Zen - Z

How I feel completing this challenge.

Well well, here we are. I bitched. I moaned. I complained. I whined. It was a regular month basically. But *drum roll* I did it.

And to those of you who also participated:

So how in the hell do I pick the final topic for A to Z? Zombie, Zephyr, Zonked, Zippy, Zoom, Zodiac, Zebra, Zenith. I don't know, for the ending of this I just felt the need to get happy with capital Z. I'm going to be predictable and go with Zen.

There is, for those of you not up on esoteric philosophy or trivia, a specific origin and philosophy/spiritual practice/movement behind the word.

But for my purposes (and not porpoises, who chafe at the idea of belonging to any human) I'm going with the culturally/generationally/lazily appropriated version of zen. The idea of attaining bliss, of getting in such a zone of creative perfection that magical solutions just present themselves, of being so purely in the moment that all is right with the world.

Doesn't that just sound divine? (Ha! Get it? Divine? 'Cause it's a... nevermind. I cracked myself up. That's enough for me.)

It's the first bite of a French macaron, before discovering your dog has shredded garbage across the house. It's that moment of inhaling fresh air on a deserted beach, before you swallow a bug. It's snuggling before going to sleep with your honey bunny, before he or she snores loud enough to keep you awake for two more hours. Huh. I'm in a little bit more of a Murphy's law frame of mind instead of straight up zen. Either way, I can still appreciate taking in those fantastic moments that really are all around. Hopefully, the more I notice, the more will appear.


And with that, I declare my 2016 A to Z blogging challenge over.

Yakko - Y

Yakko, Wakko & Dot.

If those names mean absolutely nothing to you, you are probably not a cartoon enthusiast of a certain age.

Back when I was probably starting to be past the prime cartoon watching age (at least according to other girls my age) a funny thing happened to children's television. Children's programming had to have a certain amount of educational value. Slapstick, fart jokes and violent character deaths (as well as coming back to life by way of being re-inflated through one's thumb) weren't enough.

This was met, by me, with annoyance. An honor roll student who stayed out of trouble, I didn't feel the need to have one more area of my life where adults were going to make things tedious. I didn't roll my eyes in class (that the teachers saw). I did my work. (Science fair projects thrown together at 2 in the morning is what we all did, thank you very much.) I was quiet. My teachers in elementary school adored me. And then that great American outlet for humor, (misogyny, racism, violence aside) is going to be tampered with? I was not amused.

PSA: If you use hashtags & I know you, I may slap you..

 And then a certain Mr. Steven Spielberg, or rather his production company, or rather a whole bunch of people who ended up being assisted by Amblin Entertainment & produced by Mr. Spielberg (It is a bigger process than I have time or patience to give proper due.) entered the fray. And they created glorious things like Tiny Toons, Animaniacs and Pinky and the Brain.

I can't remember my phone number half the time, but catchphrases from this stuff has taken  up permanent residence in my gray matter.

Brain stem! Brain stem!

Saturday mornings and weekday afternoons, I knew exactly when my favorite shows were on. I have fond memories of getting up before everyone else in my house on a Saturday, fixing myself a bowl of cereal, and tuning in to the zany antics and pretty colors at my disposal. So it was kind of a big bummer to learn recently that Saturday morning cartoons as I knew them don't really exist. Now kids get home and go to one of a handful of cartoon channels for an endless stream of entertainment.

Not that anything compares, IMHO, to the genius of what came before. I'm a little bitter and showing my age. I'm okay with that. I'm sure I'll be shaking my fist in the sky and yelling for those darn kids to get off my lawn. Or something.

Don't get me wrong. One selling point of our television provider was one or two of the cartoon channels. The one that showed old cartoons. And then they redid them and stopped showing the originals. Not that I have time to watch, but I'm still bitter. Don't EVEN get me started on what 'they' did to Jem.

XOXO - X

The first thing that came to mind for X were the series of quick scribbles at the end of every letter or card my grandma ever sent me. XOXO. Hugs & Kisses.

I miss my grandma terribly.

She had been ill in the hospital when an infection took the last of her strength. I remember the phone ringing just after dawn while I was in college. I couldn't get to it before the machine picked up. It rang again not long after. It was my dad, somber, calm. Grandma had died.

I had known less than a handful of people who had passed away in my short life. I knew this was coming. But I felt sideswiped. My chest. Someone had reached inside my chest, scraped part of it away and left a gaping hole. At her funeral, I remember taking my siblings' hands after it started. It's the only time in my adult life I've ever held their hands. It's also probably the only time I've ever seen them cry.

It surprised me how long her death hit me. A year on, while driving in the car, on my way home from work or some errand and I'd think of her and the tears would well up. How was it possible I'd never hug her again?

She made a habit of going to every grandchild's high school graduation. I was upset when she didn't come to mine, but I know now she only had another year left. I was disappointed that she'd never meet the man I would marry. For some reason, this seemed incredibly important to me. She would have loved him though.

I've learned more about my mom's childhood, about what happened to her since my grandma's death. I wonder now how much my beloved grandma knew. I was angry with her for a while, when I realized this sweet, spirited woman who adored my dad and went above and beyond to help her adult children and growing grandchildren, was the same woman who was the mother of at least one child who was being abused. I can't speak to the childhood of my mom's siblings, but I have my suspicions. The best defense I can offer in the spirit of being fair is that unlike most women at the time, she worked full time trying to keep her family afloat and was rarely home. But there too, I have my suspicions she knew something was wrong. She told my mom once that she would have left the home and taken the kids with her if she'd had the money to do so. It is not to her credit that I point out she had relatives who could have and would have helped her if her pride had not gotten in the way.

It's hard to look back on her with more experienced eyes. She was so good to us grandkids and so forgiving of her children's faults and troubles. Was there a heavy layer of guilt that I couldn't have noticed at the time? I have an overwhelming sense now that if she were around and I asked my questions, that it would hurt her deeply. I know her answers wouldn't help my mom. I'm not sure how well I'd sleep if she had any answers to give. Would my desire for information be worth the price of knowing? In this case, I'm not sure anymore.

I wonder now, what she would think of the person I've become. I wonder if she would be upset at what I've found out. I know she would be relieved that I'm taking care of my parents. I like to think she's watching over us all and putting in a little extra overtime to make sure our lives turn out for the best.

Wish - W

Somewhere between 4 and 6 years of age, I remember wishing on a shooting star for a baby brother. I had been peering out through our front window and after seeing that most coveted of stars, I hurled myself onto the couch and focused every ounce of my being on my plea.

I wished for all sorts of things throughout my youth. To have magic. To find true love. To go on adventures. To be a hero.

And I would argue that between reading and writing (obviously including my marriage for the true love bit..duh..), my wishes are capable of being granted on a regular basis. Except for the whole baby brother thing, which I had grown out of wanting eons ago anyway.

I still have some overriding things I wish for. I wish judgmental people didn't need to express themselves as loudly and frequently as they seem to. I wish more people appreciated and understood that silence can be a blessing. I wish people understood that predators don't need a law protecting a specific group of people to give them the idea to attempt things in restrooms - as the child of an abuse survivor and a friend to a few, all of whom were attacked by relatives/people they knew in their own home, I don't have patience for this bathroom bullshit. If you thought bathrooms were bastions of safety until right this minute, you're living in your own world.

I wish people weren't afraid of something just because it's different or it makes them have to look at the world differently. I wish common sense came in fruit flavors with coupons so more people would try it. But I digress.

On a different scale, I wish I had a chance to talk with my dad's father. Ask him questions I have, get his take on things. I wish I had a chance to talk with my mom's mom, ask her uncomfortable questions about things I learned after she was gone. I wish I knew whether or not my biggest remaining dreams will come true or not, if I should let them go or keep at it. I wish I had some kind of musical talent. I wish I was not so damn self-conscious. Some days I wish I could press pause and grab a couple extra hours.

Lately, I wish I would get more sleep and figure out a better way to balance my schedule. I wish there wasn't so much hate in the world. I wish love would win a little more often. I wish my damn lemon tree would finally grow some lemons.

Is that the problem? Did I buy a demon tree instead??

I wish my husband would stop showing me dogs for adoption because I feel like a horrible person that I can't save them all. I wish animals and children (and people in general) weren't abused or discarded. I wish I could save them all.

Vacation - V

If you could go anywhere, experience anything, do whatever your heart desired (even if it was nothing at all), if money, health and time were no object where would you go?

This?

Maybe this?

Here? That's a no for me, BTW.

Oh yeah, that's the stuff...

I could go on. The African savanna? A Buddhist monastery? Reef Diving? Reading Jane Austen in a cozy cottage? Base jumping? Scurrying around abandoned movie sets or ghost towns?

There's a meme (one of billions it seems) making its way around the interwebs about living a life you don't have to take a vacation from. That's a fantastic idea. In theory. But for those of us with one foot solidly in responsibility land and one foot desperate to hurdle us into our next adventure, I say there's nothing wrong departing the everyday. I appreciate routine, some days more than others, which makes me appreciate those special trips all the more.

Not that I wouldn't love the opportunity to hop from place to place. But that's not exactly the point I'm sort of going for.

Dream big. And travel to me is one of best ways to see the progression of dreams from inception to reality.

Somehow, I've managed to see some really cool places. I couldn't always tell you how I pulled it off, but it happened. Sometimes I want a grand adventure.

But, and perhaps this is the reader in me, sometimes I want to escape completely.

Yeah, kind of like that.

Ability to travel and take vacations comes and goes. Last year was a travel year. This year we're sticking pretty close to home. But the desire doesn't waver. W may be for wanderlust. And that's not to say that I want to run away from my life. (Though there are days...) But there is a world of amazing things to see and do. And then once I've seen some spectacular things, I want to come home and sleep in my bed and shower in my bathroom. 

Because vacation water pressure doesn't work for me, even if the views do. So tell me, where would you like to go?

Unforseen - U

There's usually no telling what's in store when you get out of bed. Gain consciousness. Alive, check. Getting out of bed (or getting assistance to do so). Systems functional, check. Curve ball in 3, 2, 1.

There are swaths of years where my mom has a few touch and go weeks at most and scheduled visits with her psychiatrist are enough to keep her well. The last year or so, I've been battling the building dread that the stars are aligning for another breakdown.

For those new to the blog, my mom is a survivor of childhood abuse and has a mental illness. Since her initial psychotic break several decades ago, she averages a stay in a psychiatric hospital about once every ten years. Despite medicine, despite all forms of assistance, she spirals so far out we can't reach her. The first few days away, she wants nothing to do with us. Not because she's there, but because as the patient with the right to limit access to her on the ward, she relishes the control and is punishing us for what the delusions and hallucinations have made her believe. Usually by day 3 or 4, we finally hear from her and are allowed in the unit. Within a day or two after that she wants to know when she can come home. We are, I'm afraid, right on time for another stay.

Things always start off with our version of normal. A friend of mine pointed out on a matter completely unrelated that as a special needs teacher, he unconsciously applies adjustments in a difficult situation to make it easier. I realized a lifetime with someone as fragile as my mother, so do I. So we make accommodations. I talk her through the random hiccups she has in reality. Or we talk with her doctor and adjust medicine as needed. Etcetera and so forth. There are warning signs, an uptick in certain behaviors, a reduction of others. But we're so focused on getting through each day when she's having difficulties, it's not easy to see the pattern of a brief issue is actually part of a bigger, building problem until the explosion comes.

She's been mercurial of late, evoking an emotionally unstable with shades of manipulative teenager. Slightly manic. Coming out of the roller coaster of the last month and change, it's not necessarily cause for alarm. When she has a rough period, there's a bit of evening out that has to take place before she hits her version of balance.

So on an ordinary morning, my dad got her up and had her breakfast ready. She comes to the table with fire in her eyes.

"I hope you're pleased with yourself."

Dad freezes. The tone of voice, the look in her eye. She's ready for battle.

"Huh?"

"You know what you did." Words my dad must hear in his nightmares, along with "We need to talk." Nothing good ever comes after those statements from my mom. And I'm not talking about him making an inappropriate joke in public or her dressing him down for not liking dinner (She refuses to cook now anyway, but I'm short on examples.). I'm talking wild and growing flights of fantasy, starring him as the villain. A complete separation from reality. When she gets this far, she replaces her abuser with my dad. 50+ years ago is taking place right now. I figured that out the last time she had to go to the hospital. The first time I was at the front line with my dad.

I won't, for a few reasons, say here what Mom finally revealed she believed he had done to her. For one thing, there's no way you'd believe me. For another, I believe it ties into a new obsession for  her, a fixation that probably ties into the abuse she suffered as a child. What I will say is she accused my father of pranking her. Doing something I'm sure there's at least 100 videos of being passed around social media at this very moment to break up the monotony of the work day. Childish, but not evil. Short-sighted and immature, but not dangerous. In the vein of drawing a penis in permanent marker on a person's face or writing a naughty word on a person in sunscreen on the beach.

By the time I arrived on the scene today, things had been stewing for a bit. My father was completely frazzled. He'd be loath to admit it, but he was deeply hurt. Time has taken a toll on my mother's ability to regain a more even keel. But time has also taken a toll on my dad's ability to handle what she slings his way when she's not herself. She's accused him of far, far worse things at the height of her delusions. This supposed prank though, is one straw too many. My mother by this point had cloaked herself in self-righteousness, martyrdom and spite. Her hobby of late is to isolate my dad and pick him apart like a piece of carrion. Harsh, but accurate. And he is too bullheaded to stop trying to tackle each situation on his own.

Delusional Mom doesn't like my interference. As a referee, as a negotiator, as anything. I'm not helping calm things down. I'm thwarting her. The look on her face, her behavior, the way she refuses to talk. All these things point to the very thing I don't want to see. Dad said he recognized it, too. Her against us all. I have visions of hysterical sobbing all night. Of maniacal glee radiating from what should be my mom's face as she spits horrible, venomous things my way. Of ever wilder accusations, of things I couldn't even fathom being visited upon a human, let alone being accused of doing.

I've left a message with her psychiatrist. She's got a full load of patients and Mom's not a danger to herself right now, so I'll probably hear from her after 5. I want you to take a moment to imagine my trying to explain my concern about my mother's mental state to a receptionist over an imaginary prank.

"....Is....is she...afraid her husband's going to harm her?"

No, I explain. She's convinced he just wants to be rid of her, that he wants to leave. It's a precursor to a hospital stay. Trying to avoid that.

"Right. Got it. I'll give the doctor your message when she's between patients." I'm impressed there was only a slight falter on her end. Because it sounded ridiculous to explain.

As we wait for the doctor to call, Mom has taken some time to reflect. She still believes in the memory, but offered that perhaps she dreamed it. Dad asked how she dreamed it if she came up with it after she'd been awake. Mom is intelligent. Mom used to be a psychiatric nurse. Mom wants to change tactics to avoid going to the hospital. Mom doesn't like Dad's question. She offers to go stay with one of my siblings, her favorite child, out of state as a response.

If you're scratching your head trying to understand what her having a delusion, of her not being a danger to herself has to do with our seeing a trip to the hospital, well we've got decades experience with her. I know how this act of the play pans out. Religious zealot a few weeks ago. Delusions of persecution and mockery. Her against us. She's got a progression and the dots are lining up. I'm sincerely hoping this time we can head things off. But that's never been done before. And if she needs round the clock care to help get back to herself, I want to get that established before she's in a deep dark hole and has to stay in for several weeks.

Temper - T

The back half of this A to Z challenge we've had a little more time to consider topics. I kept a list for each letter on my phone and added to it as ideas came to me. I've had T dialed in pretty much from the get go, with a few spare ideas just in case.

As usual, my inspiration went a bit off the rails. At first that aggravated me as I sat down with every intention to bang my head against the desk until I trudged my way through my original desired topic (trust, if you're curious).

Today's topic ended up being temper. As in, I have a helluva.

Let me be perfectly clear. I've never hit or committed any kind of violence against another creature. But that's an accurate representation of my brain when my fuse is lit. Except everything is red.

I can simmer for a while, but once the train has left the station, I'm not calming down anytime soon. My dad, at the height of youth and frustration, was known to punch holes in walls once or twice. So I come by it honestly. For the record, I haven't assaulted any drywall either. Well... full disclosure, I fell out of bed once and knocked a knee-sized pothole into the wall. K should have been for klutz.

When I'm seething with rage, when I want to verbally flay the skin from someone's musculature, when I've had enough, I need to laugh, I need cute, fuzzy animals to snuggle, I need... most probably, quiet time and a nap. And only those things after I've made it past the point I'm ready to rip the hair from my head and scream until my throat bleeds.

This inner peace stuff is harder some days than others.

I don't like being angry (or going supernova). It took me a long time to allow myself to be okay with being self-righteous pissed off. Nice people don't show anger or kind people don't tell other people they're upset. Or some other equally limiting nonsense. So I feel it. I sit with it. I accept that in that particular moment, that's the way I feel. New agey stuff that actually makes my temper dissipate quicker. You know, as long as somebody's not chucking kerosene at the source.