infinitely better

Apparently, I Am Responsible for Myself

"Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm." -Abraham Lincoln

Yet again, I come to the blog with no literary motivations and no attempt at prose. And, to make things worse for you, gentle readers, I yet again must begin a crappy little internet diary entry with, “I have no words to explain what I am feeling.” Then proceed to write a whole bunch of words. Perhaps, all in all, the lesson at the center of this dried-up Tootsie Pop, found crusty and clinging to life at the bottom of a purse, is this: 

I am actually a liar.

I have plenty of words.

So let us not begin in the present. Let’s begin in the past, though of course the entirety of the present is just a reflection of the past, so whatever whatever, it’s all chunks of junk in the same soup bowl.

One of the common themes of my childhood, prominent messages, both implicit and explicit, from my mother was that I, a child, was the source of everything wrong with her, a full-grown adult’s, life.

Not some things. Not even many things.

Everything.

Her car was messy? Because I stole all her time she would have cleaned. She hates her job ? She only took it to support me. She gained weight last year? Probably some hormonal imbalance from pregnancy delayed by a decade.

See? Every small and insignificant to big and huge problem in her life was all because I existed.

I existed, and therefore things were wrong.

And I suppose this sounds exaggerative, because it is. See, when she would speak these things into my child ears, she was upset, over the top. She was embellishing to be hurtful. She was saying things a grown woman should never have said to a child, and I was a child who had no way of knowing which parts were true and which parts were just said because she was angry.

It’s strange. I am 38. At my age, my mom had an 11-year-old burden. At least, that’s how she presented it. So perhaps I don’t understand the pressure and stress she was experiencing, as I have no kid. But alas, I’m not getting into all that. It’s too much for a blog post.

And sure, I’m not saying kids aren’t a lot of responsibility. I’m not claiming that for a minute.

Just like I’m not going to claim I am some calm, cool, chill girl who is so easy to get along with. I am not blind and naïve. I know I have flaws. I know that I can be a touch inconsiderate, overwhelming, emotional, sensitive, etc., etc., etc. Whatever. I’m so sick of listing what others say they can’t handle about me.

Handle.

What a word to describe it.

Handle insinuates that there is holding. Noun version: a part of an object used for holding and carrying it. A part designed to be grasped by hand, such as a doorknob, suitcase strap, or mug. Verb version: to touch or hold, lifting or moving an item using your hands; to manage or control; to be responsible for a job, problem, or person.

Yet, it seems—and perhaps I am wrong, as I have no doubt there would be a counterargument—that if you can’t handle me, then that is your failing, not mine. More importantly, at this day and age, have I asked anyone to handle me? This seems to be some self-appointed role, self-selected and self-failing, so don’t pin it on me.

Actually, would we not all be doing a little bit better if you just focused on yourself?

AH HA! Ope. Back it up, Caroline! Heal thyself, physician!

You are right. I have been so, so, so fearful of rejection. I have sought to be liked to the point that I have self-abandoned, grovelled, cared for others until I felt bled dry. I have tried to make myself easier to hold.

Something-something Freudian about love and acceptance being tied to removing all difficulties from another’s life. I don’t think a child being told her existence is the sole source of all her adult caregiver’s problems is a factor. (Sarcasm.)

But you see, let’s expand upon this.

My mother has been dead for nine years.

I know she was wrong. Rationally, I know she was wrong. I know that because I can describe all of this now, from the distance of adulthood, and see the absurdity of placing the weight of a grown woman’s life on a child.

She had some decent qualities, too. Of course she did. But yet again, that’s beyond the scope of this entry. To love and hate someone. To utterly be made, created, formed by another person, yet also reject so much of what they stood for.

We just gotta keep moving through the train of thought. CHOO CHOO. No stops.

Yes, at 38, I have had 20 years out of my mother’s shadow, nine years of her completely not even being in this world, and only 18 legally bound. Of course, this is all approximate. Because, you know, of course I didn’t cut off contact at 18.

Twenty years.

Nine years.

Miles and decades of space.

And still, somehow, I am here, hanging my troubles on another person.

And so here now I present thee with a strange paradox.

Oh no. The irony!

I am doing to a dead woman the same thing she did to me as a child.
Can you believe it?

This is probably that “cycle” and “pattern” and “programming” or whatever whatever they be talking about.

Except I don’t think the answer is that I have to stop blaming my mother.

Maybe she really is to blame for some of it.

Maybe she really did hurt me.

Maybe some of what I carry came directly from her.

I don’t have to rewrite history to take responsibility for what happens next.

Please consider this a wise and fantastic closing. Some lovely transition that ties up all the loose ends and makes it a palatable and satisfying end.

But, as you probably also suspect, this is not an end.

No, this is a beginning.

Somehow, I might be a little better than my mother and do a little different.

And anyhow, even if, let’s just say, she actually IS to blame for my unhappiness, she isn’t coming back from the dead to do anything about it.

So I guess it’s high time I take care of it myself.

COMPANIONS.

Verily, I say, we should be more like the cat,
curled asleep atop a pillow like a queen on a throne,
while people scooch and move lower to give it room.
And we should rest warmly, as a husband who has
absconded with half the blankets in his slumber.
Why, the only fool we shouldn't admire in this picture
is the wife, shivering and pushed to the foot of the bed,
completely awake in the night, while her companions
unconsciously live a good life.

12:22 am to 3:43 am

I easily get chained to the past and future, 

And am slow to unwrap the present

Big pink bow, ready, for me,

To enclose up in.

I can try on seven personalities

Just for size and fit, fling them

To a pile, not the right texture,

Feel between my fingers,

And spiral into insanity wondering

If I really should have been all

These women I dreamt of last night

Awake, not asleep, eyes wide open,

Pacing in a room I spend too much time in

Thinking I'm a prisoner but the door is unlocked

I got a full tank, and really

If we are being honest

I am exactly where I want to be

Just hate that that's me.

genuinely feel like I could be going insane somedays

Lionsgate Portal

I've never cared about the "Lionsgate Portal," primarily because I considered it one of those hokey, white-girl-made-up TikTok manifestation things. Like, first of all, why would the most important, most powerful manifestation day be on 8/8 every year? Astrology doesn't follow our modern calendar. Hell, 8/8 is based on a calendar that required a leap day every four years because, at some point, someone got the math wrong by a quarter of a day.

So no, universal energy doesn't go by that.

But then today, I was thinking: if all these Instagram girls believe in the Lionsgate Portal and do something on that day, there have to be at least a million girls. Maybe more. And if they're all consciously working to tap into some metaphysical source...then maybe it's a distance coven kind of thing.