Reconnecting

I only know two people in the entire world besides myself who are related to my mother by blood: my uncle, who is her cousin, and my cousin, who is her second cousin.  And no, there was no incest involved.  Adoption, actually; my mom and my uncle were cousins who were adopted by the same family.

 
 

When I was little, my cousin and I were close.  We lived an hour apart, so it wasn't a matter of riding our bikes to each other's houses on summer afternoons or anything, but most weekends, my parents and I visited my grandparents, and my cousin was often there too. We were, besides being cousins, very good friends at that point in our lives.

 

As we got older, we drifted apart a little. This was due in part to things going on in our respective and shared families and in part to the simple fact that we were growing up and getting involved in different things in life. Every so often, we managed a visit or a weekend together or even a week over Christmas break or something, but we didn't see each other on a regular basis. We sent letters to one another at times, and later emailed, but we weren't as close as when we were little. Still, she was the closest thing I had to a sister. It's funny, because I often felt like I knew her better than anyone else did, but it never occurred to me until recently that she knew me that way too.

 

Toward the beginning of her high school career and the end of mine, our lives were pushed closer together than they'd ever been before. She moved in with my parents and me. I was excited beyond words that I was finally going to have a "sister." I was tired of being an only child. Our relationship blossomed into sisterhood almost immediately. We were the closest of friends with the ability to hate each other instantly at any second. We buoyed each other up during the bad times and, occasionally, we knocked each other down during the good ones. As the "older sister," I defended/protected my cousin from my parents and exposed her faults and wrongdoing to them, depending on my mood. We did just about everything together, and although there were times when I wished I could be with just my friends and not my cousin, mostly I was always glad she was there. I didn't have to pretend when she was around, didn't have to try to be cool. She knew me and accepted me, the real me, the way I was, and her presence gave me the confidence to express that side of me even in front of people I didn't trust as fully. She was a built-in companion, conspirator, and source of moral support. I hope I was the same for her.

 

There were things about my cousin that drove me crazy, and I'm sure she had her issues with me, too. The things about her, good and bad, that upset me the most, though, were the things that made me feel the most insecure, made me question my own motives and self worth the most. I suppose that's how it is with siblings, who grow up side by side and compare themselves to one another constantly. Overall, though, having her live with us was probably one of the best things that ever happened to me. It was good to have someone to connect with, someone who wasn't my parents but who knew me just as well. Someone who "got" me.

 

Eventually, she moved out. The events leading up to that, and her actual move, were fairly traumatic sudden. A lot of that had to do with my mom's declining physical health and stress level. And a lot of it probably had to do with the fact that my mom and my cousin were dealing with very similar mental health patterns, which made it hard for them to live under the same roof. I didn't understand that at the time, because I had mostly escaped, up to that point, the mental anguish they experienced. Now that that part of my genetic code and life experiences have caught up with me, I understand a little better. I might have seen it back then, a little bit, but I think I tried to hide from it. It hurt that my cousin shared something with my mom that I could not share, even if it was mental chaos.

 

After she moved out, I was grateful for the time I had alone with my mom, because her health was getting worse and worse, and I dealt with that best by being almost her sole means of support and assistance. It made me feel like I was doing something to help, I suppose, and I think I would have resented intrusion on our relationship just then.

 

But even more, I missed my cousin. As mom got sicker, I wished she was there to offer me support, to help me escape from time to time, to take some of the responsibility off my shoulders, to laugh with. We'd always made a good team that way. I wanted to reach out to her during that time, but because of the circumstances under which she'd left my house, I felt like somehow I might betraying my mom if I did. Instead, I waited anxiously for news of her, and for the few moments when our paths crossed naturally. I feel a little guilty, even now, that I didn't try harder, but there are times during life when you can only do what you need to do to survive and everything else just takes too much energy. That was one of those times.

 

My cousin talked to my mother on the day that my mother died. My mom told me that, when it happened, but I didn't believe her because her mind was slipping away, made foggy by the toxins left in her blood by dialysis treatments that didn't work. We hadn't been to my grandma's house much around that time because my mom was too sick to travel much other than for her thrice-weekly dialysis treatments. And my grandma's mind was foggy by then, too. As a result, we didn't know, or at least I didn't, that my cousin was living with my grandma and my uncle.

 

I've never talked to my cousin about this, and I don't know if she's ever made the connection, but the night that my mom died, she—my mom, not my cousin—called my grandma. She and my grandma had a very confusing—to me, anyway—conversation, because both of their minds were in another dimension. When my mom got off the phone, she told me, "_____ gave me hugs." (I'm leaving my cousin's name out of this out of respect for her privacy—I don't like to identify others in my writing without their permission.) Not knowing that my cousin was at my grandma's house, I simply smiled and nodded. Later, once I found out that my cousin had answered the phone that night, I would come to see my mom's simple sentence—"_____ gave me hugs"—as assurance that, no matter what words had passed between my mom and my cousin, they had forgiven one another for anything that begged forgiveness between them.

 

The day after my mom died, my father and I drove to my grandmother's house to deliver the news in person. My cousin was there. After my dad told my grandmother that her only daughter had passed away, my cousin and I snuck away and went for a walk. In my mind, anyway, we snuck away. I'm not sure anymore if it was her idea or my idea or someone else's suggestion entirely, but in any case, we went for a walk around the block, the same trek we had made on foot, tricycle, bicycle, and roller skates so many times as kids. It was the first moment in which we were adults together, she barely eighteen years old and I barely twenty. It was also the first moment in the twelve or so hours since my mother had died that father was out of my sight for more than a minute or two, but old, familiar comforts got me through: the grass growing up through the cracks in the sidewalk. The way my feet somehow remembered, from my childhood, where the sidewalk had crumbled and left a hole or been lifted by roots, and avoided those spots. The black-topped parking lot, half the block long, next to my grandma's house. The church across the street. The day care center around the corner. The overgrown hedges. My grandma's overgrown garden. Most of all, my cousin walking beside me, not talking, just being there. I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could survive.

 

That was twelve years ago now. Afterwards, my cousin and I lost touch again. We e-mailed back and forth occasionally, found each other on social networking sites like MySpace and Facebook, texted or talked on our cell phones once we had them. Every so often, I might pick up my cousin and have her over for a night or two. But since she had moved out of our house, she had moved a few times to a few different places before she moved back home, and life just kept us from being as close as we had been. We mainly drifted in and out of people's lives.

 

It seems like maybe we are back in each other's lives to stay now. At least, we are closer than we have been in a long time and it has lasted longer than it has in a long time. I hope it is a permanent change, because I enjoy my adult relationship with her. I am learning a lot of things about her, and about me, that I never knew before.

 

I am learning that we have a lot more in common than I would ever have thought, and that many of the things we have in common are things we both have in common with my mother, from our habits to our insecurities to our sense of humor. I don't know how much of that has to do with our genes and how much of it has to do with our experiences living with my mom, but I am sure we are both influenced by each.

 

I feel like I am getting to know my mom better, even though she has been dead for twelve years, because I see so many of her behaviors in my cousin, and recognize them in myself, and because my cousin and I can talk about them, I feel as if I understand my mother's perspective more deeply. I understand her struggles. I feel closer to her. And even more than the deeper connection I feel with my mother, I feel a deeper connection with my cousin. Family used to be important to me, but as I grew up and developed my own life, I found that I don't have very much in common with my father's family. There is no family strife or fighting; we get along fine. We just don't have much in common. On the other hand, I have worlds of things in common with my cousin. It feels good to spend time with someone who knows me.

 

I have to admit that I have probably been part of the reason we did not reconnect earlier in our lives. In following her over the years, it because clear to me that she was developing relationships in life and experiencing things in life that seemed unobtainable to me. She was involved in relationships with men when I was never so lucky. She moved away and lived in other places, whereas I was afraid to leave my friends and family, afraid that I would be alone and unable to forge relationships. I avoided her at times because to spend time with her would have been to rub my face in all the things I wanted and could not have. I assumed, even though I knew her and should have known better, that she would be eager to rub those things in my face.

 

I'm glad that she had the strength and the willingness to keep forging our relationship when I did not. I'm not good at being weak, and that was a major weakness I faced. Now, we are a more steady presence in each other's lives, and it feels good. It feels good because once again, there is someone in my life that I can be my whole, real self with. She introduced me to her fiancé, and to a friend of his who has become a very good friend of mine, and when I am with the three of them, I am happier than I have been in a very, very long time. I feel connected to myself again, and I feel connected to my mom again, and I owe it all to my cousin because she fought to reconnect with me when I was fighting so hard against it.

 

It's good to be back.

The Moody Blues

As in, I'm moody and I kind of have the blues.

I'm doing better. I haven't cried today, so things aren't as bad as they've been, I guess. I was even in a pretty good mood for most of the day. Now, stupid little things have set me back and so I'm sad again. But that's not what I want to write about. I want, instead, to write about writing.

In order to become a better writer, a writer has to recognize his or her weaknesses and learn to overcome them, and today, I discovered a major weakness of mine. It isn't something I would have noticed while writing poetry or non fiction. It is a problem I have, almost exclusively, with writing large works of fiction.

I sat down to write tonight and found myself writing my character, who should have been, by all rights, overflowing with excitement, as if she were slightly depressed and borderline angry. Another character, a friend of my main character, was even more depressed and far beyond borderline angry. My characters ended up taking on my mood, in other words, and having the fight that I would like to have to clean the air.

I am wildly jealous at the moment, jealous of someone who has what I want. That's not news. I'm jealous of just about everyone, because it seems like just about everyone can have what is out of reach to me. The trouble is that the person who can have what I want is the person I want to have what I want with. I know, I know. That wasn't very clear. So here, my situation is this.

There is a person I like. A lot. And while the only person available to me is that person, he has many, many choices. Therefore, our relationship will always be unequal and he will always have power over me. He will always be able to hurt me by deciding not to see my anymore and I will never be able to hurt him.

And in my story, I have a character (Jany) who firmly believes that she does not have the ability to attract a decent man. (Can't imagine who that might be based on.) She is wildly insecure and has settled for many men who are not good for her, none of them for more than one date or outing because they never want her attention enough to strive for it. The other character, Selena's, role is to sort of balance her out. Selena is more confident and bolder and much more positive than Jany is. However, Selena seems to be in a bit of a slump. She is currently in a very Jany-esque mood. That might work, a sort of role reversal, except that Jany is not any more positive than Selena is, even though she has just been kissed by a wonderful man who very much seems to want to see her again. And even though Selena wants her. Like WANT wants her, which is part of Selena's problem.

Jany is jealous of Selena, because Selena has never had a problem attracting men, or women either, for that matter. Selena is jealous of Jany because this one man has been kissing Jany when Selena wishes it was her. And the only reason either of these ficttitional characters cares is that I am filled with jealousy in real life. I guess a fiction writer's job is to channel all his or her emotions through his or her characters without letting those emotions control his or her characters. And at the moment, I am a failure.

I have a few options here. I can resolve my issues, which will be difficult if not impossible. Someday soon, I will have to, but at the moment, I can't, and at the moment, I have to write. So, I can either write my jealous rage into my characters and make it make sense or I can get over it and move on. It would take far more revising than I have time for to make this overly jealous mood make sense, so all that's left is to get over it.

Which leaves me exactly where I started. Sigh.

But that's okay. The first step toward solving a problem is recognizing it, so far as I figure, I'm on the right track. Now find the rest of the solution.

Poor Jany

Jany is the main character in my ongoing writing project (I'm afraid to call it my novel; it is more of a developing novel fetus that will, hopefully, not miscarry), The Adventures Of Phatgurl. The story starts with a phat-er, fat-girl who is feeling very down on her luck and insecure and unlovable creating a personal ad. The ad basically says, "I'm desperate. Pick me!" in less harsh words. As a result, she has a lot of really crappy dates, but they doni't come across as crappy to her right away because she is so impressed that she has any dates at all. But she learns as she goes.

At some point, she decides to rewrite her ad and make it sound a little more positive. This leads to increassingly viable dates that are intermingled, of course, with crappy ones, because she is meeting these guys on a personals website, after all. Some of them are just looking for sex, which she does not exaclty shy away from, because it makes her feel somewhat normal, and some of them are just plain nuts, but there are a few that are actually just generally nice guys (oh, and one girl) who are interested in dating. However, her lack of self esteem will not let her believe any of them.

Finally, she decides to stop answering ads and start contacting the guys she's already been out with to see them again; she hasn't seen any of them more than once and realizes that she might need to bite the bullet and ask them out if she wants to really get to know anyone. The basic idea is that in the course of the story, the bad guys help her as much as the good ones in discovering her own sense of self as she grows as a woman. It starts with a quiet, shy, insecure girl and ends with a "woman of the world;" the story turns into a sort of fat girl version of Sex and the City.

And by God, does Jany get beat up.

Not in the story itself; I haven't allowed any of the other characters to physically harm her. But in my writers group, she gets beat up.

My story doesn't get beat up, just my character. Mostly over sex. She is not supposed to have sex with guys she doesn't know. That's a reasonable warning, I guess. But the thing is, it's what my character does. It's what drives her. And part of me, the insecure part that's a lot like Jany, believes that the real reason some members of my writers' group have such a problem with her sex life is that she is fat. In popular culture, after all, fat women are not supposed to be desirable sexual beings.

But I think that's probably just my own prejudice speaking. I think that maybe the problem really is just generational, and probably involves some gender bias as well.

The women (the men in my writers' group don't seem to have a problem with Jany's sexuality) are of different generations than mine. The issue has come up several times. They think the fact that Jany finds herself in sexual situations is deplorable, because they often arise (so to speak) on first dates. I don't find it so deplorable.

In some of the situations, Jany carefully extracts herself and in others, she does not. Sometimes when she allows herself to be "taken advantage of," it is because she is unsure of herself. She wants attention, wants to feel normal. She just doesn't know what to do or say to get herself out of the situation, or she's too shy to try, so she just lets things happen as they will. In those cases, she is perhaps taken advantage of. I'm not convinced of that; I think she knows she is being taken advantage of and allows it to happen, so it really is her own choice.

In other cases, though, it is blatantly her choice. She sometimes chooses to sleep with a man because she is attracted to him, or because she wants to feel powerful, or because she wants to feel close to him. It's just the way the world works.

I tried to explain that I am not writing the next Dickensian novel, or Lolita, or Pride and Prejudice. In other words, I am not trying to write grand literature. I am writing a pop culture chick lit novel where my character starts out being a shy, mousy fat girl and turns into a beautifully confident woman who makes her own decisions about life. She gains confidence in herself as a human being as she gains confidence in herself sexually. The sex part is important because that is how she finds herself. That is how a lot of women find themselves. Right or wrong, bad or good, sexuality is a symbol of womanhood (or manhood, but I'm focusing on women here), and until Jany is the sexual equal of other women she considers more sexually desirable than herself, she can not feel like a real woman. That's my story. Partly because I am telling the story of several women that I know or know of, including myself, all wrapped up into one character, and partly because sex sells. A chick novel without sex would be--well, it wouldn't be a bestseller, let's just say that.

I don't know how to defend myself. I'm not sure if I'm defending myself as an author, myself as a fat woman, myself as a member of my generation, or myself as something else completely that I just can't see yet. And all this without even believing that I need to defend myself, really. Deep down, I know that my character has to defend herself, because I first "met" her (made her up) two years ago or more and since then she has come to life and started writing her own story. I'm just not sure what part of that defense belongs in the story, because the story needs to be authentic but it also needs to jive with what my readers are looking for. It needs to be real.

Back to the drawing board.

I Submitted

Okay, that title may be misleading. Let me finish the sentence.

I submitted a piece of writing to a contest yesterday. It was a rather large contest-one of Writer's Digest's annual contests-so the chance of actually winning is rather minute, but on the other hand, I can then comfort myself with the knowledge that there was lots of competition. In other words, it is relatively safe.

My attitude about writing is actually a perfect example of what my attitude about life in general should be. Whenever I go through my funks of self doubt and depleted self esteem, I always get the same advice from multiple sources: stop worrying about what everyone else thinks. Like yourself. If you are happy with yourself, it doesn't matter what everyone else thinks. If you have confidence, people will like you, and you won't care nearly as much if they don't. Etc, etc, etc.

When it comes to writing, I can do that. I have written things that I like (that should go without saying, I guess, otherwise, why would I have written them, right?) before and then shared them only to receive massive amounts of criticism. If that happened in some other area of my life, I would be devastated and probably go into a serious depression. In fact, that has happened. For instance, if I was walking across the street and some jackass (sorry, still a little bitter-true story) stuck his head out a car window and yelled, "Lay off the Twinkies, fat ass!" that would bother me. A lot. To the point of tears, probably for the next week or so. I wouldn't be able to rationalize or separate his opinion of me from my own. If I were to share a piece of writing, though, and someone said, for example, "Quickly lay off the adverbs, bad writer!" it wouldn't bother me at all. I would take a look at what I had written, revise if I felt my accuser's comment was valid, and then move on. And if I felt my accuser's comment was not valid, I would simply ignore it because I know very well that different people like different kinds of writing, and no matter what anyone says, if I really, really like a piece I have written, I will not change it for anyone.

Why should I feel any different about myself?

If I like myself the way I am, and I am pretty sure that in the absence of those who criticize me I would, then what does it matter what other people think? There are more than likely almost as many people in the world who like me as there are who don't; I just need to find my audience. Maybe that's what we all need to silence our self doubt.

As people, it would probably be a good thing for all of us to take a good look at our own inner critics and sift through what he or she has to say. We should set aside the criticisms that have honestly come from within ourselves and carefully inspect what's left. Anything that might have some validity to it, anything that we are interested in changing, can be added to the pile of self-criticism, but the rest needs to be thrown away, ignored. Outside opinions are just that, opinions. Not every opinion is "accurate."

Where one person sees fat, another sees soft and beautiful. Where one person sees lazy, another person sees whimsical and at ease. Where one person sees obnoxious, another person sees jolly and entertaining. I could go on forever. But instead, I think I am going to focus on seeing myself as the Great American Novel. I can get my ideas from all over the place-my own experience, other people's stories, made up notions-but I am the author and I can accept or reject outside ideas at will. I must write myself and it is up to me to make up the story.

Thinking Out Loud

Or in print, I guess.

I am starting my summer schedule for real today, which means that every day, I am committed to spending a half hour journaling, whether it be inspired by my own desire to express myself or some sort of writing prompt. Today, I am merely writing. This is an experiment. I do not know where it will begin or end, nor if it will make any sense, but that isn't the point. The point is to write. So I keep telling myself.

I can't really describe how I am feeling today. I am irritable, and I am sad. Because I am irritable, I snap at people. I say mean things. Or I don't say anything at all, when I am expected to. Then, I put myself in the position of the person I have snapped at, and I feel guilty. Or I start thinking that I am so irritable because I just want someone to be kind to me, someone to acknowledge me, to appreciate me, and then I begin to think that I don't deserve to have these things because I am so irritable with other people. These thoughts are not necessarily "correct" and they don't necessarily reflect reality. Most likely I am just hormonal. But my irritability and sadness feed off of themselves and off of each other until I am a total mess.

Reading self help books and inspirational readings doesn't help me when I'm like that, either, because I am also stubborn and good at arguing, even with myself. I can negate an affirmation in 2 seconds flat and give 50 reasons why it does not apply to me. Again, in my rational moments, I know this is nothing short of silly, and yet, I continue to do it.

I'm pretty good at analyzing myself, in my more sane moments, but the problem is that I haven't figured out how to do anything about it. I know that I DO rely on other people's opinions of me far too much, and I know that I underjudge people's appreciation for me at times, and I know that everyone else does these things too, but probably not as much as I do. I just don't know quite what to do about it. I find myself thinking, often, that if I just had one person I could count on for sure, one person who loved me, one person I could feel comfortable turning to when I'm having a bad day, someone who will not lie to me to make me feel better or coddle me, but who will touch my shoulder, comfort me, and then tell me to get over myself, I might be okay. But I know that having someone like that in my life is not something I have power over, and to wait for this is to give up the power I have over my own life. It would still be nice, though.

I know I need to take control, I just don't know how. And I'm not sure I trust myself enough.

OK, I've exhausted that topic and still have fifteen minutes to write. Today is not a day when I am inspired. It is merely a day when I am trying to be disciplined. On days when I am inspired, I can barely stop journaling when my half hour is up, even knowing that my next task is to continue to write. Today, my mind is jumping from topic to topic as I write (that's right, I am barely paying attention to what I am writing) and rejecting each in turn even as I write about nothing. I am feeling slightly more optimistic after having written what I've written, so I suppose that makes it worth it.

I actually cannot wait until my half hour is up, because I am at Arby's today. I come here to write for several reasons:

1) They have food, so I can have lunch. I do not and cannot eat at home.

2) They have wi-fi, so if I need to do some quick research as I am writing, I have the world at my fingertips.

3) They have a power outlet I can use, so that I am not limited to an hour and a half of computer time.

4) It is not my home, so I am not surrounded by chaos and the inclination to try to do something about the chaos and I can focus more fully on writing.

5) They have air conditioning, so on hot summer days, I can remain comfortable enough to concentrate.

Except, this last statement is a little misleading today. I am seated directly underneath an A/C vent, and being bathed in cool air. A little too cool. My nose is running, my fingertips are slightly numb, probably the beginning of frostbite, my eyes are dry from the constant breeze, and I am shivering a little.

That's why I can't wait until my half hour is up. When I stop journaling to transition into writing new material, I am going to take advantage of the break in my routine to go out to the car and get my jacket. It is COLD in here. Six more minutes.

I started off my routine today by reading 15 pages or so of On Writing, by Stephen King. I was ecstatic to see that my summer schedule is justified! In a chapter on what you need to do to go from being an okay writer to being a good writer (you apparently can never become a great writer unless you are genetically or spiritually predisposed to do so, which makes me REALLY hope that I am), Steve--I call him this because I have decided I am in love with him, and it seems silly to refer to the love of my life by his first and last name--said that if I needed someone to tell me it's okay to dedicate a lot of time to writing, he would be willing to do so. He even said I should spend four to six hours a day reading and writing! I have given myself 6 hours every day to read and write, so I'm right on target.

I know that last paragraph made me seem slightly psychotic, so I would like to reassure you that I do not, indeed, believe that I will marry Steve--er, Stephen King--and that I really have not entrusted him with my entire life as a writer. Discovering a new writer is, for me, like discovering a new lover. I have to get used to his idiosyncracies, discover what we have in common and what we disagree over, get to know him intimately. And while I am caught up in this process, I am a bit infatuated. Obsessed, even. Once I get through On Writing and maybe read a few more of his books, I will slowly get used to him and we will settle into a comfortable friendship, and then we will see if we have the potential for a lasting relationship or if it was just a fling.

Okay, time to go get my jacket, and I hope that tomorrow's writing experience is a little more organized!