Hey, CRABFACE!!!! :D

Happy Birthday to my brother, Josh.  Love of my life, other than my J-girl.  Today he is 31 years old.

Much like his siblings, he was a trouble maker from the get-go.  Two weeks late, my mother had a horrible labor.  After many hours, the OB/GYN told my mother that he thought they should perform a C-section.  The family story states that my mother SAT up in the stirrups, grabbed him BY the tie, and said "DO IT!".

Josh was over 11 1/2 pounds, and his head was so big that he never would have make it through the birth canal.  100 years ago mother and baby would have perished.  Tomorrow is our father's birthday, so a healthy Josh and safe Mama were Papa's early presents!

So why am I telling you about Josh?  Well other than the fact that he is my younger brother whom I love dearly, his existence has greatly shaped mine.  When Josh was about 18 months old, he stopped talking.  We had no idea why.  I don't have many memories of that time, but I know that deafness was considered a possibility.

By the time I was in grade school we knew something was seriously wrong, but we didn't know WHAT.  Josh was enrolled in special classrooms.  He wasn't very communicative and obviously learning delayed.  By the time I hit third grade, Josh was attending a special school in the next town.

One day, spring semester of 3rd grade, I came home from school to find my mother had taken to her bed.  She was crying silently, and didn't respond to any of my queries.  My father needed to go to the bank and suggested I go with him.  I was all for that!  Going through the drive through was always a treat, the tellers gave us suckers!  AND I got to sit in the front seat.

Anyone else remember those days?  ;)

While we were in the drive through waiting for the teller to process our transaction, my father told me very gently and seriously that today Josh's teachers had told him and Mama that Josh would never be normal like me.  Papa said that he would never learn to read like me, or ever drive a car.  This may be the first time my father ever really spoke to me like an adult.

I was too young to truly understand, but I knew it was bad.  VERY bad.  My mother had taken to her bed.  My strong, capable mother who somehow handled everything through sheer force of will was crying at 3:00 in the afternoon, inconsolable!!!  So I began to cry.  In that moment I felt the loss, the grief of who my brother could have been and suddenly would never be.

Sometime over the next few months I made a decision.  I would be the child my parents never had to worry about.  I would be everything Josh could never be and more.  I would accomplish things for both of us.  He was already special, and I was already acting more a third parent than an older sister.  But now, he needed me like he hadn't before.  And my parents needed me.  Their burden had just multiplied.

And so, I took that heavy and unreasonable burden upon myself.

Years later we got a confirmed diagnosis of moderate autism and mild to moderate mental retardation.  We all did the best we could by him, and obviously mistakes were made.  I suspect I will return more than once to the topic of Josh, and how that he shaped my family and my childhood.  My reactions to him, my family life, and the decision I made all those years ago continues to impact my choices and actions today.  It influences how I approach my recovery.  How I interact with my parents.  And how I still try to protect them from worrying about me, especially my mother.  How I hide things about my disease and how I'm coping in an effort to uphold the promise I made to myself.

A promise which, tragically, may have caused more harm than good.

Today Josh has a job and lives independently in a group home.  He was even voted employee of the month in October 2008.  Once a month he comes to "10-20" to spend the weekend with my parents and go to church.*  Once every three weeks Papa picks him up from work to get a haircut and a meal with the folks before returning him to the CILA [Controlled Independent Living Arrangement].  He is healthy, and as happy as we know how to help him be.  Should my parents or I precede him in death, he is well-settled into his new life.  We've done the best we can, and I'm thankful to say that I know he will be just fine.

So happy birthday, Josh!  Crab-face, potato-lace!!!!

oh-- and the title for today's blog?  family joke.  ;)




*our parents house is no longer referred to as 'home' as far as Josh is concerned.  He is an adult now and the CILA is his home.  He goes to visit "10-20", his childhood address.

For Those Who Came Before

Today's post is a blast from the past, originally written April 2008.  I was working hard and long on my recovery, processing a lot of emotions.  I was working towards relocating and starting another stage of my life.  I was excited and terrified, and more than a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of WORK involved.  

So it goes without saying that I was a little moody.  I was doing a lot of journalling in those days, and much of it made it onto the blog I had then since I type far more quickly than I write.  There is a small possibility that you have already seen some of these 'blasts from the past' on the other site, but it's all my original work.  And I have since pulled them off that blog so as not to overload search engines.

I'm posting this here, today, because it will be a GREAT springboard to discussing many of the matters I want to address here on the recovery blog.  I've fixed some of the grammar, and made sure to conceal my friend's identity.  Beyond that, this post is whole as originally written back in spring 2008.  Fair warning, it IS long.  As Cleo says, I tend to channel dead Russian novelists when I write.  I hope you enjoy it, and that it gives you much to consider.

Pagan Princess
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OMG I'm crying my eyes out!!!!  But--before everyone starts rolling their eyes and wondering what has set me off THIS time....... it's a GOOD cry.  Truly.

But be warned, I'm trying to process so this will probably ramble a LOT!

The last several years of my life have been tough.  To say I've lost my way, and much of myself, would be a massive understatement.  Even more difficult, is that the people who knew me way back when...... pretty much aren't in my life anymore.  I started pulling away from many childhood friends my senior year of high school for various reasons.  One of which--I didn't know how to bridge the gap.  Socially awkward doesn't even BEGIN to cover it.  By graduation I was a virtual stranger.  I was so hell-bent on making my own way, carving out a new life.  I had to get away from my home town to understand just how desperately unhappy I had been, and that the ways I handled my pain alienated and wounded those around me.  My good friend, Greg, helped me to understand that.

Less than six months after graduation my friend, Ben died, and my world shattered.  I knew I loved him dearly, but didn't realize to what extent he was my best friend until he was gone.  Even reading emails from friends back home hurt too much to bear for oh-so-many reasons.  Several of my high school friends made an effort to tell me about Ben as soon as they heard.  They didn't want me to find out in a bad way.  And, as I tried to cope with our loss, they gave me many words of wisdom.  Most of which I wasn't ready to hear.  Walking away helped me submerge my heartbreak.

Within the last few months, a childhood/high school friend and I have been in correspondence.  Our friendship, and our competitive battles, were legend.  Probably still are.  Within our circle of acquaintances, he and I probably defined love/hate.  Greg never felt intimidated by my father.  That or he hid it VERY well.  Probably the ONLY person from my youth to be that way, or the only male anyway.  He was the first friend to vocalize, albeit maybe not recognize, the great damage my family circumstances inflicted upon my heart; and that maybe, just maybe, my parents were partly culpable.
 

I keep MEANING to write Greg, and it keeps getting away from me.  And I'm so scattered most days that I have difficulty remembering what I have discussed with whom and when.  UG!  But as my 'sister' Spazz says: when in doubt, blame it on the meds.

Greg was also the first person to get ahold of me about Ben, and by FAR the most persistent.  He called my dorm room at 15-30 minute intervals all morning long until he finally reached me.  He, better than anyone, knew how much Ben's passing would affect me.

About two? weeks ago Greg sent me a quick letter.  I had started giving him answers to questions one night back in February, but stopped after my hands got tired.  (read: about 90 minutes)  As those of you who read my blogs can attest, once I get going I channel a Russian novelist.  My emails are worse.  Being tired, I told him I'd get him part 2 later.

But I didn't.

So Herr Greg sent me a quick note just to check in.  That by ITSELF melted my heart.  When, oh WHEN was the last time someone called or emailed just to check in?

Anyway, Greg is to be married this October.  Couldn't happen to a nicer guy, truly.  And I have my own, private reasons for rejoicing in his happiness.  (Read--I know things about him you don't.)  I asked him recently where he and his lovely finacee were registered, and what he might like as a wedding present.

His response was so moving and encouraging, that just thinking of it tears me up:

And, from your earlier message, please do not consider any tangible gifts. If you really want to get me something that I will honestly treasure, then strive to get out and stand on your own two legs again. You may have forgotten, but Pagan Princess strives on proving people wrong...and she has no limitations despite what anyone, casual or professional, may say. She just needs to be ready to decide it and it's done.......  Do that by October and I promise that you'll have given me my most cherished wedding gift.

With one short missive he brought back everything we once were to each other ages ago.  This is the man who instead of putting a trite quip in my senior yearbook wrote a letter to my unborn children telling them how blessed they are to have me as a mother--because they could never have one finer than myself.  Tonight there was another letter awaiting my when I logged in.  From his words, I can almost see the girl I was eleven years ago.  I have forgotten her, utterly and completely in so many ways.  I'm not her anymore, and I can't be again.  I'm wise enough to know that.  I'm also pleased with many of the ways I have grown beyond her.

***But some days I miss her so keenly that I fear catching a glimpse of the razor blades that surely must protrude from my chest.  What happened to the brash teen, so full of her own hubris that she'd defy God Himself just because she knew she could?  Where did the strong, intelligent, not-yet-a-woman go?  Is she still in here somewhere?  First arrogance matured to confident assertion. 

Next, slowly and then suddenly the sickness came.  The agonizingly slow death of the her soul leaving only the ghostly shell of who she once was.***

How do you recapture what once was, when knowing there is no going back???

Then tonight's missive, more loving and specific than that which came before, and I can't stop crying!  But the most confusing thing is, I don't know why!!!!

Have I lost the ability to trust those around me?  Those whom I love with a desperation that terrifies, that whatever words of encouragement they send my way bounce off the tattered armor I clutch to my heart?  Why should the words of someone who knew me THEN have the power to undo me in ways that no one since has been able to acheive????

I suppose the simplest truth---is because he DID know me.  In all my glory and gore, Greg knew me; loved me, understood me.  Sadly, we probably hurt each other as much as we loved because in our own ways we were each young, damaged, and hurting.  Were I to ask, I'll wager he could recall many of my exploits in such vivid detail, you would think the narrative sprung from his active artist's imagination.  He certainly entertained the masses with his embellished recounting of my varied follies!  A truer jester I have never known, Greg.  Fifty years ago he'd have given Danny Kaye a run for his money.

So, here's to those who came before.  Who see and know things about us we may WISH to forget  and thus keep us in line.  Those who know our hurts, and always save time for a hug and prayer.  

Today I am crying, but for the first time in a long time I remember how it feels to be blessed.

***

not all of this paragraph is entirely, originally my own.  I know that some of it was inspired by Elizabeth Wurtzel's Prozac Nation, and other written sources.  And I often lose track of what metaphors I think of independently only to see in print later.