Goodbye, Earl

I'm going to completely change the topic, for right now. This morning, the song Goodbye, Earl came on the radio. If you've never heard it (and don't feel like clicking the link to the lyrics), it's a slightly tongue-in-cheek story about a couple of high school friends, one who ends up with an abusive man. She files for divorce, gets a restraining order, and counts on the police to keep her safe. But the guy (Earl) beats her so badly she ends up in intensive care. The girls decide that "Earl had to die". The rest of the song talks about how they do it, tell the police they haven't heard from Earl, and go on to live normal lives, mostly.

I remember when I first heard this I was simultaneously appalled and envious. The reason for being appalled is obvious. The reason I was envious was because these girls actually did something about their situation. Not that I wanted Larry to die, but the thought of taking charge and changing something rather than just sitting by when the police didn't keep her safe was so very appealing. It seemed an incredible courage to me (you know, aside from the illegality and the immorality of it). I think that's one of the first times it occurred to me that I didn't have to be a victim. Writing that now, I look at it and think, "How absurd! Of course I didn't have to be a victim!", but at the time, it was such a complete revelation to me. Things could happen to me that were beyond my control, but I could actually do something about it! That was mind boggling. I remember giggling with friends every time the song came on, but there was also the secret, heady sensation of realizing I could make a difference in my own life, I could change something. The song came out my senior year of high school, and I think it's part of what helped me to feel that I had some control over the decisions I was making. There was a lot of pressure for me to live at home and go to the local college. Financially, it would have been a very smart move because the local university was cheaper and I wouldn't have had to pay room and board. Emotionally, it would have been a horrible move. I couched my refusal in terms of which was the better school from a Biochem standpoint, and stubbornly insisted on going to CSU. I ended up failing there, but even that was something about which I felt I had made my own choices. I was the one who chose to stop attending class, start drinking, and a half-dozen other dumb decisions. But they were my decisions.

It's been a long, hard road to get to the point where I can (most of the time) actively participate in my life. That sounds strange, doesn't it? But here's the thing: I was a passive bystander in my own life. I didn't stand up and take charge of anything. I just let things happen. I know some of that is a defense mechanism for the abuse. There really wasn't much I could do when I was younger, and the one time the police did get involved, they didn't believe me (well, actually, the problem was they did believe me when I was lying, but that's a different story). I could have run away, but the time I tried that, it didn't work, either. While I didn't have options, going with the flow kept me from worse harm. It was a good survival trick; it's not any more, though, and hasn't been for a long time. It's strange how often I find myself fluctuating between wanting someone else to make all the decisions for me and getting angry about how few decisions I made in the past. I guess, what I'm saying is this: I'm not magically, 100% cured of bizarre or destructive behaviors, but I am doing an awful lot better. I guess it's just funny that it's such a silly song that made me think about all this. Maybe I'll name my passivity Earl, and try to remember that Earl has to die. Goodbye, Earl.

In Limbo

Well, the good news is that, contrary to my previous post, Anthony's step mom was not taken off life support, they found the source of the infection and removed it. That is the good news. The bad news is that, after 3 days, she still is unable to breathe on her own and is still unable to control her limbs (although she does now have feeling in them and can move them somewhat). That is the bad news. The odds immediately after removing the source of the infection were 30%. I don't know what they are now. I haven't asked because, really, it doesn't help.

It's just hard, really. Because, on the one hand, I'm so excited that there's even a chance of recovery. But on the other, I'm afraid to hope because a 30% chance is not something I'd place money on. And I don't want to seem like I'm not grateful, because I am, and I truly believe this is God working. The roller coaster is just so hard to handle. Wow, something's wrong, this is a little scary turns into, crap, she might die, turns into, oh, she's doing much better now, she should be out of the hospital in no time, which turned into, um, she crashed really badly and we don't think she's going to survive, turns into, oh, wait, we found the source of infection, hooray, she could make a full recovery... see what I mean? It's exhausting just to type! So, I am fluctuating and trying not to drown in school work, trying to find time and energy to take care of us and help out with Anthony's family. I'm just tired right now. Hopeful and scared, but mostly just tired. It's an awful lot to handle.

This was NOT the plan

Oh, man... I started this blog today, with the intent to just write about stuff in general, how much I'm enjoying school, and I don't know, the good stuff for a change instead of all the angst and frustration of my previous blogs. I thought I'd write funny, light-hearted stuff. Or talk about how important it is to me for women to step up in math and science, to know they can do it, and how I feel about that. Just normal, every day topics. Maybe once in a while, I'd toss in some of the stuff I'm working out about my quirks from my past.

Instead, tonight, I found out my husband's step-mother will be taken off life-support on Friday when we thought she was getting better, and a friend I'd lost touch with took her own life in January. I didn't even know. I'd thought about sending her an e-mail, and never got around to it. I... I thought I wanted to write, but I don't. I just want to cry right now.

This was not the plan. It just wasn't.

Here I Am

I've had other blogs before, one I even kept regularly for about 2 years. A lot of my writing was fueled by frustration or anxiety or dissatisfaction. Then, I got married, and within a year was able to go back to school full time. A lot of the unhappiness was associated with my actual job, and more of it with the fact that I was in a place I didn't want to be forever, but didn't see a way out. There was also a ton of stuff from my past. My parents did foster care, specifically for children with mental or physical challenges from the time I was 4 until I was 9. Ironically, most people think that this is the traumatic part, but it wasn't. Those years contained some of the most amazing experiences I've ever had. And some of the most wonderful and difficult. It's not something I would change for the anything. When I was 9, my whole world changed abruptly. My grandfather committed suicide, my foster-sister Shannon died, we stopped fostering, we moved in with my dad's best friend, Larry, I hit puberty, and had to change schools for the first time. Living with Larry was supposed to be short-term, but it wasn't. There were control issues from the beginning; everything had to be just so to please him, but... I guess we all kind of went along with it because it, hey, it is his house, after all. There was what I can now identify as verbal abuse almost from the start, and definite psychological warfare. I'm sure I'll detail it at some point. We (all) moved to a new place, out in the country where our nearest neighbor was 1/4 mile away, when I was 14. And that Christmas is when the sexual abuse started. I was never raped, but an awful lot of things happened that never should have. I escaped to college when I graduated, and found, strangely, that I was more depressed than I'd ever been. I had (many) moments where I thought it would be easier if I were simply dead, but I never had a plan. Between self-destructive impulses and the death of a friend, I failed every class my second semester at college. So I escaped to California "for the summer", theoretically to earn tuition money so I could go back to school. I ended up meeting the man who is now my husband, meeting God, falling in love with both, and deciding to move out here. I told my family out here what had happened, and many things that hadn't--so that what I told them sounded as horrible as I felt. It blew up, went back to my parents and Larry who denied that anything inappropriate had happened. There is far more to that than I feel like getting into at the moment. There were many bumps along the way, and I blogged through a lot of that. But then we got most things straightened out. I got married, and went back to school full time. I wasn't so anxious, unhappy, or frustrated. I didn't feel the need to have an outlet, and I just sort of stopped. Now, though, it's not that I'm anxious, or unhappy, or frustrated, but simply that I liked the clarity of thought blogging gave me. So, here I am, sorting through my emotions about... life.