Supposed To

I know I posted that whole thing about bereavement and not judging yourself for your feelings and all, but honestly, I feel kinda guilty. Growing up half jewish and half catholic will do that to you. Cause here is the thing. I feel fine.

I woke up last Friday morning feeling as hungover as I've ever felt, which, for those of you who don't know me, is not saying much, as I've never actually BEEN hungover (it's my superpower). I didn't drink on Thursday at all, but I felt puffy and dehydrated, headachey and like I'd been steamrolled. The events of the week and the amount of tears that had come out of me was the likely culprit. After deciding Zumba wasn't going to happen, I wanted to get all my feelings out and share what had been going on with everyone who had been so wonderful and supportive. So I vomited out all of that here, and honestly, as soon as I was done, it was as though a weight had been lifted. The pressure, the sadness, the hurt, the resentment, the frustration, all those negative feelings left, and I was left with a feeling of peace.

When I started that post, I was pissed. I was ready to take the low road and use my words to smack down the people I felt needed smacking down. I wanted to lash out and make them hurt as badly as I'd been hurt, make them realize that I was NOT the bad guy in this scenario, that I was the child who had been abandoned and cast asunder...not the reverse. Not that I thought any of them actually read my blog, but I just wanted it out there, in the universe, so I'd be heard. By the time I was done writing (which went relatively quickly, but it was so many words!) I truly felt the peace I talked about in the last paragraph. I felt GOOD about having stayed on the high road and had no desire to do anything but.

Here we are, just over a week later, and everyone has been checking in and seeing how I'm doing...and I kind of hate to admit it, but I feel really good. I've barely thought about it except in passing. I feel like now, when I want to hang out with biodad, all I have to do is think about him, not call his captors and make an appointment (the last one I tried to make was denied to me, about a month before he passed) and pretend to be nice and sweet and non judgmental. I just have to think about him and he is with me, and it's so much nicer than before. There is so much of him in me, and instead of it reminding me that I should call or I should visit, it just reminds me of him. It's kind of fun to think of him seeing me and those things without all the bullshit I'd get from him in person. I'm not sure if that makes me heartless, or callous, or just a survivor, but that's the truth. I feel fine.

After I wrote my entry last Friday, I went to my mom and (step)dad's for a birthday dinner for my brother, their child. His birthday was the day of the memorial, so they waited for me to have it, and for the first time all week, I talked to my dad about it. From day one, when I was 8, he never wanted to step on anyone's toes, he never wanted to make me feel like my real father was being replaced. If I had any complaint about him growing up, it was that he should have felt more ok doing that. I could have used a stronger father figure...but he was always super careful. Friday was no different. He wasn't going to bring it up, but I felt like it was the elephant in the room, and frankly, I saw it as the last piece in the puzzle of healing, so I started the conversation. I told him everything that had happened that week (my mom had told him about the death, but not about the treatment that followed), I told him about the memorial, I told him everything I had been feeling...and he listened, was incredulous when incredulity was necessary, was sympathetic when sympathy was called for, and I think, was thankful that we discussed it. Because after all of the rollercoaster of the week was over, I was left with this truth- the man who is my father did not die on May 14th. He's alive and well (and kicking someone's ass in court in litigation) and is there for me and will continue to be there for me. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel about that other guy, but I think I'm done feeling it...and I feel fine.

The High Road

Fuck that. I've been taking the high road all week, and it's downright dissatisfying. Ok, maybe it gives me a little feeling of smug righteous indignation, but my inner bitch is having a hard time not letting loose on someone.

On Saturday, my biological father died. He had a stroke 13 years ago, was convalesced to the point of not being awake for more than an hour a day (according to my stepmonster, who was in charge of him) and was 72. It wasn't a shock that he WOULD pass, but no matter how prepared you think you might be, it still creeps up on you. I got the call from my older brother, technically my half brother from our dad's first marriage, but as far as I am concerned, he is just my big brother. Our dad, Luis, died at home under his nurse's care. His current family was all in New York, where 2 of them live, on vacation. They had been called, and asked my brother to go to the house to wait with the body. My brother was upset, as he and our dad were pretty close, and as the news sunk in, I was unsettled. Having already lost 2 parent figures (my father in law and my aunt), I felt like I overall more experienced in this, and despite not having seen our dad in over a year, I asked my brother if he'd like me to come over to the house and sit with him while he waited. He said it would be fine, so I dropped everything I was doing and headed over. I was sad, but I had emotionally cut myself off from him a long time ago to avoid being continuously hurt by him, so it wasn't as traumatic for me. I was sad, of course, but was confused by all the emotions I was having...and the word of the week became "complicated".

After he was picked up, I headed over to my mom's house. I was now a far bigger mess than I thought I would be in this situation, and I wanted the comfort of my mommy. Having been the woman who he left for this new family, you'd think she'd be bitter, but the only thing she was angry about was that he died alone. The last few years, she'd been increasingly frustrated with the reports from me on his care, and loving soul that she is, even grappled with figuring out a way that she could help, knowing full well that would be impossible under the care of the witch. Even I wasn't allowed to visit, unless I made an appointment, and even then, only under her watchful eye, so there was no way my mother, the woman whose house she wrecked, would be welcome. Visiting that house was like going to Azkaban. My stepmonster is like a dementor in the disguise of an upper middle class housewife, sitting there, ready to suck your soul out of your face. When I'd leave the house, I'd need recovery time...but despite this, I went, and I didn't even question a moment to go there to support my brother. The rest of the week was a blur of phone calls, ups and downs, lots of crying, and rehearsals for the 2 shows I have next week.

On Tuesday night, I got the mass email from the little brother who usually doesn't talk to me, inviting me to the memorial service on Thursday...the day of my last tech/dress for a show I'm workshopping on Sunday, the day that was already set to be my busiest day of the week. I called the appropriate people and rearranged things so that I would not miss what I couldn't miss, and it was set...but I was worried. Would one of them say something to me? Would one of them try to make me feel guilty for not being there more, for "abandoning them" as soon as I was old enough to say ENOUGH to the abuse and stop pretending to be part of that family? If they did, how would I handle it? What should I say? The reality is that I've grieved the loss of that man since the day my little brother was born. The day I was celebrating my 7th birthday when he came to tell me my stepmonster had had my baby brother...but I was more interested in my new rabbit fur coat. Seems I had my priorities straight, because as I went with them to the hospital, and CARRIED HIM HOME in the car on the way home, we went upstairs to the apartment and my bed and dresser were gone, a crib was in it's place, and my room was blue, and I was told I'd be sleeping on the couch from now on. I was given a cardboard box of drawers in the closet to hold my clothes, and was supposed to be happy about the turn of events. From that day forward I had already lost my dad. The next 2 babies didn't help, and by the time my sister was born, I was 14 and done with them. I couldn't sever the umbilical chord, so many years of messy interactions followed, but the reality is that I eventually had to stop caring. I had to stop caring that their house was filled to the point of ridiculousness of pictures of all of them, and I was not included. Had to stop caring that my biodad thought himself to be the picture of the patriarch, but was NEVER there for me when I needed him. That he coached their little league teams and went to their events but didn't come see me in my plays. Then when he had his stroke, woke up, and the first person he asked for was my mom...and the second person was me...I went anyway. He would only speak in Spanish, and I spent time the first few years of his recovery occasionally taking him to physical therapy and other appointments, but it wasn't easy on my schedule...or on my soul, so I eventually stopped. He was alive, but I couldn't think of him as a father. I have a father. My mother met a wonderful man when I was 8, who was always there for me and loved me, and who bent over backwards when I was 15 and their first son was born to make sure I knew he still loved me just as much as he always had. When I was 20, I took his name and he adopted me as his legal daughter...and you'd think that I'd have washed my hands with biodad, but I didn't. I still made an effort, albeit a weak one, to go visit occasionally, but I knew it hadn't been thought of as enough, so I didn't know what I should do if someone were to start yelling.

Everyone told me I was crazy. No way would they do that, cause it's a MEMORIAL service. Everyone plays nice...maybe now would be a time where we could all come together and the 7 of us (3 from his first marriage, me, 3 from his 3rd) could be more like a family, without the divisiveness that he seemed to bring. I shouldn't worry. It would be fine. Then my phone rang on Wednesday night around 10 and it was the number of the one of my younger sibs who I actually had somewhat of a relationship with. The diatribe went something like this:

"What makes you think you have the right to come into our house and be here when we weren't here? How DARE you come into our sanctuary, the place we created for our father to take care of him the last 13 years, while you went and played house and acted like nothing was wrong? You've never even thanked me for taking care of him. You're a coward, you're the scum of the earth. Fuck you. You had better not show your face tomorrow, you are NOT welcome." Ok, so I was shocked, but my very first thought was "SEE!!! I knew this was going to happen." I stayed remarkably calm, wasn't angry at all. Later I likened it to having a crazy person screaming at you "you're an alien! You have green hair!!". If it makes no sense and it totally untrue, it's kind of hard to get offended. I calmly talked to him, saying "I can tell you're angry, but I only went to be there for Dave, I meant no disrespect", but the nasty venom continued to spew. Eventually he hung up on me and when he called back I didn't answer. The next hour or so I spent talking to my older sibs, and making sure I wasn't crazy. They all confirmed that of course I had the right to come Thursday...which truthfully, I would have preferred to avoid.

I had rehearsal all day Thursday, up until I had to leave to go to the memorial, and I stuffed all my emotions inside to get through rehearsal, but as soon as I was released, I burst out into tears. I was just so worried. Turns out, I didn't need to be. I avoided my younger sibs and my stepmother, and they ignored me in turn. I clutched Michael, used my kids as distractions, held the hands of my older siblings, and calmly listened while people spoke of this amazing, ideal father, and I mainly felt happy for my younger siblings that that was their experience. I cried, but not painfully so, and I only had to walk away from listening to the words once. I found appropriate things to say to the strangers who kept coming up and talking to me about how they knew me when I was a little girl, about how much they loved my dad, about how much he helped them and how he was so good to my stepmother and their kids. I spent the last of the time in solitary reverie, sitting in the spot where he had taught me to love the ocean, where I'd learned to surf, where I'd spent hours of my childhood with him, and feeling peaceful. I felt the love of my family, felt the love of my friends who posted on Facebook all day, not even knowing why, as it was all just too complicated to explain the myraid of emotions I was feeling all week, but who knew I needed support and who were so willing to send it to me...and I was proud of myself and the choices I've made, and the person I've become, in spite of what was done to me.

Then I came home and found that the same little brother who called and berated me had unfriended me on Facebook, but instead of feeling angry at him, I feel sorry for him. He has so much hate in his heart, and it is so misdirected. So I guess, as much as my inner bitch would feel so satisfied lashing out at him, I'm gonna stay on this here high road.

Bereavement

When my beautiful aunt died, 3 years, 2 months, and 1 day ago, I wasn't sure which way was up anymore. I had lost people before, but that experience was very different and completely life changing. At the time, my mother in law was friends with the palliative care doctor that had served on my late father in law's case when he was at the end of his life. She told him about what I was going through and he wrote her a beautiful email about the process of bereavement which she forwarded to me. I printed it out and have had it on my refrigerator since then, and often look at it and ponder the meaning of it. It's been very comforting. After my biodad passed on Saturday, I looked at it, and it all of a sudden had new and deeper meaning than it ever had before. It is somehow so much more applicable in this situation than it was in the other, and I am so grateful for it. I am going to share it with you.

Bereavement is a strange creature and it takes whatever shape it needs to capture your attention.

The way out is not to "fight" but to sit and acknowledge its presence. It does not need to be fought or fed or "treated" or medicated away. What it asks is to be acknowledged.

Repeatedly, respectfully recognize the reality of the images and feelings that come up in dreams (and in the waking hours). Sit with them routinely until their story has been heard.

There is no need to judge yourself or others. There is no need to question the validity of the thoughts, memories, and feelings that bubble up from parts unknown.

To judge implies that maybe persons and events could have been "right" or "better". Things just are the way they are. We are just the way we are. As far as the things we have done or not done--what about it?--all we have is the present. To be drawn into the quicksand of the "what ifs" has no value.

How long will it take? This will take all the time it needs. When these memories, images and feelings have been "heard" --and they may need "hearing" over and over--then they will quiet down on their own. You may be surprised to find yourself smiling and thankful for everything -- the pain and loss included.

The fruit of being patient with the suffering you endure will be beyond your expectation. That fruit is compassion.
Dr. Thomas Cuyegkeng

Complicated

Isn't that a song title?

In any case, my biodad died yesterday. I don't really know what I think about it or what to say about it, or how to blog about it in a way that won't piss off everyone that's already pissed off or those who aren't or those who are too selfish to realize what they had or those who are too arrogant to think outside of themselves, or who are too angry to realize self righteousness is never the answer, so I'm going to go with the things that make me happy. Happy thoughts, memories for which I am grateful. In list form, for the most part.

Thank you, Luis Carlos DeCastro, for the following:

Flank steak and rice with onion sauce

Teaching me how to ride a bike

Taking me on bike rides around Santa Monica alleyways to look for fruit so often that I can still spot an avocado tree at 1/4 mile away.

Teaching me how to make Huevos Rancheros

Taking me to the Hare Krishna Festival of Chariots and letting me touch the elephants

Giving me my love of the ocean

Crying when you watched me play Anne Frank

Giving me a sincere appreciation for convertibles

That's what I have in the Grateful column. I hope I'm forgetting things, but I'm pretty sure that's what there was. I don't feel the need to make any other sorts of columns, cause I don't think it will help anyone. I hope he is at rest. I sincerely hope with this last passage comes peace.

It's Only A Matter of Time

Lord. There is no way I'm going to be able to focus all I could say about this topic into one blog post, and needless to say, I shouldn't, cause really, I'm not paying any of you for a therapy session, but I just read a post on my friend Gretchen's blog, and it's making all of these thoughts I've been having percolate inside my brain and burst forth into what else? A blog post.

Hers was called Skinny and Pretty and it was about how she often feels like she's neither. Recently I've been struggling with some notions with regards to those things, and this week has been an exceptionally challenging one, so reading this post could not have come at a better time. I'm going to be really honest right now, so if you're not interested, or if you're feeling particularly judgmental, just click away now...

I don't want to sound conceited, but I know I'm pretty, I get that. But I've been "the fat girl" since I was 8, with a 2 year break from 21-23, and I get that too. The latter, growing up and living in Los Angeles, can be challenging. Yes, even with a husband who can't get enough of me and a huge support system of very loving, very flirty friends and co-workers. I'm completely self-aware. I have worn plus sized clothing for 28 of my 38 years. I have type 2 diabetes. I am on more medication than my 92 year old grandmother. But don't think you know my life. I eat more heathfully than most of my friends. I don't eat fast food. I exercise (at a gym) a LOT. I keep a food journal, I don't drink soda, cook with oil, eat sweets, or do most of the things that people think fat people do. And let me tell you something...it's REALLY fucking annoying. Sometimes I whine that if I'm going to have this body, why can't I just eat whatever I want so that at least it's worth it. For a long time, it bothered me, but I recently came to peace with it, and decided that I was just going to have to accept the fact that this is how I am, and continue exercising and eating right because it was what was right for my body, despite the fact that I don't "look like" I do any of those things. But in November I had to start a new medication, and it's made me gain 10 pounds, despite the fact that I've been working really hard to keep it from doing so. The last week I've carefully measured every morsel that has gone into my mouth, totalling no more than 1200 calories a day, plus I worked out (and yes, I added calories on the days I worked out, so please don't say my body was in starvation mode). I gained a pound. In a week. It's not fun. It's been frustrating, coupled with having filmed a commercial last week where there was a fat joke at my expense, which is something I have to be used to if I'm going to be in this business. My cousin/doctor/brother brought up his concern about this kind of thing happening more now, and him being worried, knowing how hard I am on myself. He hadn't even heard the story yet about the extras behind me at the catering truck on set, who after I ordered my lunch- grilled chicken, sauteed spinach and snow peas and salad, said to each other "well, I didn't see THAT coming". Yes, that really happened. 2 weeks ago. At the time, I shrugged it off, but I can't help but think the meltdown over my weight I had a week ago may have had something to do with these shrugged off feelings.

Recently, I was watching a production I did in 9th grade, and noticed that I was not nearly as fat as I thought I was. This may have been more disturbing than had I been fat. I still describe myself as the "chubbiest Anne Frank ever", and seeing the video made me realize that I was probably the only person who actually thought that was the case. I currently have a 9 year old daugher who is NOT even chubby, who already thinks she's fat because of what she learned at camp, what she hears at school, and what my mother has (unintentionally) said to her. Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? How do I, as a fat person, say to my child- eat healthfully cause it's the right thing to do for your body to stay healthy, when she sees me eating healthfully and looking the way I do? And then to also say "don't look down on people for being fat" and "be comfortable in your own skin" and "no, no you're not fat- not that there's anything WRONG with that" a la Seinfeld? I don't even know how to tell MYSELF that, much less her. To paraphrase someone paraphrasing George W. Bush-- "parenting is hard". My daughter has 2 aunts who lived through major eating disorders and who struggle from the other side of it. I don't want her to have my struggle, and I don't want her to have her aunts' struggle. I want to protect her from all these feelings and tell her that her size doesn't matter...but that's a big (fat) lie. It does matter, and it's only a matter of time before she knows it. Except that that's a big lie too. She knows it already, I just don't know how to fix it. I'm beginning to believe that all confidence is fraudulent. So do I just have to teach her how to fake it? Or to recognize that we're all in the same boat? But just because I try to teach her that doesn't mean she'll actually learn it. Wait, is this what that easy button is supposed to be for? Cause that would be nice.

Pure Imagination

Magnolia just came in from the garden, where she had gone voluntarily to water the vegetables (miracles do happen) and as she passed through the house, she said, "There was a lizard right next to the strawberry bed and he was just sitting there STARING AT ME and it creeped me out". So, naturally, I say, "Cool! Was it trying to pass along a message to you from his lizard world?". She stopped, looked at me like she was 13 and deadpanned, "Haha. Very funny mom. But we both know there is no such thing as a lizard world."

I, without stopping doing THEIR chore of unloading the dishwasher, corrected, "of course there's a lizard world!" Max, shockingly having my back, agreed: "Of COURSE lizards have to talk to each other."

Magnolia, completely annoyed, sighed heavily and continued her path through the house. I pondered aloud "Did I end up raising children without imaginations? Is that what is happening here???" To which Max sighed, exasperatedly, "Mom, you didn't raise us!" At this point, I stopped with the dishes and said "what?" He explained that raising is what you do with children who aren't your actual children. I'm just their mom. I explained that the verb stays the same, and he can feel assured in the knowledge that I am, in fact, raising them.

But what bothers me WAY more about this conversation is the fact that Magnolia doesn't want to play pretend with me and discuss the possibility of a lizard world. Is it that she's growing up, and anything I say is totally annoying to her? Is it that she just learned of the reality of the other fictitious, gift bringing folk in the world (yes, the big 3 are all out of the bag, although her lying skills are coming in handy as far as keeping her brother in the dark about it) and this represents the demise of pretend? Or is it that I truly somehow managed to raise kids who don't have that lust for pretend worlds? Oh, how sad that would make me. Gah, parenting is so dang unclear most of the time I don't know why we try so darn hard.