February 17, 2020

Family? I don’t know them.

It’s sad to me how much my mother believes in the fantasy of “family.” She is of the school that “blood is thicker than water.” And at one time in her life it was true, but it has since diluted. For me it never existed, because I saw through my families bullshit and lies.

Lies may be a harsh word. I should just say empty promises. The words these people speak mean nothing to them, but unfortunately so much to my mother. She believes them, because at her core she would never say something she didn’t mean.

One of my cousin’s (I forget whom) had a problem with my mother because if you invited her to any event she will attend. That thought angers me for two very specific reasons: 1) why wouldn’t you want her there? and 2) is it such a bad thing to be able to depend on someone, no matter what?

When she was firing on all cylinders, she was the most giving woman to ever have existed. (She still is, by the way, she just lacks the capacity to do as much as she wants.) She would go absolutely out of her way if you asked her to. The only problem is she (subconsciously) expects that in return, and it’s not going to happen.

This morning my mother ruminated on how she had taken care of both my aunts when they had cancer and my father through his many ailments. Both of my aunts would eventually succumb to their illnesses (and my father on an unrelated injury tied to one of his many issues.) Before they had passed, she was there every step of the way. She would make the 2 hr drive down to see my aunts as often as she could without complaint because it was just what family did for one another.

Rewind many years and my mother was there for my cousin’s as they were growing up. I am in a weird spot in my family line, because all of my first cousin’s were having children when I was born. So I grew up with my second cousins. During the years before she met my father, she was the bad ass aunt who took her nieces and nephews to every southern california theme park, took them shopping, did whatever she could to give them a good childhood. She was the one they ran to when they “ran away from home.”

Returning to reality… Here we are as her mind is disintegrating and where are they? Where is this family that is supposed to come and help? They don’t even have to do anything, just visit. Sit there and reminisce. Chat. But they are nowhere. And in the end, for me, that’s fine. It further cements the notion that blood means fuckall. Yeah, you share a genetic code, but that doesn’t mean they give a shit about you.

The thing that does upset me with their absence, is that these ungrateful pieces of shit are hurting her. She languishes in isolation and wonders why no one visits her. It’s heartbreaking to watch and one I can’t answer for her, without sounding angry or bitter.

My mother loves to wax poetic that “your family loves you.” (Speaking to me, about me.) No, they don’t. They really don’t. They tolerate me or “accept” my existence. But love is being there for someone, no matter the cost. Love is not empty words spoken to make you look good, but carry no weight behind them.

February 11, 2020

Chocolate Smiles

Alzheimer’s is strange. Honestly, if she has to have some debilitating sickness, I wish my mother could have been diagnosed with anything else. At least then there is a possibility of a cure or recovery. With this it is just a trudge to the end. And in the end, it takes everything from you.

My mother is, mentally, a child. Well, preteen. She gets excited for visits, loves cookies, and watches romantic comedies like they’re going out of style. Really, she’s me circa 13 years old. Back when I still had hope.

The childishness was never more prevalent than a couple weeks ago when the husband and I took a trip to see my cousin’s new born. The husband had made a batch of chocolate chip cookies and brought them to her, which she insisted bringing half with us on our road trip.

She left them sitting in the sun so they got gooey and the chocolate started to melt. This new state of cookie existence did not stop her. She chomped away happily.

I was not aware of this until she made a garbled statement from the backseat and I turned to see her with a chocolate grin and matching fingers.

The husband doesn’t believe in tissues or napkins in his car (“cause I’m an adult that doesn’t make messes”). So we had to make due with a handkerchief (previously owned and used by my grandmother) and a bag.

What this event taught me was I need to carry wet wipes whenever my mother is around. Maybe even a diaper bag for good measure.

The more upsetting aspect of this is that while my mother is mentally a child, she is also still an adult. And she still believes that regardless to the facts to the contrary. So I am left to walk this fine line between being a son and being a caretaker.

It sucks.

This week we finally see a doctor for the growing list of her maladies. And hopefully in it get the final letter I need to get power of attorney. There is no doubt I will achieve my goal, it just means a legal turning point in this whole saga.

February 9, 2020

Rage Reduction

As usual I am consumed with rage. I don’t like it but there is nothing I can do to stop it from happening. All I can do is sit with it until it dissipates back into normalcy. Whatever that may look like.

My anger stems is fueled by my inability to control things that are happening in this world. By my very nature I am a control freak. I want to be the one who pulls the levers and as it is, I am just a tiny cog in this massive machine. And even that illustration is being to kind. I’m more of like a tiny speck of paint on the exterior of this mechanical behemoth.

Trying to accept the reality that it is 1,000% out of my control, and that this is what it is, is extremely difficult. It feels like I’m giving up and giving in. That I am turning into one of the mindless zombies who are obedient to the necromancer. And I refuse. But then I remind myself that accepting this overall reality is not giving in. It isn’t until it’s right in front of me that it will matter about my “obedience” and I’ve already decided that I won’t go quietly. Whatever that may look like.

All of this just sounds like the rambling of a mad man and at times I truly feel that I am losing myself to these obsessive thoughts. And as a way to not be swallowed whole by them, I have taken a step back from the news and social media. The constant barrage of information reminding me that I have zero control over my overall reality is exhausting, and adds more fuel to that rage. In addition the negativity I see in my own comrades about political bullshit, directed at our own side, really angers me more than the other. Because it just shows that people are petty and dumb and there really is no side that is “better” than the other.

Well, it appears that my exercise was a success. I began this blog as a way to decompress, to relieve myself of my thoughts, and I feel so much better than before. Thank, Albus, for tiny vices.

February 3, 2020

An Author, Alone, Ruminating

It still boggles my mind that it has been 10 years since I finished my first novel length work of fiction.  I completed it while “competing” in NaNoWriMo of November 2009, wherein I discovered that this was the way of writing that truly worked for me.

If you’re unfamiliar with NaNoWriMo, it is a challenge writer’s partake in where each day they write a minimum of 1,667 words. By the end of the month of November the participant will have a novel length work of fiction that accumulates to approximately 50,000 words. When I did my research I had read (somewhere) that you’re not supposed to re-read what you’d written, nor were you supposed to think about where the story will go next. The writer is just supposed to sit down and write. It was these two guidelines that tapped into my own creative energy and fed my abilities.

Since I wrapped up that initial story, I have since written two sequels to it. The first was such a piece of garbage that I printed it out, bound it, and shoved it in a drawer, never to be seen again. I made the big mistake of trying to “undo the past” in the narrative. What it taught me is you can’t do that. But, what that ultimately achieved was to get the shit writing out so I could focus on the actual sequel that I subsequently wrote immediately after.

The only problem is, since 2009 I have been trying to edit the first one to no success. I begin with all the good intentions and I get sidetracked doing one thing or another. Or my inner-critic begins to beat myself up, and having zero self-esteem (when it comes to writing) I inevitably give in and stop. It has been this pattern for most of this time.

Though I am disappointed that it has taken so long, I am also glad. I for one have grown as a writer and just as a person. I have had mountains of emotional growth. One which I am able to take into my story. The other is, a lot of the main plot has transformed over the years from new ideas or techniques that I have learned during this time.

I took one class through “Writer’s Digest” that dramatically helped me. During which I learned a rookie mistake is having your main character alone, ruminating on the events of their life. It makes for a boring read. Readers want action and things to move the plot along. And while self-reflection is good character building it’s not very exciting to the overall story. So, since that was exactly what I had done to my MC, I introduced a character into the beginning who had not previously been there, but did pop up in the story later down the road. In doing that it created a ripple of effect of her having to be in the main plot, when originally she had not been. That caused me so much anxiety. How am I going to include her presence, when I had already written it without her. The simple answer is just re-write but that gives me pause because what if it “isn’t good enough?”

The part about editing, that I still suffer to this very second, is self-doubt. I question if my prose is any good, or if the words I am choosing are the right ones to convey my message, without them being repetitive and therefore annoying. In addition, I constantly second guess myself of “is this right?” or “would anyone even want to read this garbage?” Editing is such a hard line to walk. Because you have to be logical while still maintaining the bohemian spirit that fuels narrative. And “the artist” doesn’t like critiques.

To get my engine warmed up for the gauntlet I am about to run (again) I have gone through the entirety of my book and reviewed each chapter with Grammarly. As of last night I have completed that task, and now I have to work on prose and story structure. This is the moment where I stare down in the dark chasm wondering if I am making a big mistake.

Please, pray for me.