Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

Share

She began her behest innocuously enough with a whisper into the phone: “Shhhh…don’t tell your father,” she said as I heard her hastily scamper into another room in the background and shut the door. “I have money I want you to take to your brothers when you see them and I don’t want him knowing because it’s just for you kids.“

“Seriously?” I asked her. “You realize they’re grown ups now, right?”

“Oh, I have money for you too.”

“Mom, I’m not joking. You need to stop- we’ve talked about this before,” I tried for what had to be the bazillionth time, knowing full well it was useless.

“Shut up, you’re taking the money and that’s all there is to it. I have Girl Scout cookies for you too.”

“Well fuck, when you put it that way….”

Hate me if you must; I couldn’t say no. There were peanut butter patties. And thin mints. And, yes, even samoas.

So, just like that, I became my mother’s mule. I carried $50 and three boxes of Girl Scout cookies for each brother from my parent’s home in WI to my own, then to Midway, and finally to South Carolina. Was I proud of it? No, not really. I hate taking money from my mom, but she’s the type who refuses to allow you to say no. She will shove it in your pocket and do so in the most embarrassing way in public until you take it just to get her to stop. Or, she’ll be sneaky about it and hide her stash in a purse pocket you didn’t even know you had only to find it two weeks later and resort to shaking your fist at the sky and shouting “Curses! Foiled again!”

The thing is, even though my brothers and I are grown up, in my mother’s eyes, we’re still her kids and she wants to give us money so we can “go get a coffee with a friend” or “go see a movie” or “treat ourselves to something nice for Easter.” It’s thoughtful of her and everything, but it also isn’t necessary and is often really uncomfortable because my parents aren’t in a position to be concerned about giving us $20 here or $50 there. Plus, it’s awkward because she always sneaks it to us without my dad knowing. At this point in my life though, I’ve realized that my mom is sure to ferret money away until the day she dies because she wants her kids to have a little something from her if she can give it. True story.

After my conversation and after she’d made the exchange, I sat contemplating my plight while absently watching the TSA German Shepherd at the airport. I’d have loved to have made friends with him but remembered I was carrying SIX BOXES of cookies and wouldn’t it be a little odd if he smelled them and security was all like “Dude, what’s up with all the cookies, yo?” After considering the consequences, I opted to reach into my bag and surreptitiously eat  a peanut butter patti instead. Less evidence.

As I nibbled one, then inhaled another and another until a whole row of cookies disappeared, I let myself off the hook. So what if my mother tricked me into doing her bidding? So what if I’m a 30 year old GROWN ASS woman who just accepted $65 and three boxes of cookies from my mom? So what if I’m enabling her ridiculousness in giving money to my brothers as well? So. What.

Sometimes you just have to suck it up and bite the proverbial cookie. You have to listen to your mom, do what she says, be a good daughter. Even if it means you become her secret allowance mule. Even if it involves payment in Girl Scout cookies.

Share

Which is when my friend’s husband asked if I was “ready to have one of my own.” Right, because holding someone else’s child instantly kicks my ovaries into hyper-drive. Uh, no. But ever since that moment I’ve been thinking about how scary the prospect actually is to me.

I don’t know what it is…that sudden instinct to reproduce. Whatever it is and wherever it’s supposed to come from, that part of me has gone vacant. Rather than want a child more as I get older, the opposite has proven true for me. Whereas I always assumed growing up I’d have a couple in my twenties (because where I come from that’s what you do), now I just don’t feel the need. But, I’m 30 years old- GASP- and I better “get to it” I’m reminded by Interested Parties who have taken the most unoriginal and clichéd approaches in broaching The Baby Subject with me. What these Interested Parties don’t know is the fear that underlies what they deem The Most Natural Thing in The World.

I’ve dealt with chronic depression since I was 8 or 9 years old and was finally able to seek treatment in my twenties. I now take a medication every day, and if I miss even three days of the dosage, I can tell. That nagging “what’s the point of anything” mentality runs amok and I swing from utter emotional detachment to being on the verge of tears at any given moment. Don’t honk your horn at me; I’ll fall to pieces. And, why do I need to get out of bed, let alone shower, anyway?

Depression taps on my shoulder every chance it gets and it’s up to me to stay one step ahead. Knowing that and knowing I have every reason to be happy, the best I can do most days is avoid questioning what happiness is too closely. The best I can do is accept that a part of me doesn’t function the way it was intended to, that it’s okay to take a pill to keep myself afloat, and that it’s also okay to talk and even write about.

Some of you know me in real life and this confession, if that’s what it is, may come as a surprise. You see me smiling and making jokes, but this is what’s underneath. Most people never see it because I’m of the mindset that you don’t burden people with things like this. I grew up hiding what was really going on: from my family, friends, boyfriends, and teachers and I just…kept going. When things have spiraled out of control, I’ve always managed to activate some sort of “emergency survival button” on my own behalf. I’m a functioning depressive.

So what happens if someday I do have a baby? If I’m pregnant and I can’t take my medication because the only one that seems to work for me causes birth defects and passes through breast milk? What happens then? Is it more important to have a baby than to be healthy- both physically and emotionally- as a mother? Is a depressive still capable of being a “good” mother? What if I become a danger to myself or worse? What kind of mother would I be then?

These are the things I think about when people bring up my name and having a baby in the same sentence. My mom shrugs it off with a wave of her hand, telling me I’m being ridiculous, that once a baby shows up all you want to do is take care of it and love it to pieces. Maybe, but I’m staring down the barrel of depression already and it’s real whether she wants to ever acknowledge it or not. So is postpartum.

I can’t imagine what it is like for women who are expecting, who have dealt or are dealing with depression while pregnant, and who fear the possibility of experiencing postpartum first hand. I can’t imagine what the reality of facing that is like; I’m petrified at the mere idea.

Something inside me says don’t do it, it’s a ticking time bomb for you, an inevitability. Maybe it’d be selfish of me to choose never to have a baby because of that fear, but ultimately it isn’t just about me. I’m afraid not only of what could happen to me but also to those around me, and most of all to a child who’d subsequently suffer as well.

It’s no accident that I’m reading Dooce’s memoir, It Sucked and Then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, a Breakdown, and a Much Needed Margarita.

Share

My heart isn’t necessarily hardened against these sparse and half-hazard efforts, but it isn’t exactly open to them either. My heart still hurts, remembers.

My dad has been a tyrant, a monster, a controlling prick, a maniacal self-esteem crushing abuser. I’ll never forget how he treated- treats- my mother. I’ll never forget growing up feeling unwanted for bringing them both to that sacrificial altar. I’ll never forget the threats, the bullying, the name calling, the upside down pants around the ankles spankings with the leather belt or the spanking on roller skates that led to my falling on the lawnmower and cutting both my shins, the spitting in my face, the capitalizing on my every weakness until I was mentally and emotionally broken.  I’ll never forget how he suddenly subdued any lingering positive attention or encouragement when I turned 13, how he withheld his love.

His behavior has shaped and misshaped me in countless ways and echoes still. He may now say “I love you,” but he is still unable to say he’s proud of me- for who I’ve become and for all I’ve accomplished. In thinking of it, I break inside all over again.

So even though he’s now reaching out in positive ways, I can’t separate the version of the father I had growing up from the mellowed version of today. The adult I’ve become wants vindication for the little girl who had no advocate, no one to intervene on her behalf. The idea of not holding him accountable breaks me too.

And even yet, he’s my dad. The only one I have. What am I to do with that now?

Share

Our phone conversation last night began innocuously enough. How’s work, what did you do this weekend, how was the movie, let’s plan Mother’s Day, and the like. She went on to share her annoyance after attending my cousin’s birthday party earlier that day. Annoyance at feeling obligated to spend time with her family- her brother and sister and their spouses, her parents, her other nieces and nephews. Annoyance at being smothered and stifled and forced to “get with the program” after spending the past 27 years living four to 19 hours away from all of them. Now, suddenly she and my dad are back in the very town they grew up in, the same neighborhood even, and it’s weird. While listening, I thought I’d sympathize (empathize) with her, offer my apologies for how very annoying that must be.

I regret that now.

She acknowledged that “Yes, it IS weird,” we talked a bit more about it, and then we hung up. I got ready for bed in anticipation of another week working the equivalent of three jobs. I’ve been feeling overwhelmed and stressed. Having finally done laundry after a month, I was just thinking what a blessing it was going to be to get dressed in the morning and not have to dig through the laundry bin for a “clean enough” pair of jeans when the phone rang again. She must have forgotten to tell me something, I naively thought.

No. Instead, my mom was calling me back to launch what amounted to the world’s most ironic argument. She informed me that she was “bothered” and “hurt” by my words. What words were those, I wondered. She threw out accusations while I sat stunned into silence; things like “I feel like a throw-away mother,” “you won’t let me call you every day or even every other day anymore,” “I never see you and you’re so close,” and “you’re cutting me out of your life.” She had the audacity to punctuate her claims by using my boyfriend as a catalyst for my apparent bad behavior, saying “you’re dating someone who doesn’t care about family and now you’re…”

And that’s when I cut her off. I love my mother, but hell no. While I had hitherto been preparing to decline the invitation to fight and hang up the phone, instead I got mad and retaliated like the truly resentful 29 year old daughter that I am.

“None of this has anything to do with him- I don’t want you calling all the time because I’m busy with work and feeling overwhelmed and can’t talk. And when I’m not at work I’m trying to relax, trying to still have a social life, trying to get things done like the dishes or the laundry. I’m trying to EAT an actual meal or SLEEP without having to knock myself out with medication. And as far as not seeing me very often, just because your life has changed and brought you into closer geographic proximity doesn’t mean that my life has changed to suddenly accommodate your nearness or availability.”

“But you kids are all that I have and now I feel like I’m losing you,” she sobbed. “I don’t have anything else in my life- our house is in foreclosure; I have no job, no friends, no….”

“That’s all you have. Really? Your adult children,” I quipped.

“Well, what else is there? What do you think I have that I don’t?” she shot back. And with that, we were off and running.

“It’s not my job to point out what you have to be happy about; that’s your job and if you can’t figure it out on your own, then you need to find a therapist to help you,” I flung at her. And I didn’t stop there. “Also, telling me that my brothers and I are your only happiness doesn’t actually make me feel good. It puts a lot of pressure on me to make and keep you happy and sane and that’s not okay. It’s an inappropriate expectation and it’s a refusal to acknowledge and adhere to healthy parent/ child boundaries.”

Four years of sessions with my own therapist were then met with her “go to” maneuver: martyrdom.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I didn’t mean to put pressure on you or make you upset. I’m not trying to be such a BAD mother…”

“You need help.” I repeated it five times as she tried to bar my words from entering her consciousness. “You’re depressed and unhappy with everything in your life and you’re pinning it on your daughter to make you feel better. I can’t fix your life for you.”

I’m fed up with these mind games and manipulations. I’m fed up with my parents and their problems and their refusal to act like adults, like parents, and be responsible for their own problems and feelings. I’m fed up with being my family’s scapegoat and outlet for all of their personal emotional turmoil. I. Am. Fed. Up.

And yet, while I’m unsurprised by my mother’s codependence, while I can anticipate her words and actions and understand what’s really going on beneath them; I am still deeply hurt and disappointed by her inability to act like the parent she ought to be. I am still hurt and disappointed that when I voice my own needs I am met with her victim mentality and guilt trips.

In response, she chose to cry.

Before the phone call ended, I questioned what she hoped to gain from the conversation. I’m not going to change, in fact cannot change, anything about my circumstances. I do not want, nor am I in a position, to sit on the phone for an hour each night while she tells me about what food she did or did not eat that day. And I cannot drop what I am doing to visit her for one to two weekends a month simply because she lives two hours away.

She may have been looking to be consoled and reassured, but unfortunately for her she came to the wrong person on the wrong day. I’m still a reliable “good” daughter, but I’m getting better at being a “good” individual.

Share

Although I’ve lived in this particular apartment for five years prior to renewing my lease, I’ve been on my own since 2002. Which means that for the past 8 years I’ve been coming home to the same stacks of books, the same coffee table clutter, and the same framed photos of friends and family who live elsewhere.

A person can get used to certain things after that amount of time. Used to stocking (or not) the fridge with blocks of cheese, store brand yogurt, and stale bread. Used to leaving dishes in the sink for two weeks and letting the laundry pile up. Used to watching certain shows on certain days without scheduling conflicts. Used to peace and quiet. Used to having space.

Truthfully though, the topic of living together has never really materialized. Not that it would have come up at all, but if it had, I guess you could say I headed it off at the pass. Abruptly, I shared my intentions with him one day last January. Barring a bizarre uptick in rent, I’d be renewing. And so I have.

I’m not ready. I’ve got a good thing going here. No matter what else is going on in my life, I’ve always had my own place to come back to. This apartment has proven a constant in my life when everything else has been uncertain.

The apartment itself is not perfect. It’s old and there’s that whole ghost situation to contend with, and oddly enough, the bathroom is off of my bedroom and the only closets are in the hall and the living room (which means I trek back and forth between rooms countless times while dressing). Somehow though, it all works. The lake is across the street, I have easy access to public transportation when it decides to show up, the grocery stores (yes, there are two) are a block away- though it feels more like six blocks when it’s eight degrees outside- and my friends and boyfriend live nearby.

And that’s the thing. Having my boyfriend live a block away means there’s no real inconvenience in seeing one another (although the walk home in the morning makes me feel super SKANKY- I want to shout at people in the elevator and passersby, “I’m in a committed relationship!!!!”). We’re together when we want to be; in our own places when we’d rather be alone. We don’t even have each other’s keys. It works. At least for now.

That said, my perhaps too easily made decision to continue living alone is thrown into odd contrast by my own brothers’ living situations. They seem hell bent on being grown ups, or some version thereof. One brother has been shacking up with his long term girlfriend for the past two years, and the other is poised to begin cohabiting this summer with his girlfriend of just over a year. I guess I can understand their living situations, but I just don’t see what all the hurry is about.

I think it’s important for a person to live alone for a time. You’re forced to fend for yourself, to take care of the things that arise in the day to day (like lighting the pilot on your gas stove for example), and you end up learning a lot about yourself in the process. I think it’s a necessary step in becoming part of who you grow to be.

At a certain point though, I wonder if a person doesn’t just grow complacent. If once you’ve achieved and mastered the whole “living alone” thing, you forget how to do anything else. I wonder if that’s me; if I’ll ever feel “ready” to give up the security and reliability of being on my own and supporting myself.

Share

Before I threw myself into the ocean, giggling at my absurd doggy-paddling and tippy-toe bobbing lest I get my face wet; before I took my first picture of my toes in the sand (because when you’re alone you wind up with a lot of those pictures, I guess)- all I could think was, “What am I doing here?”

Not everyone can travel alone. A lot of people are shocked to hear about the trips I’ve taken and continue to take solo. They question my safety or how much fun I can possibly have. They give me the once over and accuse me of unseemly shenanigans and illicit beach-side hook-ups with strangers. And sometimes, they think [quite comically actually] that I’m brave.

The thing is, I don’t know that I’ve ever been scared to travel alone. I certainly can’t remember ever thinking that way at least. There does always seem to be an “Am I really doing this?” moment, but it quickly passes. This is what I’ve been wanting to do for as long as I can remember.

I grew up camping at national parks out west and going to Disney World and Florida beaches each year with my family. I vacationed the way they wanted to vacation, ate the food they wanted to eat, saw the towns and museums they wanted to see. I’m grateful for those experiences and memories, but I also spent the better part of my adolescence planning how I would do it instead one day. On my own terms.

Now that day is here- arrived a couple of years ago actually- and it’s become one of two things that I consistently do for myself in order to keep hold of sanity and happiness and to find optimism in the day-to-day. For whatever reason, knowing I have a trip on the horizon makes each day more bearable when all I want to do sometimes is yell at people to “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!” as I did at the TV last night during The Marriage Ref. At times, the prospect of traveling is the only thing that can pull me out from the figurative (and sometimes literal) covers that I crawl under to hide.

But I didn’t wind up traveling alone overnight. It’s been a natural progression for me. First, learning to eat alone- breakfast, then lunch because they’re the easiest to manage. Sometimes I’d even venture out to a movie alone- matinees in the beginning, then Saturday nights amidst date night couples. Not long after that, I’d find myself going to a musical, the ballet, or the symphony- when you’re “only one,” you can get a surprisingly amazing seat even at the last minute. Somewhere in the midst of my twenties I realized that I’d rather enjoy the things I love alone than not be able to enjoy them at all simply because I might not be able to share them with someone else.

So I went. I ate those dinners and drank that wine. I applauded at the end of Avenue Q on my birthday. I cheered the ABT for their skill and beauty. I strolled through Central Park in the fall and skated at Rockefeller Plaza at Christmas. I toured London- the Tower and the Abbey. And I’ve now been to the D.R. three times. Alone, and not at all lonely.

But standing there on the beach at that moment, something about vacationing alone had changed for me. The solo traveler shtick didn’t feel the same as in years past. If traveling alone was a pair of comfortable go-to shoes, they suddenly pinched my feet. For the first time, I wanted someone to join me.

In the days that followed, I went on to enjoy my time in the sun, relearned the bachata, kept my top on, befriended the entire resort staff it seemed. But the whole while, I kept thinking of how much I wanted to be sharing it- the sunrise spot, the balcony rocking chairs, the early morning beachfront massage, even the terrible food at the lunch buffet- with him.

xoxo, nic

Share