Archive for September, 2009

I recently found several months worth of photographs on my Mother in Law’s camera.  This is one from the 4th of July.  I so want to freeze time and keep her this sweet, wondrous creature forever.

This is the post where I call out my own hypocrisy and tell you why I went back to Twitter.  Plus a small dissertation on friendship.

I was reading comments on a friend’s blog recently and the subject of Twitter was being discussed.  Some folks were talking about paring down their follower list to make it more manageable, since it is physically impossible to keep up with the daily ramblings of 900+ people.   I started thinking, what if I restored my account, and whittled away at my list so that I was only following/being followed by the few people I felt I had a real connection with.  Use Twitter more as a giant instant messaging system so that I could chat with people all at one time.  (I’m lazy and emails exhaust me.  Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE getting them, but I have a hard time returning emails sometimes.)

Great idea, right?  Yeah, well, in it’s execution, not so much.  I took a list of over 400 and pared it down to around 50.  Manageable.  Folks I really felt I had gotten to “know”, as much as you can through 140 characters.   I removed some people I had never even had a discussion with.  I removed some people I had spoken with.  Immediately I get requests to add some people back.  I hesitate.  Not because of who they are.  I simply cannot allow this thing to overtake my life again.  I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, truly I don’t.  I am at a place in my life that has left me feeling overwhelmed very easily.  If I start letting one person back in, then it’s another.  Then another.  Then another.  I cannot really explain why this stresses me so much, but it does.   I cannot allow things to snowball once more.

So if you are reading this, and are one of the folks who I removed, it’s not personal. Please do not take it as such.  I’m having a hard time with this whole internet friendship thing right now, and I’m pulling myself in tight.   Please try to understand.

Now on to my second rant of the day…..

What does it mean when you say you are a friend?  In real life, it’s easier to define.  It’s tangible.  Concrete.  Visible.  You can hug a real life friend.   Take them to dinner, a movie, shopping,  hang out at their house.  Listen.  Sympathize.  Empathize.  Care.

With the internet, I think the word friend has gotten too casual.  It’s tossed around too carelessly.  Once again this week I’ve learned that lesson the hard way again.  Someone I thought was a friend proved me wrong.   Maybe it’s my fault for holding someone to my own standards.  When I call someone a friend, even online, I mean it.  It’s not just a word.  Coming this way and need a place to crash?  Call me, I’ll make up the spare room.  Have a book you want to read and I have a copy?  Send me your address, I’ll mail it out.  Unable to get to a computer but really need to purchase something?  I’ll do it, pay me back later.  To me, that’s a friendship.  Words backed up by deeds.

Questioning someone’s honesty publicly and then ignoring it like it never happened?  That’s not a friend by any stretch or casual interpretation of the word.

Once again, I am hurt.  Angry.  Confused.  I questioned whether my decision to return to Twitter was the right one.  I came very close to leaving again.  So tired of the drama.  But in the end, I decided that I would not let this person have that much power over me.  So, one more person removed from the follow list and life goes on.  I want to chat and have fun.  With my friends.

Although I’m no longer and active Twitter-er, Tweeter? I do treasure the relationships that came of my time there.

One of the most awesome is my long lost twin @ antibob

We’ve discovered in the past few months that we share many common traits, wishes, fears and phobias.   She chronicles her life with her adorable little boy, Jamison, and husband Jason (who bears more than passing similarities with my own husband) here.

She writes with breathtaking honesty about her life and her struggles.  She’s funny, smart and an awesome cook.  (Or so I’ve read.  I have yet to receive a care package of said homemade goodies.  *cough* )

So go visit her and give her blog some love.  She’s a great friend to have in your corner, and I’m proud to call her mine.

This was not the post I intended to write today. I had something else in mind entirely about how hard it is to get Miss Avacakes to eat these days.  But since I created an account just to update Twitter when I have a new blog post, I have some questions to answer about why I left.

This may be very difficult for some of you to understand, and that’s ok.  My reasons are my own and at the end of the day they make sense to me and that’s what matters.  But I know a lot of you were left scratching your heads at my sudden departure.  So I will attempt to explain.

About six years ago I was planning my wedding.  I scoured websites for information to help with the planning process and stumbled upon the Knot.  I found a community of women who were doing the same thing as I and I joined a message board.  It was tons of fun.  Lots of laughs and support to go around.  As time progressed, I started corresponding with several people off board, through email.  A few phone calls here and there, which for me is a big deal because I HATE, DESPISE talking on the phone.  It’s one of a handful of phobias I suffer with.

Then came the idea of a get together.  It was going to be huge.  Dozens of “Knotties” from our board were attending.  Despite the fact that it was clear across the country in Washington DC, I begged my poor then-fiancé to go.  So we did.  And I solidified some of my online friendships as we met in person.  It was a great weekend.

When we got back to real life, about a dozen of us felt, or so I thought, that we had formed real connections and began our own message board so that we could chat throughout the day about whatever we pleased.  For months we had daily sessions, on that board, on instant messenger, via email.  I was the lone West Coaster among the group, so when a second get together for just our group was brought up in December I had to bow out.  We’d been going through some hard times since that last trip and could not afford to pay for a plane ticket for me.  The other girls decided to chip in and buy my ticket for me.  A gift.  They wanted me there that badly.  So next March, I was on my way to Baltimore.

In between the time the trip was planned, and its actual execution, things perked up for us financially.  My husband got a promotion and with it a nice raise in pay.  We got our tax refund back.  Before I left I purchased a gift for each of the girls as my way of saying thank you for all they’ve done.

The trip was not as much fun as I had anticipated.  I saw cliques being formed among our small group.  I did not fit in with any of them.  I slept in a room alone while the rest of them camped out pajama party style in another room.  Not by choice, it was where I was directed to sleep.   There was a lot of drinking going on.  I’m not a big drinker, and I don’t judge people who do.  Whatever makes you happy.  But I cannot tolerate very much alcohol and was not into the whole bar hopping scene that they wanted to embark upon.  I started feeling like an outcast.  By the end of the trip I was very glad to be going home and was starting to second guess my friendships.

After getting home I started getting a weird vibe.  I couldn’t really put my finger on it but I got the distinct impression that there was a lot of “behind the scenes” discussion going on.  One member of our group left.  Another soon followed.  I took a break from all of them.  For one thing, my mother’s very first visit to Oregon was approaching.  I was excited that she was finally coming after 6 years.  After her visit I was hesitant to go back.  I saw that in my absence I had been discussed, and in unflattering terms.  Every single cent I spent on that trip was questioned.  Why did I not pay them back for the plane ticket if I had enough money to buy a pair of shoes?  Now maybe this is where I am at fault.  But I was told that ticket was a gift.  I was brought up that you don’t insult someone by trying to pay back a gift.  But maybe I should have any way.  But they started feeling they had a right to dictate how I spent my own money because I had shared my troubles with them.  While I was gone, they even tried to ban me from the message board *I* created and had ownership of.

At that point I cut my ties.  I got several emails afterward, some of which were very enlightening.  Turns out the group member who left before me was dealing with the same issues.  She forwarded several emails to me that confirmed the feeling I had that I was being discussed off board.   My gut had been correct.

Now I tell you all that because I felt myself slipping back into the same old pattern.  I was forming “friendships” on Twitter.  Maybe I’m not giving enough credit to the people there, but I really cannot go down that same path again.  My heart hurt too much after the last time.   I can’t do the get togethers, the BlogHers.  I can’t put myself out there again to be hurt.

After BlogHer2009 at first I was excited to go next year.  I bought tickets.  Then the drama started.  Always the drama.  I knew in my heart that I would end up caught up in it again if I went.  Add to that the fact that people would start falling away as they started leaning more toward people they had actually met….I saw the writing on the wall.

It’s so damn hard to make friends as an adult.  By the time you are my age, most people have friends, long term close friends.  It’s hard to meet people, to make the time and effort to do it.  It’s even harder to find someone with whom you fit.  Moving across country, working full time, having a baby…all those things have left me at the age of 36 without what I’d call a close friend, except for my husband.  I miss it at times.  I thought for a while Twitter could fill the gap.  But at the end of the day, I am too afraid of the hurt to take the walls down again.

I remember it was gray.  It was January, after all.  I don’t remember if it was cold.  I remember the minister speaking in generalities about my dad.  He didn’t really know my dad all that well, seeing as how my dad was not a churchgoer.  He simply hadn’t been able.

The one memory that stands out clearly from the day we buried my father was that I prayed hard to just get through the day without breaking down.  So many eyes were upon my mother and me.  Everyone looking at us, whispering in hushed tones.

I remember scattered fragments of the days between when he passed and the day of the funeral.  Buying dresses to wear.  Picking out his suit, fending off a meddling grandmother and aunt who wanted to do things their way.  Sitting in the funeral home, selecting a casket and flowers for the top.  Always my mother looking at me and asking “What do you think?”  What do I think?  I think I’m 16 years old, I shouldn’t be doing this.

But I was.  I was making arrangements to bury my father.  Making phone calls.  Taking phone calls.  One in particular stands out.

My father in his last few years had begun research into his father’s side of the family.  A side we knew almost next to nothing about.   To his delight, he discovered we had cousins in Texas, and one of them was doing a genealogy trace as well.  They spoke on the phone on numerous occasions and the Texas contingent even traveled to Mississippi to meet my dad.  I remember my cousin calling a few days before the funeral asking to speak to my dad.  I had to tell her he had passed away.  She was so shocked she hung up on me.  She called back a few minutes later, apologized for hanging up on me, and said they were on the way here.  They must have broken many speed limits along the way, but they made it to Mississippi in time for the funeral.

So many people with that same look in their eyes.  Sad.  Unsure of what to say to us.  Classmates, whose parents pushed them to say something, mumbling “Sorry”.  So many “I’m sorrys”.  Too many.  What do you say to that?  “Thank you?”  I hate that part of loss.  People tip-toeing around you, you feeling like every word, action, expression is being watched, judged.  If you dare laugh at something, you’re not appropriately grieving.  If you cry too much, you’re overreacting.

After the funeral we all gathered at my grandmother’s house.  She was in her element, holding court.  You had to know my grandmother to really understand. Honestly, that’s whole separate post.  But needless to say, she thrived on drama, and the bigger, the better.

One of my cousins came over to fix one my grandmother’s space heaters.  Despite the fact that he and his wife and son lived next to us for five years, and my parents helped him out on numerous occasions, he did not come to the funeral. He had nothing to say, except that he could not understand why we were all so upset, since we knew this day was coming.  I was, am still am, speechless that someone could utter words so unfeeling.  I have not spoken to him since that day. I don’t know that I ever will.

Life for me, of course, marched on.  I went back to school, feeling more shunned and out of place than ever.  Now, not only was I the poor fat kid.  I was the poor fat kid whose dad died.

Once my dad passed away, apparently so did any obligation his family felt towards my mother and me.  We were isolated, with the exception of two of my dad’s sisters, both of whom lived out of town.

I graduated high school the following year, with only my mother and a great uncle in the audience to watch.  The first of so many events to happen with out my dad present.

I have a good life now.  I’m in my 30s.  I’m married and I finally have a family of my own, with the birth of Ava last June.  I sometimes wonder if I would have the life I have now, had he lived.   I know in my heart I wouldn’t.  I would not have made the stupid choices I made at age 19, getting married to someone old enough to be my father.  I wouldn’t have ended up divorced 8 months later.  I wouldn’t have charged headlong into yet another relationship with someone once again 20 + years my senior only to end up alone again.  I wouldn’t have purchased that computer that led me to a fan group where I met the man I am married to today.  I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to pick up and move across country.  I might have had kids, but I wouldn’t have my Avacakes.

I know my life thus far is what it is,  in large part to my dad’s passing.  The choices I have made, the grief I carry inside me shaped who I was, who I am, and who I will be.

It’s been almost 20 years now.  Dad has been gone longer than I knew him.  The grief has faded.  I no longer think about it every day.  The big events bring to mind the wish that he was still here to be a part of my life in a tangible way.  I know it’s ok to say goodbye.  It’s ok to let go.  And I will do so.  Every day for the rest of my life.