Revelations

Not that bad a parent, not that bad an artist, not that bad a writer, not that bad a comedian.  Bad at self esteem, self worth, and faith.  As much as I preach, can't take my own advice, or unaware I wasn't, until out in the world, paying attention to what's going on with an ear to the ground. 


It wasn't me; it was the culture.  A culture that will point the finger at anyone who isn't sure where their place is.




I've been here before, at a different stage in life, looking through different eyes: young, ignorant eyes.  Thinking the world is as we wish it to be.  It isn't.  There will be things we will never understand. First Corinthians 2:9.




I understand that I've charged too little, asserted too little, insisted too little, and followed through too little.  I do finish what I start, there's just to many irons in the fire, which slows down all of them.  It could be the general family curse: jack of all trades and master of none.  The truth is I'm master of a few, and been distracted from narrowing the plan.




I'm told there is a plan I'm not aware of, from a Higher Power.  I get it.  I'm more patient over time, and more grateful.  It doesn't stop the anxiety and fear, or the trauma that's ingrained that kicks in like an involuntary reflex at the worst possible times.  I'm paralyzed and frozen, conscious of my surroundings and unable to move, except I can move, only in very slow motion.




Keep up appearances.  The look of being poised, collected, and perhaps a little too calm, or even aloof isn't what it looks like.  It's paralysis, an inability to act quickly, it's less indecisiveness than being stuck in slow motion.



I've been depressed, which comes back randomly, when events seem to negate all efforts or progress: the reason for so many irons in the fire.  If one gets shut down, there's another in the pipeline. 




So the revelation is I was interrupted, which I knew.  What I didn't know was the fog I walk through that's almost a dreamlike state as often as not.  It's a survival mechanism that no longer serves me.  Can I shake it by will alone?  No.  That's what Higher Power is for, when I remember to ask.

Menopause, and Change

Guess it's now official; one full year without a cycle.  Came close a couple of years that didn't hit the 12 month anniversary.  This time it did.


Blessed is not really the word, though some might argue to the contrary.  The Fall, or original sin got women bleeding regularly.  Lucky is more fitting, at least for now.  Either I have a high threshold for discomfort, or symptoms have not been as classically severe, as it is for many.  Have slowed down, though not entirely because of 'the change'.


Too many other things have come into play, that make this just another milestone, that causes little suffering by comparison.


Saying a prayer of thanks every night, not because so called menopause has come and perhaps gone as well.  Because another day went by when we have so much more than many can say.


Hurricanes, devastation, poverty, hunger, thirst, and not having full physical or mental faculties as a result has not happened here, lately.  It has in too many other places of late, and the world is watching.  'The change' for me is not even a blip on the radar, and I prefer it that way.


We must use what we have to help those who have less, which includes their full faculties, regardless of resources.  Those with the most materially are not always the smartest, and can do things that hurt many others.  We must watch out for them as much as those who become the brunt of ignorant actions.  Every day is a gift, and we must do all we can, every moment.

Violated, again

TSA NY: 2 Hands Up Crotch; threatened after 1st one, then again. 'Comply, or U'll B detained'. 5 legal ID's weren't OK: Laguardia.

It's also called re-victimization. Real victims are dead, or are they? Survivors are self-identified. I fall into the latter category, until it happens again.

Anyone who hasn't had anything worse or comparably 'bad' happen to them tend to call others 'self-identified victims', which can be true, up to a point. When violations over the course of time mount upon one another (no pun intended), month after month, year after year, the impact is irreversible, and seeps into the psyche, transforming one's identity, and perspective on the world. Reality is relative; every 'world view is different' there is sometimes no right or wrong; often there is.

What happened at the airport is inexcusable, the 'supervisor' had a sadomasochistic attitude, got off on 'power and control', insensitive to who she was groping or that exploiting her 'position' would set into motion further trauma from violations that began in childhood and continue to this day. It only comes back and becomes crippling when someone who uses the excuse of 'doing their job' imposes on the rights of others at will or on a perverted, sadistic whim, at the expense of a mother on her way to visit a child who has been through similar trauma, having disclosed what has happened in her absence.

What goes around comes around? Let's hope so, on both counts, and to all the others who project their 'needs', 'justified' in the false context of 'responsibility', onto those who cannot defend themselves.

Now

No more time; not getting any younger. Life is too short; the time is now. Age means nothing. Jerry Lewis was right about one thing: underneath it all, everyone is nine years old. No one looks different from anyone else any more, all that shows is how evolved each one is, by what they say or do. My child is an old soul, torn between two worlds. Still working out the complexities of our intertwined relationship and how it melds with our respective purposes. He doesn't know his yet, nor would I. My purpose is to allow others to see they can choose much 'earlier' than I did. When my son is ready, he will either decide for himself or ask for guidance. I must continue either way; part of the reason for going on is my child, the rest are important as well, and will be included as they wish. I'm to simply be out and accessible, doing more than talking, accomplishing more than influencing. The latter will come with the former.

Better at picking battles, wishing there were none to decide between. Though that wouldn't be life on earth as we know it otherwise. The contrast creates the distinction between why there's so much effort and the potential rewards. Every single moment involves a choice. Like the wings of a butterfly against a breeze or flowing with the air currents. Sometimes it's all just timing, or so it would seem. Action, keep going, persist, don't stop. Keep breathing; 'the ability to take a deep breath' is checking into the moment of place, in touch with what is to be done, in the right place at the right time. Live well, choose, go, and be. In honor of one legacy, the one being created is only visible through what comes later, through actions and choices as small as the beating of butterfly wings from one moment to the next, until they all add up, and the mark in time is what remains.

Turning the corner

This time tomorrow, it will be another decade, another birthday, another turning point. This year is no exception in that having a birthday at a time when others are celebrating makes for leaving out the details of one's personal reality, for better or otherwise. It's not about age, as this has been happening since adolescence or as long as can be remembered. It's just too much at once: a birthday and major holiday at the same time, not unique to anyone who is familiar with the same.

So the celebration is deliberately a quiet one, known only by those close. Forgotten almost as soon as it's mentioned to anyone who might overhear, unless one is a celebrity. Still no regrets there. There might have been another child, though not the same one, who has been a gift and a miracle. As fragile as ever, who brought on the reckoning of another childhood lost, though not so much as others. Knowing the latter neither compensates for or lessens the impact when it's your only family, one's only child, grandchild, nephew, cousin, with their own precious life that passes in minutes, hours, days, and weeks that will not be replaced.

To some, we are not unique, depersonalized and labelled from the moment help and protection is sought. Categorized, stigmatized, triaged, stereotyped, profiled: our social conditioning, the biases of our respective environments, or simply social pressure, sometimes called 'politics', for lack of a better term. No wonder so many times 'no good deed goes unpunished'. In a different environment it's nearly impossible to imagine what happens to others, much less the long-term impact, especially early in life. For those who survive the connections and progression becomes very clear over time, yet those considered elders without awareness or knowledge continue to repeat history.

There is always something to be grateful for, yet for those whose loved ones are unaccounted for or whose whereabouts or state of health is unknown there is no peace. Not everyone loves children, not even their own; for those who do life is never the same once the completely unexpected changes everything forever in the blink of an eye, the stroke of a pen, an uninformed statement, all at once. Over time, there are many tears unknown or ignored, the source unrecognized. There are premature deaths, literal and of the spirit; personalities become completely different from abrupt changes in environment and exposure. And we wonder what is wrong with the current generation or the one before, as if it had nothing to do with the decisions of those who never touched them 'in any direct way'.

Perception is not what we see, any more than what we're told. The evolution of a spirit is only as good as its environment and support system in many regards, though not all. No child deserves to have their childhood taken. Looking at others through different eyes and listening to the words of souls without knowing where they came from one cannot distinguish between who is actually the child, as the most wisdom often comes from who is thought to be the latter.

So as the fireworks go off and confetti descends, the choice is to remain silent, for now.

Regrets, To the Little Girl on the Staten Island Ferry

One resolved, only to acquire another. The intention here is to maintain the most optimistic attitude possible; I am a 'glass half-full' person in the worst of times. Thus, I hope the little girl seen at 2:00 a.m. on the Staten Island Ferry was sad and in tears for anything but what it looked like: another child with an abuser, perhaps a sexual abuser. The person she was with offered a tissue, though I know this type of person very well: trying to look civil in a public setting. His face showed no compassion and avoided eye contact, knowing I was watching.

Because I couldn't get close enough to hear the conversation, I stood up two rows away and watched directly. She looked at me with burning eyes, clearly not wanting to be where she was and at times looking almost as if she wanted to die, to be anywhere but where she was.

There were 'officers' in the back of the boat. It was a twenty-five minute trip. I was sleep-deprived from a long day and could barely put two sentences together, let alone find the right words to express myself effectively, or so I thought. It was a Friday night, and this was perhaps his visitation, or this was a night someone else was unavailable and he was the only one who could 'take care of her'.

Whatever was going on, it didn't look like it was the first time. Either she had just come from somewhere that kept her crying silently during the whole trip, or she was about to experience something that she was helpless to prevent. I pray it was the former; either way, I feel as though I should have acted, though past experience had me frozen. All I could do in those twenty-five minutes was stand during the whole trip and stare at them, looking for a clearer sign to go to the police, who happened to be visible at the back of the boat.

There was an employee a friend knew who worked on the boat in the ladies room, who had disclosed to her that she was regularly beaten by her boyfriend. I was disturbed enough by this to go to an officer the next time I saw her working there and tell them what I knew. His response was that unless the woman went to him herself there was nothing he could do, that 'what if they took action on everyone who made such a report'? I was disappointed and discouraged, thought not surprized.

That experience and my fatigue kept me from going to the back of the boat that night, expecting the same response. This time it was a child, this time who she was with would lie if asked if there was something the child was upset about; he would likely not permit anyone to talk to her directly. She was property, too afraid to speak with who she was with that she couldn't get away from, who spoke in a very low voice with no emotion or expression of compassion as her tears flowed that she wiped herself, refusing the tissue he offered.

I watched helplessly as they got up when the boat got closer to its destination, the little girl, no more than eight, the same age as my son, walked ahead of her captor and faced forward to not have to look at him. I stood as close as I could to her side on the other side of the rope. She glanced at me a time or two, looking terrified, or enraged, or both, maybe at me for not doing anything, maybe because that's what she's always gotten: no one helping or caring, or even knowing that whenever she's with this person, something happens that she can't stop, and can't tell anyone.

By the time I was ready to go to someone they were still in the back of the boat, chatting as they had the whole time, watching no one, untrained, uncaring for any sort of subtle dynamics as these, inaccessible. I was angry that they were not now in the front of the boat, as they should have been.

Still helplessly watching, the seemingly heartless person the child was with took her hand again, as he had when I first spotted them about to get on. They walked together briskly toward the buses and disappeared into the crowd; there was nothing I could have done by then even if I'd been able to keep up with them. An eight year old if sad over anything other than coming from a death of a loved one does not continue to cry in such a way for such a time period unless something is out of the ordinary.

Two days later when I was able to see another cop on another boat I asked what was the procedure when those kinds of things happen. What are they trained to spot or do when nothing is happening though it appears clear that something may be about to happen, something that's happened before and may happen again, sometimes ongoing for years in a child's life with no one knowing. He said different officers are different, though they're not trained to spot such things for the most part, and that I should have gone to them...

I hope you were sad over anything but what it looked like; if I ever see you again or him I will not forget what you or he looked like. I will never forget your face. If I ever see the two of you together again with the same thing going on I promise I'll get help; I'm sorry I may have failed you. I hope you can forgive me. It's sometimes all I can do to protect one child, as I sometimes have to watch helplessly while another goes through what they don't deserve. Please be well, and safe.