At the end of my sophomore year of college, I applied for and accepted a campus job as a Resident Assistant. My payment was a rent-free studio efficiency apartment that would normally cost a little over $10k for the school year. In order to accept the job, I had to quit my mail room job I had worked since freshman year. It had been my sole source of income during the school year.
Because my RA apartment didn't come with a meal plan, I had no way to pay for food. I also had no way to pay for the phone line the school required me to have, or clothes or anything else. My social security checks were still being kept by my mother to pay for my books and tuition. My parents kicked in a lot toward tuition, and I paid for the rest with a hefty academic scholarship and student loans.
After my explanation of the situation -- that she wouldn't have to pay for my housing and could redirect funds toward the things I'd previously paid for with my mail room job -- my mother agreed to give me a monthly allowance so I could buy food and necessities. I believe it was $150 per month, if I recall correctly. I know the budget I worked out allowed me to spend $20 per week on food, so I had to stop buying whole grain healthy stuff and eat a lot more ramen. Unfortunately, that was the same year I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, so I had a lot of doctors bills, and I had to pay bus fare three times per week to get to the hospital for my initial follow-up appointments and some related blood tests.
I called my mother and told her I needed more money to pay hospital bills, and she screamed at me for daring to pay any of them in full. ALWAYS put them on a payment plan, she told me. NEVER pay hospital bills in full! I hadn't known. I asked for payment plans going forward, but I still needed more money. I was barely getting by, and my boss got mad whenever I argued that I didn't have money to eat restaurant food with the other RAs. My boss expected me to pitch in an equal amount whether I ate their food or not. My mother eventually gave me a little more money and purchased me a small supplemental meal plan through the school so that I could eat larger, healthier meals occasionally. Then she spent somewhere in neighborhood of $70 -- more than three weeks' worth of grocery money in my world -- to send me a Hershey's Chocolate Tower of Treats made up almost exclusively of foods my doctors had told me to avoid, such as nuts and popcorn. I had even told her about the diet restrictions before she sent it.
After graduation, after my mother went off the deep end, my dad mentioned the monthly allowance I had lived off of for those last two years of college, except the figure he quoted to me was more than double what I had received. "She told me you hated me," he said. "She said I had to give the money to her because you would never accept it if it came from me directly because you hated me so much." And then she had taken a more than 50% cut for herself. Every single month. I'll let slide the fact that she told my dad I hated him because parental alienation was old hat with her and shouldn't have come as a surprise. But knowing I was struggling, hearing me cry over the phone that I couldn't afford anything and was embarrassing myself in front of my boss, she made the repeated decision to take her cut. Every. Single. Month.
My dad didn't even control their money. He only ever bothered controlling his own comparatively tiny social security checks, which were about 10% of their total monthly income. The rest was all hers. About $9k per month, all hers, at least $6k of which should have been disposable income. I guess she wanted more.
[Edited: I forgot to factor in my tuition and their various car payments -- I don't even remember how many cars they would have been paying off at that time -- when I said they had $6k in monthly disposable income. I was going on what their finances looked like when I took them over a couple years later. I think their mortgage payments were less back then, before the refinance, but I don't know by how much. They might have had as little as $4k disposable income per month. Of course that number also factors in if my mother had paid both the home equity line of credit payment and my tuition rather than paying the HELOC payment every month and then immediately borrowing against it again to pay my tuition, which is what she said she did (in one of her "you are why we're poor" rants). Actually, she said she paid for at least one car with the HELOC too, so that payment wouldn't have been extra. Never mind. I can't even picture what finances looked like when my mother was in charge of them. I've tried before, and that way madness lies.]
Thursday, November 12, 2015
My Mother's Pillows
When I was little, my mother usually slept on the living room couch, both during the night and for intermittent naps throughout the day. When I was sick, sometimes she would pile her pillows up high and let me lie on the couch so I could watch TV. I never got the knack of how she piled the pillows up so that I could recline at an almost exactly 45 degree angle, but I liked it. It helped me to be able to breathe better, and I found it comforting.
I always liked the smell of my mother's pillows when I was little. I found it comforting too. I remember once as a small child hugging my mother and then saying out loud in surprised delight, "Your hair smells like pillows!" She pulled away from me like I'd said something wrong. "I like it," I had added by way of explanation.
When I was an adult, I noticed once that my hair smelled like pillows too. I hadn't washed it in a couple days. The comforting smell I had associated with my mother and her pillows was just the smell of unwashed hair. It isn't comforting to me anymore because she isn't comforting to me anymore. I wash my hair before I go to bed now. If it isn't clean enough and I turn over in my sleep, I catch the smell of my mother in my hair and it wakes me up. It makes it hard to sleep.
I always liked the smell of my mother's pillows when I was little. I found it comforting too. I remember once as a small child hugging my mother and then saying out loud in surprised delight, "Your hair smells like pillows!" She pulled away from me like I'd said something wrong. "I like it," I had added by way of explanation.
When I was an adult, I noticed once that my hair smelled like pillows too. I hadn't washed it in a couple days. The comforting smell I had associated with my mother and her pillows was just the smell of unwashed hair. It isn't comforting to me anymore because she isn't comforting to me anymore. I wash my hair before I go to bed now. If it isn't clean enough and I turn over in my sleep, I catch the smell of my mother in my hair and it wakes me up. It makes it hard to sleep.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Bathroom Privileges
When I was a kid, I only bathed on Saturday nights. My mother had introduced this schedule as the one kept in her childhood home, and it was how they did things on Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman, so I assumed it had some foundation in reality. My mother didn't bathe much more frequently than me, usually twice per week. For my dad, showering was a huge production that involved venturing into the generally flooded basement to use the only bathroom in the house with a roll-in shower, so he mostly stuck to what some call "a whore's bath" of rubbing wet towels on himself over a sink. Dante showered a lot.
At one point when I was in elementary school, something in our primary bathroom broke. I don't remember what it was, but I do remember we couldn't bathe at home for about a week until it was fixed. My mother took me to the home of another PTA mom in our neighborhood to use the shower. She had a daughter my age and one slightly older. When I finished in the bathroom and was combing out my hair, the girls asked if I would be coming over every single day like this. "Oh, no, I only shower once a week anyway," I reassured them. The girls laughed. "So... you're like a dog?" the younger one asked, and they laughed again. My face burned. That was when I realized I didn't shower enough. Thank god it happened without my having to be "the stinky kid" at school, as so many children of hoarders endure.
Showering more often was easier said than done. I couldn't just go take a shower whenever I wanted. I had to ask permission. Because, as my mother said, "Someone else might need to use the bathroom," or "Dante might need to take another shower." She seemed to want Dante to shower at least twice a day. She frequently told him he "smelled ripe." If he countered, "I just took a shower," she would say, "So? Take another one." He was a teenage boy, but I still don't know what that was all about. He usually smelled like soap to me. My mother's most frequent response to my, "Can I take a shower?" was, "Didn't you just take one yesterday?" or "Didn't you just take one on [other day of the week]?" I wasn't allowed to shower more than three times per week until I moved out for college and no one could stop me anymore. My mother frequently cited articles that said your hair's natural oils are the best conditioner, as well as the time Dante's pediatrician had allegedly scolded her for giving the newborn Dante baths everyday until his skin dried out. "These are the face and fanny days," he had allegedly told her, and somehow this quote was supposed to relate to my personal hygiene as a young adult.
No one else had to ask permission to use the bathroom, or let everyone else use it before turning on the shower. Dante frequently took over what was considered the only usable bathroom in the house for what seemed like hours at a time, forcing me to use my dad's not-cleaned-in-my-lifetime-and-you-could-smell-it bathroom. My mother insisted the reason I had to ask permission to shower was because no one could stand to use my dad's bathroom and I needed to make sure no one might need to use the bathroom while I was in the shower, but I had to use my dad's bathroom whenever Dante felt like spending quality alone time in the usable one. If you've read my other posts, you might recall that was not-so-coincidentally where Dante kept his stash of pornographic magazines and my school yearbooks. It was also not-so-coincidentally the only room in the house where my mother didn't habitually try to walk right in and then pitch a fit if the door was locked.
The last time I stepped foot in my parents' house, none of the bathrooms were in a condition I would call usable. My mother had moved in with her parents at that point, and she had left the "good bathroom" with a heavily clogged toilet. It still wasn't worse than my dad's bathroom, but my standards had gone up. I drove to the local library to use their public restroom rather than deal with the ones in my parents' house. Then I went back to my hotel and rinsed the mold spores out of my nose and took a shower.
At one point when I was in elementary school, something in our primary bathroom broke. I don't remember what it was, but I do remember we couldn't bathe at home for about a week until it was fixed. My mother took me to the home of another PTA mom in our neighborhood to use the shower. She had a daughter my age and one slightly older. When I finished in the bathroom and was combing out my hair, the girls asked if I would be coming over every single day like this. "Oh, no, I only shower once a week anyway," I reassured them. The girls laughed. "So... you're like a dog?" the younger one asked, and they laughed again. My face burned. That was when I realized I didn't shower enough. Thank god it happened without my having to be "the stinky kid" at school, as so many children of hoarders endure.
Showering more often was easier said than done. I couldn't just go take a shower whenever I wanted. I had to ask permission. Because, as my mother said, "Someone else might need to use the bathroom," or "Dante might need to take another shower." She seemed to want Dante to shower at least twice a day. She frequently told him he "smelled ripe." If he countered, "I just took a shower," she would say, "So? Take another one." He was a teenage boy, but I still don't know what that was all about. He usually smelled like soap to me. My mother's most frequent response to my, "Can I take a shower?" was, "Didn't you just take one yesterday?" or "Didn't you just take one on [other day of the week]?" I wasn't allowed to shower more than three times per week until I moved out for college and no one could stop me anymore. My mother frequently cited articles that said your hair's natural oils are the best conditioner, as well as the time Dante's pediatrician had allegedly scolded her for giving the newborn Dante baths everyday until his skin dried out. "These are the face and fanny days," he had allegedly told her, and somehow this quote was supposed to relate to my personal hygiene as a young adult.
No one else had to ask permission to use the bathroom, or let everyone else use it before turning on the shower. Dante frequently took over what was considered the only usable bathroom in the house for what seemed like hours at a time, forcing me to use my dad's not-cleaned-in-my-lifetime-and-you-could-smell-it bathroom. My mother insisted the reason I had to ask permission to shower was because no one could stand to use my dad's bathroom and I needed to make sure no one might need to use the bathroom while I was in the shower, but I had to use my dad's bathroom whenever Dante felt like spending quality alone time in the usable one. If you've read my other posts, you might recall that was not-so-coincidentally where Dante kept his stash of pornographic magazines and my school yearbooks. It was also not-so-coincidentally the only room in the house where my mother didn't habitually try to walk right in and then pitch a fit if the door was locked.
The last time I stepped foot in my parents' house, none of the bathrooms were in a condition I would call usable. My mother had moved in with her parents at that point, and she had left the "good bathroom" with a heavily clogged toilet. It still wasn't worse than my dad's bathroom, but my standards had gone up. I drove to the local library to use their public restroom rather than deal with the ones in my parents' house. Then I went back to my hotel and rinsed the mold spores out of my nose and took a shower.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Homemade Gifts
When I was little, I used to make my family members gifts for holidays and their birthdays. I think this is pretty typical for small children with zero income. The stress that came from giving my mother gifts started when I was too young to remember. If I drew a picture, she tended to mention how much better at drawing Dante had been than me even as a small child. When I stopped drawing pictures and took to just coloring straight lines and shapes in the hopes of avoiding criticism, she told me my drawings were boring and that no one wanted to look at brightly colored lines. Again, she would point to Dante's drawings (literally) as an example of what was good. I could copy what he'd drawn at my age easily enough -- such things were still on my grandmother's refrigerator seven years later (hence the literal pointing) -- but doing anything Dante had done first was considered boring too.
In school around the holidays, we often made things like "pencil holders" by decorating old tin cans, which I would eagerly offer up and my mother would accept with the sarcastic reply, "Great. Another pencil can." (It's not like she had more than she could use either. Do you have any idea how many pencils you can find in a hoard house? They are infinite.)
When I learned to sew in elementary school and took to sewing and embroidering small throw pillows because it was all I knew how to make from the tiny scraps of fabric I could get my hands on, they prompted a disparaging snort and the similar response, "Great. Another pillow." That was around the time I started saving up all my birthday and Christmas money to buy proper gifts for my family. I knew only babies made homemade gifts and that no one liked them anyway. That point was very clear at my house. That was the year my mother ridiculed me for buying her gifts at the Dollar Store. It was around the same time Dante started stealing from me. Childhood is the worst.
In school around the holidays, we often made things like "pencil holders" by decorating old tin cans, which I would eagerly offer up and my mother would accept with the sarcastic reply, "Great. Another pencil can." (It's not like she had more than she could use either. Do you have any idea how many pencils you can find in a hoard house? They are infinite.)
When I learned to sew in elementary school and took to sewing and embroidering small throw pillows because it was all I knew how to make from the tiny scraps of fabric I could get my hands on, they prompted a disparaging snort and the similar response, "Great. Another pillow." That was around the time I started saving up all my birthday and Christmas money to buy proper gifts for my family. I knew only babies made homemade gifts and that no one liked them anyway. That point was very clear at my house. That was the year my mother ridiculed me for buying her gifts at the Dollar Store. It was around the same time Dante started stealing from me. Childhood is the worst.
Why Doesn't Juliana Look Like Her Parents?
One of my fears leading up to my daughter's birth was that she would accidentally be switched in the hospital and I would only realize it after months or years, when I'd have to decide whether to continue raising the baby I knew or to trade her for my biological baby who grew in my womb. That sounds like a terrifying sort of Sophie's Choice to me, and people like to make TV shows and movies about it, so I worried about it. As far as I can tell, newborn babies look more like each other than they resemble their parents, so I spent the first few weeks of Eliza's life staring into her tiny alien face, looking for someone familiar. Thankfully, after a few weeks, she started to resemble both my husband and myself, and my worries abated. Sometimes people say, "She looks exactly like Michael," but people most often say, "She looks like a perfect blend of her mom and dad!"
No one says that about Juliana.
Juliana was born the same year as Eliza. She is the daughter of my college friends Julio and Isabella. Julio and Isabella look a lot alike, with the same medium pink complexion and dark brown eyes and dark brown hair, so it came as a surprise to their Facebook friends (and probably their families, but I only see their exchanges on Facebook) when they started posting photos of the startlingly pale Juliana. "She's beautiful, Julio! Whose eyes are those?" people asked, referring to the bright blue color that never faded to brown. "Love those golden curls! Where did she get that hair?" they continue to post. Julio doesn't acknowledge the questions except to occasionally post links to articles explaining how two brown-eyed people can have a blue-eyed child.
He is right, of course. Genetics is far more complex than our seventh grade science classes led us to believe. It is entirely possible for two brown-eyed people to have a blue-eyed child. Still, if there is one thing I've learned from being donor conceived, it's that children inherit features from their parents. When they look nothing like one or both parents, there tends to be a reason. And Juliana looks nothing like her parents.
Here are all the possibilities that went through my head:
1) Maybe they used a sperm donor. After all, Isabella has curly hair too, and Juliana smiles sort of like her. They don't look particularly related, but that doesn't mean they aren't.
2) An affair? I don't believe this though. I include it in the list because it's possible in the most literal sense of the word, but I give it a 0.5% likelihood tops.
3) Maybe Julio and Isabella used IVF and used gamete donors or "embryo adoption," or one of their gametes or the entire embryo got switched with someone else's. I would put more weight behind this possibility if it had taken longer after their wedding for them to get pregnant. I currently have no reason to believe they used IVF at all.
4) Maybe Juliana was switched with another baby at the hospital. ::shudder::
5) Maybe a variety of mutations and long dormant traits have caused Juliana to look different from her parents, despite being their biological daughter. She doesn't appear to have any sort of albinism, but something like that might at least explain the difference in coloring, though not the difference in her other features.
About a year and a half ago, Julio and Isabella announced that they were expecting their second child. I waited anxiously to see what she would look like in a way I wouldn't admit to people I know in real life. I wonder if anyone else was doing the same. If she resembled Juliana, I felt I could rule out the "switched at birth" scenario, which I personally think is the most scary and upsetting. If she looked like Juliana, either they were using a donor who was passing on a lot of physical characteristics, or they were somehow passing their long dormant traits along themselves. Though I admit "long dormant traits" are something I stopped believing in when I found photos of my biological father.
Emilia was born a few months ago. She is beautiful. She has both her parents' dark brown hair and eyes. Her face looks so much like a tiny, fat version of Julio's that it makes me laugh. There is no question of who her parents are or where she inherited her features. Juliana stands out more than ever now.
As much as I wonder what the truth is behind how Juliana came to be Juliana, I hope she doesn't take a DNA test before she is eighteen because I feel 86% certain Julio and Isabella are not her biological parents, and I feel 75% sure they believe they are, in spite of any nagging thoughts that might linger at the backs of their minds, and nagging questions from oblivious and sometimes tactless friends on Facebook. I am afraid there is another little girl who was born on or around the same day at that same hospital in Queens, who has beautiful dark brown eyes and hair and doesn't blend in with any of the strawberry blond, Irish-looking people in her family. And I hope none of those parents have to come to terms with the realization that their biological daughter -- the one who inherited their looks and some of their personality and some of their mannerisms and intelligence -- is living in someone else's home and calling someone else "Mommy." If there were such another little girl and they found out she existed, then all the parents involved would have to figure out what to do about that. At eighteen, I feel like the girls will be grown and probably in college and able to associate with whomever they choose -- ideally all four of their parents. It wouldn't make coming to terms with the truth any easier for them -- harder probably, based on every person I know who has found out hidden truths about their parentage -- but at least it would be more an existential problem than a logistical one at that point.
Of course, if she is DC and they are simply hiding it from everyone, I hope she finds out sooner rather than later. Because if there isn't another little girl in another house, there won't be the question of where Juliana will live or who her "real" parents are, even if Julio and Isabella aren't biologically related to her. If she is donor conceived, Juliana will have to deal with the brunt of that reality alone because she is the only one who will have lost family in that equation.
Unless of course the IVF accidental embryo switch scenario is the one that happened, in which case Julio and Isabella's biological child might exist somewhere else, born sometime else to someone else, and they will never find her or even know if she exists unless she takes a mass market DNA test. Now I can't decide which scenario sounds worse.
No one says that about Juliana.
Juliana was born the same year as Eliza. She is the daughter of my college friends Julio and Isabella. Julio and Isabella look a lot alike, with the same medium pink complexion and dark brown eyes and dark brown hair, so it came as a surprise to their Facebook friends (and probably their families, but I only see their exchanges on Facebook) when they started posting photos of the startlingly pale Juliana. "She's beautiful, Julio! Whose eyes are those?" people asked, referring to the bright blue color that never faded to brown. "Love those golden curls! Where did she get that hair?" they continue to post. Julio doesn't acknowledge the questions except to occasionally post links to articles explaining how two brown-eyed people can have a blue-eyed child.
He is right, of course. Genetics is far more complex than our seventh grade science classes led us to believe. It is entirely possible for two brown-eyed people to have a blue-eyed child. Still, if there is one thing I've learned from being donor conceived, it's that children inherit features from their parents. When they look nothing like one or both parents, there tends to be a reason. And Juliana looks nothing like her parents.
Here are all the possibilities that went through my head:
1) Maybe they used a sperm donor. After all, Isabella has curly hair too, and Juliana smiles sort of like her. They don't look particularly related, but that doesn't mean they aren't.
2) An affair? I don't believe this though. I include it in the list because it's possible in the most literal sense of the word, but I give it a 0.5% likelihood tops.
3) Maybe Julio and Isabella used IVF and used gamete donors or "embryo adoption," or one of their gametes or the entire embryo got switched with someone else's. I would put more weight behind this possibility if it had taken longer after their wedding for them to get pregnant. I currently have no reason to believe they used IVF at all.
4) Maybe Juliana was switched with another baby at the hospital. ::shudder::
5) Maybe a variety of mutations and long dormant traits have caused Juliana to look different from her parents, despite being their biological daughter. She doesn't appear to have any sort of albinism, but something like that might at least explain the difference in coloring, though not the difference in her other features.
About a year and a half ago, Julio and Isabella announced that they were expecting their second child. I waited anxiously to see what she would look like in a way I wouldn't admit to people I know in real life. I wonder if anyone else was doing the same. If she resembled Juliana, I felt I could rule out the "switched at birth" scenario, which I personally think is the most scary and upsetting. If she looked like Juliana, either they were using a donor who was passing on a lot of physical characteristics, or they were somehow passing their long dormant traits along themselves. Though I admit "long dormant traits" are something I stopped believing in when I found photos of my biological father.
Emilia was born a few months ago. She is beautiful. She has both her parents' dark brown hair and eyes. Her face looks so much like a tiny, fat version of Julio's that it makes me laugh. There is no question of who her parents are or where she inherited her features. Juliana stands out more than ever now.
As much as I wonder what the truth is behind how Juliana came to be Juliana, I hope she doesn't take a DNA test before she is eighteen because I feel 86% certain Julio and Isabella are not her biological parents, and I feel 75% sure they believe they are, in spite of any nagging thoughts that might linger at the backs of their minds, and nagging questions from oblivious and sometimes tactless friends on Facebook. I am afraid there is another little girl who was born on or around the same day at that same hospital in Queens, who has beautiful dark brown eyes and hair and doesn't blend in with any of the strawberry blond, Irish-looking people in her family. And I hope none of those parents have to come to terms with the realization that their biological daughter -- the one who inherited their looks and some of their personality and some of their mannerisms and intelligence -- is living in someone else's home and calling someone else "Mommy." If there were such another little girl and they found out she existed, then all the parents involved would have to figure out what to do about that. At eighteen, I feel like the girls will be grown and probably in college and able to associate with whomever they choose -- ideally all four of their parents. It wouldn't make coming to terms with the truth any easier for them -- harder probably, based on every person I know who has found out hidden truths about their parentage -- but at least it would be more an existential problem than a logistical one at that point.
Of course, if she is DC and they are simply hiding it from everyone, I hope she finds out sooner rather than later. Because if there isn't another little girl in another house, there won't be the question of where Juliana will live or who her "real" parents are, even if Julio and Isabella aren't biologically related to her. If she is donor conceived, Juliana will have to deal with the brunt of that reality alone because she is the only one who will have lost family in that equation.
Unless of course the IVF accidental embryo switch scenario is the one that happened, in which case Julio and Isabella's biological child might exist somewhere else, born sometime else to someone else, and they will never find her or even know if she exists unless she takes a mass market DNA test. Now I can't decide which scenario sounds worse.
Thursday, November 5, 2015
The Swamp of Sadness
When I was a child, the most secret, most off-limits part of our house was the master bedroom where my dad slept. My mother hadn't slept in that room since before I was born -- she sometimes slept in the lower bunk bed of Dante's room, but she usually set up camp on the living room couch -- and her instinct seemed to be to hoard up Dad's areas first. My dad's room was large and had two twin beds pushed together, one in which he slept and an adjacent one full of his self-care-related medical supplies, such as gauze and catheters and chux disposable underpads, the smaller items stored in tackle boxes and the rest simply strewn about the bed.
The master bedroom was large, with one wall taken up entirely by closet and another wall hosting a heavy armoire, stuffed to bursting with old clothes no one had worn in my lifetime. The bedroom had French doors leading out to the backyard patio, but I cannot remember ever seeing those French doors in use. Aside from a wheelchair-width stretch of floor that led from the bed to the door to the bathroom, the rest of the room was covered in four to five feet deep of gym mats, cardboard boxes, and random detritus. My dad had dubbed it "The Swamp of Sadness" in homage to that miserable quicksandy place where the horse sank in "The Neverending Story." It probably started out as a joke, but for as long as I can remember, that was it's real name. I didn't even know it was a movie reference. We called that part of the house "The Swamp of Sadness" like normal people might refer to "Dad's office" or "the den."
I remember getting into trouble once when, as a young child, I had asked a visiting friend, "Wanna see something crazy?" and cracked the door to let her peer into my dad's bedroom. My mother had caught me to our mutual horror, but if there was a punishment, it was a forgettable one, probably because she was too embarrassed to do much about it. In hindsight, I don't know why she wasn't more embarrassed of the entire house. None of the rooms were "visitor ready" in the strictest sense of the term.
I remember once or twice in my childhood, when I was feeling particularly daring, going on a Frodo-and-Sam-style adventure with Dante over the Swamp. He moved the gym mats and egg mattresses to the top layer to make it like mountain climbing, and we stepped across them precariously, nearly touching the ceiling, never knowing when a cardboard box would collapse beneath us or a sinkhole would form and claim us for the hoard. I remember making a tragic misstep and sinking into the mess and Dante having to lift me out to safety. It was scary but thrilling at the same time. Our mother got mad whenever she caught us playing near the Swamp of Sadness, but she got mad at lots of things. It also seemed it wasn't such a big deal as long as Dante had been doing it too.
My dad eventually cleaned out the contents of the Swamp in the late '90s to make room for his new electric wheelchair. It was the second time I realized his paraplegia didn't actually prevent him from cleaning up; he had just always opted not to bother.
The master bedroom was large, with one wall taken up entirely by closet and another wall hosting a heavy armoire, stuffed to bursting with old clothes no one had worn in my lifetime. The bedroom had French doors leading out to the backyard patio, but I cannot remember ever seeing those French doors in use. Aside from a wheelchair-width stretch of floor that led from the bed to the door to the bathroom, the rest of the room was covered in four to five feet deep of gym mats, cardboard boxes, and random detritus. My dad had dubbed it "The Swamp of Sadness" in homage to that miserable quicksandy place where the horse sank in "The Neverending Story." It probably started out as a joke, but for as long as I can remember, that was it's real name. I didn't even know it was a movie reference. We called that part of the house "The Swamp of Sadness" like normal people might refer to "Dad's office" or "the den."
I remember getting into trouble once when, as a young child, I had asked a visiting friend, "Wanna see something crazy?" and cracked the door to let her peer into my dad's bedroom. My mother had caught me to our mutual horror, but if there was a punishment, it was a forgettable one, probably because she was too embarrassed to do much about it. In hindsight, I don't know why she wasn't more embarrassed of the entire house. None of the rooms were "visitor ready" in the strictest sense of the term.
I remember once or twice in my childhood, when I was feeling particularly daring, going on a Frodo-and-Sam-style adventure with Dante over the Swamp. He moved the gym mats and egg mattresses to the top layer to make it like mountain climbing, and we stepped across them precariously, nearly touching the ceiling, never knowing when a cardboard box would collapse beneath us or a sinkhole would form and claim us for the hoard. I remember making a tragic misstep and sinking into the mess and Dante having to lift me out to safety. It was scary but thrilling at the same time. Our mother got mad whenever she caught us playing near the Swamp of Sadness, but she got mad at lots of things. It also seemed it wasn't such a big deal as long as Dante had been doing it too.
My dad eventually cleaned out the contents of the Swamp in the late '90s to make room for his new electric wheelchair. It was the second time I realized his paraplegia didn't actually prevent him from cleaning up; he had just always opted not to bother.
Sunday, November 1, 2015
When I Die
My grandmother didn't get a funeral. Neither did my uncle. Or my grandfather. I'm pretty sure their bodies were donated to science because that's how you can dispose of human remains for free and get out of doing any of the official paperwork. I've checked. I don't want to be disposed of as cheaply as possible and then promptly treated like I never existed. When I die, I want someone to acknowledge it.
I told my husband what I want to happen when I die, but I want to write it down too for future reference. I have life insurance, so this shouldn't cost anyone anything from their own pockets. First, I want to be cremated and my ashes spread somewhere outside. I don't really care where, but I don't want to be embalmed or buried or kept in an urn under someone's bed. Next, I want there to be a party. It doesn't need to be at a funeral home and people don't need to be somber or anything, but I want there to be good liquor and rich food. Maybe hold it at someone's house or at a park if the weather is good. My best friend should be invited, obviously. My remains do NOT need to be present because gross, but there are some flattering pictures of me on my Facebook page if someone wants to print one out.
People should tell funny stories and maybe have some music. It doesn't all have to center around me, but someone should give a toast at some point acknowledging my death and the fact that I was once alive. Maybe someone could read the letter Jerry once wrote me describing what's great about me because I can't imagine anyone coming up with nicer things to say about me than that. She described me as though I'm already the person I've always wanted to be. I think she might actually see me that way. I don't even know how that's possible. I keep that letter in my jewelry box.
I would also like a factually accurate obituary run in at least a couple local newspapers for the genealogical purposes of future generations. I don't want my genetically erroneous birth certificate to be all there is to go on. Here is a template for what information I would like included:
*You know by now that these are all fake names, right? Well, almost all of them anyway.
I told my husband what I want to happen when I die, but I want to write it down too for future reference. I have life insurance, so this shouldn't cost anyone anything from their own pockets. First, I want to be cremated and my ashes spread somewhere outside. I don't really care where, but I don't want to be embalmed or buried or kept in an urn under someone's bed. Next, I want there to be a party. It doesn't need to be at a funeral home and people don't need to be somber or anything, but I want there to be good liquor and rich food. Maybe hold it at someone's house or at a park if the weather is good. My best friend should be invited, obviously. My remains do NOT need to be present because gross, but there are some flattering pictures of me on my Facebook page if someone wants to print one out.
People should tell funny stories and maybe have some music. It doesn't all have to center around me, but someone should give a toast at some point acknowledging my death and the fact that I was once alive. Maybe someone could read the letter Jerry once wrote me describing what's great about me because I can't imagine anyone coming up with nicer things to say about me than that. She described me as though I'm already the person I've always wanted to be. I think she might actually see me that way. I don't even know how that's possible. I keep that letter in my jewelry box.
I would also like a factually accurate obituary run in at least a couple local newspapers for the genealogical purposes of future generations. I don't want my genetically erroneous birth certificate to be all there is to go on. Here is a template for what information I would like included:
Christina Rossetti Martin* was born April 15, 1982 in Cincinnati, Ohio with the assistance of third party reproductive technology. She died at [specific date] in Little Township, Illinois after a short battle with colon cancer (I'm guessing) and a long span of being toyed with by God and man. Christina was raised by parents Annie Wilkes Rossetti* and Paul Rossetti. She met her husband Michael Martin when they were college classmates at The University of New York. They settled in Little Township, Illinois in 2010 and had one child, Eliza. Christina is [survived by / preceded in death by] her mother Annie, her biological father Joseph Von Trapp, her adoptive brother Dante, her paternal half-siblings Hans and Simone Von Trapp, possibly some other paternal half-siblings no one knows about, her husband Michael, their daughter Eliza, any grandchildren that might exist, and her best friend Jerry. And to anyone who says she "lost her battle with cancer" as though "winners" live forever, she would like to cordially invite you to go fuck yourself and remember that death is coming for you too!
*You know by now that these are all fake names, right? Well, almost all of them anyway.
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