Toxicity and Its Antidote

Don't you love Saturdays? Don't get me wrong---Fridays are awesome too. Fridays are all about anticipation and plotting and planning. But Saturdays are awesome. Especially when you tell yourself that you're going to do something you don't really want to do but feel like you have to, and then you decide to let yourself off the hook.

That's what I did. I was going to drive down to Beaufort and spend the day with my mother so she would leave my Dad alone. He's in Delaware taking care of my ailing grandmother. My mother is one of those unfortunate souls who is never happy unless she is the constant center of attention. So with my Dad in another state and, even worse, paying a lot more attention to someone she considers her rival in many, many ways, it's only a matter of time before my mother explodes. She'll get "sick" or hurt herself or somehow finagle a way to get my Dad to leave his mother and come back to take care of her. This is an old pattern, oft repeated.

So I was going to take one for the team and go stay with her and let her use me as the proverbial punching bag. I'd pay attention and let her say all the terrible things she's been storing up all week---things about my Dad, my grandmother, my aunt, my uncle, me, my husband. We're all her targets because we're all guilty of...well, something. Everything. Who knows. I just know that when she gets going, we're all The Bad Guys, and she's the Helpless Victim.

I probably don't have to tell you that as the days crept closer to the weekend, I started feeling crappy and resentful and depressed. And then my husband, whose soul is much kinder and generous than mine, had a talk with me about the difference in being a good person and being a martyr.

I felt pretty bad about being called a martyr. The word has uncomfortable connotations for me because if you look up the word martyr in the dictionary, there's probably a picture of my mother's face creased in a rictus of suffering. She suffers terribly because of us, and she tells us on a regular basis that she does it because she loves us. She tells me every now and then that she would die for me. You know, I hate it when she says that. I really do.

R and I talked a little more about this martyr thing, and he explained that what he meant was that I could be a good person without putting myself in an unsafe situation. Sad to say that spending time alone with my mother is considered an unsafe situation in our family, but there you have it. The woman is toxic in ways you can't even begin to imagine, and despite years of exposure, therapy, medication, and prayer, I still haven't found the antidote to her poison.

And finally, I figured out that my plan to go spend time with her would accomplish nothing at all. She's still going to crack at some point and insist that my Dad come home. She's still going to make him pay for leaving her behind. She's still going to say terrible things to and about all of us, including my poor grandmother and my stressed-out aunt. So why sacrifice my Saturday and my mental well being to a lost cause?

It might seem like such a little thing, but this realization is huge for me. Despite knowing that my mother is a pathological liar and a toxic person, I carry around a significant amount of guilt about her and our relationship. I've felt guilty for not going down to see her more often, for not talking to her more often when I call every week, for not being more present in her life. I've felt guilty for protecting myself from her.

Did you notice the use of the past tense in that paragraph?

I'm not saying I'm completely free of guilt, that I won't give my mother a second thought today. But I'm not feeling guilty or deficient in my duties as a daughter for not going down there to soak up the poison on my dad's behalf. Nothing I can do will change what's going to happen. And honestly, this is more my Dad's problem than mine. He has a choice in how he responds to her behavior. I can't be the one who pays for his choices.

Whew. Heady stuff for a Saturday, yeah?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my husband out to lunch. And then I may hit the bookstore. I want to get some more writing done today, and I've got a couple of books calling my name.

Don't you love Saturdays?

The Doorway Into Thanks

Yes, it’s really 3:25 a.m., and yes, I’m really awake. :)

I just got back from our church’s 24-hour prayer vigil, and I wanted to write about the experience before I conk out for a few hours.

Several weeks ago, we created prayer request cards and handed them out to our congregation. Then we relentlessly nagged people about filling out the cards and turning them in. I know I filled out at least a dozen; it’s an unfortunate fact of life that I know so many folks who are struggling in one way or another and could use some extra help.


When the sign-up board went up for the vigil, I picked the hours that I figured would be the least popular---from midnight onward. I signed up for the 12 am to 2 am block because I know my limits (I get extra cranky when I go without sleep), plus I have this superstition-thing about 3 am after seeing The Exorcism of Emily Rose. *shudder* Anyhoo...

After a long after-work nap, I got up at 10:30 pm and headed for church by 11:30. A clear night and light traffic made the short drive enjoyable. Our church was well lit, and the number of cars in the parking lot surprised me.

The warm lights in the sanctuary were complemented by soft instrumental music. Our pastor loves instrumental versions of hymns, so he’d set up a portable CD player and supplied a stack of “Our Daily Bread” CDs. I settled into a pew and opened my copy of The Night Offices - Prayers for the Hours from Sunset through Sunrise. I’d hoped the set of prayers for midnight would be a good way to settle my mind and focus on praying, and sure enough, the graceful rhythms of the prayers, hymn texts, religious poems, and readings did the trick. I could feel the day’s tension and generalized crankiness draining out of me.

I’d participated in the last prayer vigil our church held, so I was sort of prepared for the experience. What I wasn’t prepared for was the tremendous feeling of tenderness and humility that filled me as I read through the prayer cards I fished out of the box and offered up prayer after prayer for the people who needed comfort, healing, direction, a new job, a home. There’s something amazing about praying for others; the practice can lift you out of your own life, your own troubles. I’m fully aware of my own self-absorption and tendency to stew about silly crap, yet tonight, I stopped thinking about my stupid stuff and concentrated on adding love and positive energy into the universe on the behalf of people who were struggling with real problems. Several cards moved me to tears, and I was kind of glad that I was alone in the sanctuary so no one would see me wiping my nose on the hem of my shirt.

I had one of those moments that’s hard to describe without sounding (a) crazy, (b) self-indulgent, or (c) woo-woo new age-y. I had a stack of cards in one hand and our Lutheran service book in the other, and I was praying for someone I knew, someone I’ve worked with who has given me more than a few gray hairs, sleepless nights, and too many opportunities to abuse Maalox. Despite all of this, I like this person, even though 9 times out of 10, I could easily hang him on a hook (as Pastor likes to say). And as I prayed for him and pictured him in my mind, pictured him healthy and grinning and causing trouble, I felt this odd sensation in my chest. Not pain, not pressure, not trapped gas. It was like I was being filled up with light and warmth and peace, and I felt connected, like I was part of something bigger, something with purpose, something Good with a capital G.

This has happened several times in my life, most recently at my goddaughter’s baptism. I don’t know if it’s grace, God, the Holy Spirit, or all three. I don’t want to over-analyze it or tie it down with too many words. But it was awesome in the real sense of that word, and humbling and beautiful.

I sat and prayed for a long time, alternating between our service book and praying in my own words (something I struggle with because I ramble and digress and lose my train of thought, and I imagine the Good Lord leaning His head on his His hand and sighing "Oy, this one again..."). I could hear night-sounds outside the church window: the intermittent white noise of passing traffic, the sleepy, high-pitched call of nightbirds. These sounds mingled with the soft music on the CD player, yet the sanctuary was still somehow quiet, expectant even.

God was listening. I just know it.

I’m closing with a poem by Mary Oliver. She wrote this while she was struggling with the loss of her partner of 40 years. During this difficult period in her life, she discovered her faith.

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or
few small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and silence in which
another voice may speak.

Tee-hee!

My SIL is a mystery writer, and she's proved herself to be pretty darn good at solving mysteries. :)

I left a comment on her blog, and when she saw the unfamiliar user name, she checked out the blog---which, unknown to her, was actually mine. I have intermittent brain farts, as well as CRS (can't remember sh*t) Syndrome, and I completely blanked on telling her that I had a blog.

So my SIL read this "stranger's" blog and was struck by the writer's interests. They were so similar to my SIL's, and she told her DH that this blogger could practically be an 'alternate Mel'. Then the lightbulb went off, and I was so busted. She called me at work today and called me by my blogger ID. We had a good laugh, and I went back to the spec that wouldn't die with a lighter heart.

Just goes to show that the people who really know and love you can pick you out in even the largest of anonymous crowds. :-)

Behind As Usual

I haven't updated this blog lately because I've been so dang busy. Our church's capital funding campaign has been taking up what little free time I have, and husband and I traveled out of state for our god-daughter's baptism. That was a too-quick trip, but at least we were able to be there for such a happy event. In between the day job and the church work and the trip, I've been battling various minor illnesses and issues with depression. I'm pretty sure I'm on the upswing.

The big thing on my mind right now is religion. Specifically, how do I reconcile my personal beliefs with what I'm expected to believe? I'm not a big fan of labels, but if I were to take on the label of a religious denomination, I'd have to say I'm a Lutheran who is an ex-Catholic who is also somewhat agnostic at times. I question, I doubt, I get surly when logic fails me, and whatever you do, don't say "The Bible says so" and expect me to docilely swallow that. I'm sorry, I just can't.

Last night at our biweekly Bible study for young adults, I ran up against the type of blind prejudice that makes me literally sick to my stomach. One guy---my age, which is old enough to know better---used a derogatory term to refer to a Muslim. Another guy, young enough to be my son, added his two cents' worth about the evil influence known as Oprah Winfrey. As my ex-military colleagues are so fond of saying: WtF? I tried to play devil's advocate by reminding them that they were painting human beings with too broad of a paintbrush, not to mention promulgating as fact their own opinion. I was lectured and talked down to, and I had one of those moments of clarity where my conscience spoke loud and clear. I walked out. I couldn't sit there any longer and take their bullshit.

If you claim to be a Christian, do me a favor and try your best to act like one. Don't call people of a different belief ugly names. Don't cast aspersions on someone you don't know just because you don't like her taste in books. Don't portray your opinion as fact. Try to understand just a little of someone else's viewpoint.

I was fortunate enough to talk to our pastor tonight about all of this, and he helped me understand my gut-level reaction. As burdened as he is by his own responsibilities---of his own life, his office, his calling---he still spent an hour on the phone answering my questions. He gave me another perspective to consider about the events in my life that led me to last night's confrontation. Best of all, he listened. Not many people can do that.

I'm tired now. Husband and I went for a walk after work, and then I got on the Total Gym monster and did some exercises. I've had a fake mocha---one of those instant 100-calorie things---and a pumpkin seed and cranberry cookie. Bed soon, maybe a little magazine reading.

Tomorrow will be better.