even if it’s noncredit. I feel so incompetent. Sorry I haven’t been writing lately. A dear friend of the family sold her house and I have been helping her move. She is 80 and in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s disease and her stepdaughter pushed her to sell her house. No one thought about where she would go when the house sold. She was planning on going back to Australia as she was born and raised there and wants to die there. Her husband died a few years back after she cared for him for many years. She has no family here except for two step daughters who are looking for $, it seems. She is so confused and frightened. She is going to move in with my mom for awhile while they figure out what to do. My Mom might have to fly her to Australia as she is in no condition to travel alone. She remembers me when I visit and keeps hugging and kissing me and giving me things. Her favorite cookbook. Her favorite teapot. The decanter her husband kept his bourbon in. This is much worse than the move I just completed for my Mom because the light at the end of this tunnel appears to be death. She slips away a little more each day.

Cazzy and Someone Like You, thanks for your comments. It really means a lot to me. And to those who read and don’t comment, that means a lot to me too. I’ll try to do a better job of updating. Maybe tomorrow something will fall into place when I go to the college. If not, there’s always spring term. If all else fails I’ll sign up for a one time Saturday class, How to Become a Wine Snob in 3 hours. That sounds like fun.

There was no way to escape this news, but I personally didn’t want to see photos showing his last moments or videos of his death. Some might say that this is because it brings up emotions about my father’s suicide, and the fact that he used a jump rope to make a noose and end his life, but I think there’s more to it than that. For many years now I have tried to be selective about the images I allow into my brain. I wonder about people who like to watch such things, or to view such photos. I understand that he brought a great amount of pain to an unimaginably large amount of people. For many his death brings joy and relief and maybe even a certain amount of healing. I choose not to look.

When it was time for me to attend high school my Mom thought that of course I would attend the one my three older siblings had gone to. I wanted a fresh start. My sister Monica got pregnant her junior year and stayed in school, despite the controversy surrounding an unmarried teenage girl in a Catholic school. She was treated horribly by many members of the staff and the students at that school. She stayed on and made the honor roll and even performed in many plays for her drama class. I can remember being worried for her. She seemed so tiny at 5 feet tall a little over 100 lbs. but she remained strong and raised her son with pride. Her picture was mysteriously missing from the yearbooks. Her son was born when I was 12; he is now a handsome, smart, funny 21 year old man. I begged my Mom to allow me to go to a different school and she finally relented. I picked an all girl Catholic school as my Mom was still a practicing Catholic at that time and she insisted on private education for us. I thought naively that no one would know a thing about me but it was in my records that my father had committed suicide.

I made one friend at that school, a junior who was the only openly lesbian student, and she ruffled a lot of feathers for not backing down from her belief that some people were born gay, and that it was okay. At that time I told those who asked that my father had died of a heart attack. I didn’t realize that my friend, who had a sister who was my health teacher, knew the truth the whole time. Her sister had read my records and told her. She never confronted me about my lie.

One day a man came to the school and there was a mandatory assembly. He was there to talk with us about teen suicide and throughout his speech he warned us repeatedly that he was going to be showing us graphic slides on a large screen of teens who had ended their lives by various methods of suicide. My heart was racing; my body broke out in a cold sweat. I realize now that I was having a panic attack but at that time I didn’t know the name of the feelings I experienced. I was sitting next to my friend and when the time neared for the photos to be shown I felt myself get up and start walking with trembling legs towards the door. I didn’t realize that my friend was following me. When we got to the exit door we found it blocked by some of the nuns who taught there. I opened my mouth but no words came out. I heard my friend say, “She doesn’t need to see this” and she took my arm and pushed me past the nuns, out the doors and led me down the hall. We left the school. I felt the air hit my face and I began to calm down. We went across the street to sit on a bench and smoke. Even though I knew at that moment they were calling my Mom at work and reporting my behavior I was no longer afraid. My friend sat beside me silently.

The panic left my body and I knew that when I got home I wouldn’t be in trouble. I knew that I only had to explain what the pictures were and my Mom would understand why I fled. I lost contact with that friend after she went to NYU, but I’ve never forgotten the comfort I derived from being with her. I hope she is happy, wherever she is.

Everything went well at my last doctor’s appointment. I did tell her about what the other doctor said to me when I went in before with an infection. She was very apologetic and spent a good half hour talking with me. I like her. She treats me like a person. I switched my prescriptions over to her as I am no longer seeing a psychiatrist. She reminded me how well Effexor worked for me back in 2004 and so I decided to give it another try. I am currently taking 150 mg. per day. I long for the day when depression, panic and anxiety are just memories of my past instead of realities of my present. I hope to one day be able to help others who are struggling to function due to mental illness.

I start college soon and I am nervous and excited about it. I spoke with my Mom last night and she said that she believes 2007 will be the best year ever for me. I want to believe and then breathe it into life. Happy New Year to all.

Something has been weighing on my mind.

For Thanksgiving my Mom went to considerable expense and effort to have the family dinner at her house. We have always done the majority of the holiday family celebrations at her house, and now that her house has sold to some poor sap some lucky woman, she didn’t want anything to be too different for the grandkids, especially the little ones. She was particularly worried about Evan who, as I have mentioned, suffers from Asperger’s syndrome.

At sometime during the meal someone inquired about my Mom’s health and she replied that she had been awakened in the middle of the night by Charlie Horses. After she had relayed her symptoms and heard the gamete of advice ranging from straight up pharmaceutical relief to that which contains elements of diet, exercise and even a plethora of oriental medicine that may or may not contain snakeskin and rat’s tails that you boil and drink, there was a pause in the conversation.

“Your father used to get Charlie Horses in his legs at night”, my Mom said and then we both looked at each other and went “AGHHHHHH!” because that was the sound he used to make when he woke up in pain.

I remember it well, because while trying to fit six people into a three bedroom one bath house my parents used every possible scenario, including putting my bed across the end of their bed. I was frightened at first, because I didn’t want to hear them having sex. The first time my Dad yelled out “AGHHHHHH!” in the middle of the night I thought for sure that this was the moment I had dreaded, having to listen to my parents have sex.

“Don’t worry John, it’s just a Charlie Horse”, I heard my Mom say soothingly in the darkness. I was relieved to know that it was pain, not pleasure, that had caused him to yell out so.

After the mention of my Dad at the dinner table my oldest sister Monica looked over at my Mom sternly and said, “He wasn’t invited to this party”. I was a little surprised, but I figured it was my Mom’s apartment, she could say something. Of course she didn’t say much for the rest of the evening.

Recently I called my sister Maria to ask her what her son Evan wanted for Christmas and over the course of the conversation she mentioned how cool she thought it was that Monica had said that to my Mom during Thanksgiving dinner.

I responded that I disagreed with the comment. “After 20 years of marriage and four kids I believe that Mom should be able to mention her husband if she wants to.” was what I said. We agreed to disagree, somewhat.

I called my Mom and apologized to her long after the fact. “No one should tell you that you can’t remember and mention your own husband” I said to her. She thanked me, but I feel bad for not speaking up sooner.

I know firsthand the difficulty of dealing with and grieving for a man who was not only an abusive alcoholic, but one who took his own life to boot. I don’t want to paint him as a saint, he was far from it, but he deserves for us to recognize the fact that he was ill and that he did the best that he could even when his best was far from enough.

The reality has hit. My Mom has until October 31st to be out of her house. She has found an apartment to move in to. She is going to stay there for the winter before she decides where to buy a house. Now the problem that remains is her stuff. We have emptied the attic and the top floor and the main floor is looking pretty good. Most things are packed, and she has eliminated the furniture she doesn’t want. The problem has always been and remains to be the basement. 1300 square feet of stuff, accumulated over 40+ years, all stuffed into that concrete pit, like the stratified layers of earth studied on an archeological dig. I feel as if I’ve spent decades working on tackling this stuff because I have. Emotionally it is difficult for my Mom to deal with the memories that have been laid to rest down there, and so the stuff remains, waiting.

Yesterday we decided to tackle a large bookshelf that my brother wants. It seems a simple enough task, clearing off a shelf so that we can give it away, but the shelf holds more than books. It holds memories, painful reminders of days gone by.

First I cleared the area in front of the shelf and then I set up a chair nearby for my Mom to sit on, surrounded by boxes for sorting. I had boxes for give away, keep, and recycle. These books must have been packed onto this shelf close to 20 years ago when my Mom bought her house and have remained there untouched since then. They were covered with a thick layer of dust and when I pulled some of them out mouse shit would sprinkle onto the floor.

A very telling assortment, these books. It was almost as if my parents had been buried together right on those shelves. When my Dad died in 1985 my Mom stopped painting. On those shelves were quite a few of her art books, left there for when she could pick up the brush again and rekindle an old passion that somehow went to the grave with my Dad.

My Dad had quite a few books on that shelf too, something that surprised me because I incorrectly assumed that we had disposed of most of his things years ago.

My Dad was an engineer, but his passions were Mathematics and Science. I found books on Biology, Chemistry, Physics, and Mathematics. I found blueprints he had drawn up. I was unable to discern what he had designed on these fragile pieces of paper, and I felt once again stupid as I looked at them. I was never able to match his mind, his genius IQ.I flipped through every book before I placed it on a stack for my Mom to decide on. My Mom has a bad habit of slipping things into books for safe keeping. I have found cash ($250.in one book once) checks never cashed, photos and letters, bank statements, newspaper clippings and bills yellow with age. Into my fathers books are notes he slipped, mostly mathematical equations he was working on that look to my mind to be written in a foreign tongue.

My Mom has been searching for a suicide note since he died, some sort of explanation she needs and so I kept a careful look out for anything hand written, even though I believe no such note exists.

In one Mathematics book I found a series of equations and then my father’s tiny cursive, so familiar. It took me a minute to make out the writing in the dusty dark basement but when I finally did I realized that he had placed that slip of paper on that page because he had found an error in the author’s book and after working out the equations himself he had placed it in between the pages for future reference. I wondered if he felt a feeling of satisfaction when he did so.

My Mom used to keep everything, but now the lack of time and the passage of 21 years since his suicide have changed her perspective. She tossed a lot of books into the giveaway boxes, a lot more than she kept. I saw her carefully placing the art books she has collected over the years into the “keep” boxes. When my Mom concentrates very hard her tongue comes out and she bites on it. My Grandmother has this same habit, I’ve noticed, and it always makes me smile to see the look of concentration on their faces; the total obliviousness to the tongue they bite on. I found myself hopeful that the day might come when my Mom might paint again. I miss watching her work. I miss the smells of the paints and the thinners. As a young girl I used to sit and watch her paint silently amazed as she mixed and swirled and brushed beauty onto canvases, secretly envious that I seem to have inherited none of her gifts for art. I still draw in crude one dimensional stick like figures. I used to try to paint along side my Mom, and then pretend that I was going for some abstract Picassoesqe look because the noses were all out of alignment, the mouths crooked, and the eyes different sizes.

I played the violin as a girl and never picked it up again after my Dad died. My Mom put down her brushes, I put down my bow, my Dad was laid to rest and we stumbled through the days.

I was told once by a former psychiatrist that I should write a letter to my Dad and then burn it, or bury it, or take it up to his grave and lay it on top of him. I was able to start that letter many times, but never finished it. I revert back to that 12 year old girl I once was and still am in a way. I want to ask him why he abandoned us. I want to apologize for pulling away from him in the years preceding his death. I want to tell him that with all of the advances made in the fields of mental health he could have been treated for his bipolar disorder. One day that letter will be written, but not today. I can’t. I wonder which stage of grief I am stuck in and how long this will last before I can finally achieve peace and move on with my life.

It took all day but we cleared that shelf. I explained to my Mom that we probably didn’t need to keep my Dad’s tax records from the 50s. I am guessing the chance of the audit she fears is slim.

When I got back to my house yesterday, after I had cooked, cleaned, done laundry and played with my kids I retreated to my bedroom to watch my latest video pick from Netflix. I have been working my way through the HBO series Six Feet Under. I just started season four. As I watched on the screen the characters trying to go on with their lives after the death of their father I was suddenly hit by what might be part of the great appeal this show holds for me. You see, the dead father pops up from time to time, and the children are able to talk to their Dad. He provides comments on their lives and they are able to express their grief and how much they miss each other. I have had these conversations with my Dad too, but they are only one sided, his voice silenced or replaced with mine, telling me that I am and always will be a failure. I ended up having a good cry at some point, pausing the show to wipe my tears and to blow my nose. My snot came out black and I realized that I had inhaled a lot of dust while going through those stacks and stacks of books and papers. I realized that grief is a long process. There is no magical time line, no steps, and no rules. There are just people going forward with their lives without their loved one, doing the best they can, one day at a time, for the rest of their lives.

2 and a 1/2 hours to get Nathan out of bed for school this morning. Any of you who are dealing or have dealt with kids who won’t get out of bed to go to school; my heart goes out to you. Not knowing exactly what to do is not helping. I was looking online at this website and I read this in the advice for family members caring for someone with a mood disorder “Don’t take your loved one’s actions or hurtful words personally.”

Okay. I obviously am struggling with that one. Is my son inside of this disease somewhere or is the disease inside of him? Where does one end and the other begin? At what point is he responsible for his behavior? I took him to his psychiatrist last Friday and after I gave him the run down on what had been going on he said, “Why are you punishing him for being bipolar?” I was stunned. So he’s allowed to scream and yell obscenities at me when he doesn’t get his way, threaten me physically, refuse to do what is asked of him, refuse to do what his teachers ask of him and I am supposed to let him play video games all day and talk on the phone all night? I don’t fucking think so. There has to be some sort of personal accountability here, even with an illness. Honestly, I am thinking of looking for another doctor. Every time we go in there I feel like it’s “You’ve got a very sick boy here and you’re doing the wrong things in response to X Y & Z. Here are some more pills to try. See you in two weeks.” Just when I thought things were looking up, BAM, setback.

Anyway, and now for something completely different, I finished the book I was reading, “ Leaving Las Vegas” last night. I saw the movie years ago but had never read the book. I highly recommend it. The movie mostly focuses on the relationship between Ben and Sera. The book goes into greater detail about them and their lives and the paths they have been on long before the characters meet. When I got to the end and read that the author had died in 1994 I got up and did an internet search on him. John O’Brien committed suicide two weeks after he found out his book was to be made into a movie.

I put my head down on the desk and wept. I am not even sure what I was crying about. Maybe I just needed the release.

In response to Cazzy’s comment on my last post, thank you for letting me know I am not alone. Sometimes it really feels that way. If anyone gets to keep the earnest money it will be my Mom, but her realtor says she’ll probably have to go to small claims court to get it.

Someone like you, thanks for the well wishes. I never expected the teen years to be so difficult, even before my son was diagnosed. I know that we will get through this, somehow. Thank you for stopping by.

I was on the phone most of yesterday and I now have Nathan on the waiting list for three different alternative schools. I spoke with his psychiatrist and his primary care physician, both who said they will happily write letters on his behalf to maybe help speed up the application process. When I told Nathan that he was on the waiting list he seemed much happier. I think just the thought that he might be getting out of this school has really lifted his spirits. They have a lot more programs for teens over the age of 16 or teens who have been arrested, expelled or who are teen parents. Fortunately Nathan qualifies for none of those programs, but it is still frustrating to see how far you have to fall before you can get a hand up.

Polly is doing very well at her school. I spoke with her teacher last Friday and she is getting all As and Bs. Her teacher is very nice and the whole environment at that school feels so positive. She is going to her first dance on Friday. She asked me if I would chaperone and so I said I would, but the office said that I can’t until I fill out a criminal background check. I just had one last year, so I could volunteer at her last school, but they said when your child changes schools you have to get (and pay for) another one.

I’ve only volunteered a few times at my children’s classrooms, preferring to let them have school time be their time. When Nathan was in kindergarten I used to go in and read to a small group sometimes. When Polly was in kindergarten I used to go in and help during journal time. Soon Polly was clinging to me when journal time was over and begging me to stay the entire afternoon. I decided it would be better if we parted ways at the door. The school that Polly is in now requires parents to volunteer sometimes. I can work in the school’s garden, or help in the kitchen, or run copies in the office. All of this after I prove that I am not a violent felon.

I was sad to hear about the death of Anna Nicole’s son. I used to watch that show on E sometimes and he seemed like a sweet young man who really didn’t want to be in front of the camera. The fact that he apparently died trying to treat his depression and who knows what the methadone was for makes me feel bad. Not to get all Tom Cruise on anyone, because I have tried many antidepressants and had a lot of luck with most of them, people, be careful with the drugs you take.

Life is precious, even though it can be a real bear to bare at times. Today I am focusing on cleaning my house and doing some laundry. I haven’t been working at my Mom’s since she returned because I want to focus on my kids and on my own home. I feel guilty in some ways, but in other ways I know that my kids need me most and this is where I need to be. I hope someone buys my Mom’s house. I am tired of devoting so much of my energy to it, tired of having it be the #1 topic of conversation.