Cynthia Harrison's Blog, page 50

The Elusive Happy Family

I have an idea in my mind of a happy family. This image has caused me profound sadness. The more I reached for it, the more elusive it became. Divorce destroyed that image and for years I let the guilt of being the one who ruined everything hold me back from completely enjoying the family I finally made.

The family I was born into was not happy; I knew that because my mother yelled a lot. My dad wasn’t around much, maybe because he didn’t want to get yelled at. Or maybe my mom yelled because she wanted him to be home and he wasn’t. Mom probably had an idea of a happy family, too, and maybe she yelled because she was trying to make one and failing.

Growing up in discord made me long for a kind of special happiness, and that was my only goal: make a happy family. Be a better mother to my children than my own had been to me. Happy kids were key. My husband’s role would be to come home from work without stopping at the bar or being late for dinner. That was the recipe I put together and it worked just fine for awhile.

In my perfect family, the father had far less lines, many less opinions, than the man I actually married. My perfect husband was simply happy that WE were happy.

Men don’t come like that.

Being a better mother than my own took a lot of work, too. She kept an immaculate house, always had nutritious meals ready at regular hours, made sure we bathed and brushed our teeth every night, kissed our foreheads before bed. So I had to do all that plus add in what I’d craved as a child: kisses and hugs all day long, an abundance of love and acceptance.

Giving myself completely over to my family only worked for a little while. I had to be selfless, and that, I regret, is not in my nature. I left my husband and took my children with me. This brought relief and sadness. My kids were crushed and I had to live with what I’d done: I smashed my family. On purpose.

So there I was, 28, a single working mom. Despite long hours at my pink collar job as a secretary, my income hovered at the poverty line. I had not done better than my own mother. I had done worse.

I added things to my life–love, education, a better job, the freedom to write–that made me happier. I tried very hard to continue my most important task: to be a good mother. It was a balancing act, but I was determined that this time, no matter what, I wasn’t going to walk away from my marriage. I would stay married for my children’s sake. Just not to their dad.

Sounds a little crazy but I didn’t want to put them through any more drama. My new husband was a fully realized human with dreams, wants, and desires of his own, something I knew before I married him. This worked in our favor. A couple of times I felt I had to leave him or die. I didn’t leave and I didn’t die. I learned to ride out the rough times and my marriage came out the other side just fine.

My children grew into fine young men. I figured I’d fucked them up for good, what with the divorce and all the adjustments they had to go through. I braced myself for drugs or DUIs or other forms of rebellion. None of that happened. They never got in trouble, finished college with good grades, snagged great jobs, married women they loved. I don’t give myself any credit for any of this.

Well, except for maybe those extra hugs and kisses.

“Goin’ to California…

…with an aching in my heart.” Robert Plant sang that in a song once. Of all the California songs running through my mind, that one rings most true right now. My heart aches. And nothing is wrong. All is well. Better than. But–purely physical–my heart hurts.

I haven’t seen my beloved baby boy (who is, um, 34) in too long. Hugging that ache (almost) away is a deep joy in knowing I will see him soon. Gratitude keeps the joy afloat. I hope my son is happy. That’s part of the ache. I talked to him on the phone yesterday and we’ve been emailing and I can’t tell. I’ll know when I see him.

So that’s the ache. The ordinary fact of a child growing up and away, building a life that has very little to do with me. Which is how it goes. But he’s so far away I can’t take his emotional temperature. So that’s a part of it.

The rest of it, the much bigger and better part is that I have a full and happy life of my own with my too-hardworking husband of 29 years, my adored Al. He needs a vacation. We both need this trip, for different reasons. But one reason we share is we need time together. Uninterrupted bliss just being us. Together. With the ocean and the mountains on either side and our son a short walk away.

Also, you might have guessed, I’m going on blog vacation for a week. Be back soon. Meanwhile, we’re making a playlist. What’s your favorite California song?

What Gen? And Why?

Just read an article by Abby Ellin in “Psychology Today” explaining Millennials, aka Gen Y, to the rest of us. There’s always been a thing with me, especially when I was a young writer, and even now as a teacher, where I feel a little out of step with the times. As I got older and saw things happening in fiction I could not do 20 years ago, I got a glimmer.

I was ahead of my time.

Sound braggy? Frustrating is more like it.

I have wanted to teach hybrid and online classes since forever and I want students to have structured freedom. I want to not cross out the entertainment value of literature in favor of motifs and making sure none of the poems have curse words in them. I want students to research what truly moves them, whether it’s building their own online presence or posting a YouTube video as a final exam.

I am a 58 year old Baby Boomer, and, according to Ellin, have most of the characteristics of a Millennial. Just check out the number of “I”s in this post. To some in my own generation, this smacks of narcissism. To Millennials, it just means investing in your personal platform. Which I also do with my 12 year old beloved blog, *sticks out tongue at hacker* my frequent Twitter and Facebook presence and my early use of Instagram (before FB acquired it, I used the filters for fun.)

Am I self-promotional? A narcissist? Well, I don’t spam but I do want you to know I write books and I wouldn’t mind if you bought one. Or all of them. And print copies so I can autograph. Kidding. I get a little embarrassed when some rare friend asks me to sign a real book. I’m all about the e-age. It fits me, my work, my life, my ambitions. I’m an introvert in the internet age. Perfect.

Impatience has been a trait I’m suffered from early years (and I do mean suffer, skipping steps is not recommended) and I’ve tried to temper it in every way. Turns out Millennials think of this characteristic as cutting to the chase. Focusing in on what’s important right now. I do want  to get to the meat of the matter as quickly as possible. There’s way too many distractions these days. But I’m Boomer enough to know I might miss something along the blue highway, so I’m still trying to slow down and enjoy the show.

Checking Out of the Depression Hotel

Spent the weekend at the Depression Hotel. Beat myself until I was black and blue and did the sort of inner questioning that some people have no patience for, including myself. Becoming more patient is one of those things I am still working on. So when I go there, to the bottom, I am impatient for it to end.

But when me & you are black & blue, we’re paralyzed.

I know why I got depressed. I also know practicing yoga or walking works for me, but moving my body from A (depression) to B (contentment) seems impossible. I’m rooted to the spot like gum stomped to the floor.

Here’s what I know because I’ve lived a long time: depression passes. I do not suffer from clinical depression, just regular old rainy day blues. If you have severe depression lasting for a long time, more than a weekend, you need more help than a blog post, and I hope you seek it, for your own sake. I am not a therapist or a doctor. I’ve just been around awhile.

How I checked out of that damn hotel:

Today, it’s a balmy 48 degrees. The sun is shining and so am I. Sun is key to feeling good. But I started feeling better yesterday as my impatient mind searched for ways to feel better. Called a friend. Wrote some emails to another. Replied to comments on the blog. Thank you! Comments make my day. Al must have seen my state because when he got home from work he sat down and talked to me. About our life, where things are headed, how long we want to stay away from Michigan when we retire, where we might visit, and, inevitably, if you know Al, finances.

Everything is good. The economy, our checking account, the future. All is well. Woke up in better shape just from connecting to other people and having Al reinforce the good in our life. We’re going to California in a week! To see our son and his wife. We’re spending a week on the beach, in a room with a balcony and a view of the Pacific.

Today, after talking to another friend on the phone and more through email, I walked. I watched the uplifting video Lisa sent. Then I actually left our rapidly melting igloo.  Soaked in some rays. Saw a cat at the tax office. Which reminded me about who else is in California…Bosco!

 

Binge Much?

Bet you thought this post would be about television viewing. Yeah, I do that too; it’s all part of my addictive personality. I promised to post about positive things like love and joy, and I will, but my life is not always so serene. I am at my best when writing, and it shows up here.

The binge behavior I am working on today is food. Just to be clear, I am overweight and I have been obese. The needle goes back and forth. The minute I decided to lose weight, I gained three pounds. Well, more specifically, I lost one, then gained four. For the past week I have been eating in the afternoon until I am so full I feel slightly sick. I don’t throw up. I don’t eat dinner, either.

This really is a post for the bingers out there. It might be a bit much for anyone who has never had the urge to keep going. With food, sex, drugs, alcohol, what have you. If someone is looking to me for support, I want them to know I don’t purge. Neither do I eat dinner. Also, this is a secret from my husband (I tell him I had a big lunch, a late lunch, or have a stomach ache, all of which are true). I don’t tell him or anyone else because I’m ashamed of my out-of-control behavior.

I’ve been doing this so long, with so many things, and one by one my options shut down. I omitted smoking for my health in my 30s. That’s the last healthy free-will decision I have made. It also led to me finding a substitute: food. I began putting on a few pounds a year until I got quite fat. Pills and alcohol were problems in the past, but not big problems, because in excess they make me ill. Emetaphobia is the fear of vomiting. It’s there, in my array of phobias. Sometimes phobias can be good things.

My last go-to binge is food. When I was younger, I didn’t know why I had an addictive personality or why I have massive phobias. I just thought I was fucked up. Hooray! That’s not it. I mean, yes, I am fucked up. (Ask Philip Larkin why) I’ve done this addiction thing for a really long time, because I’ve been on the planet a long time. I feel like I should have a better handle on my diet as I’ve had some other successes in life that have proven to me I’m not beyond hope.

Not more therapy. Maybe a book. Maybe sign up for a real yoga class again. For sure schedule healthy meals and snacks and DO NOT vary this routine.

Ever, ever, ever again.

Steps

A recent day found me at the top of the staircase and before I could even get used to the heady air up there, I came crashing right back down. Metaphorically speaking. (Because I’ve written about this literally happening once before.) I got great news in the  morning email. I’d been assigned a new editor! I was asked about signing a series contract! I’d always planned this series, but writing everything down made it real.

And then a strange person came into my house and set me off. I knew he was coming, so technically, I had already been wound up. Am I mixing metaphors? Sorry. I’m still flustered. I don’t like strangers in my house. Especially male strangers. Especially big hairy strangers who can’t fix what’s broken. Especially if they insist on engaging in long conversations that keep them in my house way too long and seem very friendly. I like the curt, competent type of repair guy. Okay, I don’t like him, but he’s incrementally better than the too-friendly sort.

I’m not sure why this is so, maybe I have a stranger phobia, but anyway, by the time he left, I was stressed. I disinfected every square inch of the space he might have touched. (His fingerprints were smuged big and ugly all over everything. It was creepy, I tell you!) I washed all the towels in the powder room, even though from my office I had not heard a toilet flush.

So he was gone and still I found it impossible to leave my house even though I had to grocery shop. I had planned to grocery shop. I couldn’t make dinner. I always make dinner. I had planned to make dinner. But I was frozen. I realize that it’s a high-class problem, this being frozen business. In a war zone, that would get me killed.

I gave myself a stern talking to. “You are not some neurotic mess. You have handled far worse than this, which by the way was nothing, what is wrong with you?” Then I called my husband Al to bring pizza and watched television for three hours. I took a pill to ward off the migraine that had begun the minute my stress spiked. But other than that, I didn’t move until the pizza got home.

Since this person who had invaded my home was a repairman, I had to go over events with Al. He is really the one who should handle these things, but it’s hard for him to arrange with work. So I am his poor substitute. I had to listen to a few “why didn’t you” and “what the hell” sort of things. My nerves started to shred again, so I tried to explain how I felt inside. I love Al but he’s not good with panic and nerves and so forth.

I know it’s irrational to not file a complaint because I think the repairman might get angry, become homicidal and come after me. I understand this is unlikely to happen. I understand repairmen are nice people and very few if any are murderers. And yet. I forced a promise from Al that he would not call and complain. Then Al lost it. Well, as far as he can lose it. Al is the king of cool. He simply looked at me with complete disdain, which, of course, made me feel worse.

Al insists on complaining about shoddy work and here I was tying his hands. He was not a happy man. We decided to table the entire discussion. I shoved two slices of pizza down my throat, not even tasting them, and opened a bottle of wine. As I savored a glass, I thought about how days can go like that, from good to bad, from bad to worse. And those days are the ones when what is needed is a good mattress at the foot of the staircase.

 

Smile & Go Slow

I wanted the smile lines at the corners of my eyes to show in this photo. Click for the close up:) I like my smile lines. It means I’ve been happy a lot in this life. Wrinkles don’t bother me. I feel lucky to have come this far. It’s interesting to be older. I’m not saying it’s all roses. But I’ve developed a theory over the last six months, which, apart from the births of my babies, have been the happiest of my life. Every decade gets better.

I’m working on the inside these days. My head used to be a mess. Meditation took care of that. Now the body has rebelled after years of mindless abuse. So I’ve added walking to the yoga and am taking it slow. The first day I used the treadmill in my new house, I had to hang something over the too-bright winter white outside my window. (We still have not gotten around to fixing up the basement.)

I hung a pretty saffron colored scarf my yoga teacher brought back from India. It lets in light and shows the black patterns. Perfect. But before it was hung for real, I tried thumbtacks (no way) and hammer and nails (wrong chair) overreached and fell from the tall chair into the low one. Was fine. I walked the treadmill, listening to music. Closed my eyes when I felt like it.

The next day my middle had some bruising. It didn’t hurt and I’m not going to be wearing a bikini again in this life, so I shrugged it off and moved on. But those bruises are trying to get my attention. They say I need to connect with my movements, grow more aware of my surroundings and actions. Can’t just spin a dozen plates anymore and hope one doesn’t crash.

Slow down. Savor. For an Aries, this is a huge order. We’re an impatient bunch. But it’s important enough that Mars (my planet) itself is slowing down for a bit. And that kind of forces me to slow down, as well. Which is a good thing.

Graceful Aging

Yesterday I woke up as usual, had a coffee with my special French Vanilla Fake cream, and then a banana. I visited my beautiful private bathroom and never did get to drink my second cup of coffee. Finally, on the last trip out of the master bath, I looked at my bed, crawled in, and didn’t get out until my husband came home.

I’d never spent an entire day in my new bed, so it felt good to just cocoon and let the world go about it’s business. I’d finished a novel and turned it in to my publisher Saturday, the day before; I could take Sunday to really rest. I ate sparingly and meditated for an hour (a personal best). I took naps, read the newspaper and finished reading a book I’d found on Twitter called “Middle Age Beauty” by Machel Shull.

I was intrigued by Shull’s story. She’d been a face model in L.A. and at 40 found herself unemployed and over the hill. She didn’t want a facelift, so she turned inward. One of the maxims in Machel’s book is that great beauties die twice, once when they lose their looks, another when their heart stops beating.

I was cute for a minute in 1976, and in reading her book, I would never have guessed Machel has the kind of looks that make a woman die twice. There’s nothing conceited about Machel. Her tone is approachable and her voice is different, in a good way. Like she’s a friend confiding over soy lattes.

Instead of taking the usual Hollywood road of surgery and fillers, Machel set out to find ways to age gracefully. Her book includes several interviews with professionals: doctor, therapist, nutritionist, spiritual guide. These were inspiring bonuses and gave Machel’s words increased validity. Machel asks good questions. Questions I would ask.

I didn’t learn any new tactics from Machel’s book, but taken as a whole, on a day when I was stuck in bed, perhaps because of bad nutritional choices, (That fake sugary cream? The two glasses of wine the night before? Maybe the brie? A stomach bug?) what she wrote had a big impact. I knew about drinking vinegar to cut appetite, about melatonin for sleep, about giving up wine to lose inches in the waist. About walking and lifting and yoga. Knowing and doing can feel galaxies apart.

Machel, for all her celebrated beauty, is truthful and down to earth. I felt like she had taken me aside and whispered in my ear how much weight she gained when she married and moved from L.A. into a community that prized fine food and wine. It’s close to what I needed to lose a few years ago.

With the help of my superfit friend Lisa, I lost 15 of the pounds (less than half of my goal) and have kept them off for two years, but my weight is still a health risk. Who knew it was a beauty risk too? Well, look at the picture of Lisa and me. We’re the same age. There’s your answer.

Being overweight does plump out the wrinkles, but Machel has some other ways to do that, all natural. (Which Lisa must also know as she doesn’t have a wrinkle on her pretty face!) When I lose the rest of my weight, if wrinkles appear (I do have smile lines at the sides of my eyes, but I like them) I just might try Machel’s #1 timeless beauty secret, which I will not share here, so as to keep back some spoilers.

In a few weeks, I’ll be 59. I’m already thinking “60″ because my brain works that way. At 60, if I’m still here on the planet, I want to be healthier and happier. And thanks to Machel, and the continuing support from my dear friend Lisa, I have a clear road map to follow.

More Love, More Joy

More Love: Smokey Robinson & the Miracles

I grew up and live in Metro Detroit. The Motor City. Motown. So when I went searching for a new theme for this old blog, Smokey Robinson popped into my head. And he was singing this song. Click for video, read on for powerful lyrics that I feel more now than I did as a tween listening to the Motown sound every day on WCLK.

“Let it be soon/don’t hesitate/Make it now/don’t wait/Open your heart and let my love come in/I want the moment to start when I can fill your heart with/More love and more joy/than age or time could ever destroy/Oh honey, now my love will be so sound/Gonna take about a hundred life time/To live it down, wear it down and tear it down

This is no fiction, this is no act/This is real it’s a fact/I’ll always belong only to you/And each day I’ll be living to/make sure I’m giving you More love and more joy/than age or time could ever destroy/Oh honey, now my love will be so sound/It’ll take a hundred life times/To live it down, wear it down, tear it down

As we grow older/no need to fear/when you need me I’ll be here/I’ll be beside you every step of the way/A heart that’s truthful and keeping it youthful with More love and more joy/than age or time could ever destroy/Oh honey, now my love will be so sound/It’ll take a hundred life times/To live it down, oh wear it down and tear it down…”

Just like Smokey, I wanna give you more love and more joy…you my family, you my friends, you who are reading these words. Whatever I can put out there positive to push back all the negative, that’s what I want to do now.

Am Mom, Will Travel

 I’m not sure if this is a problem outside of Detroit, and I hesitate to dare call it a problem because nobody needs more Mom guilt. Even before Detroit hit the skids, my older son moved to California for grad school, fell in love with the west coast, and never came home to Michigan except to visit.

I felt sad, but I was happy he was happy. He’s made a new life and has new friends and I have had some great vacations. Mike lived in working class Culver City for his college years, but when his wife moved out to join him (the photo is of Mike’s wedding, me and my boys) they  got a great apartment in Beverly Hills. Built during the studio system years, these houses were “mansions” in the old sense of the word. Like you could walk out to get your paper and wave at Rock Hudson. Those mansions are too small and too public for movie stars now, so they’ve converted some to apartments. Beautiful neighborhood, and I stayed at a boutique hotel, once owned by Lillian Gish, around the corner. Wow was that a fun trip. The wedding was in the hills above Malibu. Another great vacation.

For a few years, we still had our younger son home in Detroit. He’d gone into engineering, which was a guaranteed job here for as long as anyone could remember. Then he got his degree and sold tires at Sears (with no health insurance) for two or three years before he said “Mom, I’ve got to submit my resume out-of-state.” For the first time in memory, maybe the first time ever, engineers were not being hired by the autos that support this town.

Tim got a great job out-of-state and my husband and I took some more wonderful vacations to Louisiana, Texas (Dallas and Midland) and then to California, where he and his wife made their final move. For now. They bought a house in a cute beach town about an hour north of L.A. so you’d think it would be easy for us to visit both boys at once. Nope. Mike’s in Seattle now. He & Jessica bought a house, got a dog and the three of them seem quite settled.

Making the best of this life we’ve been given, Al and I  turned the west coast thing into another sweet vacation a few years ago when we flew into California, saw Tim and his wife, drove up Highway 1 through Big Sur (been on my dream destination list forever) and into Seattle. To top it off, this year we are slated to visit both boys, on separate trips, and it will be the first time we’ve seen their new homes. Also a first: we’re staying at an ocean front hotel with a balcony and a view of the Pacific. On our Seattle visit, we are around the corner again at a B&B that bills itself as a farm in the city. There are live chickens and things.

I’ve almost talked myself into being okay with a far-flung family that looks nothing like I imagined. To add to my occasional feelings of desertion, my parents live in Florida. Upside, they are five minutes from the Gulf of Mexico. Too many great vacations there to count. When I think of family, I think in snapshots. Before, when my dining room table was full of family and food every Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. And now, when we travel to see our loved ones and fit in some just-us-two time as well.

I see this type of family situation as a world pattern, with grown children moving where the jobs are and forming their own social circles. It’s a good thing. But I’m oh so glad this is also the age of Skype and Facetime:)