Facing Off

I can't help wondering why we are so averse to pain or death, after watching a crazy scene from a movie recently.

Here is my version of the scene:
A man stands, six foot seven on a roof top, wet with rain, pointing a hand sized gun at the eight year old girl.
Girl: "Will it hurt a lot."
Man: "Just for a second."
Girl: "Ok, I'm ready."
Man: "Now brace yourself. One, two, three," POW! (shoots gun)
The girl flies backwards and hits the cement, disappearing from view.
The night is silence for several seconds.
Then the girl hops up and says, "That wasn't so bad." She pulls open her sweater to look at the bullet imbedded in the black vest.
Man: "So only two more times and we will get burgers at Five Guys and Fries."
Girl: "Okay, but I want a shake with that."
Man: "It's a deal."

***
The scenario haunts me. I watch and fear for the little girls life. A child not aware of death and a man who actually shoots her. I wince at the idea of death. My real fear, however is believing I am worthless. The gun pointing at my head is my vision of what everyone else is thinking about me. The bullet will knock me over with a "Don't take up any more of my air." I wonder if people notice my eyes flying down, left, my limbs bracing for a fall. The worst thing that could happen, would be losing God's eyes locked on mine; his attending to me with a soft smile on his face.

I just read a great novel by Margo Raab called Cures for Heartbreak and in it, the main girl loses her mom at fifteen and regularly worries about her dad's heart disease. She wonders what to do while alone, beyond reading romance novel and dreaming about real love. She meets a few boys who act interested without knowing anything about her, leaving her suspicious of men. Each time she interacts with a hot guy, she tells herself they are not interested in her. At one point there is a "good one" that comes along and invites her into his space. I chuckle at my own desire for them to be together, because it never gets old. It is the fantasy of a relationship where they can say anything and be accepted.  

There are two places that I can relax, journaling and running. Alone, I don't have to wonder what I have done to cause them to be happy or sad and what I need to do to fix them. That game is exhausting. I can't change others, especially, when I don't take care of myself.

As I anticipate this, I become the little eight year old girl locking eyes with you. I say, "reject me." I fall backwards and rest for ten seconds and then stand up and say, "ok again," until I no longer duck at your potential to see me and can listen to the voices that wants our best.

Editing A Life

I attended a local writing conference this weekend to find inspiration in the process. What the leader of my workshop, Margo Rabb and others seemed to repeat most was, there is no easy way in or out of the process. It is all hard! Without saying anything about the choice in being a writer, someone who knows my tendency to quit after a given amount of time, recently encouraged me to stick with it.

Stephen King's definition of a writer is, "She who shuts the door." This idea comes back to me this week as I think kick my fists against the table, because I said yes to everything except my writing time. My best friend writes daily and when I talk to her, I hear the rich calm, that comes with congruence between action and belief.

I find myself wanting to be like her or Margo Raab or any number of committed writers, who have a novel under their belt. I think, maybe if I write something profound, people will stop and say, "I want to know her." This idea moves me away from sharing my stories and stuck in the pursuit of get people's approval.

I read an article by David Mills entitled, "Overcoming 'Self-Esteem': Why our compulsive drive for 'self-esteem' is anxiety-provoking, socially inhibiting, and self-sabotaging." The writer spends several pages explaining why action based self-worth creates high stakes and performance based mood-swings. His answer is that if you eliminate ratings you can observe the world honestly and live freely.

So I sit here observing the world in hopes that I can enjoy this moment. I can play the role of me as me, let you be you as you, without any pressure to be anything more than that. As Bridget Jone's man says it, "I like you just the way you are," or said another way, "I like me that way too, sweaty armpits, wild fly aways in my hair and fictional shorts with titles like "Intercourse" and "Gonorrhea" that I may never be brave enough to let anyone read.

Alzheimers

My teacher, Deborah Bayer wrote the most beautiful Reader Response for The Sun Magazine on the theme, Rites of Passage.  I hope everyone will read it. It is about her mother finding joy in a duck flying, as if she is a child and she ends with, "suddenly her condition seemed less like a downward spiral and more like a coming full circle." I am Inspired by her beautiful connection with loving her mother's joy in her altered state. Here is a story I wrote about what my mom might be thinking as she battled with dementia.

Cutting “Mom” Hair
(Note: This is a fictional story based on a visit I had with my mom, where we cut her hair and she ended up falling out of bed in the night, which we discovered because her head was bloody in the morning.)

            I feel someone pulling my arms. I can’t see the faces in the light box [TV], against the wall.  Hands touch my shoulder. I hear, “mom.” I squint. I crinkle to move the smudged glasses that hide my eyes.

            I am lifting. Where am I going?  I look to the light in the ceiling but it hurts. I sit in a hard chair with a table at my chest.  Am going to be fed a slushed salad? A small hand grabs my pants. I move it off. What is it?

            I listen to sounds. “Mom. . . mom. . . mom. . .”, “hair,” and “eyes” and “love.” What? Blurry blue eyes look in. I feel warm air on my cheek. I try to shift away. A cloth tucks in my neck. Fingers move my head. I raise my shoulders. Zips and pulls and hands.  Dust falls. Get up! I lift my head and shoulders forward. I am pushed down. Is Lou [husband] rubbing my shoulders? Now the touch is gone.  

            A dark haired girl has sharp pokes in her fingers. I know what she is doing.  Remember how to say it. I touch my head. She keeps moving. Read letters in front of eyes, “B. .ee .E. tt. . T. s. . S. . ..” An eye is close to me, looking.

“Yes. . . me,” it says.

            More noises, words, “down,” “do this. . .” More dust falling. I rub it into the sticky crinkles of my neck and keep my shoulders up. Itchy.

            “Mom.” What say? “look . . . nice.” Little person is running away.

I am lifted. Wet?  Cold air. I want to move. Stand. The weight is there pushing me down.

More hands and wet. I shut my eyes. My shirt is catching on my head, pulling me into the dark inside and then naked. Water on my neck. Hands touch my shoulders. Cold.  Shiver. Bat the arms away. Hands rub face. Look at eyes. Who are you? I let my shoulders fall, eyes close.

            

***

In dark. I hear the sound of “mom” over and over and know I am mom. The voice is high and scared.  The eyes tears when I sing . . .”Jesus love me” and I say, “yes.” I want those blurry eyes, want to say, “Betsy.”

Where is she? Move forward, pull arms to the surface. My legs lumber, weighing on the sheets. “Betsy, I know. I remember.” Where do I find you?

***

Noises and fuzzes at the TV box. The faces close in on me and the little person hops. There is excitement. Fingers poke. “blood. . . wet. . hands?” I relax and hear “found. . . floor. . . mom.” You heard me and came back. It is you. I slouch back, letting people fuss with my arms.  My feet lift and hands cradle them. They swish my toes in circles. I close my eyes and breathe the smell of fresh shampoo.