In the Moment

White is black
and black is white.
Sleep all day
and cry all night.
Gasp for air
though forced to breathe.
Hide that heart
upon your sleeve.
Still not safe
try as you might.
Please do not
give up the fight.

Home

So, I've come to a startling conclusion during the course of the past several weeks.  Actually, what's startling is that it IS startling when it seems like it should have been so obvious for years.  My conclusion is that New York is, was and always will be my home.  I suppose I never really lost sight of that, feeling like a stranger in a strange land for my entire existence in Florida. When we initially moved, in the back of my mind I envisioned it like an experiment, the "away" college experience that was partially stolen from me and partially relinquished of my own free will so many years ago.  It was ALWAYS supposed to be "temporary".  Who would've thunk that temporary would amount to almost eight years?

When my husband and I moved out of New York in December of 2004, we did so for several reasons, not the least of which was the fact that we had spent the past four years living in the house I grew up in with my mother and my verbally abusive alcoholic/addict brother.  Clearly not the best environment for a new relationship (what was I thinking?) and without question, a toxic place to live for all those years.  A trigger event took place that I will probably discuss in depth at some point in the future but suffice it to say, enough was enough.  We were broke but desperate.  We had little birds chirping in our ears for years extolling the many virtues of Florida, not the least of which was that it was FAR less expensive a place to live than New York, and, of course, it was many many miles away from my brother.  SOLD.  We made a trip down in October, quickly found a halfway decent place that we could afford, albeit just barely, and two months later, we moved.

Let me make something clear from the start.  Florida is, as they say, a nice place to visit but I wouldn't (and do NOT) want to live there.  In a perfect world, I could call my husband from New York, where I'm currently visiting, have him pack up all our "useful" shit, which consists primarily of our cat, my books, my photographs and our small cache of electronic devices and have him drive up today, straight to the adorably bohemian and funky apartment we would live in.  (Hell, in a PERFECT world, that apartment would be a HOUSE, but I digress.)  However, my world is FAR from perfect.  I find myself today, still broke, once again in the same house as my mother and still verbally abusive alcoholic/addict brother, revisiting things almost EXACTLY as they were when I left almost eight years ago with one shocking and strangely comforting difference.  The one thing, the ONLY thing that is different now than it was all those years ago is ME.

Three years ago, the last time I saw my brother prior to this visit, was what I hoped would be the last time I heard his familiar drunken refrain of "why don't you just go fucking kill yourself."  But, life being the joyful mess that it is, that turned out not to be the case.  Being the lucky soul that I am, I last heard those very words just three days ago, from the thing that was once my brother, in the midst of his "alleged" first relapse in about five weeks.  (This according to my mother.  I know I've seen him drunk and/or high at least two times prior during my three and a half weeks here.)  I'm not going to lie and say that I was undisturbed by hearing said words. But for what I think was the first time ever, my initial reaction to those words wasn't sorrow or hurt.  They didn't give me pause, I didn't think "yeah, why don't I?"  I found myself filled with rage, disgust and pity.  In the years since I left, nothing...NOTHING has changed for my brother.  Sure, he has "tried" rehab, more times than I can count.  Hell, in the course of his twenty-one year addiction (this counting from the evening when, at fifteen, he confessed to my parents that he "may have a problem with drinking"), I'd say he has "attempted" detox and/or rehab at least twenty times.  But here we are, in October 2012, me in the active process of changing myself and my life, he, apparently satisfied with being a thirty-six year old leech, dependent on my mother for every basic need.  Funny how life turns out.

My mother and I had an arrangement prior to this visit.  The arrangement was that my brother was on waiting lists for several rehab facilities and that when I arrived, he would be gone in no more than four days.  Well, let me back up, that was the MODIFIED arrangement.  When I initially decided to come up here for six weeks, she insisted that he would not be here at all.  Since the last time I saw him in the fall of 2009, I have been up to visit several times but only when he was not here, either in rehab or, most recently, in Miami where she had sent him to spend time with my dad's sister so that she and I could have a peaceful visit.  I refused to submit to his tortures and to allow myself to be subject to his verbal attacks. Therefore, when she informed me that he would be here for no more than four days, I was angry as hell but at that point, my only options were to accept this or call off the entire trip which I was NOT eager to do.  Of course, this being my life, the four day thing flew out the window when, the morning after I arrived, my brother decided to open up to me about his current situation.  He said that he had almost died due to a recent bout with pancreatitis and had now decided that he, in fact, wanted to live.  He gave what was in my mind a rather half-assed apology for all the things he had done to me over the years but hell, it was a start, certainly more than he had ever given me prior.  I cautiously opened the door, ever so slightly, for an eventual reconciliation but, in the short term, for at least a peaceful co-existence.  That, in turn, provided my mother, the classic enabler, with more than enough ammunition to immediately cease her search for a program for him and an open door to the far more pleasant option of the fairy tale family reunited, her two children both home and safe and speaking again.  Oh, happy day.  Of course, at this point, I was still under the misguided delusion that he would still, in fact, be out in no more than four days.  It turns out, as I learned ONLY when I asked, the facilities (including outpatient day treatment) had all supposedly refused my brother admission due to his new medical condition.  Let me make this perfectly clear...I do NOT buy this for a minute.  I cannot believe that not one legitimate rehab facility would admit a client due to the fact that they have a pre-existing medical condition.  I challenge you to show me one twenty-one year active alcoholic/addict who does NOT have a medical condition as a result of their addictions.  But, this is the story my mother has chosen to give me and I, again, have no choice but to accept it or leave.

Fast forward (okay, maybe not so fast) to today.  My mother was in contact with another facility over the weekend (where they, apparently, admit NO clients on Saturday or Sunday) and after a series of phone calls, they have agreed to admit my brother tomorrow morning.  NOT what she promised me.  Hell, I don't think I've EVER gotten anything that she's promised me, but I guess it will have to do.  Do I think that this facility will be able to help him?  Absolutely NOT.  This is not a comment on the treatment center but on my general attitude towards my brother. Addicts and alcoholics CAN achieve clean and sober lives.  It is a daily struggle but I've seen it done, countless times.  The problem is, they WANT to change.  For whatever reason, they hit their "bottom" and make a conscious decision to change their lives, to fight like hell, at any cost, to remain clean and sober.  My brother, in my humble opinion, has NO desire to change.  For him, rehab is a temporary escape from the blandness of his usual existence.  It is something he does to get someone ("someone" being my mother) off his back.  She goes back into her hopeful stance of "maybe this time it'll work" and I observe cynically from the sidelines.  Do I want him to be sober?  Of course.  Do I ever believe it will happen?  Not remotely.  In his life, alcoholism and addiction have no consequences.  He knows that he has nothing to lose. This is not simply because he HAS virtually nothing but also because the things he needs to survive: a roof over his head, clothing, food, water, money for "whatever", will always be eagerly provided by his mommy.  It makes me physically sick but I realize now, after countless years of screaming, yelling, crying, pleading, rationally explaining and beating my head against the wall that I can't change him and I can't change her but I can change myself.  I am doing it and will continue to for the rest of my life.  I no longer feel powerless, hopeless or useless.  Certainly there are circumstances beyond my control but I will ALWAYS have a choice as to how I deal with them.  That is a very powerful thing.

I had such a different intent when I started writing today.  This was supposed to be about how New York is "home" and Florida is not but it has become much more about what "home" really means.  My current home in in Florida, with my husband and my cat.  My present location is my original home, the place I lived for the first thirty-one years of my life. Eventually, my home will once again be the state of New York but someplace different than I've ever lived before. Home is the place where I live but home is also the place within myself where I feel all is most right. Home can be anyplace I want it to be.  Wow, what an amazing concept! The home where I began, feeling worthless, useless and hopeless, like so much shit, is a mere memory.  Even as I sit here, looking around at the familiar environment, I realize that I have grown above, beyond and past this place.  It is filled with countless memories, good, bad and everything in between, but it does not define me.  It is where I began but not where I will end.

Let Go

How do you know when it's time to let go?  A difficult question for anyone, I'm sure, but an especially difficult one for me.  Though I've quit on myself, all too many times, it takes a lot for me to give up on somebody else.  I constantly make excuses for the bad behavior of others, cutting them WAY more slack than I'd ever give myself, and allow people to treat me with disrespect and, at times, complete disregard.  Why is is that even though I know I deserve better, I continue to allow others to make me feel "less than?"

I watched the movie The Perks of Being a Wallflower on Friday and as was the case when I read the book several months ago, the quote that resonated with me more than any other was this, "We accept the love we think we deserve."  Now, mind you, I have several people in my life who treat me with kindness, respect and genuine care and show me love beyond what I have ever felt worthy of.  I am grateful beyond words for these people. However, there are others who I have placed my faith in and, as I discussed in my previous post, have chosen to retreat, for no apparent reason. Perhaps their initial intention was to be a person that mattered in my life and for me to be a person that mattered in theirs. Perhaps, despite their current behavior, that is STILL their intention. But, in the meantime, they are causing me tremendous pain and damaging me more than I can express.  Maybe this is just how some people are, here today, gone tomorrow, maybe back again in six months, maybe never to return.  Maybe I just never mattered to them at all.  Maybe, despite their vow to embrace honesty and candor, when faced with a genuine connection, something more than a superficial relationship, they find themselves paralyzed by fear and left with what they perceive as no choice but to run for the hills.

I find it interesting when people do not, or cannot, practice what they preach.  I find it even more interesting that even when I recognize this in others, I am still, more often than not, willing to give them chance after chance, wanting so badly to be appreciated, loved and respected, that I delude myself into seeing things that aren't there.  But, then again, perhaps they ARE there and the other person just doesn't have the courage to face them.  Herein lies my dilemma. When do I say when?

In my humble opinion, there is no more brave (or more crazy) thing a human being can do than expose themselves, emotionally, to another person.  Whether it is with a family member or a lover, a friend they have known for ten minutes or ten years, when it comes to being vulnerable, the risk is enormous, the payoff, equally so, and the potential for devastation, huge and constantly looming.  So why is it that we, that I, continue to take that chance?  And why is the end result, so often, heartbreak?

Hypocrisy is something that I find VERY difficult to tolerate.  If you commit to being honest with someone, that is not a temporary or conditional thing.  Sure, everyone tells the occasional "white lie" but when it comes to the things that really matter, the care and protection of someone's heart and soul, there is no room for ANYTHING but the truth.  People are precious, people who have placed their trust in you, even more so.  It is NEVER okay to retreat, with no explanation, from the life of someone who cares about you.  If you needs space, time to think, to breathe, just fucking say so.  If you are afraid because things have suddenly gotten more "real" than you are ready to face, be honest about that, too.  If you find, for whatever reason, that you need to take a step back, either temporarily or permanently, you HAVE to say so.  It is never, EVER okay to simply ignore someone who has opened their heart to you. Sometimes, just the tiniest acknowledgment, even if it's just to say, "This is too much for me to deal with right now but that doesn't mean I don't care," can make a world of difference to someone.  As devastating as it is to hear bad news, in the long run, it's always better to know the truth than to be disregarded.  Nothing, NOTHING is worse than being ignored by someone you care about.

This brings me back to my original question. How do you know when it's time to let go?  I guess if enough time passes and the person who once seemed to care about you refuses to acknowledge your existence or extend you the common courtesy they would show someone they have known for one hot minute, that is probably a good sign that it's time to let go.  Despite how wonderful, special and validated someone has made you feel in the past, if they now make you feel like less than a piece of shit stuck to the bottom of their shoe, it is time to let go.  No matter how many gifts they may have given you, however unintentional that may have been, if they now make you feel like less than nothing, it is time to let go.

I guess I answered my own question, didn't I? The truly tragic fact is that I do know WHEN to let go, I just don't know HOW.  For someone as pessimistic as I am, I want, so badly, for this black cloud to have a silver lining.  Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I want to believe, with all my heart, that this person does still care about me.  I've been down this road before and in my experience, it has never ended well.  You would think that eventually it would be easier to face but it really isn't.  It hurts beyond words each and every time.  Actually, I think that each subsequent time it happens, it hurts MORE because I am older, allegedly wiser, and yet still stupid enough to misplace trust time and time again. Why, oh why, can't someone ever prove me wrong?

The More Things Change...

It's amazing how one can make a mistake, learn one's lesson, then continue to make the same mistake, over and over again. And of course by "one," I'm referring to me.

For as long as I can remember, I have been extremely sensitive, overly sensitive in fact. Even as young as age six or seven, one perceived stink eye, one offhanded comment, could send me into a tailspin of tears and rage and self-loathing. All these years later, despite my best intentions, that has not changed. As much as I'd like to think that I've learned a bit over the years, I really haven't learned a fucking thing. I try to portray myself as someone behind a thick high wall, motivated by self-preservation, only trusting my heart and soul to a select few. I want to believe that I am an excellent judge of character, that I only open myself up to those who are truly worthy of my time and attention. Hell, only a fool would expose themselves to just anyone, right? After nearly forty years on the planet, I have to have developed some sense of who I should trust and who I shouldn't. I must have crafted a finely-tuned bullshit detector. With all the betrayals I've had to face, surely I would have the good sense to go by more than gut instinct when determining who really cares about me and have learned not to set myself up for heartbreak. What kind of fucking moron continues to trust and have her heart broken, time and time again? That would be me.

The longer I'm alive, the less interest I have in trusting anyone. Did you buy that? Fuck, me either. The really sad and sorry fact is that I want to trust, more than anything, even though I know I shouldn't. I want to believe the best in people, that no one would ever INTENTIONALLY cause me pain, especially when I try, with all my might, not to harm others. I know all too well the pain of being betrayed, tossed aside and disregarded. I consider myself, perhaps above all else, a "broken" person and it seems that the people I feel most drawn to are also "broken." Therefore, you'd think that they would be the LAST people to hurt me, they themselves knowing just how fucking devastating it is to be hurt. Yet, time and time again, I find myself being ignored and thrown away, just so much garbage, rendered utterly useless and worthless. I want to take the "enlightened" point of view, to believe that it's "their loss" and that I am better off without them but the fact is, I do not and probably never will believe that. It is far too easy to blame myself, to imagine and re-imagine scenarios in which I must have done something, anything, wrong. I can't possibly keep getting hurt if it isn't somehow my fault. No one can be that unlucky, not even me.

So, once again, I find myself at a crossroads. Do I try to rebuild the wall, this time for real, and shut myself off from new people and experiences or do I continue to follow my heart and trust in people who I truly believe are worth it? I suppose there must be some middle ground, the area in which I so infrequently tread. The answer seems so obvious - let people in gradually, over time, if they seem like they can be trusted. But therein lies the rub. I never know how much is too much. What seems to be a perfectly acceptable level of sharing to me may be deemed far too much to someone else. And what happens when the rules change, when what is initially perceived as "appropriate" suddenly becomes "over the line", seemingly out of nowhere? Ultimately, I have to be true to no one but myself. But right now, at this very moment, my heart is broken, yet again, and right or wrong, I find it hard to blame anyone but me.

UPDATE:  So, after about an hour and a nice long chat with my husband, I've come to a different conclusion.  The fact of the matter is, I CANNOT blame myself, for this or any other incidence of being "tossed aside," "forgotten," "disregarded" or "ignored."  Wearing my heart on my sleeve, trusting and loving others, is NOT a character defect.  Sure, I've probably trusted and loved the wrong people on occasion but the act of doing those things is not, in and of itself, wrong.

I am one hell of a person.  You will NEVER meet someone more loyal to her friends or more willing to give, in every way, to help someone she loves.  This, too, is not a character flaw but something to be commended and appreciated.  I know that I have many acquaintances and some true friends who recognize and value these qualities in me. Those who do not, well, quite frankly, it IS their loss.

I never say never.  Sure, I may pull doors partway shut but I never close them completely.  Everyone has the potential to grow and change. Everyone is on his or her own journey and has his or her own lessons to learn along the way.  Some of those lessons may be to appreciate the love and support of others when it is given, to recognize that letting others help you does not make you weak but makes you STRONG and that being completely independent isn't always brave and can sometimes be the most cowardly way of coping.  It is not my job, or my intention, to judge.  Believe me, I will never EVER examine another human being under a more precise and damning microscope than I do myself.  I guess what it boils down to is this:  I am valuable, I am important and despite the hiccups along the way, I will, ultimately, find people who understand me and can relate to me on the precise level I desire.  I, as does everyone, deserve nothing less.

In the Moment

I am not the same person I used to be. We're all, ideally, in constant evolution and I suspect that if any human being compared who she was this time last year, a decade ago, when she was a child, to who she is now, there would be an insane amount of change and growth, right? The remarkable thing is that I am not comparing myself to the Kari of long ago. I have changed, grown and, to a large degree, discovered myself in just a few short weeks. For most of my thirty-nine years, I lived in near-constant fear, constantly trying to impress others, to please them. Now I live for myself. That probably sounds selfish and maybe it is but I don't fucking care. I have realized that the extremely corny sentiment that one must love oneself before one can truly love another is actually completely true. I have also learned to value my own judgment above all others. This is HUGE for me. I've always been reluctant to make decisions on my own, figuring that if I left the deciding to someone else and ended up in a bad place, well, I could blame THAT person for my problems. When I think about that now, reflect on all the opportunities I've let pass me by, all the chances untaken, I feel sick. I have wasted SO much time. But not anymore. It might have been a long time coming but I am now going to live for today, trying to embrace each precious moment for the gift that it is, without fear or regret. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to be nothing less than honest with others and, more importantly, myself. I will no longer settle for anything less. Some may call me a bitch, some may call me brave. I'm not going to lie and say that those names or descriptions no longer matter BUT they matter a whole lot less than they used to. I feel empowered and so much more confident than ever before. I'm choosing to have only quality people in my life, people whom I respect and I know respect me back. It feels like a tremendous weight has been lifted from my shoulders and there is absolutely, positively NO looking back.

Me...In Progress

I am precisely thirty-nine years, four months and one day old. My reasonable estimate is that of that time, I have probably been truly happy for about six years and most of that was during my first five years of life. I fully believe that I was born broken. Now, some may not call depression "brokenness" but that is how it feels to me. It's as if I am missing a vital piece or that the pieces I have are in the wrong order and cannot be repaired.

My genetic depression has certainly been exacerbated by outside factors. Had I not been raised by a mother who she herself suffers from depression; had my father worked less, been more present, not gotten sick at 43 and died at 53; were my brother not an addict/alcoholic, my life might have been quite different. Had I not been born and raised in a town of one square mile where the town's size was often matched by the small-mindedness and "tolerance" of its residents, surely I would have been less judgmental, less condemning of myself, right? Perhaps. But today is the day I try to put that all behind me, to let go of grievances and slights, both real and imagined, and come to terms with the fact that I am depressed and it is no one's fault, including my own. I am responsible for the choices I have made, or refused to make. I can no longer point the finger of blame and say, "I am this way because of YOU." I am this way simply because I am and no one can change that except for me.

I am deeply ashamed of the choices I have made (or been too afraid to make). I am an imperfect person. I make mistakes, sometimes repeatedly. But I know, inside, that I am a good person. You will never meet a person who is more loyal, more protective, more willing to lay down her life for the people she loves. I am smart, creative, funny, supportive and thoughtful. Yet despite these things, I don't like myself. How can this be? I have spent far too long trying to answer this question, trying to figure out why, if I'm so good, do I always FEEL so bad. I guess what I need to learn is that I may never have the answers to these questions. Maybe there aren't any. Maybe what I need to do is let go of the past, forgive myself, take a deep breath and move on. I refuse to spend the rest of my life trying to fill voids and correct past mistakes that can never be changed. I must simply release that old Kari and, starting today, right now, this very minute, begin the process of becoming who I want to be, without fear, without shame. You may not like the "new" Kari. She will be stronger, braver, less afraid to speak her mind and certainly less suggestible. Yes, you may not like her but hopefully, I will love her, at last.

Nearly Broken

Well, fuck me! I had every intention of blogging every day this month, not for any particular reason other than it was a personal goal I had set for myself. I had set that same goal regarding working out and I've failed there, too. I do have a very good reason for this. Yesterday was one of the most difficult days of my life. At this point, I'm not remotely ready to share the reason for that, I'm afraid, but suffice it to say, I am dealing with some enormously difficult things and I am quite terrified.

What I will share is that I am fairly certain that Wednesday will be the day we let Spencer go. He has hardly eaten in several days, a bite of food here and there but not nearly enough to maintain a healthy weight, let alone his tiny weight of roughly six pounds. He is still able to walk around, look at us, drink on occasion but his "soul" is gone. It is almost like watching a zombie, going through the motions, simply running on instinct and memory but with very little to no real cognition left. Our vet will be in on Wednesday and that is the day, barring any remarkable improvement (that, I won't lie, I am wishing to see more than ANYTHING,) that we will let our boy go. There are fleeting moments - he'll rub his head against my leg, hop up onto the computer desk or onto the bed where I'll think, "see, he's still here, he wants to fight." Then I look into his beautiful eyes and wonder if what he's really saying is "Please Mommy. I love you. Let me go." This is the most difficult heart-rending choice I have ever had to make and for someone as reluctant to make decisions as I am, the pressure is overwhelming. This is the one thing I CANNOT fuck up. Brian has come to the same conclusion. We have to do what is best for him and it seems that his quality of life is diminishing daily. He could not mean more to me if he was my flesh and blood child.

So, I may or may not be blogging tomorrow or the next day. I'd like to try as it really is important to me but I just don't know if I will be strong enough. As I implied, there are other things I am dealing with as well and I'll tell you, I know many people say, "God never gives you more than you can handle." To those folks I say, with all due respect, I think that is a crock of shit.