Spit Splutter and Shed

Somewhere between last July and now, I lost my way. That is an interesting expression, don't you think? What is this way, of mine, that I lost?

I used to write, sharing the brutal details of my life in a sometimes humorous but mostly shocking way. Then along came the considerably foul and wretched incubus brothers known as anger, bitterness, resentment, defeat, hopelessness and their inglorious mother, depression. I think anger and resentment stopped by first as evidenced by the majority of my posts; every reference point or interesting topic in my life ended with an embittered diatribe railing against the ex and his maternal representative.

I was pissed. Spitting mad. And that's saying something cause southern women don't spit.

But underneath all that hellfire, loathing, pitiful-me-pouting resided a frightened girl so entombed in fear she was cut off from her own soul. Having fancied myself a soulful girl, you can imagine how that felt or rather, didn't feel.

The first year after Mr. Sunshine went to prison, we did okay; meaning, I was okay. Then in August of 2011 I lost my prominent long term job. I wanted to move back to Oklahoma, to tuck my tail firmly in and run like the wind but that was a page I was not allowed to turn back. From that hot summer day to this one, here I stand, still pissed.

I wrote the previous post exactly one year ago today. It was enlightening in a not so uplifting way to read it and discover my feelings haven't changed much. I could easily tear off into a rant right this very minute, stocked with an arsenal of the atrocities committed by those who continue to joyously dance on the top of my head, including the aforementioned demon spirits. But I won't.

Instead I would like to give this a whirl:

If you read the last post then you will understand when I say I am ready to shed my own skin. Mr. Sunshine gets out of prison this fall and I am terrified. Our lives will experience another upheaval; emotional battles, court battles, old grievances and new axes to grind will splutter and reign unless I can embrace the celestial radiant light provided by my sisters Grace, Joy and Gratitude and our mother Courage.

Wish me luck, for a new journey has begun.

Zen Mama Out

(This post was originally written in July, 2011 but not posted until now.)

There comes a time when everything has run its course. Streams spill into lakes, snakes shed their skin and bloggers grow weary of the excitement that once enticed them to share their inner most thoughts with the world. It has been an enlightening experience, knowing people are reading me from all over the world but perhaps the most baffling aspect, to those that know me well, is why would I share my life in such a public way?

This is a difficult question to answer in a way that anyone who is not me could really understand.

What I have noticed of late, in looking at my stats is that I have acquired a dedicated fan base consisting of people, who for whatever reason, just get it.  They get me.  They enjoy reading because I speak the truth that is perhaps still hidden within their own consciousness.  Then there are those who regularly check in to this blog just to keep tabs on me.

I am after all, embroiled in a bitter post, post divorce battle with my ex husband/convicted felon over the proper means in which to raise our children.  I say it is post, post divorce battle because we had five years of happy, blissful divorce, before all hell broke loose. He is in prison for 24 to 30 months; yet in his own precious narcissistic way, he wants to control.

Thus, I write this very last public post for you, members of Mr. Sunshine's family and you, junior level psychologist who is no doubt gathering her field notes for a stunning PhD thesis.  I have told the stories of how Mr. Sunshine and I met, how it evolved, how it ended and now how I am left with a daily conscious practice of forgiveness and patience in order to survive.

I do hope, as I always have, he has a plan for how to survive post prison.  His plan to survive post Zen Mama didn't work out so well for him, thus felony fraud.  I truly want Sheri, the innocent, if not gullible psychologist to wait patiently and get the life she deserves. But I worry for them. He owes me a large sum of money for expenses I have covered. He will serve more time for that. The Waukesha County Child Support division is at the ready and waiting for his release date.

I want his mother to be happy in her own sense of delusion. And more than anything, I want him to emerge as the father my children desperately need.  During their prison visits, he speaks to them of the life they will have when he is free.  He wants to buy a farm, grow organic produce, travel to Italy with them, learn to speak Italian so he doesn't feel as left out as he did when he traveled there on stolen funds with Sheri.

All good dreams.  All very, very good.  But I was once suckered in to the dreams of a narcissist.  Speak to any woman who has fallen prey and they will tell the same tale.  My/your/their belief in him will not produce the desires for which they inspire. They can fool you for a very long time but eventually the colors will show.

A good friend of ours and an unwilling mark for Mr. Sunshine told me just last night the unfortunate experience he had with him resulted in his sister having to cover the church's debt in light of the fraud perpetrated upon them.

He swindled churches in the end.

But in all fairness, I honestly believe (after knowing him for all of his strengths and weaknesses for so long) he most likely had no clue he was leaving people high and dry.  That's the true beauty of a person with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. They know not what they do. He had done it with our siding and window business in Oklahoma, he had done it with me, he had done it before he met me with a long history of trouble burglarizing homes and cars as a teen in Wisconsin and I shutter to think he will do it again, this time at the expense, as ever, of the endless supply of funding, support and forgiveness from his mother and now of his impassioned fiance who has most likely bought into his story of subterfuge beyond her control for it is shrouded under a powerful Christian banner and she can see his is charging forth to save souls from the lessons brought to him.

If I were to run into her, I would want to know from her professional experience if a narcissist can be cured? Can that snake shed his skin? It is compelling indeed.

I will let others ponder it for now. I am too tired.

Happiness is Absurd and Vice Versa

In Greek mythology, the gods condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

Sisyphus, what a complicated soul, destined to toil, day in day out, rolling that heavy bolder to the top, only to watch it fall down again, knowing he would open his eyes the next day and face the same fate. Was he a laborer, feeling as if he ended each day no further ahead or did he find a divine enlightenment in his quest to shoulder to boulder on his shoulder, to prove he was able to harness his strength to defeat the expectations of punishment bestowed upon him?  Did he win? Did he prove them wrong by sheer willpower?

If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. Homer goes on and on as to the reasons why Sisyphus became the futile laborer of the underworld. There is espionage, kidnappings, bargaining, deceit and so forth. Homer reported that Sisyphus, the conqueror, had managed to put Death in chains. But Pluto intervened, sending the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of the conqueror.

This did not stop "the Conqueror" from riding high on his reputation.  He proceeded to get himself all caught up in love and jealousy and shit until he created an insidious test for his wife to prove her love for him. Uh yeah, that didn't work out so well;  so hello, he found himself once again in the underworld. Then he got like totally pissed off by the lack of human love so he obtained permission from Pluto (who is not even a planet anymore) to return to earth for the explicit purpose of chastising his wife.

Lesson I am still learning:  Never allow yourself to operate out of anger, bitterness or revenge.

But alas, once on earth, he enjoyed the water and sun, warm stones and the sea and he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. He lived for many years facing the curve of the gulf, the unpredictable sea and the predictable cycles of the earth. The god's became angry and a decree was in order.  Mercury would seize the imprudent man, literally by the collar, leading him back to his station at the bottom of the mountain with a heavy rock awaiting him.

It is well believed Sisyphus was a hero as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. Or is it? Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, it is said one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands.

At the very end of his long effort measured by depth without time, the purpose is achieved. Much like the feeling I have when I am rushing to get my kids out the door in the morning; the toil, the sameness and the insanity of it all.  At the end of the evening when the fucking enormous rock rolls back down, I have to ask myself, do we really need to discuss why we put our pajamas on every single night? I have to get up tomorrow because I need to push an enormous boulder back up a mountain. Have a little respect for that and just do what I say..........okay?

One must be careful though for a face that toils so close to stones could become stone itself (which obviously makes me think of Botox, even though it is not relative to this posting whatsoever.)  One must be superior, or at the very least, equal to his fate and stronger than his rock. For fate, stones, boulders, daily mindless tasks are meant to make us overcome our obstacles and live our truth.

In The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus writes. "When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy rises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism. One does not discover the absurd without attempting to write a manual of happiness. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd discovery. It happens as well that the feeling of the absurd springs from happiness."

It resonates with me, these images of earth, these imagined ideas of what I am  supposed to be doing today, just today, just roll that rock and keep on rolling but then I realize the very idea of that is truly insane.  My third eye, the one that can truly see, cannot see past the daily toil to realize why I have been given, nay blessed, with these particular toils.

My kids were recently told by their dad that the bible says God only punishes "those he loves the most". To which his mom, their Grandma nudged him, and laughingly replied, "then God must REALLY, REALLY love your daddy".  Needless to say, I have had some difficulty processing that philosophy.  Where is the accountability for the crime he committed? 

Going a step further, dad tells them of a grand life they will live when he gets out of prison.  He will buy land and begin farming, organic farming nonetheless.  He will purchase a house up north for hunting and fishing.  How will he do this with no money, a felon, convicted of stealing from an employer?  Is it just more of the same, his endless stream of unrealistic consciousness,or will someone step in to help him.  Probably the same people who have refused to offer any help or assistance to his kids while he is away.

The only time he provided was when he succumbed to  a desk job. That was his great burden.

As you can see, I am still working on the bitterness and resentment part but unlike the past, when I have these thoughts, they are quickly dismissed.  I no longer allow myself to wallow in the stress or struggle against the tide for the great boulder has been placed upon my shoulders, and mine alone.  I will carry it, push it, attempt to beat the hell out of it, or find another way around it to survive.   

Caymus goes on to write, ".. there is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his effort will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that silent pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which becomes his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death."

"I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

Honestly, as I write this, I understand why Sisyphus was happy.  He took the long road.  He wasn't afraid to work hard each and every day.  He didn't desire a shortcut to luxury or wealth the way my children's father did in his pattern of shirking the burden of responsibility, relying on his mom to bail him out and basking in that cross generational bondage that held him to his mother when she desperately clung to the one child she believed would make good.

But in a hairpin turn, with no nod to proper segue whatsoever, I praise my time with him for we bore three beautiful souls, the very ones I am privileged enough to struggle with each and every day and I know, beyond time and depth or depth and time that MY fate was created by me.  

How appropriate I should sit in front of Oklahoma City's sculpture of Sisyphus with my children, feeling futile, knowing hopeless is or could be but a day or perhaps an hour away, if I let it. But these are my greatest gifts, missing my eldest, but with us in spirit. It is an absurd happiness in the midst of the happiest absurdity I could possibly imagine. Can you see it?

The four of us in Oklahoma City, missing #1 Son, in front of Sisyphus.

What a sight it is.

Paths of Destruction

The New Testament speaks of the wide path of destruction we are offered in our lives versus the narrow path we should adhere to in order to reach the gates of heaven.

So simple, so clear, so much easier to walk along a wide path; though I tend to prefer narrow paths that prevent me from having to walk side by side or in large groups. I love the solitude of strolling along the edge of a beach, leaving friends behind while I drink in the sun, allow the wind to curl my hair and delight in the squish of the sand between my toes.

But gheez, we all know, I have not walked the narrow path as set forth in the book of Matthew.  I walk the path my mama always told me to walk.  She would say just start walking and if you find a bunch of big boulders and shit, nay stuff in your way, then turn around. But if the path opens up to you without a lot of obstacles, six-pronged forks, hairpin turns and perilous falls to your certain demise, then by all means, just keep on walkin'.  Didn't matter how wide or narrow.  Didn't matter if it appeared to be the high road or the low road, for deception lies in preconceived notions.  Just walk.

With that said, actually walking that narrow path between the vast, scary ocean and the solid ground beneath my feet literally summarizes my existence.  If I step too far into the water, then I am solidly screwed for I can't swim and I do not like sea creatures of any kind, not even the little Nemo clown fish.  I don't want to be there but once I'm in, it is very difficult for me to get myself out.  However, if I stay put, on the solid yet sandy side - I will prevail.  I may not last very long as we all know what happens with castles built in sand but I will remain on my journey and wake up each day to move closer to the purpose for which I am here.

First order of business then - figure out my purpose.

Last week, while in Oklahoma City, I was able to visit with a wonderful friend from my long ago past.  She and I started out in the corporate world together, both hired around the same time in our late twenties, both naive and green, both single mom's to little boys who were the same age and both ready to set the world on fire. 

We didn't realize it back then but we were smart.  Really, really smart.  During our visit, we remembered words we used to teach each other, plans we made to change the direction of our company (which never materialized) and choices we made to change the directions of our lives (which did materialize, in the seemingly most interesting and fascinating of ways.)

She married a wonderful man who had two boys of his own.  They built a life together, raised those boys, had financial security and did all they were supposed to do to be good parents.  She rose to the top of her industry and is close to retirement with her handsome man complete with a place in Arizona and a family chalet in the mountains of Santa Fe.

I married a wonderful man, later divorced him out of boredom then married another man, had three more kids, moved to Wisconsin, got another divorce and am now raising the whole brood while the ex is serving time at federal camp "good time" for felony fraud.  I rose to the top of my career as well but retirment is not a word I will entertain for many, many years to come.  I struggle with the burdens and sometimes I breakdown from the sheer load of it all. I told her of nearly losing my second son, The Commando, after his dad went to prison. And I have no handsome man or mountain chalet anywhere near or far, not even with a telescopic lens.

She understood the agonizing story I told her of watching as they took The Commando from me and she lauded my bravery in not stepping in to snatch him up and take him home.  She knew how deep I had to dig to go through with this measure of intervention on a child who was raging, creating his own rath of destruction.

Then she told me how her son, the one who is the same age as my #1Son is strung out on drugs, committing crime, jobless, nearly homeless and still hasn't hit rock bottom. All three of their boys went down the same path of destruction my brothers chose.  She knows, just as I knew with my brothers, this will likely end in death or jail for each of them.

One would think my son would have been the one to fall into the deep end with the crazy life I created for him. Instead he is centered and good, thoughtful, hard-working, loyal and kind.

One would think her son would have benefited from a loving relationship, financial security, all the trappings of a solid, centered life.

But one can never know how these things turn out.

Just as it has been for my life, the edge of that water is always so close at hand, or at foot as the case may be. It is quite easy to fall in, to fall out, to fall over until you find yourself going down the road too wide. Wrong choice of friends, basic wiring of the brain, just a tiny slip and you are cast out into the raging currant.  Especially when it comes to drugs.  Drugs are as vast as the ocean and every bit as deep.  The longer you try to keep your head above water, the more drugs you will need to stay above sea level. Then you are caught in a whirlpool of sharks, waves, wind and three-headed sea monsters from the deep that will pull your ass under and keep you there until you grow fins and gills and breath it in just to survive.

I drifted off, into the analogy of the deep as my friend was sharing her heartbreaking news. I asked all the questions I could ask from someone who had experienced this many times over. But there was one question remaining. One that had never been asked, not even of my parents.

I asked if she knew what happened to him?  Could she tell me what went wrong?

It was then this beautiful soul, who gifted me so often in our times of abandoned youth, deliberately placed the most powerful gift of all in my hands, in my heart and in my mind. It was wickedly deliberate, because she is brilliant enough to know exactly what I needed to hear. She lit her words and then set back to watch the fuse burn until she could see the shrapnel, tearing through my brain and systematically removing all of my fears of being a single parent with a crazy life.  She obliterated my doubts and uncertainty for what the Commando and I went through.

She told me she could look back and see the exact moment when she lost her son to drugs.  She said she hadn't been strong enough to do what I did when she had the opportunity, when he was young enough still, to save.

And just like that, I remembered my purpose.

Who Will Watch Over My Hostas?

A lovely man, attorney, good tenant of mine, hung himself on a Monday, March 7, 2011.  He had intended to do it a week earlier as evidenced by the letter he wrote telling me he was dead.  Four years ago, I had negotiated what was to be his last five year renewal in my building.  He had been battling cancer and at the time, he wasn't yet certain he would win the battle. He asked me to incorporate a "death" provision into his lease.  This was not uncommon, especially given his circumstances being a sole practitioner. Should something happen to him, he did not want the long term obligations of a lease to encumber his estate. Understandable.  Done. But did he negotiate that provision with something else in mind?

First, I received a letter from him telling me he was dead - his office had been instructed to mail said letter in the event of his death.  Within minutes of receiving the letter I was surprised to find an email from him apologizing for the mistaken mailing and assuring me he was alive and well.  My response went something along the lines of this....." so happy to know you are alive but don't you ever do that to me again......"

A few days later, he asked me to mail him a full copy of his lease and within a week of that, he went to his basement and hung himself, but not before hand writing a letter to me with date and initial just before he did it.

I have since been able to piece together just a few fragments.  He reportedly was in financial trouble; yet he paid his rent right up the the very end. He left behind two long term sub-tenants who had no more of an inkling of his plans than I. He carefully and thoughtfully placed notes in his house to warn his live-in girlfriend to 1) remember him as he was and 2) to not go down to the basement but instead to call 911.

Walking through his office the next day, it looked as if he had left for the night, nothing unusual, nothing out of place, newspaper on the cafe table, something he might finish reading when he returned.  Law books carefully organized and two bewildered sub-tenants who had leased from him for ten years. They told me how they had been receiving phone calls from vendors who seemed to know of his death before it occurred, just as I had been notified.  Placing the fragmented pieces of the last desperate puzzle together, it became clear - he attempted it once then changed his mind just long enough to unravel the unrest he had sent out to the universe, only to attempt it again, this time with success (so very hard to use that word in this context).

When I held his second letter in my hand, knowing it was real, knowing he dated and signed it hours or perhaps minutes before he hung himself, I wondered.  Had the very act of mailing the letters a second time provided him the impetus to not turn back? He couldn't call me a second time and tell me he was alive. He couldn't explain two such letters mailed in error for an attorney is much too pragmatic for that.  He mailed the letter and knew, this time, he would end it.  The Wisconsin Bar Association notified me before I got the second letter. I had time to question my actions.  Had I been cordial to him after the first letter or had I been a hard ass landlord interested in collecting rent?

And why didn't I take the time to connect with him on a level of which I am most familiar? Hurt, loss, financial trouble, depression, regret?  You've just got to keep fucking fighting the best fucking way you know how.  This life can be hard beyond our ability to cope but I also know when you are done, you are done. His kids were grown, he had faced death once......maybe he came to a place of acceptance that no living soul will ever understand.  Not one of life, but of death.

I will miss you and I will think of you each time I view this property and see the Hostas along "your" front walkway struggling to survive amidst the salt and plow damage from the winter.  But rest assured my friend, this year, I will plant nothing less than a soliloquy of seasonal, breathtaking, foliage in your name.  For I know you were the one who always took the time to notice and care for your surroundings.

Your lessons will not be forgotten.

Even in the midst of the greatest pain, the final reckoning, the encore that brought you back from the dead, you were always surrounded by the bountiful offerings of the earth. Why was that not enough to save you? Why couldn't you hold on for one more spring? I suppose the thought of the rose that would bloom was mired by your own belief that death had come to the vine.

And whether it's a twisted, thorny vine or a Hosta that held on as long as it could but eventually gave way to the bitter elements of a cold, hard winter, I believe life will come again for with the The Charge of the Light Brigade, "....Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: into the valley of Death, rode the six hundred. 

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

The Charge of The Light Brigade
Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

Angry Mobs v. Governor Walker in Wisconsin (or how to run away from a fair fight)

Those that know me really well know I generally don't climb mountains but I would climb a mountain if it meant I could avoid a political debate.  I would circumvent the globe if it meant I wouldn't have to stand toe to toe with an over zealous protester who believes in their cause just enough to bring harm to others or worse yet, an ex-husband who morphed from an agnostic to a right winged conservative political pundit/candidate right before my eyes.  The very same conservative Republican candidate then committed a federal fraud landing him in jail for a term of 30 months. I fucking hate politics, the game, the facade, the labels placed upon us all.

I grew up in Oklahoma and as such, I was given the legacy bestowed upon me by me "Democrat" father.  I place the word Democrat in parenthesis as his version of Democrat does not jive with the culture of today.  I clearly recall my father being a hard working American man who would drive me through the northeast sections of Oklahoma City, pointing out the people who chose to sit on their porches instead of working.  He called them many names. He routinely used the "N" word and referred to them as porch monkeys. 

He told me his tax dollars were allowing them to live on their porches. I didn't understand his words at the time but I could taste his hate.  I rebelled against it, arguing with him in my uneducated 11 year old brain.  I insisted he could not understand their plight for he had not walked in their shoes.  He told me they didn't need shoes on the front porch. (Insert internal soul-killing death scream here.)

Living in Wisconsin for the past ten years, working in a politically conservative environment, I have hidden my Democratic roots.  I have been told many times, my actual philosophies align more with the Republicans and I know that is true when it comes to taxes, for God's sake, that was a real eye-opener moving up here.  But, I have held onto my beliefs because I cannot stand the soap box diatribes from those that would like to condemn homosexuals, women who have had abortions and people who need a helping hand from time to time.  I do not like to judge.  I do not care for people who judge and I believe in extending an open arm to those who find themselves in need of a little help from their friends.

But today, I am ashamed to call myself a Democrat.  I work hard for my money.  My company has been forced to cut raises, bonuses, incentives, holiday parties, monthly luncheons, technology upgrades and staff.  I have watched my co-workers walk to their cars with boxes in hand.  I have endured annual increases on health insurance, with this year being the worst - nearly 40%.  I am on my own, raising my children with no help, no support and my salary has regressed as raises diminish and health insurance costs rise. 

Today I witnessed no less than 15 schools in the state of Wisconsin shut down because the teachers took a day off to protest at the state Capitol in Madison.  Today I saw thousands of people demanding, expecting; nay,  feeling entitled to a set of rights I have never been given, never offered, never even considered as a possibility.  Today I am proud of our newly elected Governor because I believe sometimes you have to break necks to cash checks. 

I am not ready to call myself a R....R...Re....Rep...Republican. I don't like labels.  Never have, never will.  But I want to say to that group of cowardly politicians that fled the state to avoid the new sheriff in town, you have shown your true colors and they are yellow.  You were elected to stand up for us, not to run.  I'm not sure if I've made this absolutely clear but I hate politics and hate is the strongest word in my arsenal.  Imagine myself and my fellow senior managers catching wind of an uprising among the workers in our company.  Let's say the accountants are feeling under appreciated during their busiest time of the year and they are screaming at us for the high cost of health insurance.  They took pay cuts for two years straight and yet, they work harder than ever. But that is not going to happen because you know what?  They have a job.  They are employed and in this economy, they have accepted the sacrifices because the alternative is much worse.

Why then?  Why do all these people march on the capitol of my state and insist they should be treated better than I, better than my co-workers, better than most of the hard working American citizens, including my late, misguided, uninformed father?  Why?

I am at a crucible. My brain is telling me to write something my heart does not want to believe. Was my father right?  Was my registered Democrat, Reagan hating father spot on in one respect? Should people be entitled to that which another is not?  His characterizations were based on racist principles; those that my heart shall never embrace.

But today, it was not about race.  It was not about poverty or privilege.  It was about a man whom I formerly placed in the category of a cad.  Not my father, but the former Milwaukee County Executive, now Governor of Wisconsin, Scott Walker.  I categorized him based upon my ex-husband's affiliation with him.  "He is one of them". Just another politician, well spoken, family man - probably stealing money on the side or sleeping with staffers.  I have met him, sat across a luncheon table with him, liked him and appreciated what he was doing for Milwaukee County but jaded I was.  Jaded, for sure.

Jaded no more.  For you, Mr. Governor sir, I respect.  And God only knows how utterly difficult that is for me to admit.

She Let Go

I have had two serious loves since my divorce from Mr. Sunshine in 2005.  Both lasted between a year and a half to two years if you count that last four to five months of trying to reconcile before you decide it is really over.  Both broke my heart but in vastly different ways.  The first a man with a well thought out, pragmatic past, present and future meticulously planned. Not the sort of thing that would mesh with my, let's just go ahead and say it, somewhat unconventional, colorful past, present and most likely future.  Ironically, said colorful past made me who I was/am, the woman he fell in love with, but when it came to the ultimate decision, or shortly after I had met his entire family.....to this day, not sure which one tipped the scales, I was told he couldn't do it anymore.  His anguish was apparent, his tears were real and just like that, the man I had imagined to be "the one", was gone. 

The second was the brilliant Mr. S. who seduced me with a foreign accent, hot body and intellectual stimulation beyond my wildest imagination. So what if English was his fourth language, I could always take him when it came to grammar, syntax and stupid English figures of speech.  But hyperbole and sarcasm were his aces in the hole.  I stood at his feet in constant admiration of his ability to battle it out with me in the language I had bathed in my entire life, like an alcoholic, not ever fully satisfied until I had acquired more vocabulary, more uses of an oxymoron, more synonyms, more guide to picturesque speech. While he had breezed through French, Armenian, Arabic and oh by the way, English.  Bully for me.

But in the end, the one who wanted me for all of my crazy ideas, accepted me for all past indiscretions and proposed to love me forever, Mr. S., was more fucked up than anyone of my past loves (and if you've read this entire blog, you know that carries some significant weight).  He imagined himself to be someone he wasn't. For example, he prided himself on having not one jealous bone in his body, absolutely no issues with trust; yet I later discovered my computer was being monitored 24/7.  It was insidious, stealth-like deceit but unintentional; as honest to daisies, he believes he is what he claims to be.  Nonetheless, second big love, second heart break.

Why the reflux of past love on this, the dawn of a new year?  Good question. I believe it has to do with letting go.

In a time of reflection and transition such as the new year, what does one do?  Do we wipe the slate clean, let go and chart a new course or do we give thanks that life is just as it is, know that what we have is ours, understand it, claim it and then let the universe show us our own personal end result, that we ourselves brought to fruition?

I believe it is a combination of letting go and believing in your choices.  This year for me was defined by the loss of Mr.S- good riddance - and the gain of my children as their full time provider.  They amaze me, defy me, teach me how to be a better mother, get me outside to play in the snow, make me do the most unimaginable things to fight for them and ultimately convince me that my purpose, i.e., to write, has now been given a meaning beyond what I could have ever begun to imagine.  This is not just about me anymore, this is not just my journey, it's our story.

And from this point forward in my blog, I share their lessons with you.

I let some meatballs stay in the fridge a bit too long and mold started to develop.  My warrior princess lives for meatballs so it was with trepidation I decided to show her the Rubbermaid container with the moldy meatballs.  Honey, this is what happens when meatballs outlive their useful life.  Look, this one has eyeballs, furry eyeballs.  She was incensed, disgusted and appalled - questioning her belief in meatballs for ever after.

A few days later, we all sat down to watch the movie, Babe.  I told the kids it would be sad at times but they would feel good at the end.  When it ended, they questioned me, how could you let us watch a movie with so much sadness?

But didn't it end okay?  Sometimes life gives you sadness but the point of the movie is to believe in yourself, even if everyone else thinks you're crazy. If a thought nags at you, and won't go away then you MUST pursue it. You will be given hardships and obstacles along the way but you cannot let go, do you know why that is?

Yes, the Warrior Princess replied with the tone of a balloon losing its air, we get it mom, life is like a meatball, sometimes it gets moldy.

There is nothing more I can add to that other than to give credit to Robin Thomas, a/k/a Bert, a/k/a, my soul mate who has known me since the time we sat on her bed as young girls and rolled our hair together.  She sent me the card you see at the top of this post.  It is me with red, curly hair, saggy breasts and legs that can still stop a man in his tracks.

Forging a hole through this universe.  I WILL scream past my limitations and defy each and every furry meatball that comes my way.

Happy New Year.

xoxox

Love to all, Zen Mama

How to Save a Life - Conclusion

As of tomorrow, it has been one month since my son was discharged (AMA) from the Aurora Hospital for the Psychiatric treatment of children.  When I left the hospital the night of his restraint and sedation, I told him he was stronger than he knew.  I told him he had the kind of fight in him to beat this.  And within 48 hours he had proven his stability, his stamina and his determination.  They had no choice but to release him, back to my care.

As we left, I used my cell phone to take photos of the conditions of the facility.  Just because my son had to endure this, didn't mean other children should be subjected to it. As the last photo was taken, I was caught by one of the nurses.  She charged up to me and told me I wasn't allowed to take photos.  Other staff members rushed to the scene, calling security, threatening to take my phone.

I asked them if they cared enough to let me report the conditions, to let me champion their cause, to allow me to shed light on this so I could cause change, funding, books, games, cozy chairs and real beds to come their way.  They defended themselves.  We have books for him to read.  Okay, please show me exactly which books you feel are in his best interest.  Would it be the Golden Book series or perhaps Dick, Jane and Spot that would appeal to him more? 

I was then promptly escorted out by security with my cell phone evidence firmly in hand.

Over the past month, I have seen a remarkable, if not revolutionary change in my son.

Here is the main thing.

He smiles. 

The angst, the confusing rage that had suffocated him for his entire life has been replaced by a logical thinking, loving yet still feisty and opinionated pain in the ass to his sisters, but nonetheless happy little boy. He is thriving on our structure, committed to his school work and looking forward to all of our winter plans, including family game nights, sledding, ski lessons, band concerts and lots of sleepovers at our house with his buds. 

We have come to a place where he can talk to me about missing his dad.  He has opened up and allowed me to assure him of the good things he and his dad had and will always have.  He finally laughs at my silly jokes, cuddles with me, lets me stroke his hair and listens to reason without rage.  He has accepted my love, my encouragement and my boundaries.

But most of all.

He smiles.

The smiles of a boy who finds joy and happiness in the everyday, mundane, silly life. 

The very same life he wanted to end during the darkest of days, restrained in tight leather bands, pleading for someone to end his life, hoping to kill everyone who put him there, lost and confused by the abandonment and betrayal he had suppressed.  His scream was released to the cold, black sky until it was all gone. Just as the sky had rejected my scream, it opened up and swallowed his, capturing the desperation and placing it in the only place such ultimate pain could go. Back to the beginning, to the primordial scream.  To set the universe right, returning him to me whole - for now, lest we forget, we have many roads yet to travel before we sleep.

How to Save a Life - Part Two

I followed the three men down the hall who were carrying my screaming son.  They took him to his room, gave him a paper shirt and shorts to sleep in and introduced him to his cell.  This was nothing short of a prison. White walls, institutional green vinyl mattress, thin blanket, no natural light, bare floors and a smelly restroom. This particular facility, run by a power house health care organization known as Aurora, is one of only two in the greater Milwaukee area with a specialty, an expertise or even a remote ability to treat children and adolescents. One would think being only one of two, you would have distinguished yourself, wiped out your competition as it were.  Or one could drift into an abysmal nightmare where only one of two means you have NO competition, no reason to make your patients comfortable, no concern over real life mattresses, books for them to read or competent professionals to treat them.

I truly don't know if this is a nationwide epidemic or if it is just here in Brew City but child Psychiatrists are as rare here as a street corner without a pub or tavern situated upon it.  Too much controversy over the candy dispenser approach to doling out psycho-pharmaceutical medication to the wee ones, combined with unholy high malpractice rates has driven them out in a pied-piper fashion. Can't really say I blame them as most of the medications these shrinks prescribe carry a black box warning on the label to be alert to the highly likely possibility your patient may very well want to kill themselves shortly after ingesting.  But this is not my path to take.

My path was to complete this blind leap of faith and walk out of that facility leaving my son behind. I was simultaneously exhausted, numb and tormented with fear and anxiety as I passed through those locked doors, feeling a part of my soul die in the process; yet, hoping with the smallest bud of hope imaginable that this might be okay.  With each step, I repeated to myself, he was out of control, he was hurting, he was in pain and I got him help.  He was out of control, he was hurting, he was in pain and I got him help.  Step after step after step until I arrived at my car, looked up to the sky and with a cold, freezing rain blowing across my face I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came.  Only me in an empty, cold, silently still, lonely parking lot wondering if the black sky had sucked away my scream the way a tornado indiscriminately picks up a house and tears it to pieces until it is unrecognizable.

The next day, I arrived for a scheduled "family" therapy session, which was set for noon.  The appointment was made as we were checking in so we both felt some level of comfort knowing we would be immediately seeing each other tomorrow morning, face to face, in therapy, to get down to business.  I was escorted to a therapy room where I was greeted by one of a long list of psychologists who would routinely rotate in and out of his treatment and the grand doctor himself, the endangered species of Milwaukee known as the child Psychiatrist.  Actually, the psychologist was taking medical history from me when the doctor burst in, dismissing all conversation and sitting down in front of me to ask a) the same questions I had just been asked and b) questions pertaining to another patient as I gradually figured out, he wasn't looking at MY son's file.

I expected the question and answer session to take 10 to 15 minutes, then we could bring the Commando in and do some real work.  Instead, I was given a quick diagnosis, assured of the percentages of children who are in the same situation and offered a treatment plan of one week full inpatient care with a battery of medications to ensue.  After I persisted, I was finally told I would not be seeing my son for the first "family" session; and you call it a family session because.......?  I then told Doctor Incompetento he had the wrong file and oh by the way, this boy is not a percentage for your charts, he is my son.

On the other side of the unit, my baby boy (who knew it was noon) was being told his mother was there and he would be able to see her before she left.  I was told he was in therapy and I would have to wait until visiting hours at 5pm to see him.  They let me walk out the door when several nurses and clinical workers knew how hopeful he was to see me.  Within three hours I received a call at my office that he had become violent when he found out I left without seeing him.  He threatened harm to the staff, inflicted harm to himself by banging his fists into the wall and was subsequently restrained - for over an hour, given a shot of Ativan and still restrained for another thirty minutes before he became calm enough to release.

I arrived at 5pm to find him stumbling about, dry mouthed, incoherent and sporting deep ligature marks on both wrists and both ankles.  Though they had made it abundantly clear upon intake, this was a voluntary admission and I was free to take him home at any time, when I went to the front desk to ask for his release I was denied on the grounds he had now been classified as a threat to himself and others and would need to be held for another 48 hours (under control) before he could come home, by law.

We went into his prison cell and I laid down with him carefully explaining what had happened and why he couldn't come home.  I repeated the same story over and over and over.  Sweetie, you have to be calm, you have to cooperate, you have to show them you are okay, you are in control.   He nodded in understanding but I could tell from his glazed over eyes, it wasn't really registering.

And so for the second night in a row, I had to leave him there, screaming for me to take him home. Angry at me for not seeing him when I was there earlier in the day and feeling, I'm quite certain, as lost and abandoned as any boy could possibly feel.  I was told he went to sleep within an hour of me leaving while I remained awake all night, pouring over the laws, determining my rights as a parent, speaking to his therapist and sure as hell I wanted to get him out of there before......

My God.  What if I have made the worst mistake of my life? What if instead of saving him, I have lost him forever.  Even his therapist told me she was worried he might never come back from this.  In this hour of darkness, I turned to my soul mate, a little bird who has been on my shoulder for a lifetime.  I told her of the horrifying experience. She paused, gave it a great deal of thought and then bravely came back and assured me I was doing the right thing.  For, she speculated, if either one of our parents had had the strength to intervene as I had, maybe our brothers would still be alive.


(To be continued......)

How to Save a Life - Part One

Many have speculated.  There has been much conjecture among the ranks. What happened to The Commando? Why did he miss school for a full week? Only a handful of people know the truth. I have sought to protect him; yet I realize what happened to him was a normal reaction to the circumstances of his life.

He was targeted, even as a toddler by his dad who was intensely jealous and insecure about the allegiance his son might possibly form with me. God forbid, a child should bond with his mother. It drove him insane when the wee child was sick and called for his mommy.  I remember him pulling my precious baby off my chest in an effort to dissuade him from needing me.  It went back to his own perverse childhood where he and his siblings were placed in the care of an unstable grandmother while his mom pursued her life goals. His older half-sister was selected by the drunken grandmother and repeatedly told her mother didn't love her.  Later, he and his sister were forced to choose sides in a bitter custody battle between his dad and mom. No coincidence, his older half-sister ended up in prison as well.

I knew what was behind his sickness, but he didn't.  When our son was a baby, Dad was busy cavorting about, having multiple affairs, impregnating an underage drug addict and running our business into the ground.  There came a point when I  discovered these affairs, I cut him lose, changed the locks, set his things in the front yard and told him to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

The separation seemed to force him to one of those crucibles in life. He wanted us, he wanted our family, he wanted to come back and make things right. The crack whore had an abortion and the yellow pages sales woman with the enormous fake breasts was summarily dismissed and he turned his life over to God.  But, we needed a change.  Let's break all these ties and move to Wisconsin.

Once we settled in, we became active in a local church, he enrolled in college full time (in spite of the fact I had just given birth to our twins and was trying to hold down my full time job) and he began to work his way into the ultra conservative, in your face, anti-everything-I-stood-for-political arena.  At the age of three, he had our son wearing Bush tee shirts and telling all of his preschool friends how his dad was going to go out into the world to defeat all those bad people who wanted to hurt daddy, i.e., the Democrats.

He surreptitiously spun tales of these criminals who wanted to take daddy's money away.  He twice ran for office, sending our son off to school on election days to tell everyone how his daddy was going to win; 100% certain his dad would win against those vile, monstrous Democrats. Can you imagine what his teachers must have been thinking? Then the little guy would come home to find out the world was not going to be saved because daddy lost. Does this mean the bad guys are going to take our money, daddy? Seriously, who does this to a child?

I didn't truly understand the depths with which he would go until I found out he convinced our son to switch his loyalties from the Packers to the Vikings soon after Brett Favre began wearing a purple jersey.  How can you be a life long Packer fan, then switch over to the sworn enemy then have the moral ineptitude to express that to your son as if it were the law?  Everything with Troy (Mr. Sunshine) was the law, in the eyes of his impressionable son.  The son he fought so hard to win over, he was even willing to tell him horrible tales of how his mom left him/them, didn't love him and how daddy would be the only person he could ever count upon subsequent to our split.

The manipulation had no end and the devastation on this impressionable, trusting young man had no end when the hero he knew as his father was convicted of felony fraud and sent to prison for two and a half years. Who are the bad guys again, daddy?

The little guy's counselor and I knew he was repressing his feelings, staying tough, being a strong guy, acting as if this had no real effect on him.  Yet on the Tuesday night before the Thanksgiving holiday, after a counseling session where he was asked to focus on his feelings and deal with his grief, he exploded.  I had made spaghetti and meatballs for dinner with garlic bread and broccoli.  All things he loved.  He walked into the kitchen and told me if I didn't make something else for him, something more along the lines of REAL food, something he could actually eat, he would tear our house apart and hurt both me and his sisters.

I immediately phoned the counselor to see what they had talked about that day.  As I was speaking to her, he was running through the house, demanding I go get him some food, knocking everything over he could find, breaking doors, pounding fists into the wall.  He wouldn't let me hold him, he wouldn't let me reach him.  I knew what was happening, the lid had finally blown off the pressure cooker and the anger had surfaced.  The counselor told me to take him to a behavioral unit for the treatment of children but I refused. 

We continued through Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday with virtually the same behavior the entire time.  Even inviting his best friend's family over to celebrate Thanksgiving with us resulted in a refusal to wait for the prayer, a demand for rolls before anyone had been served and later, a fight with his buddy that ended with a precious painting by my dead brother being destroyed as he unleashed his anger on his best friend. By Sunday night, I had had enough.  I told him he needed help beyond what I could give him, he needed a higher level of care.  He responded with the same abject tone and vicious stare he had used on me for days....."you don't have the guts to take me there. I'll put my shoes on right now, let's go, let's see if you will really do it because I don't think you will.  I don't think you have it in you to do that.  C'mon, I dare you. I'm ready to go.  I will go anywhere to get away from you."

Summoning all my strength, I made up my mind.  If I call him on this.  If we get in that car, there is no turning back.  He is hurting and he won't let me help him; in fact, he is blaming his hurt on me.  I found that fortitude that comes from being a mom, the one where you are willing to put them through something painful to bring them back to you.  Just like the hernia operation when he was a baby, or fighting against their dad to have the girls get tubes in their ears to stop chronic infections.  A mother knows when it is time to take evasive measures. A mother knows when it is time to call in the Calvary and save their child.

But a mother could have never imagined the depths of pain she would experience in watching three men: An orderly, a nurse and a security guard, carry her baby boy away while hearing him wail for her to stop them and just take him home.  "I will be good now I promise, I will be okay, I didn't mean all those things I said, just take me home mommy, please don't leave me here."

Another nurse pulled me aside and watched as I fell to my knees, begging her to let me take him home.  She reminded me of the anger he had built inside of him as she grabbed my face, pulled it up, wiped my eyes and said, "you're doing the right thing.  If you don't intervene now, you will never be able to reach him when puberty hits.  This IS THE TIME to save him and you are strong enough to do it."

This was the same nurse who had interviewed us previously, a woman who had shocked me with her ability to write, as she didn't have any hands.  It was those very gentle, yet highly effective hand-less stubs,  placed upon my cheeks that allowed me to stand back up and face my own reality. I don't think I would have listened to any other person at that moment.  Only someone I knew had faced and overcome great challenges of her own had the power to lift me up.

But the next day, I stormed in there will my full will and might and demanded my son be released, after I discovered what they had done to him.

(To be continued)

The Strength of a Woman and Two Aleve Tablets Per Day

Sometimes I feel like an overused cliché.  Life isn’t about the breaths you take but the moments that take your breath away.  

Fuck that shit. Sometimes all I can do is take another breath, surviving breath by breath and when my breath is taken away, it’s only because I’m too fucking tired and numb to feel myself actually breathing.

I was given two hugs yesterday.  Two hugs before noon.  The first was from my daughter’s third grade teacher.  I had forgotten to send lunch money with the girls so I had to get out of my car with my camouflage pajama leggings, black furry boots and yellow furry teeth from not yet brushing.  My bright red coat drew attention to me, like a Christmas tree, topped off by a flagrant display of bed head.  I delivered the money and had almost made a clean getaway when the teacher approached to ask how my son was doing.

Instinctively I told her enough without telling too much.  Watching every word as they floated off my tongue, I painting with a brushstroke large enough to cover the entire canvas with one swipe, recanting how my 12 year old son was struggling with anger, hurt and resentment from having his ultra conservative, right-wing Republican, ex-politician (wannabe),”I will save the world for you” father sent away for a two and half year stint in federal prison for fraud.

The highlights of my lowlights reduced her to tears and induced her to hug me, there in my pajama bottoms, as the kids were making their way to class. She went on to ask if we were “okay” for Christmas. At first I wasn’t sure what she meant.  “Okay for Christmas”, I asked?  “Yes, do you need help with presents for the kids?”  Aside from the obvious, i.e., me looking like a cleaned up version of a disheveled street person, I was a bit taken aback by her offer.  So many people have come forward to help us.  All friends, no family; family has been busy looking after the convict.  I have had help from other moms and dads willing to pick up the kids, feed them dinner, take them to Brownie meetings….but help for Christmas? No. I had already explained to the minions, Christmas past was gone.  This year, we are going to be about family.  This year, we are volunteering our time to help with moms and dads and kids who are less fortunate than we.  This year, we learn the true meaning.  In other words kids, this year, you aren’t getting what you are accustomed to getting.

“No, we are fine.”  We won’t need help for Christmas, but thank you so much for thinking of us (insert hug here).  “This year, we will be a gift to others.”  I walked out the door, holding my head a bit higher and praying like hell I wouldn’t encounter another person above the height of five feet on my way to the car.

After quickly showering and attempting to present myself with some sort of professional modicum; a little make-up, a pair of heels, I am off to work for a few hours before my dentist appointment.  For the past six weeks, I have opened my eyes each and every day to a cocktail of Diet Coke and Aleve.  The soda is my coffee and the Aleve is to get me through the day without the right side of my lower jaw feeling as if a voodoo sorcerer has decided that side of my face needs to fall off.  The use of rusty instruments, dull from centuries of neglect was, in my opinion, totally uncalled for.  What was my unsuspecting doppelganger dolly supposed to do? But I say nothing because the Aleve works and I know I’m seeing my dentist in December.

Tall, dark and Greek dentist walks in after his assistant has taken it upon herself to ex-ray my roots to oblivion.  I am expecting the worst: Root canal, tooth extraction, partials, retainers, braces, TMJ, TMI, fuck it – you’re just getting old and need new teeth, etc.  He pushes and prods. He pressures and pokes. Then he looks at me with those big brown eyes and says, “Sweetie, you have never had problems with your dentally boring teeth. Are you experiencing a particularly high amount of stress in your life right now?”

And just like that, I gave into my pain and I lost it, in a dental chair, just before noon on a Thursday. I thought I was being so strong to stand up to these pressures but my teeth gave me away.  It’s the fucking holidays so let it flow, let it flow, let it flow.   Second hug was administered, immediately, with love.  Without knowing the financial strains on me, doc said the ex-rays and biting device, yes I said biting device, as in I am clenching my teeth, would be an early Christmas present. You know that shit only makes me cry harder, right doc? I am known to have the world’s ugliest cry face which is made exponentially worse when accompanied by a bib and goggles.

Once I’ve pulled myself back together, the dental assistant continues with her cleaning, simply shaking her head and saying to me, “the strength of a woman, the strength of a woman, it constantly amazes me the strength we have as women, you know?”  With my mouth open, I give her a nod.  “And the fight in a mother, there is nothing like it.  By the way, don’t worry about the gums bleeding, that’s just stress too, you are going to be okay."

Breathe.  I am breathing, and yet I am bleeding from my gums and my heart and my liver and my vagina and from the deepest, most indistinct fear that resonates within my soul that perhaps, I am not enough. 

   

But Friday arrives and I realize we’ve made it through another week. Give me breath, and I will give you life.  Life that doesn’t have to come from my body, but life I will sustain nonetheless, as a mother. Those moments that take your breath away are not always the happy Hallmark times; sometimes, they come in the form of unthinkable challenges and struggle for basic survival.  Either way, with the strength of a woman, I continue to breathe. 

(Cross posted from another blog where I collaborate)

Before Monday

Monday is the day. Mr. Sunshine reports to his federal prison work camp a/k/a, jail. I have spent the past few weeks doing something that is quite uncomfortable for me. It is not in my nature, not a part of my DNA.  I have been asking for help.

The first and most important item of business was to find someone to watch my girls from the time they spill out of the bus to the time I get home from doing that which supports us all.  I sent out a broadcast email to the moms in my girls brownie troop.  I expected it to take a few days to shake out, perhaps even thought I might need to go to plan B, which was the suggestion of the school guidance counselor for us to take the request to the wider school community at large.

Within 20 minutes, all arrangements were made.  Not only that, I had extra people volunteer who had to be turned away.  The girls had people fighting over who could get to keep them. When I told them what was happening, my little Warrior Princess quickly calculated the number of people who volunteered and began to set up a schedule in her mind as to how we could accommodate them all.  I realized by the look in her eyes what she was up to.  Sweetie, I said, we can't have you bouncing all over the city to a different home everyday, don't you think that would be a bit much, perhaps too confusing? Wouldn't you forget where you are supposed to be on Wednesday? She knew I was going to logic her to death on this one so she agreed we should limit it, but added, maybe we could just arrange some play dates with our other friends on the weekends?  Yes honey, of course we will. Everything will work out, before Monday.

These dear friends, angels all of them - not only stepped up to provide the specific need I requested, but they went on to come up with additional things they could do for me on their own.  "Darling, why don't I feed them dinner and drive them back to your house so you won't have to worry about that on Tuesdays", my Australian friend said with her irresistible accent.  Then another mom who will have them on Thursdays realized we have brownie meetings twice a month on Thursdays.  "Let me feed them dinner on Thursdays then drop them off at the brownie meetings for you".

The offers poured in all day, with a few dads even stepping up to the plate to ask what they could do. Keep in mind, I haven't even begun to tap into the middle school network of support for my 12 year old son and I had dads from the girls school worrying about my son, asking me if he needed someone to spend "guy" time with. My mission is clear with my son.  I am excited for the opportunity to have these next two and a half years to stabilize him.  To give him one home, one safe place - where all his stuff is.  To hold him accountable and responsible for grades, chores, being a good big brother and being responsible to his community. But I can't go hunting with him or do other things guys like to do.  He has been begging me to go paint balling. Sorry, but no.  I take enough pelts with unexpected large balls being hurled at me in life.  I'm not going to volunteer for it.

My good friends in Green Bay have offered to have us up for ice fishing this year.  We've spent the summers with them fishing off the docks but never have I imagined the concept of ice fishing. Dave is one of those men that I want to be in my son's life. He's a retired fire fighter, tough as nails but funny and tender hearted  He can be a bit of a daredevil, tempting fate with his adventures but the twists and turns in life as well as the twists and turns in his neck have slowed him down. His most recent large toy purchase was an RV, that's a good indicator how far he's come.  (Sorry Dave, you know I love you.)

After all this love, after all this support.  After asking for help so uncomfortably and getting it so unconditionally, I cried. That's all I could really do.

Before Monday, I am spending this last weekend in a Tazmanian Devil-like organizing frenzy. I'm painting new shelves, making room for all the stuff the kids had at their dad's house, giving them some separate and clearly defined spaces of their own when they need that quiet time and in general, leaving not one thing undone as I begin this stage of full time, single mom.  Organization is my key to sanity. If you ever want to know when it's time to lock me up in the padded cell, just check to see if my house is messy.  If there are any remote signs of hoarding, or even an unorganized desktop - just put me away.  Yes, I know - it's a control issue, but it feels SO good.

I have remained stoic and strong in these weeks leading up to the day my children will lose their dad.  I have envisioned the life I will make for us as a magnificent journey. I have finally, fully dealt with the loss of Zen Boyfriend, who at first seemed to be ripped away from me like a lost limb, leaving me to bleed out until there was nothing left. Now I realize he was not the man I thought he was and most certainly not the influence I would want in my children's lives at this critical time. It seemed merciless but has ended up being merciful, a great blessing to not only have him gone but to have had five months to make sense of it before Monday.

The events leading up to Monday have stripped me down to the bone, raw and fresh, deeply gouged wounds inflicted by anger, hurt, loss, anxiety and fear.  I believe I waged a war with anger and hurt and I emerged victorious.  I will no longer stare into the detestable bitter face, that was my opponent.  If I am honest, I know fear and anxiety remain, but they are buried, like the layers of the earth somewhere around the transition region. What lies on top, on the upper mantle of my internal earth structure for now, is loss. The loss of my children's father. The loss of a little part of their innocence, the loss they will feel each time they look out into the audience from the stage of a school musical and realize their dad is gone. That cannot be processed before Monday.

Dear Linda, Part Deux

I just checked my stat page and realized you are reading me, or spying on me, at least twice a day lately. Since we don't speak otherwise, I will address you here.

I had a wonderful session with my therapist today.  This is the therapist I found to help me deal with all that is happening to me right now, including my decision to not drink anymore.  I asked her to help me figure out why I have so much anger toward you and your son.  I don't like anger, I don't function well with hate.  I believe both will eat away at your soul and prevent you from achieving God's plan for you life.  Kind of like poisoning yourself and waiting for the other person to die.

She told me I have every reason to be angry. I'm sure your son tells you he has always taken care of his responsibilities to his children but I have a very large document and a court ordered judgment that proves otherwise. He owes me a lot of money for the things I have covered over the years.  I would love to show it to you as I'm sure you experienced much of the same with your exes. You must be able to relate and yet, your love for your son has you sitting idly by with blinders on.

I will be struggling to make ends meet while your son is in prison. I have to tell the kids we cannot have the things, do the things, we used to do.  I have to tell the girls, they will not get their orthodontics.  By the way, very mature of you to tell them their mom should just take out a loan.  The loan payment for three sets of orthodontics is $650 per month.  Exactly where do you think I will get that money? Again, I know you have seen their teeth.  This is not purely cosmetic.  They do not have room for their adult teeth to come in.

Yet, here you are, living your life, planning your vacations and expecting things to go on as normal for you. I will not stand in the way of you taking the kids to see their dad, I will give it my best to act like I have some modicum of respect for you, but I am putting you on notice - when these kids grow up and see the sacrifices I had to make, while their dad didn't pay for their medical bills, counseling and school expenses; and when they see that Grandma didn't help because she was too busy traveling, paying legal fees for their dad or saving for her retirement in Panama, then I will no longer stand up for you.

I went to my therapist today with anger and she told me it was okay to be angry.  I deserve the anger.  Yet, the anger is a mask, my mask. It's nearly Halloween after all so it seems appropriate. I can't begin to accept the fear of living in Wisconsin, with no family, trying to raise these kids to be healthy and happy and understand the most important values in life while their dad is in prison, we are struggling and there is nobody to help us.  God knows Jennifer can't stand on her own so she has to be supported by his dad - but what about us?  Where do we fit in?  Do you people think so highly of me that you know I will find a way to make ends meet or do you understand how dire this situation is, or like Troy, do you just not give a damn what happens to us?

I will have transportation arranged for Troy on the day of his release.  He will be taken to the Waukesha County jail.  My therapist gave me the courage when I told her I didn't like being a hard ass.  She said I have to do this for my kids.  I will keep him in jail as long as it takes so I suggest you get together with your family and figure out a way to help us out.  I'm not asking for full payment, just enough to help us survive while he is away.  If you don't, it will be much longer than 30 months before you see him again.  Not a threat, just reality as the court has ordered. He will pay for this crime just as sure and swiftly as he will pay for the other.

And THAT is fear, masquerading as anger. Happy Halloween.

Sorry readers, but the Zen in Zen Mama is taking a break. I am a work in progress.  

And Justice Was Served

We arrived in court Monday morning, expecting it to be a short hearing in front of the judge to report on the status of our mediation. It was scheduled just prior to lunch; thus, my attorney shot down my expectation of a ruling. She said we should expect around 15 minutes.

For over an hour, the Honorable Judge Linda Van de Water sat and listened while simultaneously pouring over the fifty plus pages of copiously detailed documentation. She questioned Mr. Sunshine as to each specific area of expense and why he thought he didn't need to pay for it.  She listened to his excuses, his outright lies and his impenetrable fortress known as Troyland, the world in which he lives.

This particular judge has recently transferred to family court after a career spent in the criminal court system. She has a very low tolerance for people who do not accept responsibilities for their actions, people who refuse to see how their decisions affect others and people who are, well let's just say it like it is, criminals.

She finally broke when she noticed on his notes, he had written that he refused to pay for our son's broken retainer because it was not specifically broken at his home, but rather at school.  She interrupted his per se arguments to let him know exactly what she thought of  him. She told him she had heard enough of his excuses as it was abundantly clear he had an excuse for everything. The only excuse she bought was that he is a sorry excuse for a man who had "obviously caused nothing but heartache for me and for his children over the past five years" and she ruled in a way that said to the world, "your actions, your choices, do not diminish the responsibilities you have for your children".  Here sir, may I present to you your ass, on a silver platter.

She not only awarded me every cent of his share of past medical bills, counseling bills, hospital bills, orthodontic treatment and school fees but she went on to require him to pay 100% of the legal fees I had to incur in pursuing him. As if that wasn't enough, she asked my attorney how much she would be billing me for her services that very morning so she could add that in. She noted that he had never paid me the $5,000 he owed me from the sale of our home. I'm certain she took into account the fact that he had stolen $1.3 million dollars and still didn't pay me when he was out buying Cadillacs and taking three week cruises with his fiance around the Mediterranean.

Yes, Judge Van de Water did not like Mr. Sunshine. He now owes me approximately $16,000, which must be paid in thirty days or he goes to jail.  But wait, he will already be in jail.  Hmmmm.  How does THAT work? If he doesn't pay it by the time he gets out of jail, he goes right back in, except this time it won't be a federal prison "camp". It will be Waukesha County jail.  I hope he hones his prison skills before he faces county lock-up.

He further embarrassed himself in court by mentioning the handwritten counter-suit he had filed that very morning, asking me to appear in court to have our arrangement amended for me to be responsible for 100% of the kids expenses while he is up the river for the next 30 months. The judge would not hear his argument as this filing was not before her court; however, I'm certain she used that as one more weapon in her arsenal when she rendered her judgment.

I have a friend who graduated from MIT with a masters in mathematics. He is a veritable math savant, making him a high income earner. Yet, when he went through a divorce here in the state of Wisconsin, he had temporarily lost his job (through no fault of his own). He proposed to the court his intent on becoming a high school math teacher. He had always dreamed of using his talents to teach others. He spent hours volunteering at his son's school to facilitate this passion. He envisioned a life where he could teach during the school year and spend all summer with his two boys, being with them full time during their days with him. Noble right?

The court ruled that he was not allowed to pursue this most benevolent of ventures because he had proven his earning potential in the corporate world and his ex wife was accustomed to that level of living.  Therefore, he would be required to jump back on the corporate treadmill, denying countless high school children his gift, denying his children the precious time he could have given them, and denying himself of the dream he had carried throughout his lifetime. He ended up being a guest on the Dr. Phil show in an episode about men losing their rights in a divorce.

Contrast that to a man who lost his job during our divorce but chose not to look for another job, starting what was the second or third of many failed business ventures. He needed to do that in order to allow him the freedom to run for the state Assembly position he was pursuing. He lost that race of course, and stayed true to his pattern of ending up broke and without resources yet again.  That's when he went to work for the employer he would eventually steal from and well, the rest of the story you know.

The court system denied a man wanting to downgrade his earning potential for the benefit of thousands. What do you think they (the former criminal court judge) thought of Mr. Sunshine and his excuse that he would no longer be able to earn at the rate commensurate with his history due to the fact that he chose to commit a felony crime? She ruled that he would be responsible to pay child support to me based on his full earning potential for each and every month he is away, I am to receive $1,500.

What? You mean I won't have to deny the kids their orthodontic treatment or rip them out of their schools because I can't afford to hire someone to pick them up everyday?  You mean I will be able to pay for full time child care during the summers and perhaps even take them on a family vacation? You mean I won't have to explain away Christmas presents and birthday parties and dinners out and new video games because I won't be struggling to pay the bills and keep a roof over our heads for the next two and a half years?

What a relief that is. What a blessing that is. Yes, it appears justice was served.

Those of you who have read the annuls of Mr. Sunshine know he will find a way to avoid paying me this money.  He acknowledges most of what he owes, yet he came to mediation with a settlement offer of $300 for half of our son's orthodontic down payment and another $300 to pay for his school lunches for the remainder of the year. It was a gesture of yes, I know I didn't pay you for half of our daughter's hospital bills but oh well, guess I just don't have the money, sorry. It's $600, take it or leave it.

Bite me.  Try $16,000 on for size.

His is in the process of selling his cars and his furniture, he will receive a security deposit back on his rental, he will continue to have meetings to keep his business generating revenue, he will drain his mother for legal fees and cell phones and probably even channel money to his church but will he, they (he and his mother who travels the world on extravagant summer vacations) give one thought to providing for his children? Well, you be the judge.

I'm done Mr. Sunshine. Your new home away from home, Waukesha County jail, awaits.






(To see all posts related to Mr. Sunshine, click on the "Mr. Sunshine with a Chance of Pain", link below.)