As I was waiting to purchase my holiday bling a middle-aged tall, good looking, bald ,African American man came to the counter. I asked him what he was doing. He said he was returning a watch that his girlfriend didn't like. Busybody me took a look. It was actually a really nice watch.
I smiled at him. Once thing I've learned about men is that when they buy you a gift and you tell them you don't like it they get really hurt. After that you've screwed. Chances are you'll be stuck with gift cards for the rest of your life. Let's face it ladies. Men hate to shop. The fact that he weathered the storm and actually entered the mall is a huge step.
"Don't worry", I said. "The watch is really nice". Then I added, "you tell your girlfriend, gifts are like orgasms sometimes you have to fake them."
That night I prayed; Dear God, help all the wives and girlfriends really like their gifts or have the wisdom to fake it. Love K
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Kmart and Me
Today I went downtown to 34th and 7th to buy some bling. My initial destination was Macy's but the crowds were too dense and they were only offering 30 or 40 per cent off jewelery.
I hit the jackpot at Kmart. They were offering a whopping 75% off all jewelery.
I bought three things. A gold ring with a cross embedded in it. I bought this ring to remind me of a very kind and gentle man I knew who was very generous with me this Xmas. In fact of all the doctors and lawyers and so called professionals I know this man, a little slow, had more class than all of them put together. With this in mind I decided to purchase a ring that would remind me of him. It was a total surprise to me that such a ring could even exist. But there it was, right in front of me and at 75% off. Who could argue?
I also purchased an aquamarine and diamond ring. I usually am not really partial to bling but a ring like it was stolen from me by a good friend years ago. No matter how hard I tried, I simply could not let go of that bad memory. In fact, I was so sick of remembering the loss that I bought the ring just to shut myself up. When I put it on my finger I realized that ,yes, a peace of mind could be purchased. I was finally free of thinking of my friend as a thief.
That night I prayed; Dear God, thanks for teaching me how to turn bad memories into good please help me make the most of this new discovery.
k
I hit the jackpot at Kmart. They were offering a whopping 75% off all jewelery.
I bought three things. A gold ring with a cross embedded in it. I bought this ring to remind me of a very kind and gentle man I knew who was very generous with me this Xmas. In fact of all the doctors and lawyers and so called professionals I know this man, a little slow, had more class than all of them put together. With this in mind I decided to purchase a ring that would remind me of him. It was a total surprise to me that such a ring could even exist. But there it was, right in front of me and at 75% off. Who could argue?
I also purchased an aquamarine and diamond ring. I usually am not really partial to bling but a ring like it was stolen from me by a good friend years ago. No matter how hard I tried, I simply could not let go of that bad memory. In fact, I was so sick of remembering the loss that I bought the ring just to shut myself up. When I put it on my finger I realized that ,yes, a peace of mind could be purchased. I was finally free of thinking of my friend as a thief.
That night I prayed; Dear God, thanks for teaching me how to turn bad memories into good please help me make the most of this new discovery.
k
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Xmas eve in Manhattan
Last night was Christmas Eve and Peter and I attended mass at 10:30 p.m. at the church of the Epiphany. Granted my church does not cultivate the entertainment value of religion that some churches pursue, but we did have a harp, trumpet, flute organ and a great choir. Somehow this modest service just seemed right for us and we settled in to wait for midnight and the birth of Christ.
We sang many of the traditional Xmas carols and I was transported to my miserable childhood for a moment. As a family of communists, there was never any mention of Christ at our house. Being the youngest child it was my job to open my gifts and then hug the giver. This torture could go one for hours but I do remember one particular gift disaster. My sister in law Lonna, the wife of my eldest brother Gregory bought me a pink track suit. I love it and put it one and pranced around the house until my very cruel brother Michael called me a big pink tampon. Before I could respond my mother was on the phone to Lonna explaining that I hated the track suit. I remember Lonna was so hurt she never bought me another gift again.
Looking back now I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt, but when I reflect on this as an adult I can see I had absolutely nothing to do with this warped manipulation. I was definitely the victim here but as I reflect I am overwhelmed but the fact that this was a family unit void of God, this was a unit that functioned without the lessons of Jesus of the commandments of Moses, this was a family unit out of control, this was a family unit in which Christmas meant nothing other than eating, and giving and getting gifts.
I reflected on this and for a moment felt sorry for them- this miserable group of atheists. This miserable group who needed God more than anything else in the world had eagerly turned God away.
A Buddest friend once said that we pick the family we're born into. When I first heard this I was shocked and sickened. Was it possible that I picked the house of Holosko? What kind on a sick warped twisted mind could I have been to make that kind of decision? My Buddest friend however pointed out many years later that she was not necessarily referring to a genetic family. Finally the ideal of selecting ones own family made sense to me. I figure that the first pick was out of my hands but my second pick the house of God was definitely my choice. I figure that this Christmas and all future Christmases will always exist for me as a celebration of the birth of Christ not just an incident with a pick sweatsuit.
On this Xmas Eve I found myself in church. The daughter of a communist the child of abuse. I realized that not only was I worshipping, but I was creating memories for myself for the first time in my life. I was not allowing others to create memories for me. Memories ,which were such a painful thing for me suddenly became a thing to treasure . God was helping me create memories of love and this love was leading me to God.
We sang many of the traditional Xmas carols and I was transported to my miserable childhood for a moment. As a family of communists, there was never any mention of Christ at our house. Being the youngest child it was my job to open my gifts and then hug the giver. This torture could go one for hours but I do remember one particular gift disaster. My sister in law Lonna, the wife of my eldest brother Gregory bought me a pink track suit. I love it and put it one and pranced around the house until my very cruel brother Michael called me a big pink tampon. Before I could respond my mother was on the phone to Lonna explaining that I hated the track suit. I remember Lonna was so hurt she never bought me another gift again.
Looking back now I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt, but when I reflect on this as an adult I can see I had absolutely nothing to do with this warped manipulation. I was definitely the victim here but as I reflect I am overwhelmed but the fact that this was a family unit void of God, this was a unit that functioned without the lessons of Jesus of the commandments of Moses, this was a family unit out of control, this was a family unit in which Christmas meant nothing other than eating, and giving and getting gifts.
I reflected on this and for a moment felt sorry for them- this miserable group of atheists. This miserable group who needed God more than anything else in the world had eagerly turned God away.
A Buddest friend once said that we pick the family we're born into. When I first heard this I was shocked and sickened. Was it possible that I picked the house of Holosko? What kind on a sick warped twisted mind could I have been to make that kind of decision? My Buddest friend however pointed out many years later that she was not necessarily referring to a genetic family. Finally the ideal of selecting ones own family made sense to me. I figure that the first pick was out of my hands but my second pick the house of God was definitely my choice. I figure that this Christmas and all future Christmases will always exist for me as a celebration of the birth of Christ not just an incident with a pick sweatsuit.
On this Xmas Eve I found myself in church. The daughter of a communist the child of abuse. I realized that not only was I worshipping, but I was creating memories for myself for the first time in my life. I was not allowing others to create memories for me. Memories ,which were such a painful thing for me suddenly became a thing to treasure . God was helping me create memories of love and this love was leading me to God.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
A Xmas Question
As I wait for Jesus' birth. I wonder....A second coming has been promised for hundreds of years. My question is this? How would I know if Jesus was born? There are no Magi no Wisemen... no stars to follow these days? Is it possible that Jesus could be born and no one would know? Is it possible he is here among us again? Would I believe Mary got preganant from God if I met her?
That night I prayed. Dear God, If Jesus should stand in front or me or pass me on the subway please let me recognize him. Love K
That night I prayed. Dear God, If Jesus should stand in front or me or pass me on the subway please let me recognize him. Love K
The Day Befor Xmas Eve,
I got up late today so I missed the special Sunday service at my church. I found myself more relieved than concerned and I have come to admit to myself that this can be a very difficult time of year for me . My mind cannot help but wondering to my family. My mother could be alive or dead and my brothers wouldn't even have the courtesy to call me. When my father passed they kept it from his sister for months just in case she got wind that he left her a little something. There is really no reasoning for this behaviour but it is consistent in all three brothers-Gregory, Michael and John. The sicker part is that I grew up with many of the wives of these three brothers and the idea that their own wives would encourage some sort of communication with me is really sickening. I wonder what they tell their children about their "missing aunt". I shutter to think.
So this year I missed all the pre Xmas Church celebrations because I simply did not feel strong enough to be reminded of the chasm of dysfunction that separates me of my own family. Instead I took a Body Sculpt class at the New York Health and Racket Club, ( an adult gym) after which I caught the very small service six' o'clock service at the church.
Usually I don't like to go to the gym on the weekend simply due to the fact that parents bring their kids for swimming lessons and it disturbs me greatly to find a six year old boy or girl staring at my naked body in the locker room. I simply don't get why parents would allow this. That's what the YMCA is for, kids why expose them to naked strangers at an adult gym. Aren't they concerned about pedophiles?
So this year I missed all the pre Xmas Church celebrations because I simply did not feel strong enough to be reminded of the chasm of dysfunction that separates me of my own family. Instead I took a Body Sculpt class at the New York Health and Racket Club, ( an adult gym) after which I caught the very small service six' o'clock service at the church.
Usually I don't like to go to the gym on the weekend simply due to the fact that parents bring their kids for swimming lessons and it disturbs me greatly to find a six year old boy or girl staring at my naked body in the locker room. I simply don't get why parents would allow this. That's what the YMCA is for, kids why expose them to naked strangers at an adult gym. Aren't they concerned about pedophiles?
Friday, December 21, 2007
The ghosts of abuse
While sitting on a bus minding my own business a strange man came up and chatting with me. He was also a writer and by the time the bus had stopped twice he invited me to go see a play. For some reason I suddenly felt cornered. Here I was a forty-two year old woman unable to gracefully bow out of this situation. There was definitely something inside me that made me feel obligated to make myself available to this stranger. Is that sick of what?
I began to think to myself and I remembered that as a child I had to be available to my brother Michael. I had to be with him, act like he wanted me to act. I was trained to be a little play thing from a very young age and it's never really gone away.
With great queasiness inside still fighting all my training to please I finally mustered up the courage to turn down the stranger on the bus. And it was not until I walked home alone and reflected on this incident that the magnitude of the damage that was done to me as a child became increasingly and horrifying clear.
I finally figured out the real crime of child abuse. It's the crime of forming a characteristic in a child's personality when that personality is still growing itself. That why the scars never really go away and that's why at forty-two years old I still got tongued tied when a strangers invaded my space. So while I was a victim of abuse as a child it became clear to me that I carried the ghosts with me as an adult. It's no wonder I've made terrible errors or judgement with people and substance abuse and not only that attracted personality types that victimize.
I realize that I've struggled with this on a daily bases . If it were not for my new found faith and a church that accepts me for who I am I fear I would never have come so far as to even begin to write this blog.
That night I prayed. Dear God give me the strength and wisdom to overcome all the pain from the past that has nothing to do with my present or future.
Love K
I began to think to myself and I remembered that as a child I had to be available to my brother Michael. I had to be with him, act like he wanted me to act. I was trained to be a little play thing from a very young age and it's never really gone away.
With great queasiness inside still fighting all my training to please I finally mustered up the courage to turn down the stranger on the bus. And it was not until I walked home alone and reflected on this incident that the magnitude of the damage that was done to me as a child became increasingly and horrifying clear.
I finally figured out the real crime of child abuse. It's the crime of forming a characteristic in a child's personality when that personality is still growing itself. That why the scars never really go away and that's why at forty-two years old I still got tongued tied when a strangers invaded my space. So while I was a victim of abuse as a child it became clear to me that I carried the ghosts with me as an adult. It's no wonder I've made terrible errors or judgement with people and substance abuse and not only that attracted personality types that victimize.
I realize that I've struggled with this on a daily bases . If it were not for my new found faith and a church that accepts me for who I am I fear I would never have come so far as to even begin to write this blog.
That night I prayed. Dear God give me the strength and wisdom to overcome all the pain from the past that has nothing to do with my present or future.
Love K
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
A Sad Miracle
Over the last two months my aerobics instructor at my gym has been an emotional and psychological mess. She had put her little dog in a kennel she'd been using for ten years and when she got back from vacation the dog was gone. The kennel said it had been stolen and she lost her mind. Since money was no object she offered a five thousand dollar reward. She got a full page in the Post, the New York Press and even on the nightly news.
For her money was so object. She hired a private investigator and she went after the kennel and it's workers -in particular one Mexican guy of small stature with two children. In class she had openly expressed the fact the the worker was not legal here, she could call the IRS, and she would no matter what get to bottom of this. She even went as far as to make the worker undergo a poly graph test.
As time went by she came to the bitter conclusion that the dog had died and the kennel just didn't want to admit guilt.
Two months later, with enough prayers to choke a horse, a miracle occurred. A woman called from Queens, and said she had bought the dog on the street from some guy for her kids for Xmas.
When I heard the news I was overwhelmed with joy. I stopped her in the gym and gave her a hug. But I was not the only one. Hundreds of people at the gym were really and honestly happy for her. A news article picked up the reunion and it became a Hanuka/Xmas story.
Today I went to the gym to her class. She was well again- joyous and relieved.
As I followed her aerobics instructions it occurred to me how terrified that worker must have been though all this especially at this time of year. Here was a rich upper east side lady, who'd made him take a polygraph who knew he worked illegally and who didn't believe him when he said that he didn't know what happen to the dog. If I were in his shoes I would have been terrified.
With these concerns in mind, I walked up to her at the the end of class and I said." What are you going to do about that worker?"
She looked at me like I was nuts.
"I didn't say anything to him..I made him take polygraph..''
"Shouldn't you do something". I said..."apologize, a Xmas gift."
"I didn't say anything", she repeated. "He doesn't even speak English".
Our discussion was cut short as I realized that she didn't have any intention of all of cleaning up her mess. In my mind I said to myself "but you did a lot, you terrified this guy".
I was saddened. I was saddened because God had thought enough of her to bring her baby back, but she did not thing enough of God to take some responsibility and reach out this Mexican worker. She wouldn't even consider thanking him for sticking with the truth despite her suspicions, the suspicions of the private detective she hired and that of the police.
I stood back shocked because I figured that if I was God my feelings would be very hurt by this. If I took the time to answer your prayers when so many people around the world are praying for things 24/7 and I answered yours, I would expect that you would take the initiative and correct any wrongs that you initiated during this stressful period. And wondered , I wondered what would happened if she ever needed to pray for a miracle again and I shuttered inside.
That night I prayed. Dear God, please give that Mexican worker a special Xmas and give my aerobics instructor the wisdom to do the right thing. Love K
For her money was so object. She hired a private investigator and she went after the kennel and it's workers -in particular one Mexican guy of small stature with two children. In class she had openly expressed the fact the the worker was not legal here, she could call the IRS, and she would no matter what get to bottom of this. She even went as far as to make the worker undergo a poly graph test.
As time went by she came to the bitter conclusion that the dog had died and the kennel just didn't want to admit guilt.
Two months later, with enough prayers to choke a horse, a miracle occurred. A woman called from Queens, and said she had bought the dog on the street from some guy for her kids for Xmas.
When I heard the news I was overwhelmed with joy. I stopped her in the gym and gave her a hug. But I was not the only one. Hundreds of people at the gym were really and honestly happy for her. A news article picked up the reunion and it became a Hanuka/Xmas story.
Today I went to the gym to her class. She was well again- joyous and relieved.
As I followed her aerobics instructions it occurred to me how terrified that worker must have been though all this especially at this time of year. Here was a rich upper east side lady, who'd made him take a polygraph who knew he worked illegally and who didn't believe him when he said that he didn't know what happen to the dog. If I were in his shoes I would have been terrified.
With these concerns in mind, I walked up to her at the the end of class and I said." What are you going to do about that worker?"
She looked at me like I was nuts.
"I didn't say anything to him..I made him take polygraph..''
"Shouldn't you do something". I said..."apologize, a Xmas gift."
"I didn't say anything", she repeated. "He doesn't even speak English".
Our discussion was cut short as I realized that she didn't have any intention of all of cleaning up her mess. In my mind I said to myself "but you did a lot, you terrified this guy".
I was saddened. I was saddened because God had thought enough of her to bring her baby back, but she did not thing enough of God to take some responsibility and reach out this Mexican worker. She wouldn't even consider thanking him for sticking with the truth despite her suspicions, the suspicions of the private detective she hired and that of the police.
I stood back shocked because I figured that if I was God my feelings would be very hurt by this. If I took the time to answer your prayers when so many people around the world are praying for things 24/7 and I answered yours, I would expect that you would take the initiative and correct any wrongs that you initiated during this stressful period. And wondered , I wondered what would happened if she ever needed to pray for a miracle again and I shuttered inside.
That night I prayed. Dear God, please give that Mexican worker a special Xmas and give my aerobics instructor the wisdom to do the right thing. Love K
Sunday, December 16, 2007
God and I Meet in Unusual Circumstances
Last night was Saturday and I set my alarm for 10:30. I was determined to get to church this week having missed it last Sunday. This was the third Sunday after my confirmation into the Episcopalian faith at the Church of the Epiphany on 74th and York in Manhattan.
I was especially jazzed because during the Christmas season known as Pentecost in my church things really get cooking. The church gets decorated, the choir starts to sing all kinds of Christmas songs, guest musicians play harps and horns. The atmosphere is festive as we all wait for the birth of Jesus.
The head priest Andrew makes a killer ham for coffee hour which becomes a plethora of tasty delights. If the angels had to pick a place they'd definitely hit here. It's also a time when I cry a lot during services. It's a time when I watch families coming to church together, sitting together, talking to together and I'm reminded of the cruelty of my own family and their desire to isolate me from the love that only a family can share.
I cry for myself and I also cry because I truly feel that this congregation has become my family. My new family is made up of Jennifer the gifted and hip female priest, Andrew the head enchilada, Horase the cannon (whose name is Mr White but who actually has very dark skin) ,and the regulars in the congregation who I've come to know and love. Th idea that there is actually a place for me blows my mind. With all the people and creatures that God tends in the world there is a place set apart just for me where I can pray and feel loved and be a part of something greater than myself.
This feeling alone has allowed me to overcome many of my issues of low self esteem cultivated by my biological family. Strangely, with all the therapy all the AA's and meds it's that feeling that God is my family that has given me pause before I take that first drink or smoke that first joint, or do that first line. I realized I used to prefer to alter my mind and my spirit but now that I can feel love again when I'm clean I do not feel a need to go to any other place then where I am.
Clearly, I was determined to attend this Sunday, but God had other plans for me. Little did I know that Christmas would come early for me...
Sunday morning came, my alarm sounded but I just couldn't raise myself and forgoing the tortuous snooze option I went back to bed. When I finally got up I realized that thanks to the progressive priesting of Jennifer, my church offered a Sunday service at 6:00 pm. It's called Sanctuary and we have a group of regular musicians, who play live music and help create a very hip environment in which to worship. After the service we have dinner together, talk, get to know one another. It's a cozy, intimate service which takes place in a small chapel, where the presence of the spirit is very strong.
At about 5:45, I made my way down the street. The chilly winter air kept at bay by my winter coast, mitts, hat and gloves I finally reached the church and opened the doors. Immediately Jennifer came up to me.
"I said", she began " that the next person through the door would help me"."Kay, we're having a baptism and I need your help".
Something in me stirred. I felt honored, proud, I was actually going to help in a sacred service. My help was being asked?
She brought me up to the baptismal cement vessel at the back of the church. She explained that this was the first baptism ever at Sanctuary and that there would be two children attending. I would be in charge of holding the book so she could read, I would then pass her the oil and then the candles during the service. The official church term for this job is acolyte.
After my brief instruction, I went to sit down to reflect on my new role when Jennifer called on me again. I was asked to by the chalice bearer. That's the term used for the person who holds the cup or chalice with the wine in it and offers it to the people after Jennifer gives then the cracker and says. "This is the blood of Christ the cup of Salvation". It was my job to guide the chalice to their lips, let them take a little sip, wipe the side of the cup and offer it to the next person. I could do that , simple right.
The baptism went smoothly but I stumbled when Jennifer asked..."Will you who witness these vows do all in your power to support these persons in their life in Christ?"
The congregation is supposed to answer "We will", but I faltered. I've been around a church enough to know now that some people come in for a baptism or a wedding or Christmas and never really come back or participate or get to know anyone. I had never met these parents of these children before and I questioned if I could really keep my promise to support them in their life with Christ if I never see them again? I figured I could promise to best of my ability but my promise felt weak.
The rest of the service was touching. The baby giggled as the water trickled down her face and her two year old brother ran drunkenly around the baptismal vessal. And there I was, me holding the book for Jennifer, handing her the oil and then the candles. I could barely hold back my tears. The idea that I not only belonged here but would asked to help in a service stuck a deep chord with me.
We retreated to the chapel where the Eucharist was to take place. This is the part where the priest takes these crackers that symbolize the boy of Christ and then they dip the cracker into the wine which symbolized the blood of Christ. It was my job to hold the chalice and utter the words. "This is the blood of Christ the body of salvation".
Over the two years I'd been with the church I'd heard those word before but I never spoke them and in fear I would forget I wrote down the phrase "this is the blood of Christ, the body of salvation."
Jennifer began to give our the crackers and I followed her. A member approached, I held the chalice in my right hand, an a little white cloth with which to wipe it in my left. I uttered the words and guided the chalice to the woman's lips. "Don't let go of the chalice'"Jennifer had told me and I grabbed on tight.
Such simple words such powerful meaning for me, my heart sung this was the greatest Christmas gift of all. Here I was found just two years ago, holding the sacred chalice and uttering sacred words, here I was helping to minister to the souls of others. Few moments could compete with those seconds in my life.
Another person approached. This time it was a woman dressed with white shirt and black pants. The grandmother of the kids being baptized.
I offered her the chalice and uttered the word. She grabbed the cup from me. I grabbed it back. She let go of the cup, and stood there waiting for me to tilt it and pour it into her mouth. Jennifer did not say anything about giving people a sip. They were supposed to bring the chalice to their lips. It said so, right in the manifesto. Guide chalice to lips.
It's not so easy to stand in front of a person with a big gold cup and tilt it forward away from myself and into their mouths so that they get a sip.
I tilted, she brought her head forward, I placed it in between her lips thinking she has way to much lipstick on. I tilted, I tilted again and then realized that there wasn't that much liquid in a really big cup I'd have to tilt some more. I tilted the cup parallel to her head. The wine poured out into her waiting mouth and all over her white blouse.
God must have been with me because the woman didn't notice she'd be taking the blood of Jesus back home with her that night. I tilted back, horrified. And uttered the words. "The blood of Christ the cup of salvation". Priests made this look way to easy.
The heel of my shoe caught on the steps of the alter leaving me teetering precariously between falling forward on the woman with the chalice in hand, or falling ass backwards into the pointsettas that covered the alter.
There I was balanced on my heel of my shoe on the tip of the step steadied only by the weight of the chalice that I clutched in my right hand. The last thing Jennifer said to me was," Don't let go of the chalice". I had therefore only one option. I would fall into the woman. I steadied my self looking the women straight in the eye. If she moved to the right or the left I'd tumble down the concrete steps. Would she catch me? My eyes widened the brief moment moving in slow motion she must have seen my fear, my teetering heel slipped, my left hand moved to grab the chalice. I accepted the fact I was going to fall but damn if that chalice was going to hit the floor.
The woman in front of me must have seen the fear in my eyes and she glanced down briefly at my feet she threw her arms out as I began to fall forward ,chalice and all. The wine defying gravity leapt out of the glass, the woman reached out to grab my shoulders . I clutched the chalice with two hands flinging myself, the chalice and the wine straight into her chest. Her once white blouse was now speckled red. There was a deafening silence. No one spoke a word as I stumbled back. Had they ever seen a chalice mishap before? The priests that do this at the regular service made it look much to easy. All the salt in the world was not going to get those wine stains off that blouse. Had I ruined my chances to ever serve God in this way? Did I piss off God? Would I never be allowed to come back to the church again? Would no one ever talk to me again like the members of my immediate family?
Jennifer in full damage control quickly ran over to me and filled the chalice with more wine so that I could continue my work . The woman smiled amused and forgiving and I solemnly I finished my chalice holder duties.
As I handed the cup back to Jennifer she looked at me with love not the disdain I expected and I realized that this really was the place where what I thought the idea of a loving family existed. This was where I was loved, and forgiven and where I belonged.
That night I prayed; Dear God, I'm so sorry I dumped your wine on a poor woman's blouse. Thank you for not letting Jennifer get pissed off. I promise I'll be more careful in the future.
I was especially jazzed because during the Christmas season known as Pentecost in my church things really get cooking. The church gets decorated, the choir starts to sing all kinds of Christmas songs, guest musicians play harps and horns. The atmosphere is festive as we all wait for the birth of Jesus.
The head priest Andrew makes a killer ham for coffee hour which becomes a plethora of tasty delights. If the angels had to pick a place they'd definitely hit here. It's also a time when I cry a lot during services. It's a time when I watch families coming to church together, sitting together, talking to together and I'm reminded of the cruelty of my own family and their desire to isolate me from the love that only a family can share.
I cry for myself and I also cry because I truly feel that this congregation has become my family. My new family is made up of Jennifer the gifted and hip female priest, Andrew the head enchilada, Horase the cannon (whose name is Mr White but who actually has very dark skin) ,and the regulars in the congregation who I've come to know and love. Th idea that there is actually a place for me blows my mind. With all the people and creatures that God tends in the world there is a place set apart just for me where I can pray and feel loved and be a part of something greater than myself.
This feeling alone has allowed me to overcome many of my issues of low self esteem cultivated by my biological family. Strangely, with all the therapy all the AA's and meds it's that feeling that God is my family that has given me pause before I take that first drink or smoke that first joint, or do that first line. I realized I used to prefer to alter my mind and my spirit but now that I can feel love again when I'm clean I do not feel a need to go to any other place then where I am.
Clearly, I was determined to attend this Sunday, but God had other plans for me. Little did I know that Christmas would come early for me...
Sunday morning came, my alarm sounded but I just couldn't raise myself and forgoing the tortuous snooze option I went back to bed. When I finally got up I realized that thanks to the progressive priesting of Jennifer, my church offered a Sunday service at 6:00 pm. It's called Sanctuary and we have a group of regular musicians, who play live music and help create a very hip environment in which to worship. After the service we have dinner together, talk, get to know one another. It's a cozy, intimate service which takes place in a small chapel, where the presence of the spirit is very strong.
At about 5:45, I made my way down the street. The chilly winter air kept at bay by my winter coast, mitts, hat and gloves I finally reached the church and opened the doors. Immediately Jennifer came up to me.
"I said", she began " that the next person through the door would help me"."Kay, we're having a baptism and I need your help".
Something in me stirred. I felt honored, proud, I was actually going to help in a sacred service. My help was being asked?
She brought me up to the baptismal cement vessel at the back of the church. She explained that this was the first baptism ever at Sanctuary and that there would be two children attending. I would be in charge of holding the book so she could read, I would then pass her the oil and then the candles during the service. The official church term for this job is acolyte.
After my brief instruction, I went to sit down to reflect on my new role when Jennifer called on me again. I was asked to by the chalice bearer. That's the term used for the person who holds the cup or chalice with the wine in it and offers it to the people after Jennifer gives then the cracker and says. "This is the blood of Christ the cup of Salvation". It was my job to guide the chalice to their lips, let them take a little sip, wipe the side of the cup and offer it to the next person. I could do that , simple right.
The baptism went smoothly but I stumbled when Jennifer asked..."Will you who witness these vows do all in your power to support these persons in their life in Christ?"
The congregation is supposed to answer "We will", but I faltered. I've been around a church enough to know now that some people come in for a baptism or a wedding or Christmas and never really come back or participate or get to know anyone. I had never met these parents of these children before and I questioned if I could really keep my promise to support them in their life with Christ if I never see them again? I figured I could promise to best of my ability but my promise felt weak.
The rest of the service was touching. The baby giggled as the water trickled down her face and her two year old brother ran drunkenly around the baptismal vessal. And there I was, me holding the book for Jennifer, handing her the oil and then the candles. I could barely hold back my tears. The idea that I not only belonged here but would asked to help in a service stuck a deep chord with me.
We retreated to the chapel where the Eucharist was to take place. This is the part where the priest takes these crackers that symbolize the boy of Christ and then they dip the cracker into the wine which symbolized the blood of Christ. It was my job to hold the chalice and utter the words. "This is the blood of Christ the body of salvation".
Over the two years I'd been with the church I'd heard those word before but I never spoke them and in fear I would forget I wrote down the phrase "this is the blood of Christ, the body of salvation."
Jennifer began to give our the crackers and I followed her. A member approached, I held the chalice in my right hand, an a little white cloth with which to wipe it in my left. I uttered the words and guided the chalice to the woman's lips. "Don't let go of the chalice'"Jennifer had told me and I grabbed on tight.
Such simple words such powerful meaning for me, my heart sung this was the greatest Christmas gift of all. Here I was found just two years ago, holding the sacred chalice and uttering sacred words, here I was helping to minister to the souls of others. Few moments could compete with those seconds in my life.
Another person approached. This time it was a woman dressed with white shirt and black pants. The grandmother of the kids being baptized.
I offered her the chalice and uttered the word. She grabbed the cup from me. I grabbed it back. She let go of the cup, and stood there waiting for me to tilt it and pour it into her mouth. Jennifer did not say anything about giving people a sip. They were supposed to bring the chalice to their lips. It said so, right in the manifesto. Guide chalice to lips.
It's not so easy to stand in front of a person with a big gold cup and tilt it forward away from myself and into their mouths so that they get a sip.
I tilted, she brought her head forward, I placed it in between her lips thinking she has way to much lipstick on. I tilted, I tilted again and then realized that there wasn't that much liquid in a really big cup I'd have to tilt some more. I tilted the cup parallel to her head. The wine poured out into her waiting mouth and all over her white blouse.
God must have been with me because the woman didn't notice she'd be taking the blood of Jesus back home with her that night. I tilted back, horrified. And uttered the words. "The blood of Christ the cup of salvation". Priests made this look way to easy.
The heel of my shoe caught on the steps of the alter leaving me teetering precariously between falling forward on the woman with the chalice in hand, or falling ass backwards into the pointsettas that covered the alter.
There I was balanced on my heel of my shoe on the tip of the step steadied only by the weight of the chalice that I clutched in my right hand. The last thing Jennifer said to me was," Don't let go of the chalice". I had therefore only one option. I would fall into the woman. I steadied my self looking the women straight in the eye. If she moved to the right or the left I'd tumble down the concrete steps. Would she catch me? My eyes widened the brief moment moving in slow motion she must have seen my fear, my teetering heel slipped, my left hand moved to grab the chalice. I accepted the fact I was going to fall but damn if that chalice was going to hit the floor.
The woman in front of me must have seen the fear in my eyes and she glanced down briefly at my feet she threw her arms out as I began to fall forward ,chalice and all. The wine defying gravity leapt out of the glass, the woman reached out to grab my shoulders . I clutched the chalice with two hands flinging myself, the chalice and the wine straight into her chest. Her once white blouse was now speckled red. There was a deafening silence. No one spoke a word as I stumbled back. Had they ever seen a chalice mishap before? The priests that do this at the regular service made it look much to easy. All the salt in the world was not going to get those wine stains off that blouse. Had I ruined my chances to ever serve God in this way? Did I piss off God? Would I never be allowed to come back to the church again? Would no one ever talk to me again like the members of my immediate family?
Jennifer in full damage control quickly ran over to me and filled the chalice with more wine so that I could continue my work . The woman smiled amused and forgiving and I solemnly I finished my chalice holder duties.
As I handed the cup back to Jennifer she looked at me with love not the disdain I expected and I realized that this really was the place where what I thought the idea of a loving family existed. This was where I was loved, and forgiven and where I belonged.
That night I prayed; Dear God, I'm so sorry I dumped your wine on a poor woman's blouse. Thank you for not letting Jennifer get pissed off. I promise I'll be more careful in the future.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Westside Nightmare or the B train doesn't exst.
After you've lived in Manhattan for a while it becomes painfully clear that the commute from the east side to the west side is a nightmare. In fact I avoid making friends with people who live on the west side because of this phenomena. On the surface it looks like a no brainer, what's the big deal? But ,when you actually have to move yourself vertically as opposed to horizontally in NYC believe me ...shit happens.
My mission this week was to got Macy's see the decorations and take a walk through the Manhattan mall and check out the holiday buzz. Saturday finally came and my friend P and I decided to take on this venture. Macy's is on the west side, which means we had to take a crosstown bus which we caught on 86th and York over to the West side to catch the number C train down to 34th street. Everything went smoothly for this part of the journey, the buses ran well the subway crowded zipped up right downtown. I briefly mentioned to P that I knew how to get down to Macy's but that I didn't know how to get home.
I've taken this trip about a dozen times and whenever I've tried to get home the problems started. One time in sheer desperation, I took the F train all the way to 135th streeet. In my mind ,if you take the "C" train downtown then you simply catch the C train to go uptown. Sadly, it does not work this way.
P and I got off at 34th and 8th, walked a long cold block to Macy's where a giant balloon Shreck
beckoned up from the top of the block large department store. As we approach the store the crowds began to thicken and my friend P started to get antsy. He really freaked out when I dragged him into the store and we stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of people. The idea was to walk straight through the ground floor to reach the doors on the other side of the street. I wanted to mull but my boyfriend made a straight beeline to the exit. I made a note to myself; do not bring a man Xmas shopping.
After an entire ten minutes in Macy's we finally reached 34th and 7th bolted out the doors, make a quick right, and headed to the Manhattan mall. We walked straight in and my friend suggested we hit the food court. I like the idea of food courts but when I actually get there it's impossible for me to make a decision because there's just too many choices and my brain freezes.
My friend chose some fries from Chicken Ranch which we picked at for a moment when all of a sudden this random woman sat down uninvited at our table . She began shoving large quantities of food into her mouth accompanied by belches that came from deep within her belly and smelt like puke.
At that point the experience of the Xmas buss lost all appeal. The energy was just to kinetic for us and we decided to go home. We figured that we'd just hop on the same train to go uptown that we took downtown. A foolish idea that was simply not to be.
When we entered the subway it became quite clear there was no C train. There was the F but I remembered that got me totally lost in the Bronx. The F train was bad I would not take the F train- ever.
The one train I recognized was the "B". I was a little unsure reeling from post traumatic subway syndrome. I knew this "B' train. It was the perfect train for me and would take me right to 86th street where I needed to go. The problem was the last time I waited for the B it never came. D trains came and went on the same track, but the B train well it never came. I expressed this to my friend who just laughed me off saying, "It says the B train stops here"...So we waited, a D train came and went, we waited another D train. We waited so long that I became fully convinced that no B train exists. A cruel subway joke. I began to get suspicious. Sure,I read the signs that claim it exists but in reality I've never seen the train. I've waited for the train. I've waited hours for the train but I've never ever seen the actual train.
Finally, with weakening nerves and desperate faces we asked someone for help. "Take the D train", he said, "get off at 59th and transfer to the "C".
The plan sounded good so we caught the next "D" train the fourth D train on a track that promised a B train. Sadly, we mistakenly got off on 53rd street where we begged an attendant to get us out of the tombs we'd been exploring for the last hour and a half.
We had no choice but to get back on another D train- no B train ever came and I doubt ever will. We got off on 59th street, caught the C train and finally got to 86th were we were finally released into the outside air. We had made a journey in which we spent a totally of 15 minutes downtown and two hours travelling time which made me think that I could have gone to the Hamptons and back ..once again proving what I already knew. Do not move vertically in Manhattan.
That night I prayed: Dear God, please make the east side, west side commute less painful.
Love k
My mission this week was to got Macy's see the decorations and take a walk through the Manhattan mall and check out the holiday buzz. Saturday finally came and my friend P and I decided to take on this venture. Macy's is on the west side, which means we had to take a crosstown bus which we caught on 86th and York over to the West side to catch the number C train down to 34th street. Everything went smoothly for this part of the journey, the buses ran well the subway crowded zipped up right downtown. I briefly mentioned to P that I knew how to get down to Macy's but that I didn't know how to get home.
I've taken this trip about a dozen times and whenever I've tried to get home the problems started. One time in sheer desperation, I took the F train all the way to 135th streeet. In my mind ,if you take the "C" train downtown then you simply catch the C train to go uptown. Sadly, it does not work this way.
P and I got off at 34th and 8th, walked a long cold block to Macy's where a giant balloon Shreck
beckoned up from the top of the block large department store. As we approach the store the crowds began to thicken and my friend P started to get antsy. He really freaked out when I dragged him into the store and we stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of people. The idea was to walk straight through the ground floor to reach the doors on the other side of the street. I wanted to mull but my boyfriend made a straight beeline to the exit. I made a note to myself; do not bring a man Xmas shopping.
After an entire ten minutes in Macy's we finally reached 34th and 7th bolted out the doors, make a quick right, and headed to the Manhattan mall. We walked straight in and my friend suggested we hit the food court. I like the idea of food courts but when I actually get there it's impossible for me to make a decision because there's just too many choices and my brain freezes.
My friend chose some fries from Chicken Ranch which we picked at for a moment when all of a sudden this random woman sat down uninvited at our table . She began shoving large quantities of food into her mouth accompanied by belches that came from deep within her belly and smelt like puke.
At that point the experience of the Xmas buss lost all appeal. The energy was just to kinetic for us and we decided to go home. We figured that we'd just hop on the same train to go uptown that we took downtown. A foolish idea that was simply not to be.
When we entered the subway it became quite clear there was no C train. There was the F but I remembered that got me totally lost in the Bronx. The F train was bad I would not take the F train- ever.
The one train I recognized was the "B". I was a little unsure reeling from post traumatic subway syndrome. I knew this "B' train. It was the perfect train for me and would take me right to 86th street where I needed to go. The problem was the last time I waited for the B it never came. D trains came and went on the same track, but the B train well it never came. I expressed this to my friend who just laughed me off saying, "It says the B train stops here"...So we waited, a D train came and went, we waited another D train. We waited so long that I became fully convinced that no B train exists. A cruel subway joke. I began to get suspicious. Sure,I read the signs that claim it exists but in reality I've never seen the train. I've waited for the train. I've waited hours for the train but I've never ever seen the actual train.
Finally, with weakening nerves and desperate faces we asked someone for help. "Take the D train", he said, "get off at 59th and transfer to the "C".
The plan sounded good so we caught the next "D" train the fourth D train on a track that promised a B train. Sadly, we mistakenly got off on 53rd street where we begged an attendant to get us out of the tombs we'd been exploring for the last hour and a half.
We had no choice but to get back on another D train- no B train ever came and I doubt ever will. We got off on 59th street, caught the C train and finally got to 86th were we were finally released into the outside air. We had made a journey in which we spent a totally of 15 minutes downtown and two hours travelling time which made me think that I could have gone to the Hamptons and back ..once again proving what I already knew. Do not move vertically in Manhattan.
That night I prayed: Dear God, please make the east side, west side commute less painful.
Love k
Friday, December 14, 2007
A Trip to Spanish Harlem
After watching my boyfriend crazy glue his glasses together for the tenth time I decided on his Xmas present. Today I got him out of bed and took him so Spanish Harlem to get some glasses. For those of you that don't know Spanish Harlem has a shopping stretch, from 103rd and third to about 112th and third that is absolutely unbelievable .
Dollar store heaven flourishes here.I might not have the money but I get the shopping bug bad and when I do I pop on a bus take my twenty dollars and knock myself out at the dollar stores. Today I bought two towels (cause I had none and have been showering at the gym because of this) two beautify huge red and white candles for Xmas, a three pack bag of underwear, two pairs of sunglasses , a Danskin sports bra which is awesome (it's my second one) and three bags of very warm ,very fluffy socks. The grand total? Twenty-two fifty. If had bought the same stuff in my neighbourhood on the upper east side I would have been in for at least a hundred dollars
I know about this area because I lived there for about three years from 1999 -2003. The area is Spanish. When I lived there I was privleged to be introduced not only to the Spanish language but to Spanish food, which, if you avoid the fried stuff can be really great. They have this dish they make on Friday's which is called Ba-ca-la. They take dried cod, and set it in water over night to make it nice and light and fluffy and then serve it in either a cold salad with potatoes or in a hot stew with tomatoes and peppers. The thing I like about it is that fish does not taste fishy it's healthy and extremely low cal. I swear I lost ten pound by eating this stuff and I often wonder why this great dish cannot be found below 103rd street.
Today I decided to take my boyfriend to Spanish Harlem and get him glasses for Xmas .My boyfriend whose first answer to anthing is , "no", finally reluctantly got into a cab and we headed over to a store called Sight n' Style. This is greatest glasses shop in Manhatten. Not only is their selection unbelievable but they have everything organized according to designer and price. I've been wearning glasses for years so I've been in a lot of glasses shops and the biggest problem is that you have to ask the girl at the counter to give you the price of everything, and it's pain.
Not here, you can browse freely and get a sense of prices which are unbelievable. I got my boyfriend the same special I got for myself about two weeks ago. Two pairs of glasses for seventy-nine dollars, including eye exam. True, you have to select your frames from a special case but the selection they have is terrific. I got one pain of regular glasses and then popped for an extra ten dollars to get a pair tinted as sunglasses.
My boyfriend got the same two pair special and the poor man can now find my breasts without fumbling. If you need glasses of like to change your frames often this it the place for you. Tell them Kay sent ya.
Dollar store heaven flourishes here.I might not have the money but I get the shopping bug bad and when I do I pop on a bus take my twenty dollars and knock myself out at the dollar stores. Today I bought two towels (cause I had none and have been showering at the gym because of this) two beautify huge red and white candles for Xmas, a three pack bag of underwear, two pairs of sunglasses , a Danskin sports bra which is awesome (it's my second one) and three bags of very warm ,very fluffy socks. The grand total? Twenty-two fifty. If had bought the same stuff in my neighbourhood on the upper east side I would have been in for at least a hundred dollars
I know about this area because I lived there for about three years from 1999 -2003. The area is Spanish. When I lived there I was privleged to be introduced not only to the Spanish language but to Spanish food, which, if you avoid the fried stuff can be really great. They have this dish they make on Friday's which is called Ba-ca-la. They take dried cod, and set it in water over night to make it nice and light and fluffy and then serve it in either a cold salad with potatoes or in a hot stew with tomatoes and peppers. The thing I like about it is that fish does not taste fishy it's healthy and extremely low cal. I swear I lost ten pound by eating this stuff and I often wonder why this great dish cannot be found below 103rd street.
Today I decided to take my boyfriend to Spanish Harlem and get him glasses for Xmas .My boyfriend whose first answer to anthing is , "no", finally reluctantly got into a cab and we headed over to a store called Sight n' Style. This is greatest glasses shop in Manhatten. Not only is their selection unbelievable but they have everything organized according to designer and price. I've been wearning glasses for years so I've been in a lot of glasses shops and the biggest problem is that you have to ask the girl at the counter to give you the price of everything, and it's pain.
Not here, you can browse freely and get a sense of prices which are unbelievable. I got my boyfriend the same special I got for myself about two weeks ago. Two pairs of glasses for seventy-nine dollars, including eye exam. True, you have to select your frames from a special case but the selection they have is terrific. I got one pain of regular glasses and then popped for an extra ten dollars to get a pair tinted as sunglasses.
My boyfriend got the same two pair special and the poor man can now find my breasts without fumbling. If you need glasses of like to change your frames often this it the place for you. Tell them Kay sent ya.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
God is Cool
It has only been a two and a half years since God found me in New York City. Me, a needle in a haystack must have been a real pain in the ass. My family were communists so things like God and religion were not only discouraged but despised. I had never read a bible, been to church talked to a priest and I was already pushing forty. For me God was a last ditch effort. Everything in my life had been going wrong to worse to having been arrested. So, one day I walked into a church. Actually the day I chose to walk into a church was the Blessing of the Animals which my neighbour Fran had told me about. Being a big animal lover I went with my perfectly wonderful little dog Henry.
From that day on I've been attending a Church on 74th and York called the Epiphany. I even got baptized there and confirmed. There is no question in my mind that God exists . I feel him . God has shown me to leve the life I deserve . Love the moment, love the seconds and has taken the great burden of the big picture off my head. No longer do I have to worry about what I can't control or try to control what I can't. I'm a micro manager now. I micro manage my behaviour, my decisions, I apologize, fix what I can fix ,and try to deal with people pure of heart.
I feel I got pretty lucky. I didn't have a family but God decided to be my family and with him came Jesus, a slew of really cool Saints, an amazing congregation of church members and most importantly the definitive melody inside my heart that strums a note of constant love and determination for myself and others.
Don't get me wrong. I did not find God and all of a suddenly things went from bad to great. It's been slow but it's been constant and I have made changes in myself that are starting to ripple positively around me. The best thing is I'd still learning about this God every moment in my life. For me God's no mystery. He exists. The mystery is how he manages to manage every single living and breathing soul life here on earth? And I guess ...that's simply God' s business.
From that day on I've been attending a Church on 74th and York called the Epiphany. I even got baptized there and confirmed. There is no question in my mind that God exists . I feel him . God has shown me to leve the life I deserve . Love the moment, love the seconds and has taken the great burden of the big picture off my head. No longer do I have to worry about what I can't control or try to control what I can't. I'm a micro manager now. I micro manage my behaviour, my decisions, I apologize, fix what I can fix ,and try to deal with people pure of heart.
I feel I got pretty lucky. I didn't have a family but God decided to be my family and with him came Jesus, a slew of really cool Saints, an amazing congregation of church members and most importantly the definitive melody inside my heart that strums a note of constant love and determination for myself and others.
Don't get me wrong. I did not find God and all of a suddenly things went from bad to great. It's been slow but it's been constant and I have made changes in myself that are starting to ripple positively around me. The best thing is I'd still learning about this God every moment in my life. For me God's no mystery. He exists. The mystery is how he manages to manage every single living and breathing soul life here on earth? And I guess ...that's simply God' s business.
An abused Adult and Spidy Sense
This entire week starting with the plastic surgeon thing and the cutting up of the female body. I have finally figured out why this affect me so much. The obvious is often the last place I look but this time it's different because I'm' not negating myself anymore. It's the abuse factor. The abuse of women to cut up their bodies, the abuse I've inflicted on myself for all these years, choosing alcohol, drugs, sex all things that an abused child is set up to do as an adult.
I have figured out that the worst thing about being an abused child is that my "spidy sense" got inverted. In other words, everything I knew and trusted got turned upside down on its head. So, when I entered adult hood I carried it with me. I attracted people who were bad for me like my family members, I put myself in situations that were dangerous like a child been molested. I ran as far away from family as possible like a scared little girl. To this day I still don't have the guts to pick up phone and tell them what I think. I do feel however that I'm working up to that.
I have figured out that the worst thing about being an abused child is that my "spidy sense" got inverted. In other words, everything I knew and trusted got turned upside down on its head. So, when I entered adult hood I carried it with me. I attracted people who were bad for me like my family members, I put myself in situations that were dangerous like a child been molested. I ran as far away from family as possible like a scared little girl. To this day I still don't have the guts to pick up phone and tell them what I think. I do feel however that I'm working up to that.
A Late Night Ephiphany of an Abused Child.
A thought came to me last night. One of those thoughts that ring true deep in you soul. The simple thought was.."don't apologize for yourself anymore". Could it be that I'd been going through life apologizing for being me or allowing myself to become me? I froze in my bed with fear. Could it be true that I really have been negating the very essence of myself? The answer to all was a resounding yes and triggered by this Epiphany I took a moment to examine my childhood.
My mother and my three brothers have not spoken to me for at least twenty years. No, I am not a mass murderer, a pyro a thief. I am simply an abused child who has turned into an adult and the witnesses to that probably pray every day for my death. I was the youngest girl with three older brothers an average of twelve years my senior. No love, no concern no guidance did I ever receive. But my middle brother Michael did wake me up every day as a child by rolling his naked body separated by blankets over mine . This man got a doctorate in Social work and has the nerve to tell other people how to heal their families.
My mother? Well I was always a pain in the ass for her. She'd do stuff like lock me in a car in a parking lot for hours on very wintry,very cold nights while she went to the gym. I can remember trying to squeeze myself under the seat just to keep warm.
My other two brothers stay as far away from me as possible like I'm diseased and when friends call to get my phone number here in New York they hang up on them.
My girlfriend Jamie suspects that I'm really not my mother's daughter as all. How could mother consciously seek estrangement from her only daughter? How could a mother push her child out in the world with no guidance, no love, no support? Jamie suspects that I"m really the daughter of my brother Michael which unfortunately makes a lot of sense to me.
I think the worst thing that they taught me was how to excel at something and then just stop. My mother would spend thousands of dollars on piano lessons and I did excel only to be told you can't job in that and I never played again...all those years all that skill just gone just wasted just never to be again. This scenario played itself out so prominently in my life that I have continually jumped from job to career to profession and have never taken enough time to excel at one.
I have been writing for years but not published not able to take that very last and crucial step to make this a living for myself. That's why this blog is so important for me. Just the idea that someone out there might be reading this inspires me to write more. I guess my little family didn't count on blogs.
After this experience I can honesty say that the liberating thing for me was to actually name these people. Yes they have a name. This is the first time I have actually named them and it's all because of my little Epiphany that said "do not negate yourself". I won't do that any more I will name those who have hurt me.
My mother and my three brothers have not spoken to me for at least twenty years. No, I am not a mass murderer, a pyro a thief. I am simply an abused child who has turned into an adult and the witnesses to that probably pray every day for my death. I was the youngest girl with three older brothers an average of twelve years my senior. No love, no concern no guidance did I ever receive. But my middle brother Michael did wake me up every day as a child by rolling his naked body separated by blankets over mine . This man got a doctorate in Social work and has the nerve to tell other people how to heal their families.
My mother? Well I was always a pain in the ass for her. She'd do stuff like lock me in a car in a parking lot for hours on very wintry,very cold nights while she went to the gym. I can remember trying to squeeze myself under the seat just to keep warm.
My other two brothers stay as far away from me as possible like I'm diseased and when friends call to get my phone number here in New York they hang up on them.
My girlfriend Jamie suspects that I'm really not my mother's daughter as all. How could mother consciously seek estrangement from her only daughter? How could a mother push her child out in the world with no guidance, no love, no support? Jamie suspects that I"m really the daughter of my brother Michael which unfortunately makes a lot of sense to me.
I think the worst thing that they taught me was how to excel at something and then just stop. My mother would spend thousands of dollars on piano lessons and I did excel only to be told you can't job in that and I never played again...all those years all that skill just gone just wasted just never to be again. This scenario played itself out so prominently in my life that I have continually jumped from job to career to profession and have never taken enough time to excel at one.
I have been writing for years but not published not able to take that very last and crucial step to make this a living for myself. That's why this blog is so important for me. Just the idea that someone out there might be reading this inspires me to write more. I guess my little family didn't count on blogs.
After this experience I can honesty say that the liberating thing for me was to actually name these people. Yes they have a name. This is the first time I have actually named them and it's all because of my little Epiphany that said "do not negate yourself". I won't do that any more I will name those who have hurt me.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Why are Women Carving Up Their bodies like chickens?
I spend a lot of time studying women's studies at university and throughout history there is no period where women have fillet their bodies like they do now. Sure the Chinese bound the feet and women in the 50's took out their lower rib to make their waists small but what the hell is going on here?
Liposuction required that the female body is cut wide open while fat is sucked out. Breasts? What the hell are these women going to do with false ones when they turn 80? For that matter what happens to silicon after thirty years? We are cutting and implanting things into our bodies and the funny thing is that I've talked to a lot of men and they don't seem to be a part of this frenzy.
This begs the question who are women doing this for?
Some say the answer is themselves, but when parents start giving their daughters breast implants for a graduation gift something weird is going on. Since when do bigger breasts help you study better at college?
Liposuction required that the female body is cut wide open while fat is sucked out. Breasts? What the hell are these women going to do with false ones when they turn 80? For that matter what happens to silicon after thirty years? We are cutting and implanting things into our bodies and the funny thing is that I've talked to a lot of men and they don't seem to be a part of this frenzy.
This begs the question who are women doing this for?
Some say the answer is themselves, but when parents start giving their daughters breast implants for a graduation gift something weird is going on. Since when do bigger breasts help you study better at college?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
