Blame the Sixties

I am often glad the my mother died when she did.  I remember just two months after she died, was September 11, 2001.  I couldn’t locate one of my brothers who I knew was either in New York City or Washington D.C. on a rare vacation.  Phone lines were so jammed they all went down and it was difficult to communicate with anyone the first day or so. Everyone walked around in a stunned silence.  I was glad in the months following that my mother never had to experience all of that.

I am glad she isn’t experiencing what we are now.  There are a lot of things I thought would have changed since I was growing up in the late sixties and early seventies.  I thought we would be “further along” in our progress in a lot of areas.  I suspect we could be but there are mechanisms in the way keeping us from it – money, power – those things often prevent illnesses from having cures, lives from being lived, freedoms from being enjoyed.

I know people who exhaust themselves running about on social media railing at injustices and the horrible state of our country and the world.  Mom would have shaken her head at them.  She would know how little change they are going to bring about by ranting and raving and only looking at the negative. She would only have to glance around in her own community to know what to do and how to help – quietly, locally, personally.

There are so many things that the shouty people obsessed with newsbytes fail to notice.  Things that are going on right in front of them, the things they really could make a difference at if they reached out and touched the living in their communities instead of only believing in the ones on their screens.

I am not a shouty type (I am like my mom in that way) – it takes a lot to get me to that point.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve written my rants to the newspapers way back when that was what you did.  I still have a couple of the clippings. My mom did not agree with my point of view at the time, but she accepted that I had it and was proud of me for speaking my mind.  I’ve changed a lot. I don’t speak my mind as much as I used to.

I absolutely believe, perhaps naively, that if you keep an eye on the negative, but promote positive alternatives, positive solutions, positive events, that the love and kindness inherent in the positive will grow and the negative will shrink away.  There is far too much over-sharing and over clicking on the negative in the world today.  It deepens wounds.  It infects and it corrupts and it fails to really provide a forum for the good that is out there if one is willing to look for it, stand by it, lift it up and shout about it instead.

Good can heal.  Bad can heal, but it heals in a twisted, stunted manner.  Good can heal and continue to spread and grow.  Over time my world has become very small for many reasons.  Perhaps that limiting feeling has actually been a plus for me.  I notice the world closest to me in minute detail.  I feel the sounds, taste the colors, listen to the sensations….It’s the physical world closest to us in which we can affect change. (I wanted the verb there to be “effect” change, it feels more powerful, but the grammar gods say no….)

I think overexposing yourself to the negatives eats away at your soul (or your character if you don’t think souls are a real thing).  Look at anyone who has had to live with an overly negative person.  It feeds on them.  It hurts them every second they are exposed and they grow into a life where they share the same negativity.  We learn from those closest to us.  I think obsessing over the negative is eating away at the core of people and when they share the negative it is as though they are sharing a nasty disease with their closest friends.  Why would you want to make your friends sick?

The worst thing you can do for an enemy is validate them by constantly thinking about them and worrying about them and saying their names.  Stop speaking to the negative, the evil – speak about the good, shout about the wonderful, only voice peace, love and kindness.  It’s okay, I heard you groan just there.  I heard how kum-ba-yah it sounded myself.  (Blame the Sixties – I read a lot of Flower Power propaganda and listened to a lot of pop music.)  But it is true.  You attract what you put out there.  The more negative you put out there, even if you are only sharing “news” with others, is going to come back at you.  Don’t you deserve better?  You do, you deserve better.

Sure, when I do this, when I walk around trying to get people to smile, I get knocked down once in a while, like last week when I tried to connect with the clerk at the ticket counter at the movies.  I walked away and could not participate in her hate, her anger, her negative speech.  It hurt my feelings quite a bit that I extended a smile and words of kindness and they were essentially spat upon and ripped to shreds in seconds right before my eyes.  But it is her loss.  I won’t accept her negativity.  It’s catchy and best for me if I am not near it. I will move on to the next person and try again.  One person at a time.  We can make a difference one person at a time, because of the ripple effect.

What if people tried, just for one day, to ignore all the bad news and be with those closest to them connecting over the laundry or walk in the park?

What if people tried, just for one day, to experience their community instead of their politics?

What if people tried, just for one day,to share  their spirituality instead of their religion?

What if people tried, just for one day, to connect their souls and not notice skin color?

Everyone has an identity  and that includes their politics, their religion and their race.  Those things are important.  But as we move about the planet, couldn’t our identity be less about the labels and more about what’s on the inside and our mutual hopes for a brighter day?  We really only have today.  Not one of us is guaranteed tomorrow.

 

Excerpt from “Every Kinda People” written by Andy Fraser, sung by Robert Palmer  (I really miss him).

“It takes every kinda people
To make what life’s about, yeah
It takes every kinda people
To make the world go ’round

You know that love’s the only goal
That could bring a peace to any soul
Hey and every man’s the same
He wants the sunshine in his name

It takes every kinda people
To make what life’s about, yeah
It takes every kinda people
To make the world go ’round”     (from https://goo.gl/eACQHY )

 

Maybe listen to it here:

The Pain of Others

Anthony Bourdain has committed suicide.  I don’t know when or how.  I do not need the details.  The news is enough.  He follows so many others.  I can’t think of anyone who would have seen this coming.  But we didn’t know him. We knew only his persona.  We knew only the personality he created for television and that wasn’t likely a good reflection on the real man.  Who was he when he was home alone with his thoughts?  We can’t know that.

We can’t know the pain of others. That is the statement we hear most often in these situations.  Some of us do know.  Rarely can we even share our emotional pain with others in words they can comprehend.  I know I can’t put it into words and I actually enjoy putting things into words.  But to put into words things that are bothering me or setting me off can feel embarrassing because of the emotions that escape along with the words.  I don’t like people to see that emotion because I don’t want it to be interpreted as weakness.

I allowed what I will call the “concept” of suicide into my brain when I was in my late teens.  I was experiencing a roller coaster of emotions that I now know was far more attributable to hormones and diet (gluten and processed sugar) than any insurance coded mental illness.

After several years of trudging back and forth from class and work to a community mental health center, I remember asking a therapist how other people were able to claim disability while I continued to acquire a degree and work full time through my constant cloud of depression and pain.  She said I was “too high-functioning” to be considered disabled.  I was better off without the label, but I lived a lot of years with the cloud and pain.  I glad at this time in my life that I never accepted that label or any of the others from the psychiatric community.  I wasn’t disabled by this problem for which I had sought treatment for decades.  This was not me.

I kept moving forward, the pain beside me, a constant companion.  Once in a while it would sleep in and I would have the unique wonder of a day without it.  Then we would meet up again and I would be reminded.

Most people would say they didn’t know that I battled with this for over twenty-five years.  It was not who I was.  I was creative and smart and thoughtful and curious.  I was a reader and a writer and an artist.  I was getting things done and making more lists.  I was high-functioning.  I wasn’t just depressed and emotional and sad and in pain.  It was there, but it wasn’t who I was.  If you have your own companion, you know what that feels like for you.  It is different for everyone.

The problem is that once that concept of suicide was allowed into my brain it never goes away.  It’s like that idea that once you are an alcoholic, always you are an alcoholic.  I am always going to be suicidal…because I once was.  It was once an option, it will always show up in the options list when I run down the numbers and see what might be.   It just doesn’t get chosen.  (I will admit, it is a little haunting.)

I saw a lot of different therapists and some psychiatrists.  I have had so many different prescriptions over the years that I can’t even tell you all of their names.  Currently I have no therapist and take no prescriptions to support that old companion.  Here is the advice I would offer to someone with a pain companion.  If you don’t seem to be making progress towards a prescription-free, mostly positive existence without the cloud of pain/frustration/depression, perhaps your therapist or the chosen therapy isn’t the right one for you.  If you have doubts, move on. Keep looking.  Keep trying new things.  Something will eventually give you the life you deserve, one with some smiles and laughs and peace in your mind.  There is something or someone out there who can help you.

 

Be kind to yourself and your friends. You don’t know what they are experiencing.

 

#depression #mentalhealth #suicideprevention

 

Moisturize More

I look at the backs of my hands and wish that I had used more moisturizer.

I noticed in my thirties that the tip of my index finger on my right hand was permanently turned in from years of school work and my own extracurricular writing in spiral notebooks full of stories.  Crayons, pencils and pens. Today the first knuckle on that same finger seems to have a knot on it even though I switched over to typing everything twenty years ago.  I could not write as fast as my mind strung together words, thoughts and images.  I could almost type that fast.

The tall finger on my right hand was stoved twice in one week in failed attempts to learn to catch a football in high school.  The swelling in the first knuckle never completely left that finger, especially after that wasp stung the very same joint on a visit to Notre Dame College in South Bend, Indiana years later. I’d driven over to visit with a man about a magazine project we were trying to get off the ground.  It was a beautiful Spring day to sit outside at the college and chat.  I hadn’t even seen the wasp.  But I felt it.  Poor finger turned to stone and would not bend.  For several weeks it appeared I was flipping people off indiscriminately.

I can still see the scar from the tiniest cut right at the base between the middle and ring fingers on my left hand.  I was putting away a bowl of tuna fish salad.  I had too many things in both my hands and was trying to hold the fridge door open with one foot when the salad bowl began to tip.  I hated to clear the table and I hated to make extra trips.  I was always carrying too many items at the same time.  I flipped my hand to catch the bowl against the door and the slight impact caused the glass to break and one piece sliced my hand.  I didn’t feel it, that is how slight it was.  Suddenly there was just blood mixed in with the mayonnaise, eggs, onions and tuna.  That certainly isn’t appetizing.  The scar is that slight too.  No one would ever notice it, except me and my memory.

There is some arthritis in both hands, I suspect.  When I clench them into fists out of frustration, I feel it, the fluid that builds up in the joint and keeps the fingers from closing into an effective fist.  Not all of them, just the two pointers.

I once had my palms read in a booth at the Renaissance Fair.  It was not what I expected sitting down at her table the wind blowing my hair that I had just had braided at a booth nearby.  The braids were too tight and starting to pull on my scalp, but I loved braids, so the headache later would be worth it.  What had I expected in a palm reading?  I was thinking there would be identification of lines and projections based on them.  That is not what this was.  She took my hands in hers and started to rock back and forth.  She looked at them and began to mutter over and over the same words.

“You never done nobody no harm.  You never done nobody no harm.”

It started to freak me out a little and I wanted my hands back.  I got them back and thanked her, getting up and moving to the other side of the fairgrounds as quickly as possible with her words echoing in my head.  They still do.  I think I feel I have done people harm, but then, my idea of harm could be a negative thought.  Perhaps she was right.

My mother’s hands were soft and caring, but misshapen from decades of hard work. She helped

when my father built our house in the fifties: a two-bedroom cape for a large family to come.  She helped

him build the garage the year I was born: 1961.  She worked inside and outside the house nearly every minute that she was awake from before the sun came up until long after it had moved beyond the horizon. She gardened vegetables that her hands cleaned and canned for our table.  Her fingers organized three meals a day, every day, then cleared and washed the pans, dishes, silverware and counter-tops. Her fingers managed all the typing work she did on a used and very heavy old Royal manual typewriter.  Her typing supplemented our family’s income especially when my father was laid off.  There was laundry, sewing, mending, painting, scrubbing floors and walls, weeding the garden, cleaning fish, peeling endless piles of potatoes. The list goes on.

 

Hers were soft from constantly moisturizing with a heavy though luscious looking hand cream called Pacquins Hand Cream.  “For Dream Hands, Cream Your Hands” read the ad from a late 1940’s magazine I saw on eBay.  It sounds a bit suggestive today, as all old advertisements have a way of sounding.

My mother was very specific in her preference for the original one in the jar with the purple lid– not the Pacquins Plus one or the fancy one with Aloe (both of those had “funny” textures to her).  They just didn’t work the same. She was constantly washing her hands, so the heavier creamy lotion was essential.  It became hard to find as the beauty industry exploded in the eighties and nineties and it wasn’t considered hip enough for the shelf space at local drug stores.  Then it disappeared altogether.  The only product I ever found that was comparable was the Lubriderm with the pink cap.  Well, it was pink at the time, they may have changed it.

My hands do not look like hers, like my mother’s.  I took in typing to make money during college.  I sewed until I realized I would never be as good as she was. I have not done nearly as much work as she had to do to raise a family, keep a house. I don’t do either.  I worked in offices.  I have always lived alone and was never quite as concerned with clean walls and food stores for future as perhaps I should have been.

I look at the backs of my hands and wish I had used more moisturizer.  The cuticles around my nails are always worried into sore spots and callous.  I picked at them with other fingers during classes and presentations and meetings and parties.  I picked and drove hard nails into them to remind myself where I was and that there were specific ways to behave and think. I rubbed them to calm their bloodied tips as assurance that whatever event would soon be over. I hid them embarrassed in my pockets or wrapped around each other so that no one would see.

I have been obsessed with hands for some time now. I have a file on my computer with images of other people’s hands.  I like to capture their hands at work. Hands are creators, engineers, artists, musicians. They are comforting and connecting and they can be angry and defensive.

My work was fear and discomfort and anxiety.  It has shaped my hands the way housework shaped my mother’s hands.

They could all use some Pacquins.

Finding My Place Volunteering

“You forgot to peel it!”  Mildred (not her real name) said with some disgust, grabbing the cucumber out of my hand and roughly peeling it naked, peels flying into the nearby trash can and sticking to the sides of the liner in an interesting pop-art kind of way.

“Please,” I thought to myself, sighing, “don’t punish the cucumber for my mistakes.”

“And you’re slicing it too thick.  We have a budget here, you know.”

That was the problem. I didn’t know.  She had told me once how she wanted it done four weeks earlier and since then I’d been given other tasks.  I was a volunteer, in her kitchen one day a week.  I had not been going there long enough to get a feel for the routine, mostly because it changed each week.

Since moving to Massachusetts from Ohio over fifteen years ago, I have been looking for the right place for me to volunteer.  Growing up my mother was the ideal role model of a volunteer.  She was on the board of the local Friends of the Library Group that was instrumental in raising funds that took our community from first a one room to a two-room building and then on to a fancy new building.  I have a news clipping of her with a hard hat and shovel as they broke ground.  She registered voters, campaigned for politicians, made treats as a room mother when we were in elementary school, took food to sick friends.  The list goes on.  If someone was in need, she was there.

I enjoyed doing volunteer work myself at that same library, then tutoring other students in school.  In college I volunteered at the local children’s services board and eventually became a Guardian ad Litem appearing on behalf of children at Juvenile Court in custody hearings.  Years later, I became a Coordinator of Volunteers at a museum.  That was a paying job, not volunteer.  It was one of my many jobs that I truly enjoyed.  It encompassed my skills of organizing events, writing training materials, teaching and recognizing others for their good works.  You keep people happy and they keep coming back and doing more good work.  That is what you do to as a manager of volunteers – you recruit, recognize and retain.  It doesn’t hurt to provide them with refreshments either.  People, like pets, respond well to food rewards.

Early on I discovered that everywhere I had volunteered, the person coordinating the activity had a clear plan, gave me thorough instructions and was happy to have help.  They set me up for success and in doing so, set themselves up for success with a smooth-running event or project from which all of their clients or participants benefited.  Since moving here, not one single organization for which I have volunteered has set me or themselves up for success.   I arrived to stamp postcards for an art group – there were no stamps.  On another occasion for the same group, I arrived to do the postcards a second year and they had already been done.  I had driven an hour to get there to find the task already completed.

“Oh, we want you to help with this, instead,” they said referring to the writing and distribution of a press release.   I didn’t want to help with the new task, but what recourse did I have at that point?  If a volunteer selects a specific task, that is the task they expect to be doing and that is the task that they should be doing.  If they were given a choice of tasks and made a specific selection, they did so for a reason – they felt it in their area of skill, expertise or comfort zone at that moment in time.  To change it up is to risk them not accepting the call to volunteer again.

I wanted to help people learn to read and joined the literacy group only to discover that reading wasn’t part of the literacy scope in Massachusetts – they only taught ESL to immigrants new to the states.  I was okay with this as long as the person to whom I was assigned was here legally.  “Of course,” I was assured, all of their clients were vetted and legally in the country.  A year later, the lady with whom I had met every Saturday for several hours and helped through many tricky questions well outside the realm of literacy, admitted that she was in fact, not legally in the country.  Great, now I am accessory to a crime.

Other places had no handbook, no orientation, no training, or were like trying to join an exclusive club that did not want any new members.  It got to the point I stopped using the volunteer site to find opportunities and started to call charities that I simply felt a connection to and wanted to support.

“Hi, I was wondering if you needed any volunteers in your office to do mailings, design work or other admin duties?” I had asked the local Autism foundation. While it seemed an innocent enough question, I could hear the gears turning through the phone wires.  There was this short deafening silence as she thought about volunteers potentially making her paying job obsolete by doing it for free.  “No,” she said suddenly, “We don’t have any need for that.”    Click.  I would have to work on my opening.

I had fallen into a habit of donating money instead of volunteering. Then I saw a movie about a couple who were volunteering in a soup kitchen for the homeless and hungry.  In a very telling scene, a homeless man said to the wealthy volunteer that he knew it would have been the man’s preference to have just written a check.  That he “showed up” made all the difference.  It spurred me onto finding somewhere I could ‘show up’, give time, work in service to others in person.

It sounds more noble than it appears when you are peeling cucumbers.  The cucumber was just the tip of the problem.  Nothing I did that day in the kitchen at the senior center was right.

“Get the drinks ready,” she said, “We need to make more lemonade so fill that pitcher with water.”

I filled the pitcher, lemonade was made and I put the drinks out.

“No, it’s too early,”  she corrected, pointing, “they go over here first.”  I was willing to overlook the inefficiency of this arrangement of moving pitchers from the cold fridge to the warm serving table too early.  After all, it was her kitchen.  Her system – whatever that appeared to be on the day.

“Sorry,” I said for the first of what would be the umpteenth time that day, putting all the pitchers of ice tea and lemonade into the tray and adding ice around them in a futile attempt to keep them chill.  Later someone else would put them out in the cafeteria where diners could access them.

In the first twenty minutes I was there, that fourth week, I heard, “you’re doing it wrong,” at least six times.   I am not a person who hears those words often, but a commercial kitchen was not even close to the type of work I had done in offices setting up efficient systems and working on computers for thirty years.

In college, I did work-study with preschoolers at a rather progressive, for its time (the eighties), on-site daycare center.  There was a rule that we were to avoid the use of the words no, not, don’t, can’t – anything with a negative in it or a negative feel to it.  This was a challenge at first and then it became fun.  Instead of saying, “Stop throwing that water all over the floor,” to a child at the water table, I might say, “You will have more water to play with if we can keep it in the table.”  Or “Billy, I think Sara would feel better if you hugged her instead of biting her.”  We would rephrase everything to a positive, redirect instead of admonish.   We were to “catch a child being good” every chance we could.  It is an important skill, to look for things to compliment rather than correct or belittle in those around us.

Working with preschoolers gave me an excellent foundation for later work supporting adult executives and training sales people on software programs where I would again have to break subjects down to the simplest steps and foresee potential problems.  Success comes when you set people up to succeed, not fail.  Success comes from proper planning, thoughtful training and paying attention to how each individual with whom you are working learns.  If you are training three people, odds are they all learn in different ways at different speeds and likely one will be trying to answer emails and text while another will still be eating breakfast and the third will just be bored no matter how interesting you make the material.  Regardless, it was my job to know this and tailor the training so that it worked for all three.  I wanted to reach them all.  I want them all to succeed or I had failed.  And now, somehow, I was failing at cucumbers.

Mildred in the kitchen is an energizer bunny.  She’s at the grill, then the sink, then greeting an old friend, then at the sandwich station, then receiving the Monday order, then letting me know I’ve done something wrong again.  Admirably, she knows this kitchen through and through.  I do not. Considering she is of an advanced age and experience, I yield to her somewhat sketchy instruction and corrections which are, starting this fourth week, to wear me down.  I was the one, after all, who did not want to volunteer in the office.  I requested the kitchen.  I wanted to show up.  I wanted to get my hands dirty. I wanted to wash dishes. In the past the kitchen has always been a place of camaraderie for me whether it was at home, at the day care where I had worked or in the busy coffee bar at the Borders where I had worked.  (I said I have had many jobs, didn’t I?)  I had loved scraping partially eaten scones off plates and loading up the giant noisy monster of a dishwasher.  We were doing it together.

I entered her kitchen admitting that I did not have a lot of experience, but that I had some and was a good worker.  I forgot to add, I am a good worker when given proper instruction. I thought that went without saying.

I learned the first week that Mildred moved fast, gave half instruction and I needed to keep up.  I tried to fill in the blanks.  She told  me I was wrong and moved faster.  Hmmm.

I learned the second week that when instructed to make a sandwich for an order, I was to make it Mildred’s way without ever having been shown what that was.  This was true of soup and salad as well. Hmmm.

I learned the third week that even at my advancing age, I could be thrown off balance by this and feel as insecure as I did at new jobs just after college in my inexperienced twenties. Hmmm.

Wait a second here.  I am a volunteer.  I am not even getting paid to be told quietly in my ear so that no one would hear, “A little common sense is what you need.”   Hmmm.

I keep going back, because my go-to is to blame myself.  If I were better, smarter, and apparently had more common sense, she wouldn’t have to correct me so much. Right? But how do I catch on when there is no training, no demonstration of the “right way”?  Suddenly this reminded me of old bosses, two in particular, both women.  I was there to support them and both set me up to fail regularly so that they could point it out.  This wasn’t about me.  This was about them.  I am better, smarter and have plenty of common sense.   I have enough common sense to see that my success at volunteering will not likely be at this location.

Okay…back to the volunteer opportunities website.

Unbreakable

I’ve come to the conclusion that it isn’t at all that I am missing memories.  It is just that everyday growing up was much the same as every other day.  Every month the same as every other month.  Every year…you get where I am going with this.

For example, every meal we ate as a family ended with the table being cleared, plates scraped into a bowl for the dog, whatever dog was present at the time – my father gave them all the same name – Gypsy. Hot soapy water prepared and the dishes washed by hand by my mother and dried and put away by me into the cupboards across the room.  Let’s say we ignore breakfast and count lunch and dinner – two meals a day, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year for twenty years – That’s roughly 14,560 times we stood at that old ceramic sink and washed and dried dishes together, my mother and me. I don’t even want to figure out how many times I crossed that room to put away dishes.  It was a mundane task, performed repeatedly.  It blurs in the mind.  Laughter, tears, happiness, fear – that’s what makes one monotonous event stand out from the others in the fog of decades.  We weren’t exactly an emotional family.

I do remember the day the Corel dinner plate broke.  It was subtle, silent break lurking beneath the sudsy dishwater in the plastic dishpan in the sink.  My mother reached in and very quickly drew back her hand. Blood was already spreading from the slice through the calloused skin on her finger. It dripped back into the water coloring the soap bubbles.

“What happened?” I asked grabbing a towel to wrap her finger in.

“I don’t know.  Something bit me,” she said in disbelief.  How would a piranha have gotten into the dishwater?  I wondered but knew better than to make a joke.

I spilled the water from the dishpan slowly into the basin of the old ceramic sink. The dishes and silverware inside rose up as the tide retreated.  I thought perhaps one of the sharp knives we’d used for cutting the vegetables for dinner might have gotten her.  None appeared in the jumble. Then I saw something out of place.  Large and small white pieces of a dinner plate that had shattered at the bottom of the dishpan.

It wasn’t a deep cut.  The bleeding stopped quickly.  She supervised as I sorted out the spoons, forks, knives and other remnants of the meal we just ate from the harsh-edged pieces of the plate.  Like the forensic buffs that we were, we arranged the pieces on a towel on the counter and examined them.  It was splintered into a group of shards spiraling out from the center of the plate that used to be: Unbreakable.  That’s why we bought them, they were unbreakable.  Each broken piece tapered down to a fine point and looked worthy of a role as murder weapon in any domestic violence plot on television.

“Bandaid.”  My mother repeated.  I had been too deep in my examination of the pieces to have heard her first request.  “And Neosporin, I know,”  I responded turning for the first aid in the cupboard across the room.  Neosporin and a Bandaid were as important in our medicine cabinet as duct tape was in the tool box.

“I’ll finish the dishes,” I said.   I put everything back into the dishpan and cleared any additional broken pieces out of the basin.  Hot water was soon running and bubbling up.

“Be careful,”  she warned.

I had an odd desire to save the broken pieces.  For what?  I loved a good jigsaw puzzle.  It was kind of like that.  I was curious to see if we had all the pieces.  Curious to see if I could put it back together in a way that it wouldn’t be noticed.  It was a break in our routine.  It was broken and I always had a need to fix.  My mother swept them into a trash can as I was considering the possibilities.  There would be no fixing.

She was considering other possibilities as she shook the towel out over the trash can. “If one broke, any of them could break.”   Dinner plates, desert plates, cereal bowls, tea cups….one break and her trust was broken for the entire remainder of the set.  I nodded in agreement as I rinsed and placed each item in its usual spot in the drainer to the left of the sink.

It is the breaks I remember – the disruptions to the monotony.  Different types of glass break differently, causing different injuries.  It is the same with family.

The dish that broke that day had clean cracks that opened from a particular point of some stress.  A cut from them was a neat slice, not ragged, and would heal with little to no scar, especially if the area was cleaned and the Neosporin had been applied quickly enough.   There would be little memory of it.

Some cuts, from dull edges tear the skin more than slice it, creating a ragged edge to the wound.  First aid will do what it can.  It will heal, but it will be a lasting visual reminder.

Some glass creates small crumbs, deceivingly rounded looking but with sharp facets that can get ground into your skin.  Too small to be rinsed away or extracted.  Later they rise to the surface one by one to continually remind you of the pain that caused them initially.   Those memories are hard to escape from.

Most of the breaks in our family cut you like that, like sand when you skinned your knee but much worse.  They are small pieces burrowed deep into me, that I cannot forget because there is too much emotion attached.  I long for the ones I don’t have cluttering my mind.  There would be a peacefulness to their day to day sameness, their monotony.  There would be a lack of emotion that still connects me to the experiences but at the same time disconnects me.

 

#iremember #idontremember #unbreakable #broken