Every year or two when we were kids, my mom would bring home a pile of boxes and announce that it was time to move. We called this "Spring cleaning."Spring cleaning was like a holiday for us. It always followed the same pattern. We'd start Spring cleaning day with a fresh box of hot donuts. My grandparents would come down for the day and help us pack and load the U-Haul. In the afternoon, my mom would pick up In-and-Out burgers, fries and shakes.
By night, we'd be in the new apartment with the smell of fresh paint, clean carpets and french fries. It would take weeks before the trash started piling up, the cats urine soaked the carpets and the cockroaches multiplied.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Fear
Mikey always got what he wanted because if he didn't, Mikey saw red.
When I was eleven, I walked into the living room and saw my brother Mikey sitting on Diane's chest clutching a 10" inch serrated kitchen knife, Diane holding both his hands trying desperately to twist the knife out of his grip.
I just stood there.
When I was eleven, I walked into the living room and saw my brother Mikey sitting on Diane's chest clutching a 10" inch serrated kitchen knife, Diane holding both his hands trying desperately to twist the knife out of his grip.
I just stood there.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Tony
When you ask a kid what they wanna be when they grow up, most will tell you things like a firefighter or a balerina, but not Tony.
When my kid brother Tony was five, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He told me he wanted to be a teacher and a ghost.
When my kid brother Tony was five, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He told me he wanted to be a teacher and a ghost.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Family Legacy
A co-worker was telling me about a tattoo she was getting removed. One of those "it was a good idea at the time" tattoos. A stain from a past she hopes to forget. Thats how suicide is. It stains a family. You try to cover it up, hide it, pretend it never happens. You can get a tattoo removed. You can't erase suicide.
I first learned about suicide in the fifth grade. My best friend came to school one day and told us about how her sister's boyfriend tried jumping off a bridge. He broke several bones, but survived. When I told my mother about it, she told me that the boy was very lucky. She said that suicide was a mortal sin and people who kill themselves go straight to hell. I don't believe that, but she does. Four years later, the same little girl who told me about her sister's boyfriend took her own life.
When I was in the seventh grade, my oldest brother Joey tried slitting his wrists. He was 16. I didn't know it at the time, but it was his third suicide attempt. His first was when he was eight.
Several years later, my mom's brother killed himself. If you ask her, she'll tell you he died of "depression." She won't use the word suicide. In 2004, my mom tried taking her own life with a Valium-alcohol cocktail. She was unsuccessful. Its unclear to me whether or not she really meant to kill herself, but it got her a bipolar diagnosis. I wasn't living with her at the time. I was living with a roommate, who coincidentally, tried killing herself using a similar cocktail a few years later.
I'm not sure what percent of the population attempts or commits suicide, but the rate seems disproportionately high in my family, on both sides. I have no doubt that there's a genetic component.
Recently, my dad told me about his great Aunt Val. She lived with him and his mom when he was child after she unsuccessfully tried to kill herself with a gun. Val lived years and years with a hole in her head. A hole that my Grandma Rose use to rub salve in twice daily. My grandmother was no stranger to suicide. Her older brother killed himself while living in a state run insane asylum. Thats where they put people who were mentally ill when my grandmother was young, in state run insane asylums.
People don't like to talk about suicide, but avoiding the topic makes the problem worse. Lord knows I've had moments in my life where it would be easy to give up, check-out completely. The temptation is there, sometimes more acutely than I'd like to admit. But I would never kill myself because I am keenly aware of how it impacts the people left behind. If families with a predisposition to suicidal thoughts and actions openly discuss the consequences of suicide (specifically the long term baggage their loved ones have to carry for the rest of their lives) perhaps the suicide rate would decrease? Just a thought.
I first learned about suicide in the fifth grade. My best friend came to school one day and told us about how her sister's boyfriend tried jumping off a bridge. He broke several bones, but survived. When I told my mother about it, she told me that the boy was very lucky. She said that suicide was a mortal sin and people who kill themselves go straight to hell. I don't believe that, but she does. Four years later, the same little girl who told me about her sister's boyfriend took her own life.
When I was in the seventh grade, my oldest brother Joey tried slitting his wrists. He was 16. I didn't know it at the time, but it was his third suicide attempt. His first was when he was eight.
Several years later, my mom's brother killed himself. If you ask her, she'll tell you he died of "depression." She won't use the word suicide. In 2004, my mom tried taking her own life with a Valium-alcohol cocktail. She was unsuccessful. Its unclear to me whether or not she really meant to kill herself, but it got her a bipolar diagnosis. I wasn't living with her at the time. I was living with a roommate, who coincidentally, tried killing herself using a similar cocktail a few years later.
I'm not sure what percent of the population attempts or commits suicide, but the rate seems disproportionately high in my family, on both sides. I have no doubt that there's a genetic component.
Recently, my dad told me about his great Aunt Val. She lived with him and his mom when he was child after she unsuccessfully tried to kill herself with a gun. Val lived years and years with a hole in her head. A hole that my Grandma Rose use to rub salve in twice daily. My grandmother was no stranger to suicide. Her older brother killed himself while living in a state run insane asylum. Thats where they put people who were mentally ill when my grandmother was young, in state run insane asylums.
People don't like to talk about suicide, but avoiding the topic makes the problem worse. Lord knows I've had moments in my life where it would be easy to give up, check-out completely. The temptation is there, sometimes more acutely than I'd like to admit. But I would never kill myself because I am keenly aware of how it impacts the people left behind. If families with a predisposition to suicidal thoughts and actions openly discuss the consequences of suicide (specifically the long term baggage their loved ones have to carry for the rest of their lives) perhaps the suicide rate would decrease? Just a thought.
Grandma Rose
Grandma Rose always wore a crystal angel pinned to her shoulder. It sparkled in the sun. When I was seven, I asked her why she wore it. She told me it reminds her that there's always an angel on her shoulder keeping her and her family safe. Grandma was very close to her angels. She dedicated her life to her angels.
Her house reflected her devotion. Thousands of candles, statuettes, and paintings of the beautiful, winged creatures. Grandma Rose spoke to her angels. To an outsider, it might look like she was talking to herself. An old women wandering through a maze of clutter mumbling. But that was not the case. When I was a little girl we'd sit on her couch, quietly listening to the angels. They were talking to her, telling her stories. I wondered if they'd ever talk to me.
Grandma Rose's dementia progressed as she aged. The older she got, the more angels she saw and the more frightening they became. One day as we sat alone in her room, she asked me to please send them away because they were too loud and wouldn't let her get any rest. I was twelve.
Grandma Rose's brain died slowly, over the course of many years. I was twenty-four when her body gave up and she joined her angels completely. By that time, she had lost the ability to form full sentences, recognize her own reflection, and differentiate between all the anonymous faces surrounding her, both real and imagined.
When I think of Grandma Rose, I like to remember her as she was when I was a little girl, quietly sitting on her couch, with an angel sparkling on her shoulder.
Her house reflected her devotion. Thousands of candles, statuettes, and paintings of the beautiful, winged creatures. Grandma Rose spoke to her angels. To an outsider, it might look like she was talking to herself. An old women wandering through a maze of clutter mumbling. But that was not the case. When I was a little girl we'd sit on her couch, quietly listening to the angels. They were talking to her, telling her stories. I wondered if they'd ever talk to me.
Grandma Rose's dementia progressed as she aged. The older she got, the more angels she saw and the more frightening they became. One day as we sat alone in her room, she asked me to please send them away because they were too loud and wouldn't let her get any rest. I was twelve.
Grandma Rose's brain died slowly, over the course of many years. I was twenty-four when her body gave up and she joined her angels completely. By that time, she had lost the ability to form full sentences, recognize her own reflection, and differentiate between all the anonymous faces surrounding her, both real and imagined.
When I think of Grandma Rose, I like to remember her as she was when I was a little girl, quietly sitting on her couch, with an angel sparkling on her shoulder.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Barrel of Monkeys
You could say I have issues - baggage as it were. I wasn't raised in a typical household. My father's a paranoid schizophrenic. He moved out when I was seven, but still hung around. My mom's bipolar with issues too numerous to list in a single blog entry. The rest of my family, and it is a very large family, is similarly colorful, running the gambit of mental illness. Myself, I've been diagnosed with social anxiety/social phobia.
I'm getting married in 8 months and my fiance and I plan to start a family of our own - a normal, functional family. Before I can do that, I need to understand how my upbringing has impacted my life. I'm going to use this blog to write short stories about my life, my childhood, and growing up in a crazy, loving, fun and dysfunctional American family. Perhaps that'll help me come to terms with who I am, where I came from and where I'm going.
Anyone is welcome to follow or post comments.
I'm getting married in 8 months and my fiance and I plan to start a family of our own - a normal, functional family. Before I can do that, I need to understand how my upbringing has impacted my life. I'm going to use this blog to write short stories about my life, my childhood, and growing up in a crazy, loving, fun and dysfunctional American family. Perhaps that'll help me come to terms with who I am, where I came from and where I'm going.
Anyone is welcome to follow or post comments.
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