Saturday, April 24, 2010

The time I kill is killing me

The time I normal would spend with my older son, is now my time. And to be honest I don’t really want it. I already have enough empty time on my hands. I miss the special early morning bonding with him when he was only a year old and it was just him and me. ....gotta take a break. Sorry I was having several flashbacks to some special moments we have shared over the years. Damn it sounds like he died or something, or moved a thousand miles away, but he hasn’t. He moved in with some friends that live less than a mile from here. I miss him, but I know he’s growing up and wanting to have a life of his own. Still, I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

There is where my problem lies. With time. It has passed too quickly. He was conceived in November 1988. That was such a long time ago, but it still feels like a few blinks of my eye. I notice time too much now. Each night I go to lay down and as my head hits the pillow I think to myself, “wasn’t I doing this just a few minutes ago?” I need to find something that will make my days feel more memorable. I miss the excitement of new things. It’s not like when I was in my teens and twenties where everyday brought the possibility of something new. Now at 43, I feel like........ There’s nothing for me to do.

Tonight I sit here alone, with a clean house and nothing to do with my time but play games on face book. There’s no yelling at the boys to behave or that’s it’s time for bed...etc. Readjusting to life without them both there is hard. At one point in my life, I truly looked forward to my years when I would no longer have to pick up their dirty socks from the floor, yell at them to pick up their rooms, or to get their chores done. Now that time has arrived, and wish I could go back and do it all over again.

My younger sons 17th birthday was on Monday the 12th but we celebrated it on Saturday the 10th. It gave me a reason to call my older son and have him stop by. It allowed us to have a talk, and I let him know that I was still there if he needed anything. Since then he has stopped by a couple times and picked up his mattress, bedding, more clothing, food, and of course I gave him several boxes of dishes that I had brought last year just for him. Back then when I bought the stuff, I knew this day was coming, but it’s almost like a sudden death in the family... You don’t quite know how to react until it happens.

My moods have been rapidly running up and down hills and through valleys, and frequently getting lost in the woods. There have been recent days when thoughts of death are my constant companion. Then I take a breath and remember, I still have time to put in with my 17-year-old, and that alone is what allows me to see streaks of sunlight peeking through the trees and warming my face.


artquest1 said...

I’ve been reading your blog for a month or so, and I’ve had mixed feelings as to whether I should write a comment. The easiest course is to compliment your writing skills, which are quite good, but, since your tag line notes “writer”, you probably already have a hunch that it is true.

I don’t have an inkling as to what I could say about the content, as you have lived a life that is beyond my ken (although your writing has certainly opened my eyes as to aspects of your world and its impact upon you). I have learned through life experiences that the details and incidents you share are but a small fraction of the entire narrative. Facts, actions, dates and the “cast of characters” are merely the stuff of reviews and TV one-hour dramas – I suspect “the real story” lies not in the past but in your daily life and how you manage to accomplish the activities you engage in.

I suppose that what I really wanted to comment upon is your bravery, stamina, and willingness to share intimacies that are well beyond what most of us can understand.

I must ask the question – have you considered organizing this into a work of fiction – a novel or play? I’m sure you understand that when I say fiction I am not saying “make believe or fairy tale”, but rather adding and embellishing enough to make this a work that can be embraced by the reader as well as writing that allows you to continue to express yourself.

If this has been an intrusion, I apologize – it’s just that I felt I needed to show my appreciation for the astounding body of work you have accomplished.

Best wishes, Bob

MsPsycho said...

Thank you for the compliment. I put writer in the tag line mostly because that is what I inspire to be...someday. High school education only runs so far.

I write mostly to free my mind, but I also hope along the way my writing will maybe help others to understand.

I have thought about writing a novel or play, but I find it hard to focus for long stretches at a time. When I have a storyline going, if I don't quickly finish the story, it will go untold.

Several years ago I wrote my life story and sent it to one publishing company, who didn't accept it, but encouraged me to keep writing. I never did anything else with the story and it now sits, hidden away in some folder. Since then all I've done is write short stories. But even that has recently faded. Sometimes I can write, sometimes I go months without writing a coherent sentence.

I wouldn't know where to begin in putting this writing into a full story that other people would enjoy. And "The real story" is a story that I will probably forever keep hidden.

It's never an intrusion when others stop by and leave a comment. That is why I leave it open for anyone to post a response. Thank you for stopping by, I look forward to checking out more of your blog.

Hope you have a great day!

artquest1 said...

A couple of thoughts.
Writing is both a craft (with skills and techniques to be learned and mastered), and it is also an art (which resides internally, and is not dependant or subject to external evaluation). While further education (other than the powerful life lessons you have learned) might simplify things for you, it would be no substitute for the passion, emotion and intensity that you have already mastered, and to an amazing extent harnessed. Given the choice, almost anyone would rather read a writer with a passionate narrative over one with a command of punctuation and spelling (that’s why they invented “spell-check” and proof-readers).

You mention that you write to free your mind and to perhaps help others to understand (and to perhaps not feel alone and isolated). You get no argument from me on either issue, and both are wonderful and powerful reasons to continue. If those are your goals, I will applaud your efforts and quietly “fade out” as you are doing an exemplary job.

If, however, you also aspire to becoming a writer (as opposed to diarist and a “documentarian”), I might have a few suggestions that could help you on your path.

As one who finds that keeping a journal to record your past and its effect upon your life is helpful and perhaps even therapeutic, by all means, continue on your present pathway. Seeking truth and honesty (in both reporting the past as well as understanding your present) is no doubt a critically important process. While I make no pretense to being a therapist, I can readily understand that it would be difficult if not impossible for a person to grow in self-understanding and self-awareness without a level of honesty and truth in your dialogue with yourself.

However, as a writer, truth and reality can often get in the way of the honesty that an artist strives to achieve. While a writer is certainly able to draw from experience and personal observation, the art comes always from your own reaction and interpretation of “the real world”. A telephone directory is literal, truthful (as far as possible) and informative, but it has no honesty or narrative at all. All art must be colored, altered and embellished by the author (or poet, painter or sculptor) or it becomes merely a recording of useful information. In order to be honest, and artist must be willing to lie!

What I am suggesting is, that while your life and your experiences, as horrible, powerful and perhaps evil as they are/am - those memories and realities are more of a starting point than and finished artistic statement. Art does not give us a record of what is but rather it allows us to glimpse what might have been, could have been or what never will be. Art allows us to see more than truth and reality (careful delineation of fact). Art allows us a bit of awareness into the emotion and insights of another human being. A camera can record what you look like, but only your child, your lover (or perhaps even your abuser) can give us their image of you.

In other words, you might want to consider the concept of “point-of-view” as opposed to “This is what happened/is happening.”

I am going on and on, and perhaps this is beyond the purview of a blog comment. If you are interested in continuing this dialogue, you can feel free to write me directly (my e-mail is on my *temporarily discontinued) blog.

Good luck, Bob

MsPsycho said...

Thanks Bob. I'm always open to new ideas and suggestions.

Verlin said...

As a long time therapist who just stumbled upon your writings, I want to add my hearty endorsement of Bob's comment.

In the long run, your conversations with yourself can become some of your best therapy. People write themselves into a new life.

AgnesTea said...

humph, *sigh* I cried while reading your blog. As a 20 year old sociophobe who fears the outdoors, I often get the same feeling as you when I lay down to sleep. -Didn't I just wake up? I've been staring out the window for hours- I also felt a deep connection to your current mood as a mother. I saw my own mother in your words. It hurts to know (and I do know) that she cries at night because I've moved all the way to the other side of the country.
Thank you for your reflections. You've captured emotions that are highly relevant to human life.