...fogged over...

November's clipping along at a steady pace, and blissfully predictable so far.  We're out of the pitch-black-mornings of early fall and (mostly) adjusted to the school schedule.

It seems (dare I say) that things are finally falling into place.

Yeah...yeah...

*knockonwood

*fingerscrossed

~~~~~~~~~~~~

By comparison though, just a handful of months ago, things were...grim.

Grim. Gray.

Even grimy.

So much so that I myself felt grim-gray-and grimy, by association.

The sickness that I had allowed into my life had turned into a full-blown contagion, taking down everyone and everything it came in contact with.  It had spread its greedy fingers out into every nook and cranny...and lodged itself deep into the subconscious...springing up unbidden and unwanted to suck the very joy out of summer.

And there was naught that I could do.

I had invited it in.

I had chosen so to do.

And, frankly, I had to see the whole thing through...

But during that time...those 2+ years of dancing with the devil...I, too, had succumbed.  I had gone dark...letting it fester within me.

(And don't get me wrong...I knew what I was doing.  I purposefully and knowingly chose this path. I  would do so again, in a heartbeat.  It was worth it.)

I had felt myself slip and slide down that slope, and done nothing to slow my fall.  Knowing as I did then but couldn't yet put into words, that I had to be "all in" in order to make it work.  Knowing that it had to be real.   Knowing that I had to force myself into genuinely caring, or I'd show my cards.

So the grim and gray and grimy seeped in.

Messages turned into conversations.

Days turned into weeks.

The infection took root.

And all too soon...all too quickly...everything beautiful that I had built my life into was fogged over.

Out of reach.

Out of view.

Out of sync.

All I knew was the pervasive fog that had settled in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's November now, and fall is here in full force.  Crisp, windy days play off of bitter, rain-soaked ones.  Leaves and acorns pelt my head every time I step out the front door.  And the nights bring fog rolling in across the roadways, swallowing up marvel and menace both, as we blindly make our way  home in the dark from this program or that. 

It comes up fast, or so it seems, in our neck of the woods.  A quick unfurling of distortion...softening the sharp edges and blending one thing into another and another and another...

...until there is just a wall of gray.

We drive along.  The sickly yellow beam of the foglight barely reaching a foot ahead.

Eyes narrowed.  The gas pedal barely engaged.  Nerves at the ready to spring into action and slam on the brake.  Concentration furrowing the brow as we both stare down at the sliver of road before us.

It's all we can see.

All we can make out.

A few feet...maybe less...of pavement in front of the hood.

We drive along.

Knowing full well that the fog hides dangers.

Knowing they are there...just beyond view...

Knowing there's nothing we can do to avoid them.

We stare down at that road with low-expectations.

We won't make it home anytime soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

November is begun.

It's been months now, of settling into the comfort of the familiar.  Of wrapping ourselves back up in the beautiful patchwork quilt of the life I built for us.

Nature's reminder...the fog of fall nights...evokes the darkness that owned me so recently.

But the crisp sting of wind on my cheeks when I open the door each morning serves as counterpoint...reminding me that I am free.

There is contrast here, now.  Sharpness and details and saturation.  Sometimes it even clashes.  Colors at war with one another.  Softness brushing up against prickers. 

More, now, than I saw before...before the fog rolled in.

More, now, than I have seen these many, many years since first I stepped foot on the freedom trail.

It seems I've finally reached my destination.

It seems I'm finally free.

Little did I guess that all it would take is another full-immersion soaking in that pit of grime for me to finally shake myself loose of any and all responsibility, guilt, heartache, sympathy, empathy, etc...and lay to rest those demons of the past.

Little did I know that I needed to drown in that very fog, in order to finally step out into the light.

~~~

...five minutes or less...

Hey, stranger!
(And yes, I'm talking to my computer screen 😜)

It's been forever and a day...again...since last my fingers tripped across the keyboard here in Casa Caffeine, and while "a break" this time was fully intentional, the ever-extending postponement on returning was not.

It just...

got comfortable.

To let things sit.

To not think things through.

To not worry them to bits.

And

Frankly

I was busy.

Self-imposed busy-ness, perhaps.

But busy, nonetheless.

With no time to waste on word play here.

Or, rather, no time I was willing to borrow against.

Time to cherish, as summer waxed and waned.

Time to work and rework.

Time to soak in the sunlight and son-light before school resumed.

Time to adjust to changes, big and small.

Time to grow...to expand enough to fit in everything new.

Time to feel and cope and accept and release.

And now?

Now I've five minutes of silence to fill.

Five minutes to check back in and shake off the cobwebs.

To sit here in draft mode and scroll through all the unwritten-unedited-unpublished detritus of time gone by...all those one and two line drafts from when I quickly jotted something down in hopes I'd find the time-words-energy to flesh them out.

17.

By the way.

17 drafts.

17 separate starts.

A few lines.

No punctuation.

Words meant to trigger the memory of whatever prompted me to want to write.

I'll get to them...in time...I'm sure.

But now?

I'm out of time again...

~Leanna

...r&r, and right back again...

Ah, that first sip of coffee this morning!
Pure.

Bliss.

~~~~

We just returned from a weekend "away"...something of a cross between a daytrip and a staycation, minus our usual go-go-go adventure seeking.

There were no grueling hikes.

No searching abandoned sites.

No gps coordinates.

No plans.

And it was perfect.

Junk food and time wasting and...

breathe...

Perfect!

I think this is the first time I've ever actually "planned" to do nothing.  And you know what?  It's a solid plan.  One worth repeating as oft as needed.

No muss. No fuss.  No stress.

We did it right.

Left behind our cares and concerns (knowing full well they'd be right there waiting when we got back) and let go of the self-imposed pressure to worry things down to bits.  We checked in at the front desk, and checked out of our lives for a bit.  And it was new...and different...and wildly unfamiliar...and completely wonderful!

There was but one goal on the agenda.

Relax.

And we did.

Our walk down into the town was slow and meandering.  No breathless race to beat our own time, or rushing past the views.  We stopped whenever something caught our eyes.  We passed away (more than a few) hours in front of HGTV.  Feet up.  Junk food in arm's reach. 

(I put him in charge of food-perhaps not the wisest decision health wise-but hey...YOLO and all that.  We dined on Cool Ranch Doritos and fruit snacks and root beer.)

We debated floor treatments and backsplashes and laughed outrageously at the midwestern real-estate prices as compared to those here on the coast.  We dreamt up imaginary floor plans.

In what can only be considered fate, the only decent thing to watch the first night was "Transformers".  He was in heaven!  And I was...dare I say...chill?!?

We even lucked out with an otherwise empty pool.  (So thankful for that!  He still struggles to let loose when others are around...so solitude = freedom to be himself and have fun!) 

Splish, splash...and then a mad dash up to hot showers!

By not doing anything, we had a great time.

And I finally, for the first time, understood that there really is value in just dropping everything.

Surreal!

Mind. Blown! 

Of course we're back now...and the weekend is already naught but memory.

We returned to the same mess and the same stress.

And that's ok.  That's fine.

A few days off was respite enough for now.

He can dive right back into that summer project for his upcoming history class.

(And he did...first thing this morning!)

I can juggle all the balls of life and family and work.

(And cat!  1 weekend away = 1 very unpleasant litter box!  Ew!)

A weekend away from everything that's been weighing us down lately allowed us both to pick back up with a little bit of fresh energy and fresh perspective.  It's as though walking out for a few days created a new opening to walk back through.  Time away skewed things differently, so that when we walked back in the front door, each item on the to-do list was actually prioritized instead of one giant aggressive jumble of  "too big-too scary".

And maybe...just maybe...the weekend away gave us a healthier attitude regarding all the things that we allow to take up our time and energy.

(Plus, obviously, a newly re-awakened junk food addiction!)

It's good to be home, though.

(I know he needs that routine and regularity...that order and predictability.)

It's good to be home.  To set our sights back on our goals and responsibilities.  Even those stresses and stressors beyond our active control feel comfortable once again.

Besides...my trusty French-press brew tastes soooo much better than hotel coffee!

...step in time...

We've been walking, this summer.

Part of our "schedule"...a required slogging through the pea-soup that is New Jersey's unofficial summer cocktail.  The humidity, even in early morning, is thick enough to choke on, as we make our slow and steady way up and down and down and up through the miles.

I changed things up this year...this summer after freshman year.  Gone is the home-schooling component.  Gone the Mami-led learning and reviewing.  Those days on the back lawn, lounging out with textbooks and library books and lemonade have come and passed, and are no more.  

This summer the schedule...so to speak...is vastly different.  We've factored in for health and wellness...made sure that household-maintenance and self-care are given attention...but the majority of time has been left open-ended.  Instead of the rigor of "at this time" and "for this duration", I've let loose the reins and simply provided guidelines for responsible use.

After all, he's 16.

After all...after all...I've done all I could to provide the necessary tools.

The schedule is pinned up on the fridge, just as it always was.  Easy access. He passes by it countless times a day...an hour.  Time enough to look up and check in and check-off.

Time enough to pursue his own interests.

There is, of course, still guidance from me.  Sometimes a nudge or a reminder to look at the clock.  Sometimes an exasperated sigh as I see him hunched over his keyboard.  All too often a sharper word or two...a harsher prompt to live up to the new responsibility that has been bestowed.

There is, of course, disappointment.

As the hours get wasted.

As the busy-work stretches on ad infinitum.

As the day turns to night and the list of tasks remains half-undone.

I worked it out in advance.  Doing the math.  Generously so.  I tallied up the time it would conceivably take to address the must-dos...the "Drudgery" and "Dedication" listed out above.  I added in extra time for mishaps and delays and rounded up to 3 hours.

3 hours.

In a summer day that inevitably starts late and ends later.

3 hours, out of an average 16 hour day.

Just. 3. Hours.

(And that's stretching it. Liberally.)

And even so, those 3 hours of tasks have yet once to be completed in a single day.

Instead, the hours tick by whilst I work.  Hours in multiples flickering by on the screen of his computer.  Time dying off bit by bit as his distraction and his hyper-focus battle it out for control of his functionality.

Last night I issued a warning.  The final one.

I told him that he could prove himself worthy of the responsibility I had given him and complete the schedule as written or he could hand the responsibility back to me, forgoing  all rights to his own time and abiding by my hourly requirements instead.

As I sit to write this...it's all still up in the air.  Bits and pieces complete, but gaps in the structure nonetheless.  And a pitiful refrain of baseless excuses. 

Harsh.  Aren't I?

Indeed.

Off track, as well...as I tripped down this path of long-drawn, circuitous explanation.

We've been walking.

A beginner's effort at getting back into shape after the forced-lethargy of the school year.

A slow start to recovering the hale-and-hearty selves we once were.

Pacing ourselves and pushing ourselves.

Sweating through the inclines.

Relishing in the all-too-rare and still-hot breezes.

We've been walking and walking and walking.

Each day, a little further.

On roads not made for safe-passage.

Adrenaline coursing through us as we race to get off the main strips while massive trucks rumble by haphazardly, forcing us into the unkempt bracken and sludge where the shoulders have been taken back by Mother Nature. 

Our route is hardly scenic.  Or level.

Our first mad dash leads to a minor climb, followed by a steady descent...easy enough on the way down, but wrought in the very bowels of hell when, after several miles of similar declines and inclines, we turn round and have to now ascend once more.  By the time we make it to the beginning of this final climb, we're already spent.  Sweat has beaded and dripped and evaporated, leaving rorschach patterns on our shirts.  Our calves are hot to the touch...overextended and burning.  Feet?  Numb.  Breath?  Shallow and sticky.

We're borderline hysterical.  That "second wind" made up of naught but toxic adrenaline...the burn of it in our veins and muscles.  

We...walk.  If it can be called that.  This mindless lifting of feet...of repetitive motion because there is nothing left to do but breathe and move.  We walk...slowly.  Each step less than half the distance of our usual stride.  Inching along as caterpillars.

The pavement shimmers...those black water mirages springing up just over the horizon line.  The soles of our shoes have gone sticky against the burning asphalt.  It feels as though each step adheres to the ground.

We become mouth-breathers.  Silent and gasping.  No breath left for the words and stories we filled the previous miles up with.  Just automatons of breath and step.

Cars pass by infrequently as we crest this final hill.  A quiet neighborhood of mansions and estates whose occupants are usually elsewhere.  Rarely, an air-conditioned drive-by will slow and wave at us as we straighten up, masking our pain from the observation of strangers until the car disappears behind us and we slump back down and slog forward.

That final mile is painful.

It burns and tears and stretches things we forget are part of us.

It wakes up sleeping hurts.

It renders void any agreement we made to challenge one another.

Turns our conversation jewels to rubble.

It makes us angry and spiteful.

Just enough to make it home...up, again, on our driveway...up, one final time, on the stairs...

Air-conditioning and ice-water await.

We flop down on the floor, panting and steaming.  Peel off sweat-soaked shoes and socks.  Listen to the hammer of our heartbeats in our ears...

...and inevitably...

...giggle uncontrollably at the insanity of it all.

And the next day...the following morning...we do it all over again...but farther.

We walk.

Side by side.

Except on the dangerous strips of road where there's no shoulder to speak of and teenage drivers are spreading their summer-driving wings.  There, I force him over and ahead, stepping behind and out a bit so "the car" hits me instead.  Motherhood...it's dangerous.

We walk, side by side, and I see when he slows...allowing me to catch up.

His stride is longer than mine now.

A wonder in and of itself.

Where did those little ham hocks go...the ones that bumbled and tumbled and tiptoed?

When did his legs outpace mine?

His hip sits inches above my own and his legs swing out the full length.

On the straight-aways, when the path is clear, I count my steps against his.  His four equal my five.  His stride 1.25 to my 1.

I watch his feet. The right one jutting outward from an old ankle injury.  His gait unchecked despite my nagging reminders to straighten up and straighten out.  I see the ankle brace he wears to support it.  And I know the custom-fit orthotics are inside his shoes.  And all for naught, as he lets his foot turn out anyway.

I watch his feet and marvel at the size.  His sneakers like clown shoes up against mine when our stride lines up again.  I remember that first pair of shoes that barely filled my palm.  White leather.  Soft and pliable and utterly useless.

I remember all the sneakers he tore his way through in toddlerhood.  Countless trips to the shoe department at Target and hours wasted online searching eBay for the next size up in his beloved Transformers sneakers or snow boots.

I remember when he danced on my toes, arms tight around my thighs.

I remember when I first held him, oohing and aahing over 10 tiny toes.

And now we walk and he holds back, gracious enough to pause for his smaller, older mother to keep up...generous enough to wait while I catch my breath,

Where once I went slowly for him, now he does the same for me.

We walk.  He talks.  I listen.

And ponder how much slower he'll go because of me as time ticks on...

...silent treatment...

I've been ignoring you.

I've been hearing the siren call of the blank page, and turning my back on it.

I have found it hard to just sit down and write.

My head is full of words.  They swirl about endlessly, making me clumsy during the day and sleepless through the night.  None of them fit to print.  None of them safe to say.  

I have woken up, almost daily for the last month, thinking this is the day I'll dive back in...straight into the deep end...dark and murky and unexplored...chock full of monsters and fangs.  And every day, I have come up with excuses.  Every day, I have kept myself "busy" to avoid sitting in silence and writing it out.

There are, I think, people who have a gift for expression.  For putting all the right words in the right order at the right time...and by doing so, drawing the poison from the sting.

But I worry, knowing myself, that my words will only irritate the wound more...stirring up old fears and new ones...inviting the past into the present.  I worry that once untapped, the words won't ever go back into the nice, tidy boxes I stuffed them into in the first place. 

I worry that what feels like a tidal surge in my life will completely overwhelm me if I start to really think about any of it.

And I worry that I won't much like what I have to say.  That my anger and my fear will be stronger than my compassion and grace.

So I keep busy.

...speaking of countdowns...

I wrote, yesterday, of the countdown to the end of the school year.  I'm excited for it, as is he.  We've got the oversized calendar squares all set and ready for big red Xs.  We've got the first few items all filled in on the Summer-Adventure wishlist.  The days are just, tantalizingly, out of reach...and we're overflowing already with all the "what ifs" and "can't waits" and possibilities.

Right after I clicked the orange publish button yesterday, though, I realized that I'd completely blanked on the other countdown happening in our household.  The one I'm not as excited about.

The countdown to the end of the week, and my birthday.

8th of June.

Coming right up.

No matter how I try to hide from it.

It's a significant day.
To others.  Those who love me.  Those who want to pay-forward what I do in their lives.

It's significant...to them.

It's a dividing line.

A symbolic ending of an era.

The start of something new.

Or, as I prefer to think of it, the turning of the page.

But the chapter isn't over yet.  How could it be?  So much left unresolved.  So many messes to clean up and bows to tie...things yet to do or finish...words as of yet, unspoken.  The chapter isn't over yet, so why should this one day...this one word on the line...be anything of import?

I'm not a birthday girl.

I wonder if I ever was?
I look back on the pages past and search for the character arc that will answer all my questions.

There's bits and pieces of childhood...remnants in 4*6 photographic form that show smiling faces and curly ribbons and sweet treats...that feel like they don't belong to me.  There's awkward, foal-like limbs of teenage years and smiles that don't reach the eyes.  There's the gorgeous, delicious, elaborate cakes that were baked...preserved forever in glossy pictures...testament to the baker's skill.  There's a cherished gift, or a longed-for wish come true wrapped up and displayed.  There's shrimp cocktails
(a rare treat then!) and fruit salads (my preferred dessert!) in the foreground.  There's even cards...stained and brittle now...with saccharine sentiment and empty promises.

The pieces are there.

But they don't really add up to a full picture.

They don't fit together in the frame of my life.

It's as though they belong in a book...a pretty, glossy version of things that didn't really happen the way the storyteller would like to pretend.  A fairytale version of things where the good is...gooder...and the bad is just there as contrast or to move the plot along.

~8~

I have tried, this year just as every other, to prepare for the birthday since the calendar flipped to June.  I have made half-hearted attempts to plan something.  I've clicked through websites, hoping to land on some token to gift myself.  

But I can't seem to do for myself what I'd do for my son...
for a friend...
for a stranger.
I can't seem to get into a celebratory mood.

There's too much history getting in the way of celebration.

Too much of the -not what I had planned, not what I wanted, not what I tried to do- taking up space that I suppose, for others, is filled up with "How great is this?".  There's no room for excitement when all around me is "just get through this next thing..." and "make do".

There's being an adoptee.  It's unavoidable on a day marking my very birth.  There's the backstory of meeting my biological mother and trying so hard to find my origins in her.  The knowledge, ever-present, that I wasn't wanted or worthy.
The day in stark, bold relief...8th of June...a reminder of how disposable I was.

And more than that.
The meeting of her?  The "this is what I came from"?  The "this is the parts of my sum"?  The disappointment and dismay...and all these years later, the disgust.

There, as well, is a marriage on paper that's gone the way of Pompeii...burned to a crisp and buried under ash...preserved in the moment of it's final catastrophe for all to see and remark upon.

The damage it caused leaching out into the soil.

Putting me in my place.

History.  All around.

Too much of plans...

grand ones and small ones...

far flung distant-land ones and five-year savings' ones.

The house...and the home that we'd build inside its walls.

The work and the fulfillment of chasing the dream.

The family...growing up and out.

A bucket-list of missed chances.

There's simply too much history, and not enough of the kind I wanted.

And here it comes.

As ever.

8th of June.

With all it's bluster and bravado.

8th of June.

And I've a cake to make or a son to disappoint.

Have some of column A, try all of column B!

A reminder of all the things that didn't happen.
A reminder of all that has passed me by.

A reminder of all the experiences I won't have.

A reminder of all the dreams I've already had to say goodbye to.

Where is the celebration in that?
What is the celebratory part?
The...survival?
The...still breathing?
The...inevitable ageing?
Where?
Or...
Why?

Whether through the raising-up or the hard-knock refining, I wasn't built to celebrate myself.  I don't have the knack for it.  It makes me uncomfortable.  I feel...shameful...for wanting it to be otherwise.
It's too deeply ingrained in me that I'm not worth it.
Unlike my son, I grew up with a parent who discouraged my confidence...criticized my differences...made mockery of the very things and ideas and opinions that made me unique.
Unlike my son, I grew up in an environment of disapproval.
And I've had a hard time straying...willfully and intentionally...off that course.

I'm good at celebrating others.  I'm good at the gifting...the baking...the prettying-up.  I'm good at the planning and creating and gathering.
And I enjoy it.
I sparkle a bit in the glow that lights up a friend's face when the gift is opened.
I straighten up a bit...an extra inch or so...in knowing I chose well.
I go all-out, as best I can, for my son's birthdays.
(Though one could argue that I seem to do that for most of his days!)

I'm good at celebrating others.
And woefully, miserably inept at doing so for myself.

Even the question "What are you doing for your birthday?" sets off a flurry of panic in me.  It's heavy, to me,  with the weight of others' expectations and needs.
"What are you doing for your birthday?"
They want a plan.  A time and a place. A dress code or a budget.
They want to know what I want.

But...
How can I possibly put into words that what I want is out of reach...
and that pretty packages wrapped up in bows just remind me that I'm not meant for it...
and that those doors will never open for me?
How can I say "I want this" when my wants are so vast and my needs are neglected?
How can I say "come celebrate with me" when the very day is nothing but a reminder of my failings?

I'd like to think that there's an answer here...somewhere on this page.  A hidden cipher in the mish-mash and nonsense ramblings I've vented off.
Perhaps even an end of sorts...wrapped up, of course, and festooned with a bow.

I'd like to imagine that by week's end I will have, somehow miraculously and permanently and decidedly (as if making the decision so to be has ever once worked out for me! Ha!), transformed into the birthday girl.  That I will find myself suddenly of worth and substance as more than simply what I am for others and what I do for others.
That all that was raised-up and refined into will have sloughed off...
That I will be free.

But that imagining...that wishing...feels far more like self-indulgent pity than any real-life, actionable plan to get from Point A (birthday dread) to Point B (bring it on!).
It feels like yelling into the hollow of a storm...knowing full well that the words won't ever make it back out again.

Far safer, then, to just ignore it...

~Leanna

...start the countdown...

This morning's arrival of the schoolbus signaled the start of our countdown, as there remain but 10 full days (not counting the half days designated for final exams) of school left to this freshman year.

Couldn't come soon enough!

Or to two more well-deserving people...in our humble opinion! 😏

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I remember those first early days of spring when Nature got one over on us...playing the part of summer with high temp. days and sunny skies.  We crawled out of our winter-doldrums and shed layers and laziness, and followed the sun.

But...school...

as undesirably dependable as taxes...

circled back round each Monday morning and broke the reverie.

Nonetheless, we persisted!

Ha!

We did, though.

Persist.

Pushing through homework and pushing past the whine of rusty muscles to get out and about as oft as possible.  Hitting the road each weekend for sights unseen (and revisiting old favourites) and roads less traveled.   Packing away the heavy layers and long sleeves and welcoming each increasing degree of warmth on our upturned faces.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood", so we took the one that led to the castle!

We raced the clock and chased the setting sun, heading home a moment or a minute or an hour later each day.  Borrowing against the morning and the inevitable ache of waking up at 4am.

And here we are, with summer almost in reach...

Both of us...

Completely burnt out on work and school and school and work and oh-so-ready to turn off the alarms and sleep through the sunrise and...
Just

Hit

Pause.

3 weeks to go.

(Counting those exams, that is.)

3 weeks of late nights and early mornings as we play both sides of the equation...

slipping in and out of summer as oft as possible...

returning to responsibility just in time to yawn through his first period and my first deadline.

3 weeks.

10 days.

5 half-days.

HOW ever will we make it???

10 - 9 - 8 - 7 - 6 - 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1

...weathered...

I feel, lately...or rather...in this last year of May to May, as though I'm very barely balancing on the edge of a precipice.  I'm utterly off-balance.   Wholly subject to the slightest tremor or breeze.

Or perhaps...to draw a clearer picture...as though I'm braced at the epicenter of a multitude of storms.  

Yes. That.

Some...completely manageable...if they were solo.  A sprinkling.  An annoying drip-drop-drip hitting the back of your neck and sending a shiver through your spine, or landing square in the middle of your white t-shirt on the day you risked the colored bra.

Some...terrible but not devastating.  Damaging, but not wholly unexpected.  The sort you brace for, locking your knees  and the doors and the shutters, and piling up sandbags.  The storms you absolutely know will break off bits and pieces of the trimming, but will get diluted before they can damage the frame.

And others.

The disasters.

The blizzards and the floods and the hurricanes.

The ones that leave rubble in their wake.

The storms that tear through every inch and every corner and destroy everything they touch.

The storms that leave the landscape permanently altered.

The storms that continue to damage long after they've passed through...with mildew and landslides and toxic waste.

And there am I.

At the crossroads or the center or the eye.

Everything whirling about.
Trying to keep my footing and my wits.

Trying to peer out through the clouds and see what's coming

Trying to apply some sort of preemptive safety strategy to things I can't even see coming or understand the long-term significance of.  

Trying...

...to hold on to myself while chunks keep getting yanked off and ripped open.

Trying...

...to keep the storm from ever reaching him by using my own self as a shield.

I have spent years under the umbrella.  Patching the leaks.  Replacing the spines.  Damp about the edges but otherwise safe from any downpour.  I have kept him at the very center of it...surrounded on all sides by the barrier and by myself...making certain that any unexpected debris will exhaust its effect on the way through me.

Time and distance and silence created a shelter here, tucked away from the obvious reach of the storm. We could, and did, exist removed from it all...knowing the storm still raged and calmed and raged again...but never so close that we had to worry.  Knowing that the inevitable damage continued to accrue, but detached from any real-life implications...far enough away that it didn't show up on the radar unless we went looking for it. 

Don't get me wrong.

I knew it wasn't over.

I knew that we were never completely free and clear.

But I welcomed distraction and relaxed into this new life of ours as best I could.  Shoring up the damaged bits and gradually replacing them altogether.  And I remained, in the quiet moments and dark of night, alert.

Never doubting that the storm continued.

Finding new places...new faces...

...to damage.

But I had this umbrella to cover us.

I had taken us all the way to the other side where, even if we squinted in the right direction from time to time, we still couldn't really make out any clear view of the old landscape or the threat that had sent us running.

Here, on the other side, under the umbrella, we were "mostly safe".  Damaged, perhaps.  Different, certainly.  Permanently thrown off our original course.

"Mostly safe". 

 So long as I didn't toss in any pebbles or splash about our boundary, there were no obvious ripples to disrupt the placid surface near us.  

And, now...here and now...

Ego, on my part: To think that I could permanently hold back the storm with just this umbrella.

Hubris: The line-drawing and the fleeing and the rebuilding.

Utter foolishness.

I know that now, here, at the center.

Here.  Where all the storms meet and whirl about...where the ice and rain go sideways and shred holes through everything I thought so solid.  

Here.  Where the cold finds its way through all the cracks left behind from the storm's first devastating pass.

Here.

And now.

All these years later.

I've tossed aside the umbrella.  Tugged him in close behind me and screamed into the winds as though I'm King Lear himself.

"Try me.  I'm ready.  I'm stronger.

I knew you'd come for me.  And I've been preparing. 

You won't win.

You can't get to him.

You can't hurt him.

I won't let you."

And the winds answered back.  Laughing at my bravado.  Whipping through anyway.  The storm tossed its debris right into my face.  All those places and faces it had continued to batter.

It came bursting through the smallest little fissure and swirled up about me, dragging in other storm-clouds I thought long depleted.  

And here I am.  Standing, but barely.  Trembling.

At the center of so much potential damage and desperately trying to keep us both safe.

Weak.  By the damage I sustained the first time.

Strengthened.  By the scar-tissue.

Praying. That the hurt doesn't spill over too much onto him...into him...

Trying to fortify the barrier to him by dismantling the one to me.

And...

More than that...

More than just protecting him from the storm...

Also...

Trying to mitigate the inevitable damage to those it replaced us with...

~Leanna

...wasted breath...

"I'm tired of wasting my breath."

Those words...last night...in a phone call.

Not mine.

Nor the caller's.

Rather, a related message from a third-party...someone tired of 'wasting his breath' in expectation of what was both absolutely due him and realistically never going to happen.

For some reason, those are the words that stuck with me, rattling around in this skull of mine...pinging off the various other detritus of the day.

6 words.

Strung together.

A simple sentence.

Fully loaded.

Bearing the weight of disappointment. Of frustration.  Of neglect and need and willful ignorance.

6 words that triggered in me a flood of response.

Righteous anger...disgust...pity.

And under it all, the ever-present spark of disbelief...the "how can this possibly be?" of taking 2 + 2 and somehow not getting 4.  

"I'm tired of wasting my breath."

The answer to "why not ask...why not try...why not...?"

And, honestly, given the extenuating circumstances of the conversation that prompted the reply?  Completely justified.  Completely appropriate.  Completely expected.

Completely devastating.

We've been there, you and I.  Countless times.  We know the feeling well.

"I'm tired of wasting my breath..."

~explaining my feelings

~defending myself

~hoping to be recognized

~asking for help

~reminding you

~holding you accountable

~teaching you

~trying to help

I lay in bed, hours after that phone call, book in hand...but the pages were empty to sightless eyes as my brain puzzled out all the bits and pieces of fact and apparent fiction.

"I'm tired of wasting my breath."

We've been there, you and I.

I've been there.

Years ago.

Moments ago.

We've our limits, you and I.

The walls we bang our heads against until, one day, we're simply done.

Bruised.

And done.

We've our limits.

Some of them clear and well-defined.  Lit up like neon signs.  Do not pass go!

Others, stealth bombers...sneaking up from beyond the periphery to drop us on our asses in the midst of what we thought heroic effort.

Limits we set for ourselves, founded in self-love and self-care.

Limits of nature and physicality and strength...or weakness.

Limits of experiential knowledge and growth and perception.

Limits that define what we can do and what we can take.

Limits that define what we are able to shake off.

He had reached his, the speaker of those 6 words.

He had reached his limit of what he could do and what he could expect would be done.

He had reached the limit...finally conceding the loss of hope to grim reality.

He had felt the wasted effort of words...of wants and wishes and needs expressed...of his very breath.

And I, a phone call and an intermediary of repeated words away, heard.  Understood.  Recognized the declaration and the desperation and the devastation. 

I heard those words and felt the welling up of emotion...familiar with those feelings from my own experience and righteously indignant that someone else should be similarly impacted.  I heard them, and they burrowed deep within me...finding their kin amongst my own disappointments.  

I heard those words and knew them to be true, even as I wished they were but the stuff of melodrama.

"I'm tired of wasting my breath."

I agree.

I, too, am tired.

I, too, have hit the limit.

I, too, see the waste of my breath and my time and my effort.

You are tired.  And rightly so.

You have not been afforded what you should have been.

You have not been cared for the way you should have been.

You have not been helped and taught and nurtured in any of the ways you should have been.

And they are remarkable...your 6 words.

A statement of fact that you, somehow, inherently or instinctively know that you deserve more, but know, as well, that more is unlikely to manifest.


Your breath has been wasted.

Mine, too.

You are allowed to be tired.

You are allowed to give up.

You are allowed to break.

You are allowed to give in to the considerable odds stacked up against  you.

I am too far away to be of any consequence, and yet, I will be here...hoping...

Hoping that after you give in and give up, that you will be able to get back up again...

That you will start breathing again...

And blow away the pain and the heartache like so many dandelion seeds...

Just Breathe

~Leanna

...the holes...

We rent.

We rent what, by some standards, would be considered a postage-stamp sized apartment.  It's the 'garage apartment' of our landlords' home...an afterthought of sorts...a subdivided use of what was extra space, walled off and renovated into living quarters.    

It is, by some standards, far too small for family life.

It is, by all standards, in constant need of t.l.c. after countless (preceeding occupant) years of neglect.

It is also, seemingly, forever in need of fixing.  Something of a d.i.y. renovator's daydream, I suppose.  I have done what I can.  I do what I can.  There's been sanding and scrubbing.  Tightening of screws and replacing of fixtures.  Refitting and refurbishment.  Caulking and re-caulking.  Painting and repainting.  Little fixes and big fixes.

And it remains.  Unchanged.  In steady decline.

Pieced together of spare parts and looking every bit the temporary shelter that it is.

It is...

At best...

Quirky.

Cantankerous, even.

Floors sloping in all directions.  Cabinets that won't be orderly no matter how often I re-organize.  Drawers that stick or jam.  Surfaces stained by age, bleach-resistant.  Walls that show their seams.

And holes.

Oh, the holes.

Round the frames and doors and windows.  Where the insulation has rotted away. In the roof and in the ceiling.  In the walls, before I filled them.  The cracks and holes of mis-measured and old and settling.  The holes of nature wearing away.  And, in some cases, the holes we've made throughout the years...from the ever-changing displays of elementary art projects and holiday decorations.

I've fixed them all.  Or, rather, I've tried.  I've bought the spackle and the drywall.  Applied it liberally, then sanded.  I've fixed so many.  Too many.  I've filled in the cracks and the crevasses.  I've color-corrected with woodpaint in hopes of blending.  I've covered up with photos and artwork; those shiny happy things that distract from the disorder they hide.

But there are more. Always more.

I have fixed the holes in the walls.  Countless hours of labor consumed by delicate work.

Fill...Sand...Paint.

I have fixed the ones that are in ready view...the ones at eye-level...the obvious ones.

But there are more.

There are cracks in the ceiling.  Stains, as well.

Holes in the roof that let in all manner of waste and weather and wildlife.

Those holes remain.

They continue...they grow.

(They are, most would agree, not my responsibility.  But they are my burden.)

I know they are there.

I know there is erosion in the very framework.

I have fixed what I can of the obvious gaps...fixed that which others would easily see.

But the structural damage remains.

(The kitchen ceiling)

The holes in the very construction remain.  Out of sight...sometimes even out of mind...but there, nonetheless.  Impactful, nonetheless.  Burdensome, nonetheless.  Slowly and steadily eating away at themselves until they chew right through the walls and ceilings in more obvious ways.  Sure to suddenly reveal themselves only once it is far too late for damage control.

The holes remain.

Where this person ripped off a piece.

Where that person tore out a chunk.

Where someone else left without shoring things up.

The holes remain.

In him.

In me.

In this quirky, cantankerous life made up of spare parts and temporary fixes.

~Leanna

...well, bully for you...

(From March 19, 2019)

We are, in my personal opinion, the sum of our experiences:

ever-growing, ever-changing.

Marked by the passage of each day and what it brings into our orbit.

We bend and fracture with the punches.

We grow scar tissue over deep hurts; that "different tissue" that closes the wound but can never quite be what it replaced.

Some of us soften and blossom.

Others of us harden and refine. 

Our intellectual functions adjust to the tasks presented...worrying over the problems specific to our experiences...gradually becoming habitual users of the same processes over time.

Our physical bodies attune to repetitive needs in much the same way.

Even our emotional cores, our inner spirits, are gradually rewritten as we experience all those ups and downs.

My son is, right now, the product of his first 16 years. He is buoyed by the confidence created at home, and battered by the distrust created at school. He is shut down, shut out, from the social-emotional experience of school life (and, often, community life if school peers are present) by a learned "battening down the hatches" auto-response. He tells me how much energy he expends daily, in the rigorous process of shutting everything out. He arrives home, exhausted, just in time for those temporary walls of his to burst. He is crushed under the weight of those walls every afternoon.

I rebuild my son every day, after school. I let him crush my hand as we walk up the driveway, releasing all that inner turmoil into my very bones. I sit with him as he falls apart and catch, in my hands, the words that he'll need back. I listen to the ones unspoken and hear the cry of his defeat. And then I help him rebuild. It takes all night and all morning.

And then, he goes back to school. 

It's different now..

now that he's in high school...now that he's 16.

"Selectively Solitary-or-Safely So"

He's different now.

More guarded.

Less open.

Purposely numb.

Missing out just because he can't take the risk.

His efforts to protect himself, because everyone else (including me) failed to protect him, have cut him off from who he was.

I am different now, too...

I pull no punches now. I set aside "kindness" and stand at the offensive ready.

Gone are the days when I played only defense..only re-action. I have learned what to expect and grown accordingly.

This post:6 years old today. 

Part of the why...

(From March 19, 2013) 

So to clarify, calmly now that I've had some time, I received a call from school yesterday letting me know that another student had pushed my son and that he had fallen, hard. He did go to the nurse, and was checked out by her, and she felt that he could continue on with the school day. Once the individual who called was done sharing that information, it was time for the standard "cover our rears" speech. 

Generally it sounds very basically the same each and every time an incident like this occurs.

I am informed that my son is fine, and that the incident will be investigated.

I am informed that the other student has never displayed this sort of behavior before.

I am informed that while they will look into the incident, that they don't feel that anyone intended to harm my son.

So, four years in to this now, I'm used to hearing this same scenario or variations on the same.

And quite frankly I'm sick to death of it.

I knew even during that phone call that my child was going to come home to me at the end of today with some physical mark: either a bruise or a cut or scrape or a black and blue mark. And yet, despite the fact that he did not have that mark on him when he left for school that day, the administration does not feel that returning him in "damaged" condition is worth their time or concern.

So when things like this happen as they seem to do at least once a week, I play the waiting game.

I wait until my child gets off school bus and until he says something that triggers the conversation.

Yesterday was no different. Right off the hop, as soon as he got off the bus, he said he was sick and tired of being treated badly by the student who had hurt him that day. After listening to his side of what actually transpired, I left voicemail messages for several of the administrators at the school. And then waited. And waited. When I finally did get a return phone call I was treated with a good deal of oppositional defiance. Right from the start of the phone call, the principal attempted to first talk me out of my concerns, and when that didn't work, inform me that they were unfounded and melodramatic. She took great offense to my word choice when I describes my son as being a victim. Her only explanation was that all children in that age range put their hands on one another. Additionally, she did not like being told that my son is afraid to attend her school. In fact, she argued with me on that very same point, stating loudly that every time she sees him he is smiling and happy to be there. During the course of the conversation, which took over an hour away from my being attentive to my child, she continued to negate what I was saying and to talk over me and through me, interrupting me at every turn. It doesn't help lend credence to her cause, when she can't formulate a straight sentence without using at least one word inappropriately in each. I kept thinking to myself that this was quite literally the equivalent of banging my head against brick wall. Attempting to reason with someone who is not your intellectual equal is beyond frustrating. Particularly when that person thinks that they are in a defensive position. At any rate I stayed firm in what I was saying, which I know to be the truth.

My son has been at the school for four years.

He has been bullied relentlessly during those four years.

He is afraid to go to school.

We wake up hours before most other schoolchildren do, in order to spend valuable time addressing his fears and concerns, and providing appropriate therapy choices to help him combat them.

Every single day, every single morning that he has to go to school, I have to persuade him to do so.

He is afraid to go there.

He is afraid to get on the bus.

He's afraid of unpredictable classmates who wish to harm him.

Trying to reason with a now 10-year-old and explain to him that school ought to be a safe place for him becomes increasingly difficult with each new incident.

I could not believe the audacity of the administrator in her aggressive approach to handling my concerns. It was almost as though she felt that the appropriate way to manage me was to bully me and berate me until I gave in. Bully the parent of a bullied child. Are you kidding me?!? Thankfully I am rather talented at compartmentalizing (hey, thanks, crappy life-experiences!), and not letting my emotions get the best of me. So rather then letting her know how angry I was increasingly becoming, I maintained my composure. 

Which forced her to switch tactics.

Her next choice was to blame my son's autism.

Because clearly, when someone is physically harmed there's this area of gray that can be interpreted differently by an autistic brain...Right? (WRONG!)

 Again I'm dumbfounded by the idiocy of that sort of thinking. We're not discussing a verbal squabble on the schoolyard in which my son may have taken something personally that was never intended to be cruel. What we're discussing is physical assault. Correct me if I'm wrong, but there's no gray area there. This isn't a matter of my autistic son reading the situation inappropriately. It's physical assault, plain and simple! 

When the administrator once again realized that the course she had taken was the wrong one and that she was making no headway, she changed her tactics once again. This time claiming that the other child never engages with anyone. That his own special needs render him almost completely nonverbal, and that therefore he couldn't possibly have been teasing my son and my son's friend. And that he is adverse to touch, and therefore could not possibly have purposefully harmed my child.

And here, my friends, we deal with an out right lie.

This same child rides on the bus which a friend of mine drives. She informed me that he is quite verbal, and teases everyone all the time. Additionally she let me know that he is not nearly as vegetative as the principal would have implied. In fact, he's gone after my son and my son's friends routinely on the bus. 

Long story short, by the end of the phone conversation, the principal did come to some degree of her senses, and apologize for the tone she had taken with me. I held fast with what I was saying and reiterated that whether or not she was in fact sorry or even chose to believe what I'm saying, she needed to be informed of the fact that my son is afraid to be in her school. And for that, I hold her accountable. 

At the turnaround point in the conversation, she then played a different hand altogether. It was apparently trying to brainstorm with me, about what might make the situation better. She stated time and again over the next 15 or so minutes that she didn't know what to do and that if I had any suggestions she would greatly appreciate that.

Now, while I am well inclined in my daily life to be a bit of a brainstormer and to research possible solutions, it's hardly my responsibility to make her job easier. I did make a few suggestions (because I can hardly resist doing so) but I reiterated that it is her responsibility to investigate these incidents to the fullest extent of her capabilities, and based off of her findings then come up with solutions that actually work. 

And the administration wonders why I'm so frustrated?!?