After the Suicide

             

            My friend killed himself.

I was primping myself for an evening wedding when my phone began chirping and vibrating with a cacophony of texts and calls, all urgently asking if I needed anything, offering support in my grief.  “What the hell is going on?” I replied in panic.  What the fuck was going on?

…

This summer was the first since birthing my children that I was absolutely required to find employment.  As a teacher, I have always cherished summers with my three kids, even though each September we were financially struggling to dig ourselves out of the financial hole my “vacation” had burrowed. But this summer, I knew we weren’t going to make it.  If I didn’t find a source of income, we wouldn’t be digging ourselves out of a hole, we would be desperately scraping our way out of a credit grave.  

Working at my district’s credit recovery summer school, helping wayward students back onto the path towards graduation, was fine.  However, it killed me just a little more each day to leave my children with a sitter, well aware that the number of summers I have with them during which they will actually want to spend time with me are numbered.  And I have to give this one away.

I could feel myself slipping back into the valley of depression, a valley I’d travelled several times.  I was maintaining the regimen that had worked to pull me from my last serious bout, a struggle with postpartum depression and anxiety following the birth of my youngest child: daily exercise, meds, vitamins and supplements, allowing myself the opportunity for 8 hours sleep each night.  But, I could feel myself slipping further.  My sleep is often disturbed by nightmares or insomnia.  My heart pounds, inspired by my mind, which resolutely runs through a gauntlet of highly unlikely, yet still terrifying possibilities.

All of my limited patience was being entirely spent on my students, leaving nothing for my husband and children.  I was short tempered and difficult to please.  Loading my body with carbs, fat, and sugar, desperately trying to stop the slippage though self-medication, was only working to make me feel slow and grotesque.  I was withdrawing from touch and retreating into distraction.

…

Depression, for me at least, involves my brain challenging itself. The axis powers are spreading a dark cloud of self-doubt and dissatisfaction, a cloud that soon settles as a heavy stone inside my gut, a lethargy that encourages me to shut my eyes and sleep the hours and realities away.  The cloud obscures my realization of all of my blessings and achievements, until I am yearning for a new reality.

The allied powers are struggling to maintain the light.  They realize the battle is being lost, but still have hope for the war, sending fading distress signals: “Batten the hatches! Go for a walk. Do yoga. Eat a healthy meal. Take some time for yourself. Write in a journal.”  It feels impossible to struggle against the depression, but, with the small amount of clarity that the allies have maintained, I make the decision, every day, to push through. 

…

And, then, he killed himself. I would be dishonest to say that I was completely shocked. In the 16 years of our friendship, his emotions ranged from grumpy to solemn to depressed to distraught with few exceptions.  During the good periods, he’d lose weight and start dressing in his colorful button downs and matching ties.  His dress shoes would shine, and he’d snarkily greet me with some sexist gibe or another. 

During the bad times, his weight would rise, he’d wear the same t-shirt and camouflage pants every day, he’d stuff himself with bagels.  He’d keep his head down, eyes glued to the floor so as not to have to make any eye contact, no connections. 

During the good times, he’d light when he saw me, grab me into a hug that lasted just a little too long, sniff my neck, whisper something flirtatious with a wink in his voice: “I love when you press your boobs against me.”  Or, “If I didn’t respect your husband so much…”  And, it was good because he was my friend, and I was ok with his lighthearted sexual harassment, and I would flirt back because I loved him and wanted to make him feel good and wanted him to understand that I valued him as a person, as a man, to let him know that he wasn’t alone, that he was attractive, that he was worthy of love and sex and flirtation from women. 

In the bad times, the gregariousness went out of the hugs, they had a more desperate quality because he needed to be touched by another human. That was ok with me because I knew that that contact was, for him, maybe the only skin-to-skin contact that he would have all day.

In the best times, his dark, wicked sense of humor drew raucous laughter, laughter from my guts. We would laugh so hard that my cheeks ached with the strain of the smiles.  Someday I am planning to laugh again, about his dirty-minded puppet shows, about his obsessions with unavailable blondes, about his snarky insults, always said with love.  Someday, I plan to remember his passion for Led Zepplin and Rush with fondness, maybe even, despite my own distaste, listen to a few songs in his memory. But, it won’t be today.  There isn’t any room for laughing today.

He put forth effort.  He did, I am certain of it.  Online dating provided opportunity to meet new people, and he did.  He pursued dates.  He asked me to take pictures for his online profile, and I did.  When he smiled, when the smile actually hit his eyes, he was a handsome guy.  I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t have had many responses: attractive, professional, intelligent, funny, music-lover, dog lover. He said he wanted, more than anything, a wife and kids: a family of his own. 

I, personally, set him up at least three times.  We went on double dates, me with my husband and him with whomever he was courting at that time. I admit, I was desperate to find him someone, clinging to the hope that a relationship would fix his sadness.  But, it was never “the one.”  There were a litany of reasons: no spark, she wanted different things, too young, too old, didn’t react in the ways he wanted or expected her to react.  It was frustrating to me, and, I have to admit, embarrassing, to apologize to these women with whom I had set him up.  I admit, I gave up to protect myself.  Maybe it was selfish.  As I think back now, I wonder if his disease just wouldn’t allow him to make those connections, that all his “reasons” were just excuses.

…

            In the deepest parts of my own struggle, my depression and anxiety lead me to crazy thoughts, obsessive actions, some I was aware were outrageous, some to which I was oblivious.  In the two years after my youngest child was born, I lived in near constant terror that my children would be harmed or killed.  I ferociously clung to the people I loved, my husband, my friends, my children, for dear life.  Obsessive thoughts would race through my mind, plunging me into the breathless, pounding, disorienting spin of panic attacks.  I was unable to see the effects of my spin because I was so desperate to keep from drowning.  I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t help it.  I was trying.

            Yet, I was fortunate.  My anxiety and depression never mired me in thoughts of suicide.  I was never plagued with the belief that leaving would be less painful than staying.

            I want to be angry at him for leaving before he biologically had to, but it isn’t that simple.  Depression is a disease in the same way that cancer is a disease.  There are treatments, some of them effective.  Some can be cured.  The therapy and drugs and regimen pulled me out. But, he was terminal.  He died of his depression, and it isn’t his fault, I can’t be angry.  He fought the battle for the 16 years I knew him, probably long before that.  The disease won the war, and that isn’t his fault. 

            Guilt is tugging at me, though I am not egotistical enough to believe that I could have saved him.  But, the “what ifs” are real and heavy.  And, there’s nothing to do to undo what is done. 

            As woeful as I feel imagining him in his last moments, in extreme emotional distress, psychic pain, and without a soul to hold his hand on his terrifying journey, I want to take solace in the fact that he is now free from the pain that he could seemingly never escape during the 16 years I was fortunate enough to know him. 

He didn’t believe in angels, didn’t take comfort in heaven.  So, I will respect his beliefs and refrain from maudlin platitudes about his being a guardian angel in our lives.  But, I do believe that a person is never truly dead until the last person who knew him, who holds a memory of him, dies.  And, all of his friends hold his memory dear, will say his name and, eventually, remember him for his snark, his grump, his humor, his intelligence and temper and passion.  Especially for the warm, red, loving heart he hid beneath the dark and stormy surface.  I was so fortunate to have been held in that heart.

Newest Piece for Scary Mommy - Originally "My Life Isn't Over"

Scary Mommy Work: My original titles were "My Life Isn't Over" or "I'm Not Dead Yet".
http://www.scarymommy.com/making-marriage-and-myself-priority/

Winning Battles in the War

Earlier this summer, my friend committed suicide.

…

This summer is the first since becoming a mom that I’m financially required to find employment.  As a teacher, I’ve cherished vacationing with my kids. The summers I’ll have with them during which they’ll actually want to spend time with me are numbered. 

I’m losing this summer, and my mood is slipping.  I’m maintaining the regimen that worked to pull me from my last bout, a struggle with postpartum depression. Despite it, I’m slipping further.  My sleep is disturbed by nightmares and insomnia.  My heart pounds, my mind runs the gauntlet of terrifying possibilities.  My limited patience is entirely spent on students, leaving nothing for family.  I am short tempered, difficult to please.  Loading my body with fat and sugar, staunching the slippage though self-medication, makes me slow and grotesque.  I am withdrawing from touch, retreating into distraction.

Depression is my brain combatting itself. The axis powers spread a dark cloud of self-doubt and dissatisfaction, a lethargy that encourages me to shut my eyes and sleep the hours and realities away.  The cloud obscures my blessings and achievements until I am yearning for a new reality.

The allied powers struggle to maintain the light, sending fading distress signals: sleep, take time for yourself, journal.  It feels impossible, but, with the fading clarity that the allies maintain, I make the decision to push. 

…

I was 8-years-old when I had my first panic attack.  Dressed in a flowing gown with a crown of silk flowers nestled in my hair, I was Cinderella for the Halloween parade.  The kids around me twirled and laughed, showing off their costumes, jumping at the opportunity to march through the surrounding streets.  I lay curled in the fetal position atop the reading table. Gasping for breath, eyes locked, the world outside the blackness of my lids was distorted.  The droning buzz of adrenaline in my ears did nothing to dampen the sound of my heartbeat.

It wasn’t stage fright, it was the fright of what would come later, my father would be waiting.  He was out there.  He was my monster.

As the parade began, I saw his face.  A wave of intense nausea gripped me. I searched the crowd for mom, my safe place.  I’m sure she could see it, the sickness closing in. In line with the miracles that moms perform daily, she found a friendly neighbor who spared me embarrassment, allowing me the vomit in the privacy of her bathroom.

The stress continued to manifest.  Having been a daycare baby, I had always been comfortable leaving my mother, but when the shit hit the fan, I developed such intense separation anxiety that it crippled the both of us.

As my mind became overwhelmed, I became physically ill.  Vomiting, diarrhea, cramping wracked my little body. Mom schlepped me to doctors, searching for answers.  They couldn’t cure me, couldn’t find a physical reason for my symptoms.

When medical intervention failed, she turned to a child psychologist.  But, I was ashamed, frightened of the chaos that would result from my confession.  I lied. I created a feasibility: he wouldn’t allow me to suck my thumb. That’s why I hated him.

For the next 5 years, it continued.

For some victims of sexual abuse, fat is a protective measure, a way to make oneself less attractive.

On my 13^th birthday, my father invited me to a celebratory dinner.  Instead of a restaurant, he parked on a lonely road. His disgust was disguised in the warm tones of concern: “I’m telling you this for your own good...because I love you…You could be pretty, if…No one will want you, no one will love a fat girl…” Staring into the side view mirror, wiping away the rapid tears, I was silent. I didn’t give school bullies the satisfaction of seeing the hurt, and I would be goddamned if I would give it to him.

He was a powerful bully, the sabotaging voice in my head.  But, that night freed me.  I would never again allow him his custody, never allow myself to be taken. My icy silence towards him was an implicit threat: “Take it to court. See what will happen to your career, your freedom, your reputation if I talk.”

I cry for that little girl, as if she is separate from me. Yet, I know that she is me, because I carry the long term effects of her experiences.

…

My friend killed himself. It would be dishonest to say that I was shocked. In our 16 years of friendship, his emotions ranged from grumpy to solemn to depressed to distraught with few exceptions.

In the two years after my youngest was born, I lived in constant terror that my children would be harmed.  I ferociously clung to the people I loved.  My obsessive thoughts would race, plunging me into breathless, pounding, disorienting panic attacks. I was desperate to keep from drowning.  I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t help it.  I was trying.

Yet, I was fortunate.  My anxiety and depression never mired me in thoughts of suicide.  I was never plagued with the belief that leaving would be less painful than staying.

I want to be angry at him for leaving before he biologically had to, but it isn’t that simple.  Depression is a disease.  There are treatments, some effective.  My regimen pulled me out. But, he was terminal.  He died of his depression.  I can’t be angry.  He fought the battle for the 16 years I knew him, long before that.  The disease won the war, and that isn’t his fault.

…

I’m fighting now.  Exercise helps, walking for miles, sweating in the sun, pulls the jitters from my joints, exhausts my body so that I can sleep and heal.  The prescriptions help to sooth my body’s angry chemistry.  Watching mindless TV, reading, snuggling my children, dates with my husband, talks with friends…it all distracts, but it isn’t a cure.  I win the battles, but it’s my endless war.

Only Child, Mother of 3

Only Child, Mother of 3

By Erin Morrison-Fortunato

I am an only child and, while there are many advantages to being an only child, having a built in support network of relatives who share the same home, parenting and life experiences, and genetics as you isn't one of them.

I've been asked why, as an only child, I chose to have three children of my own.  Here are the answers.           

Quiet

My Childhood: I had my own room and lived in a home with two adults. There was plenty of quiet.

My Children’s Childhood: Every word spoken by our children is screamed at the top of their lungs. Even if I am sitting directly adjacent to my daughter, with my ear in plain view, she will yodel her message as if communicating a dire warning to a small German town far from our home in Western New York. 

They scream when they are happy. They scream when they are sad. They scream when they are tired. They scream when they are mad. They scream at each other and, seemingly, at no one at all. In my children’s minds, there is no situation inappropriate for screaming or crying.

It goes without saying that one of them is always crying.

Independence

My Childhood: I was, by necessity, independent. My best friend lived a few houses away and my parents played with me, but I was entirely able to entertain myself. As a result, I’ve never felt awkward going to a movie or sitting at a café on my own.

Always having had ready access to time alone during my childhood ruined me for motherhood.  Now, as a working mother of three, I crave time alone with a passion I would otherwise reserve for Ryan Gosling. 

My Children’s Childhood: None of these children want to be alone. Ever. They want to be entertained, petted, and fawned over without exception. When I am very clearly in the middle of completing tasks essential to the everyday functioning of our home, my children peek around corners at me, doe-eyed, pouty lipped and whining: “Mommy, will you read me a book?”  Masters of the guilt trip. Clearly, I’d rather play than chore, but our home will cease to operate if I don’t do what I need to do. Not to mention, I have personally birthed two playmates for each of my children. Play with them!  

Attention

My Childhood:  I received all of the attention I could ever possibly have desired. I had no one with whom to compete. I was always the cutest, best behaved kid in the house, no matter what horribly awkward stage I may have been mired in at that moment.

My Children’s Childhood: They have to share, which teaches them the valuable lesson that they don’t get everything they want just because they want it. But, leads to some nasty sibling rivalry.

What red-blooded lady hasn’t imagined a group of jealous people arguing over who will get to touch her? I just didn’t imagine that that group would include an 8-year-old, 5-year-old, and 3-year-old. I can only accommodate two of three children in my arms, so the third is left to crawl around on my belly, jamming his or her elbows into my flesh while whining that it’s his or her turn for an arm. It’s relaxing and enjoyable.

Aggression

My Childhood: I would wrestle with my dad, but the moment that I was even lightly bruised, I would surrender in tears and retreat into a book. 

I have a distinct, traumatizing memory which involves my cousins (three siblings) teasing me by playing monkey in the middle with my special blankie. I, of course, was the monkey. Unused to this type of teasing, I reacted as if I were being water boarded. 

My Children’s Childhood: As I watch my children rolling around on the floor, seemingly strangling each other with various WWE death holds, my heart races. 

“Is this normal? Should we stop them?” I inquire of my husband, who grew up with a brother. 

“Nah…they’re fine,” he replies nonchalantly.

“But, someone is gonna get hurt,” I say anxiously.

“That’s kinda the point,” he reassures.

And, inevitably, someone does incur a minor injury and comes running for hugs and healing mommy kisses. But, inevitably, he or she rejoins the fray swinging. And, I return to observing, holding a death grip on the arms of my chair to prevent my refereeing their fun.

LOVE

My Childhood: There is absolutely no doubt that I was loved and hugged and kissed and appreciated and cared for. I was my parents’ first priority in every day and decision.

My Children’s Childhood: There is absolutely no doubt that my children are loved and hugged and kissed and appreciated and cared for. They are their parents’ first priority in every day and decision. And, they are so very fortunate to have their siblings to love (if not always like) and by whom to be loved. They will understand (and commiserate about) one another’s childhoods in a way that no one else can.  They have a built-in loud, aggressive, jealous, co-dependent, loving support system. The worst and greatest gift I have ever given my children, their siblings. 

Movin' On Up

            We were 23-years-old when we purchased our first house.  Reasonably, 23-year-olds should not be allowed to make decisions that involve tens of thousands of dollars as many 23-years-olds believe they know so much more than they actually know about life. 

We, of course, had our life completely planned and were certain that these plans would proceed without a hitch.  We bought our house based on three important criteria: 1) It was located in our hometown.  2) It was over 100-years-old, full of gumwood trim, hardwood floors, and leaded glass.  Charming!  3) It had three bedrooms, one for us and one for each of the two children we, according to our life plan, were scheduled to procreate at ages 28 and 30 respectively.

            Fast-forward ten years: We, in fact, did have two children.  Our son arrived right on schedule, a few months after we turned 28.  Baby number two, our darling daughter, arrived, as expected, when I was 30. Baby number three…oops?  Wait?  Baby number three?  Yup.  Baby number three arrived when we were 33, and her arrival forced us to move our 5-year-old son into a room with our 3-year-old daughter.  Not so bad, right?  Lots of siblings share rooms.  It would teach them to compromise, to be selfless.  Well, that’s a steaming pile of BS.

            It was this experiment in insanity that first sparked the unquenchable desire for more space, a bigger house.

Sharing a room taught my children ingenuity, the ingenuity to come up with new and interesting ways to torture each other and, in the process, their parents.  They fought about every little thing, purposefully pestering each other.  At bedtime, my daughter would threaten her brother into getting out of bed to do her will, ordering him to fetch her water or to call mom and dad upstairs for extra kisses.  In this way, she would get what she desired, but he would take the fall for being out of bed after “curfew”.  If he didn’t comply with her requests, she would sing just loudly enough to keep him from falling to sleep, but just quietly enough to prevent us from hearing her.  She will be a great addition to the CIA’s enhanced interrogation unit.  

            Despite their whining and griping and complaining and bedtime antics, we felt blessed to have a home that kept us warm and safe.  I felt guilty for wanting more.  We already had so much more than so many others.  Until, that is, the house didn’t feel quite as safe anymore. 

Despite my hubby and I working our asses off to keep our house running, we couldn’t stay ahead of the tasks it entailed.  The plumbing was slowly disintegrating, spilling water through the ceiling of our kitchen each time we gave our kids a bath.  We briefly contemplated bathing them outside in the kiddie pool, but thought it might be an unreasonable plan as we live in upstate New York, and winters tend to get chilly here. 

The basement stairs were crumbling, making it unsafe to carry the overwhelming loads of laundry that a family of five produces up and down to be washed.  I would say a little prayer each time I had to venture into the laundry room: “Dear God, please allow me to safely make my way on these stairs as it is essential that I have clean panties to wear to work tomorrow.  Amen.” 

Our two big mutts, who had once reigned as prince and princess of the house, had been relegated to living on the porch.  The shedding, the muddy paws, the tendency to chew on the beautiful gumwood meant that they were a burden the house couldn’t carry.  They were still cared for and fed and exercised, but they were separate from our family.  I have a vivid memory of my 2-year-old daughter standing on a kitchen chair, peering into the porch through the door, waving excitedly at the dogs, as if she were at the polar bear exhibit at the zoo. “Mama! Look Mama! Doggies. Hi doggies!”

Our postage stamp of a backyard wasn’t much use to our kids because it clearly territorially marked by the dogs.  We couldn’t let the kids play outside without first doing an extensive poo check or run the real risk of them rolling around in filth. The kids weren’t all that interested in playing in the backyard anyways. Turns out a yard full of dog-dug holes and pee-burnt grass isn’t that appealing a play area.

Our living room was overrun with Legos and Matchbox cars and board books and Barbie dolls and baby swings.  There was no place in the house that felt open.  Every room was cramped.  Eventually, we got rid of our beautiful oak table, the cabinet filled with my grandmother’s lovely china, and the buffet we had once covered in appetizers and bottles of wine when guests came for game nights, turning our dining room into a play room.  When my son saw the transformation for the first time, he raised his arms in a gesture of victory and screamed, “YESSSSSS!!!!!”  I, on the other hand, posted on Facebook a picture of his triumphant moment captioned, “Our dining room is gone. We’ll have you over for dinner in 2023.” 

            Worst of all was the mess.  Although it felt as if we did nothing but chores, the house was never clean enough.  There wasn’t any room to move, let alone to clean.  I couldn’t effectively dust under the bed or the couch, because there was no room to move the bed or the couch.  The best I could manage was to lay flat on my stomach, desperately waving the Swiffer mop around, hoping I was catching the dust bunnies and stray socks. 

The once beautifully painted walls were now stained with sippy cup spray and flecks of spaghetti sauce.  The once bright and shiny ceramic tiles in the kitchen were constantly covered in muddy footprints and random food smears.  Ahhhhh…the naiveté of choosing white tiles for a kitchen floor.  I look back with amused scorn at my pre-mommy self.

I felt embarrassed of the home I kept.

The first word out of my mouth when we toured our new home was, “Shit!”  It was spacious, had bedrooms for each of our three children.  There was a play room and a double yard with a humongous Beech tree perfect for climbing and playing beneath.  There was a kennel for the dogs. and we would have a place other than the basement for our dining room furniture to occupy.  There were TWO bathrooms.  TWO!!!!!  The washer and dryer were on the first floor.  I reacted with “Shit!” because we hadn’t been planning a move so soon.  The “Shit!” was because I was in love with the life I could envision my family living in this house.

Since moving into our ‘forever home,’ I haven’t had any regrets.  I am well aware that the paint will stain, that, eventually, a pipe will burst or the roof will need replacing. I am also aware that we are a happier family now that we have room to spread out, space to move and play.  And, surprisingly, it is easier to keep this house neat as I am able to freely move furniture and have a place for everything and everything in its place.        

We had contemplated, hemmed and hawed, perseverated, and flip-flopped on the idea of selling our “starter” house, and all it took was that “Shit!” to push us into happiness.

The Real Father

The Real Father

            They say that girls marry their fathers.  Each time that I am reminded of this saying, I thank God or fate or the universe or whoever or whatever is out there and is on my side.  I am thankful that my biological father is not my real father.      

Sweat plastered my hair against my head as I ripped off my riding helmet.  As a chubby middle-schooler, an hour on horseback in the blazing sun worked up a thirst.  I turned to my stepfather, who must have been equally parched having spent that same hour standing in that same blazing sun watching my lesson, and asked for a dollar for the vending machine.  He gladly obliged before putting me in the cab of my father’s truck, still cool with air conditioning, as he had arrived five minutes before the end of my lesson.

            Immediately upon his wheels hitting the road, my father turned on me.  “You will never again ask that man for money when I am there. I am your father, and you will ask me for what you need. I will provide what you need,” he insisted in an angry, yet eerily monotone and controlled voice.

            Even at the age of 12, I understood his hypocrisy.

            Just months earlier, my biological father had withdrawn all financial support for my extracurriculars, withdrawn support for anything beyond that which he was required by law to pay.  My mother, a school nurse, was far from rich, and horseback riding is an expensive hobby.  While I took up mucking stalls and watering horses to defray costs, my stepfather, an elementary school teacher, stepped up to help with the costs. 

Now, as I was trapped inside this metal box with a raging, jealous man, I knew that he had never been and would never be, my real father.

            To the world outside, my biological father was handsome, intelligent, driven, and focused.  To me, he was frightening, cold, unforgiving, resentful, and inappropriate.

            My mother divorced my biological father while she was pregnant: unquestionably, the best parenting decision she ever made.  When I was 8-months-old, she began dating a teacher at the school where she was the nurse.  He became a constant presence in my life.

            My biological father nicknamed me ‘Sports Fan,’ a ridiculous moniker as I couldn’t care less about sports.  This misnomer became representative of our relationship: he didn’t know me and didn’t care to know the real me.  He wanted me to be the science minded, outdoorsy son he had wished for.  He quizzed me on environmental trivia and math facts.  He forbid television.  He took me camping in the dreary, muddy, spooky woods, where I felt cold and uncomfortable and lonely.  He taught me to shoot a gun, which terrified me. 

            My stepfather nicknamed me ‘Bunsarunski,’ a nonsense word that has no real meaning, but, somehow, fits me to a tee.  He let me win at checkers, wrestled with me, showed me magic tricks, and taught me to ride a bike.

            My biological father was married to my stepmother, a lovely, intelligent, and successful woman, for the greater part of my early childhood.  She was stable part of my life.  And, then, she was gone.  They divorced, and she was gone, forbidden from saying goodbye.  There were other women, women to whom I was introduced and grew attached before they mysteriously and confusingly disappeared.

            My stepfather was consistent: always there, always reliable.  Because I am an only child, I craved family.  My stepfather is one of eight children.  And, his big, warm, loving, loud family provides tradition and stability and joy in my life and the lives of my children.

            My biological father had expectations of me to which I could never live up.  On my thirteenth birthday, my biological father told me we would celebrate with dinner.  Instead, he drove me to a secluded road in a park and lectured me about my weight, confirming all of those fears buried in my head by the bullies at school who told me I was ugly, unworthy of love, disgusting.  Then, he drove me home and dropped me off.

            I refused to do it anymore.  I cut myself off, cut him out of my life.

            A real father is there to chase a toddler around with a puke pot after dosing her with ipecac syrup because she ate her grandfather’s shoe polish.  He’s there to pick her up when she crashes her bike, destroying her knees and elbows.  He’s there to take care of the bunny his daughter once thought was cute, but eventually abandoned.  He sits through every performance of every school musical.  He patiently teaches her to drive a stick shift while she destroys the transmission of his car.  He sticks by her mother while she battles breast cancer and recovers from a mastectomy.  He walks his daughter down the aisle.  He creates a slide show to embarrass her at the reception.  He helps her to paint every room in her new home.  He cries when his daughter tells him she is expecting.  He comes to the hospital at 3 a.m. to meet his first grandchild.  He is her children’s grandfather, their proud Papa.

            My stepfather is my real father.

If Life Were Like T.V.

If Life Were Like T.V.

            I wouldn’t want to live it, that’s for damn sure.  My God, the horrible things that happen in the lives of these television characters is unfathomable.  How can these characters possibly survive the horror show that is their lives?  They are struck, demolished by a tidal wave, but manage to get up, only to be crushed once again by a tsunami.

            Take, for example, the cast of characters in “Grey’s Anatomy.”  Meredith Grey, the enigmatic protagonist, has suffered immensely.  Just off the top of my head, poor Meredith has been publically humiliated by the love of her life, lost two of her best friends (one to death and one to career suicide), had to steady a bomb inside a man’s body, had a miscarriage, had her husband stalked and shot, discovered an unknown sister, mistakenly killed her step-mother, had her adopted daughter ripped from her care, lost her discovered sister in a plane crash which also crippled her brain surgeon husband’s hand, and, currently has broken up with her longtime “person”/best friend Christina.  And, those are just the trials and tribulations I can remember off of the top of my head.  I’m sure that there are innumerable dramas that I cannot. 

            Seriously?  Ok, Meredith Grey has had her share of good luck as well.  She’s a successful surgeon on the board of the hospital at which she works.  She’s had LOTS of great sex.  But, imagine living her life?  Imagine never being able to enjoy a moment because there is a black shadow looming, looming over every day.  For every happiness, there will be an equal or greater tragedy in reaction. 

            Take, for a second example, Olivia Pope of “Scandal,” not coincidentally a show also created by the fabulous Shonda Rimes.  Poor, poor Olivia!  No matter how intelligent or powerful or driven or beautiful or benevolent she is, she just can’t get out of her own way.  Despite her intelligence, she starts an affair with an incredibly powerful politician, who just happens to be running for president.  And, despite her better judgment, continues the torrid affair into his presidency.  Her love also inspires her to defraud the entire country out of their right to a fair election.  Her associates are assorted criminals, some worse than others.  Her father is the head of a top secret spy agency used to torture and kill assorted national security risks.  She is constantly scared for her life and the lives of her loved ones. 

            Again, some good luck.  Again, career success and lots of good sex.  But, how much happiness can sex and money buy if you’re constantly having to use both the sex and money to fix life-threatening problems?

            For me, it’s the drama.  And, unfortunately, I consider myself an expert in drama, both personally, as a former teenage girl, and professionally, as a teacher of high school.  Sure, I’ve had my own teenage girl drama, created some of it, sometimes purposefully.  I’ve welcomed it into my life.  Also, unfortunately, I’ve created drama as an adult.  Probably subconsciously, but also with some purpose.  It fulfilled some weird need in me.  That adult drama had consequences.  Those consequences taught me lessons, they changed me.  I’ve made different choices as a result of lessons learned.  I’ve made a conscious decision to avoid drama in my personal future.

            But, the protagonists of these rom-com-dramas never seem to learn their lessons.  They fail to learn from their mistakes, to change their course of action to avoid the drama. 

            And, I say, thank God for that!  What fun would that be?!?!  These shows, they provide me an outlet, a safe way to indulge in delicious drama without hurting myself or anyone I love.  I can roll around gleefully in their mud and shit, without actually dirtying myself.  So, thank you for the drama Ms. Grey and Ms. Pope.  I don’t envy your lives, but I sure am glad that you fictitiously live them so that I can wallow in them.