Did it really hurt that bad?

He said it to me over lunch. The answers should be obvious. Hell yes it did. Why else would anyone make such a big deal of pain, tragedy, grief etc. It hurts. Now wait... he says to me. Maybe it was just me making a much bigger deal out of something that it deserved. Somehow the idea of disproportionate response to a painful stimuli takes root. And at first it offends me that anyone could suggest minimizing their own or someone else's emotional response to a given set of facts. But on the flip side we do it all the time. At least to other people... rarely for any self analytical purpose. What we are quick to judge in another we are often sluggish to see in ourselves.

We shake our heads in wonder when grieving families create shrines to dead children. We wonder why they can't move on. People make mention of mental status when someone can't focus beyond their own immediate distress and find ways to cope. We're not seeing the reason for all the drama... why do you?

And then we - the oh so superior crowd - go about medicating ourselves with alcohol, memories, and stories and sometimes just plain mindnumbing silence that serve only to kill our pain and at the same time recapture a little of what we feel we have lost. We spend quality time we can't afford to waste on diversionary tactics that hopefully no one else notices. A hand carefully placed to cover up a scar in public, a move to a new city so we don't have to face the pain of reliving hurtful memories in the grocery store, the post office, a public park. You get the picture.

So you tell me... do we all just hide away the parts of us we need most to protect, or do we react to our own grief in ways that are disproportionate to the situation in the first place?

And yes baby... it did hurt that much.

Memories Shouldn't Be Painful

And children shouldn't bear adult responsibilities simply because their parents are either ill-equiped, too shallow, selfish or too clueless to protect them and nuture them away from things they are too young for and from things that are none of their business.

I couldn't get comfortable last night and I couldn't sleep. The mp3 player ran out of batteries and I was too lazy to get up and replace them. The lights came on, the husband came to the rescue and the flick of a zippo meant we were going to be here for at least a little while. I struggled to sit up and tried to lean back against the pillows. No easy task when your stomach sticks out three feet. He moved away from the bedroom and stood in the bathroom doorway. An interesting naked sillohuette in the moonlight. One that is uniquely his and will really never change. The broad shoulders, narrow hips and long muscular legs that I have grown so fond of over these years serve to comfort me simply because they are familiar and in a sense, mine.

It began with the story of Buttons the dog. It does not have a happy ending to say the least. It made me want to cry buckets. And I did. And he was upset for making me cry. What he does not seem to understand is that I always tear up at stories of his childhood because even the happiest of memories come with that but... and at the end there is always some awful twist that forever corrupts and ruins anything positive that could possibly have come from it. It saddens me that a young boy sees it as a personal failure that something tragic happened to a dog that his parents didn't properly care for. It was not his responsibility or his fault. The mere fact that it has the power to haunt him after 25 years is a testament to how poorly planned and organized his childhood really was.

To be tasked with caring for two small children when you yourself are a troubled child in need of help is probably more than anyone could be successful at. And looking back at all the little failures that resulted, it appears to have been a setup in that regard. Not a purposeful one, but none the less, set up to fail because he was never given the tools to be successful.

I wiped the tears from my eyes several times and just listened. To the horror stories of the arguing and the daily fights and the being blamed for everything three little rambuncious boys got into. The awesome responsibility of being someone's punching bag - both verbally and physically until one was physically large enough to hit back and stop the nightmare. And I cannot get my head around how someone could do those things to a child and not see that they are destroying the precious delicate fabric of a human being who shares their specific genetic code. Is there no sense of bonding? Is there no sense of family? of community? or right and wrong?

And then I began to speak... of two little red-headed girls who had matching little half tops that tied in the back and at the neck. The material was brightly colored with tiny apples on it. Some of the apples had faces. The ties were bright yellow and for a two and a six year old we were hot stuff. Mom made them just for us.

I remember a particular wooden candy dish that Mom kept in the dining room closet on a semi high shelf. It wasn't quite round... more of a fluted look to it and it was very dark wod. After halloween she would put our candy in it and if we were good after dinner we could each go select one piece. If I recall correctly the chocolate always seemed to disappear at a far greater rate than anything else. Me thinks Mom's chocolate addition was quickly depleating our stash!

I remember Mom teaching us how to play simple things on the family piano and I remember begging for lessons at about 5. She laughed and said I would have to wait just a little while. My fingers were too small for much playing and I could't reach from the bench to the piano without her holding me.

I went back and forth from the puppet show the neighbor kids did for me when I had the chicken pox, to the beautiful yellow bedroom with the butterfly curtains to the mural Mom painted on the livingroom wall. All of those memories and there is not one but... Not one horrible memory attached to all of those probably typical childhood events. I was a happy child with typically happy memories.

Sure I remember being upset at moving when I was 9, I remember hurting after being hit by a car at 8 - it was minor, and I remember bumping into Dad's cigarette once in a while and noting it was quite hot against my tender little skin. But I also remember some incredible feelings of love and caring despite having minorly disappointed my parents, or having done something stupid.

And then we talked about the fights. The fights that I cannot fathom and will never understand why parents expose their children to. They are too horrific to even try writing about... and they are not my story to tell. The first time I can recall my parents being upset with one another was on Mother's Day when I was 10. We were in the car and Dad wanted Mom to pick out where we were going for dinner. She was crying and upset because as she put it, she made the decisions about what to have for dinner every night and couldn't he for once, just take it in hand and make a decision. I think he was dumbfounded and more than a little confused by all of that. Karen and I sat in the back seat, quietly squirming and silently thinking that this was just horrible. Divorce court was likely to commence tomorrow. It's funny to look back on it now, for the absurdity of it all. But Mom was right. It was her special day and wanting Dad to make the plans was not at all unreasonable.

I'm sure they had their arguments and their disagreements. They were just wise enough to keep them away from us. Children should not be exposed to things they cannot possibly understand. I firmly believe in age appropriate behavior, toys and exposure. No child should be burdened with the sadness and dispair that the husband was. Imagine thinking at four that you wish you had never been born. Those thoughts should be so far removed from a toddler's consciousness that they aren't even remotely possible. Imagine Mom taking you to a shink at 4 because you don't speak. When you know if you heart that you don't speak because you are afraid to. Imagine having your first ulcer before kingergarden. Imagine being forced to drink orange juice and tomatoes anyway, even though they make you worse and cause you pain.

It shouldn't hurt to be a child.

Hurricane Katrina

Began as a pesky tropical storm.
Upgraded to hurricane status.
Doesn't that figure?
Fickle female changes her mind.
Threating to wreak havoc.
Hasn't she done that already?
The heartache and heartbreak
of picking up the pieces,
of painfully starting over,
of learning to trust,
to do more than just exist.
Now a catagory four.
Making landfall early,
creeping in and stealing what
is not hers to take.

Toto.... we're not in Kansas
anymore... and she's not
talking about the weather.

Why does a simple name
seem like a slap in the face?

Do I have a right to be this
much of a bitch?

Now there's a thought

If your god does not dance,
slay him with laughter.
If not laughter,
then destroy him by treachery
and take his place.
This worlds holds no peace
for the powerless among you,
and compassion is reserved only
for those strong enough to afford it.