Betsy Phillips's Blog, page 7

I'm Here

Whew, I don’t think I’ve ever gone that long without blogging for no reason before, but new year, new me, I guess.

I’m kind of thinking I should just start blogging at night instead of trying to cram it in in the morning.

I’m here, anyway. I think I’m okay. I’m kind of enraged that I’m so super awesome and I still feel like shit about myself, which, frankly, is pretty funny.

It’s just like what is all this for if it doesn’t make me happy and it doesn’t impress anyone else? I don’t know.

I need to go back to therapy.

Organization

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It’s hard to judge, but I think I’m about 3/4 done with the flowers. I’m just going to go until I’m out of colored yarn and then frame my flower pile in grey hexagons.

I’m trying to make a few decisions, though. One, do I want the bulk of the flowers to be in the middle of the afghan, spilling out in every direction–like the middle picture? Or do I want them all at one end and then petering out toward the other end–like the right picture?

And then, do I want the colors to be random or organized by color? AND, if I want them organized by color, doesn’t this mean I need some green flowers?

Another Bit of the Heart of the Matter

I had lunch with C & M yesterday and told them everything. But as I was telling it, I had a realization about another aspect of why this whole situation bugs me.

My life is great. I have a job I love. I have friends I love. I’m having weird-ass unbelievable experiences that, even though they happen, still seem impossible. I have a working level of luck and whimsy and magic in my life that, in general, makes my life incredibly fun for me to live.

And I’m a slut about it. I’ll share it with anyone who shows even the tiniest bit of interest in it. I’ll haul anyone along on any adventure. What weird thing can we make happen? Okay, let’s try it.

Because it’s awesome.

But you can’t fuck it up. If you’re going to join me in this cool weird thing, you have to be open to it and gentle with it.

And my parents can’t/won’t do that. They would rather be miserable. They would rather understand me as miserable and unfulfilled than to be open and vulnerable to delight. To share in delight with me.

And that pisses me off and makes me feel rejected. I have worked so hard to have this amazing life and you’d rather shit on it than share it.

That sucks.

Crying, But Different

I left my parents and the Butcher before dinner. Everything was fine, I guess. I just wasn’t hungry and I wanted to be home. And then I cried all the way home.

I spent some time trying to name it, in complicated ways. Do I feel guilty? Do I feel inadequate? Do I feel like a coward?

And the truth is that those are all too complex. I feel sad. And I feel this longing for the good man my dad often is. And then I feel sad again that I’m losing my dad and I’m losing any hope that some day things will be different.

My mom says he’s a bully. And that I just have to stand up to him. Be mean right back to him.

But holy fuck do I not want to do that. I don’t want to hurt him.

And I don’t want to let him win by becoming the bitch he thinks I am.

And I don’t want to be mean, period. I don’t want to be the kind of person who is mean to her father, regardless of who her father is.

If I have to become that person in order to spend time with them… I mean, that’s the thing. I’d rather not spend time with them.

If that’s the ask–that I not only tolerate this, but that I lean into it and let it transform me in ways I don’t like (or different ways I don’t like)–then fuck that. It’s too much.

It’s all so fucked up.

At the Bottom

My parents are back, on their way home. The Butcher wants them to move in with him. They don’t want to move to Arizona.

I feel completely burned out about it. Like I know I should be having all sorts of feelings about this, but I’ve just for the moment felt all I can feel in regards to them.

I'm here

I’m here. I’m doing okay.

Found a dead dog in a garbage bag this morning. Felt like whatever an omen is, but for when it’s just telling you how things are right now.

Finished a bunch of stuff:

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And now I’m working on some flowers for my flower afghan. I’m super, super proud of my magnolia blossom.

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Love

I woke up this morning feeling this kind of bone-deep anger and jealousy at… I don’t even know. And I wasn’t quite awake, either, because I had this notion that this feeling made me shut down when really, if I want to be remade, I have to lean into it.

If the point is transformation, then I have to let my old self be broken apart.

I have to stop hiding from it.

And I need to love myself the way I love others.

And then I was wide awake, because whether that vision/dream/directive came from someone/something outside me or if it came from my subconscious trying to kick me in the ass, it rang true and I felt very seen.

Which also was uncomfortable, but I’m trying to be open to it, anyway.

Pleasant Solstice Hangover

Yesterday I went to a solstice gathering. We walked around a cemetery. We had wine and snacks. There was a bit of eat this, drink that, Alice-in-Wonderland style. Then we read tarot cards and talked about mystical things. Then we ate Indian food.

I only knew the host, but I think everyone else was at least fond acquaintances of each other.

It was so lovely to hang out with a bunch of women who admire and love the shit out of each other. The vibe was just so nice and cool and open and supportive.

And everyone liked the shit out of me, too. Just unabashedly, with no hidden agendas or anyone being uncareful.

It felt so good. Like, if this is what being a witch is–having a group of women you can talk about deep things with and who all love each other and don’t feel in competition with each other and who will be open to each other–fuck, no wonder that’s still so threatening.

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Day 3

Mom said Dad’s been a whole new person since they’ve been down here–nicer, more willing to take it easy, less grouchy. Jesus Christ. That’s all I have to say about that. Jesus Christ.

She thinks they will move and that they’ll move here, because he trusts my judgement. I appreciate that it must be terrifying to have the most faith in the child you in some ways like the least.

It’s just going to be hard. I think that’s what I’m trying to learn how to accept. From here on out, until he’s dead, there will be no decision that’s not hard and won’t leave me feeling like we’ve made the wrong one.

This is who we are. These are the tools and skills we have. It’s too late to change. So, it’s these broken, fucked up people who don’t understand how to be good to each other trying at long last to figure it out and it’s too late for a good solution to come.

You go to war with the army you have, as they say. You try to figure out how to make it work. Sometimes you lose.

Day Two

It was better, but still weird and hard. We talked a lot about where they might move and why and whether they just wanted to stay where they are. I don’t know how that’s going to resolve.

But it’s hard to be mad at them and then have all these very reasonable discussions about what needs to happen when Dad declines. What the finances for Mom look like once he’s gone.

I’m this tangle of grief and anger. He’s getting frail. He knows it. He’s got some big heart check-up thing next month and that’s going to be, I guess, the impetus for them to make some decisions.

I just feel insane–sad and angry and grateful for the time we have to spend together, but also absolutely ready for them either to get the fuck on to Georgia or for the Butcher to get here so that it’s not just me and them. I feel weird about knowing these are the only moments we get together and I don’t want them if they’re just going to make me feel like shit.

I want a way to be kind to them and to provide for them the best care and I want for that not to cost me my sanity or my well-being.