The Eyes Have It

Most of the time when I look in the mirror I see the aging face of a forty-something mother of two.  One who can see many mistakes made on the road o this life getting to this point.  The face of a woman lined with every regret she's known, every disappoint felt (mostly with herself).

Now and again the reflection in the mirror has the eyes of a teenage girl who holds vast dreams.  she sees beauty in simple everyday joys.  her greatest joy being creating nothing from thin air.  She started doing it as a child, creating vivid ever changing landscapes full of people different from those she knew in everyday life.  This was her escape.  It was an escape from every form of pain she knew.  She could use this form of escape even when she couldn't open a book.  Sometimes especially when she couldn't.

Sometimes when I see her eyes she's happy, usually over some simple amusement.  A baby laughing.  A favorite old song on the radio.  A sky filled with more stars than she ever remembered seeing.

Other times her eyes are begging me to remember.  Remember not the pain and suffering but the defense mechanism they triggered.  Remember the joy of creation.  Remember the dream it spawned of doing this every day for the rest of her life.  To make this her life.

She pleads with me.  Yet I feel divided as one whose soul has been split to walk down separate roads.  I look away partly because her pleading breaks my heart but mostly out of fear.  Life caught up with me, overtook me, pushed me to believe that failure was worse than death.  I separated myself from her by taking a different name.  My life was severed.  Here lies the girl who dreamed.  Here lies the woman who lived.

Still, when I see her eyes I know what's she's saying:  "Life without truly living avoids failure but is its own kind of death."  I never wanted to die.  Not like this, letting the fear overwhelm me.

Escape is found more easily in the digital age.  But damn if those eyes don't call me back to an earlier escape.  An escape more pure and sweet than honey.

Suicide Prevention Month

September is Suicide Prevention Month. I think it’s important that I share this in case it might help others. Without encouraging words from others when I was younger, I don’t know if I would have made it this far.

For most of my life I have had issues with depression. I remember even as a child that I would feel unreasonably sad. This led to tantrums/acting up which led to punishment. As a teenager the depressive episodes only became worse. This may have been partly chemical/hormonal but also because of all the trauma I was dealing with in my home life (abuse). I didn’t know at the time that it would be a life-long battle. Back then I really thought that once I got out of the situation that I’d be able to live happily ever after. I held on to this hope into adulthood and marriage.

Once I began having children, I knew I had to do something about my depression. Happily ever after wasn’t completely working out. My husband and I would vex each other with our clashing baggage. I entered therapy for the first time when I was pregnant with my daughter. I wanted to deal with the depression so that I could be a better mother. It did not go well. The therapist basically told me that I needed to “just get over it” (the abuse and the depression).

When my daughter was one year old I tried again. This was the early 1990’s and there was actually much attention and coverage of the suffering/issues of those who had gone through abuse as children (physically, sexual, etc). Axl Rose was on the cover of Rolling Stone with an article detailing with the abuses he had suffered and how he was getting therapy for it. Tori Amos was the first spokesperson for RAINN. She wanted to help others after releasing the song “Me and a Gun” about being raped. However, the downside was that Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID)/Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD) was an in vogue hot topic at the time and hugely over-diagnosed. This is unfortunately what the second therapist I visited tried to talk me into. He worked through the university we were attending at the time and I’m sure he thought I’d make a great source for some scientific paper. I left after a few sessions.

I tried therapy again when my daughter was three. This time I tried group therapy as well as individual therapy. It was much more beneficial. The individual therapist concluded that I did NOT have DID/MPD and helped me through a few of my issues. The group therapy also helped me work through a number of issues but, most importantly, I didn’t feel as alone or as crazy.

Still, with all this therapy to improve myself in my 20’s I still didn’t pick up the pattern. I still thought somewhere out there I could reach my happily ever after if only I could just work through all the debris from the abuse. I was blind. I needed time to mature and perhaps to heal more as well.

I’m older now. I look over my sporadic journaling and it’s rather dark. I seem to write/journal more when I’m depressed. If someone were to just view these journals, it would seem that I’ve never known a moment of peace. That is, however, not the whole story. When I am not depressed (or angry) I can know some measure of happiness and can be extremely productive.

It’s important at this stage in my life that I can identify this pattern of depression. I know when it’s sliding over me. I know better what to do to protect myself. I can somewhat block it from coloring all of my life/my memories with bleakness. Most importantly, I know that it’s not going to last forever.

I have heard the saying about suicide, “Don’t solve a temporary problem with a permanent solution.” When you are in the throws of depression it colors everything as bleak. When I was depressed, if I read my journaling, it all looked very permanent – like moments of happiness were when I was just fooling myself. I was lucky I never did do myself permanent damage but I’d be lying if I said there weren’t some close calls.

I hope through this honesty I may help someone else out there. I have come to benefit from the honesty of others on the net such as Jenny Lawson and Allie at Hyperbole and a Half. Thanks!

Suicide Prevention Resource Center

Hoarding Revisited

I am revisiting the issue of hoarding.  Not just in writing here at the blog but in my every day life.  I found shocking evidence against myself when I was unpacking the boxes marked "office".  This is what I've uncovered to date:

54 pencils
18 mechanical pencils

10 colored pencils  - Please keep in mind that this # will rise when I actually get into the art supplies

36 markers  -  Please keep in mind that this # will rise when I actually get into the art supplies

15 highlighters

166 pens of various colors - black, blue, purple, teal, peacock, green, red, orange, etc.

~375 index cards
9 notepads under 5 inches
10 notepads under 7 inches
15 larger sized notepads
25 post-it notes of various sizes and in various states of use
13 spiral bound notebooks
11 8.5 x 11 inch notepads
7 8.5 x 11 inch composition notebooks
~ 1300 pages of loose leaf paper

I cannot express how horrified I am to know that I've accumulated this much office supplies.  There are also assortments of folders, hanging files, paperclips, binder clips, sticky page markers, and push pins.  As I said, I haven't even gone through the art supplies (which were packed separatesly and are currently in the guest room).  Even if I finished writing all the poems, short stories, and novel length stores currently in my head, I don't think I could use up all the pens and peper I've stockpiled (maybe).

In the spirit of my new mantra of letting go of what is not necessary, I have donated the unopened/unused office supplies to the YMCA school supplies drive.  I feel good knowing that it will all be put to good use and that someone who couldn't otherwise afford it will be very grateful to have it.

My other issues of hoarding is with sewing/art/crafting supplies.  It took me 12 hours to sort everything.  I threw some things away wondering why I'd kept them in the first place.  Other materials I chose to donate to GoodWill.  I made sure to take those boxes to the charity drop off as soon as possible to prevent myself from backsliding. 

Even with this purge there was still an ungodly amount of cloth in various shades and patterns dating from the 1930's to present day, sewing threads of various shades, embrodery floss in a rainbow of colors, cross-stitch material, patterns, buttons, ribbons, lace, netting, tons of beads/jewels/tools/materials for jewelry making, and various sewing notions.  This doesn't even take into account the books and magazines that cover a wide range of sewing and crafting.  I was able to sort everything into the space I have available but I confess that it was a tight fit.  A lot of the quilting, sewing, and crafting must be dont to justify keeping all this so I hope to get busy soon.  The first project will be baby quilts for my twin great nieces who were born in June.  Need to get busy with that!

The last hoarding issue standing in the way of breathtaking productivity is the rather large stash of items I hope to list on eBay.  Besides needing to make myself sit down to do the actual listings, I've made myself promise that no matter what the item is, if it doesn't sell after the third relisting on eBay, it will be donated to charity.  While this does make me feel anxious, I know that it's necessary.  It's not money lost, it's space and freedom gained.  I just have to keep that in mind.  I have already sold or donated 55 books!

I am working slowly towards freedom from "things".  I've accumulated way too much.  I've also set a bad example for my children.  Sometimes "stuff" gets in the way of living and creating the life you want to lead and memories you will cherish.  I anticipate a long painful process but I know this will be healthier for me and my family.

I Write Like

I write like
Mark Twain

I Write Like. Analyze your writing!

Anonymous

I have a confession to make. My real name isn’t Lelain de Peche. I have said before that it’s my nom de plume but I haven’t explained why. When I first started using it with my Twitter account it wasn’t just to support my writing (I have a very common name) but also to help protect my identity. Indeed, when I first started using Twitter I was even vague about my sex, my home life, and anything else that might point to who I really am.

I have my reasons. I grew up in a household where abuse was the norm. It started with my father. I cannot think of a single way in which he was not abusive to us. My eldest sister was able to work up the courage to turn him in for the abuse. She wanted to save her three sisters and herself from his abuse. Instead, everything was turned on her. Our father’s siblings and their children railed against her. They called her a liar and a whore. Then someone bailed our father out of jail. Long story short, after a failed attempt to destroy his family, he chose to take his own life rather than stand trial for his crimes. He shot himself in the driveway in front of our house. After this, his siblings and other family members not only tore into my sister (as much as they could as she was still in state’s custody) they turned on my mother and the rest of us. It didn’t help when almost ten years later I had the same issues with my father’s brother. Then I was the one called a liar and a whore. He didn’t go to jail though. I was removed from the home during the investigation but then, unfortunately returned (God, I hate the 80’s!). The only good that came out of this unfortunate childhood, if you can call it that, is my writing and creativity which I have used as a release from pain and a way to escape my reality.

Today I am married (25 years this fall) with two children. I made a conscious choice when they were born that I would make sure my father’s people were not in their lives. I have done what I can in this digital age to ensure that I am not found. I cannot endure the harassment that they might measure out to me and I would not have my children know its vileness for a moment. To that end I will now and forevermore be Lelain de Peche, anonymous writer and artist.

Birthday Month

As a child I'd sit in class and be incredibly envious when someone's birthday was celebrated.  Their mom would bring cake and party supplies.  Even as an outcast at my school I was allowed to participate because the whole class was included.  Still, I longed to be able to celebrate my "special day" too.

Ah, but I was born in the summer. July, when the heat really begins to build and the sweat trickles down your back.  When I was a child, not everyone had airconditioning.  We certainly did not.  We had screen doors, open windows, hoped for a cross draft, and had a couple of round oscillating metal fans. It just wasn't cool enough in the house for a real social gathering.  Not that my family was known for social gatherings to begin with.  There were a few times I remember my Mom trying to throw me an actual party.  It was hard to get the neighborhood kids to come over after second grade.  Remember, I was an outcast.  Mom did always make a cake when one of us had a birthday and there were a few presents.  Still, I missed the social acceptance.

When I married, my husband's family would throw me a birthday party.  It was just their family but it was nice.  Cake, ice cream, and a special dinner.  I felt special and it helped to heal some of those childhood wounds.  Once the children came along, all the focus was on making their birthdays as special as possible.  I know that to some extent I was over compensating for my own childhood.  Now the kids are older and fairly much do their own thing on their birthdays.  I think I did good by them. 

My birthday is now just another day.  At most I request to NOT have to make dinner.  I usually buy my own presents.  I have hopes of spending the day reading and writing.  I'm in my 40's.  It's well past time to let go of childhood hurts.  Birthdays are just a day to mark the passage of another year of life, to look back and reflect, and make plans to make the year to come even better.  I think I'm starting to settle well into this middle-age thing...

Happy Birthday to me!

Reading from MAKING POE PROUD

CROSSROADS

The long road meant nothing

It was a journey to a wanted

Destination

It was miles of troubles

That must be crossed

And she would press herself

To walk it

Because there was

No where else to go

And standing still

Was no longer

An option

MUSE’S ORPHAN

Glass of wine and

Lucid dreams

A hangover

And lack of sleep

Fuzzy shadows

Of past beliefs

Letting go

Doesn’t lend relief

No heir apparent

No kingdom’s keys

A muse’s orphan

A mind diseased

To childhood delusions

I’ve fallen prey

What I’m to be

I cannot say

Disillusionment

And poured wine

Lend awakening

To a disheartened mind

If I am lost

In lucid dreams

Let me scribble

For relief

These two poems from MAKING POE PROUD were recorded by the author (me) Lelain de Peche.  MAKING POE PROUD can be purchased through Amazon for Kindles.