My Humorless Self

The Scream

As long as I could remember, my mom dominated the house with her rules. She was a strong creative, and a very complex woman.

From the time I could talk, I’m sure, there was the no talking rule and no laughing rule. To talk to her or to laugh would bring upon one of her rages, especially at the dinner table. I learned very early on not to laugh at home, and there was no humor in my parent’s relationship with one exception.

With her friends, she was a different person. She laughed, she flirted, and she played. I observed this in astonishment, because this was not the mother I knew. My parents had monthly parties with their group of friends, and they drank and laughed and made sexual innuendos with each other. At home, quiet was the rule and I was to stay in my room away from them and not bother them.

I have always been attracted to funny men. They let me play and laugh, which was downright dangerous as a child. They were free of the rules I had grown up with and I love to be made to laugh, even at my own expense, because I know how serious I am.

I have also had a lot of serious things happen to me. I almost died from polio as a child and had to endure the torture of painful physical therapy to get well. I spent a whole summer in full leg casts.I had a surgery when I was ten for a tendon transplant in my right leg. I was brutally bullied by the neighborhood boys and girls as a disabled child. There was nothing funny about my childhood.

I developed bipolar disorder and suffered. I married an abusive man and acquired PTSD. I was plagued by nightmares, flashbacks, and migraines almost daily. I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder and succumbed to psychosis at times. Later on, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and have had surgery twice for it. There was very little that was funny about my adulthood.

Then I met Frank. He was funny. He poked fun at me, and gave me the permission to play. He taught me to enjoy watching and laughing at comedy. He is the perfect yin to my yang. We’re a lot alike in temperament, but I get the added bonus of having his jokes to laugh at, and his tickling to squirm from.

When I met him, I knew he was fulfilling a lot of childhood needs I had that had gone unmet. His physicality and gentle stroking of my cheek filled a void that the absence of affection in my childhood had caused. His patient listening made me feel valued and heard, even though what I was saying was trauma related and frightening oftentimes. I was badly broken, and he told me I would heal. I hung on his words more than he knew.

He was right. I have healed in a lot of ways. But I am still serious, and a deep thinker. Frank even teases me about my thinking, telling me that it gets me in trouble. He’s right, but a lifetime of thinking doesn’t get turned around in a few years.

Today I can laugh without fear of retribution. I still have trouble making jokes of my own, but that’s okay. Sometimes I think Frank would prefer a funny woman to joke with, but he chose me for reasons of his own, too.

He rescued me in more ways than one.

I hope you have someone to laugh and play with in your life today. Life is short, and laughing is as emotionally necessary as crying to cleanse the soul. There’s nothing like a good belly laugh that causes tears to run down your face.

Love,

Gail

Are you a funny person? Do you have someone in life to joke and play with? Was humor a big part of your upbringing?

 

 

A Lazy Sunday

My beautiful picture

I went to college in my thirties after I divorced my abusive husband. It was a tumultuous time, but so rich in personal growth. I was recovering from a nervous breakdown and four months in a psychiatric hospital. I was beginning to feel the effects of post-polio syndrome, but mostly just fatigue. I was not interested in dating; only in writing and raising my three sons.

At the university, I tried out various majors, starting with English and Music. I had been writing since I was ten and had been a flautist for just as long. I took flute lessons and saxophone lessons, and got good grades in both. But when I took a class in Chaucer and failed, I decided to change my major to Psychology. I minored in Anthropology.

My children knew it was stressful for me to be commuting and working and trying to study. I had bought a one-bedroom condo, and had bunkbeds and a single bed in the bedroom for them. I slept on the sofa in the living room. I had sold my childhood home to my ex-husband because merely being in the house caused severe depression and it held so many childhood ghosts for me.

I had offered to split custody of the children every other week. Joint custody was the law in Massachusetts, and even though I thought my ex was cruel, my therapist insisted that they needed both of us. I also dropped the criminal abuse charges I had made against him in the interest of not involving the children in a lengthy, drawn out court trial.

This is a picture of me and Eric, Jesse, and Ethan at the National Seashore on Cape Cod. It was the last vacation I would take with my then-husband. This is my favorite picture of me with my children. I was happy and for a moment, without burdens.

This picture was taken in August, 1984. When I see what I have been through and where I am now with the love of my life, I am amazed. Now my children have children and and I know that they survived their tumultuous childhood.

I still have a therapist I see weekly. My own childhood and first marriage and mental illness need attending to. Some day, I hope to be strong enough to leave therapy. But for now, it keeps me afloat on the ocean of my dreams.

Love,

Gail

Have you ever thought of writing your life story, or a chapter of it? Has your perspective changed over time? What might keep you from sharing your story?

For Syl

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Dear Friend,

How across the universe you found me in my darkness,

a child in the corner of the room.

Through the years you visit me and reach out a hand

to touch, and linger on my words.

However disorganized my thoughts became

or truly navel-gazing, you came.

“To lighten up, even the darkest day.”

Thank you for your kindness.

Thank you for following me.

Most of all, thank you for not forgetting me.

Love, Gail

The Joy of Mania

 

 

 

Last Sunday, we had a houseful. My sons, Ethan, Jesse and Eric came. Ethan brought Otis, his 16 month-old son. Otis is learning to talk but more adorably, he communicates in gestures, pointing to emphasize, and shrugging to say, “where did it go?”

Jesse brought his three girls, Marissa, Claire, and Ally. They are six, five and four. Otis is going to think that all the girls love him, because his cousins dote on him.

Also, we had a treat. Frank’s nephew’s girls, Hannah, 9, and Sophia, 7, came with their mother Heather. So we had five girls and Otis here all at once. I was overjoyed.

Frank has a special relationship with Marissa. She runs right to him when they get here, because he’s her buddy. She makes up games for him, draws pictures for him, and is totally engrossed in her play with him. She needs the attention, having to compete for attention at home with her sisters.

The three girls were adopted when they were 2, 3, and 4. They’re tiny, measuring up to only the fifth percentile for weight and height of their peers. Sophia is small, but Marissa looked tiny next to her.

I was really looking forward to their visit. Usually, because I’m in my wheelchair, I have a hard time trying to figure out how to interact with the little ones. I long to get on the floor with them and play like Frank does. And usually with that many people here, I withdraw, and have difficulty speaking or talking. But this time was different.

Ally asked her father to read a book, and when he said no, I volunteered. It was such a joy to read to her. It was one of my favorite children’s books, “Are You My Mother?” When I got to the part where the baby bird meets the noisy snort, Frank chimed in with a bit “Snort!”

The girls love coming here. I have arts and crafts supplies. Heather did a craft kit with all of the girls, helping them make decorated hair clips. She was wonderful. She left a rock painting kit with me so I can play with the girls the next time they come.

I got manic that night and for the next week, I was manic and had a very hard time sleeping. I was so excited that I had not become withdrawn this time, and had enjoyed socializing with everyone. Jesse and I talked about Trump and he showed me a selfie he had taken in front of the White House, flipping it the bird. Haha.

I spent my nights on the computer, shopping for crafts kits for the girls to play with when they come. I bought them smocks for the rock painting. I bought Otis a toy airplane because he didn’t have any toys here. I was so excited, it was like a curtain had been drawn and I was connecting with my grandchildren in a different and authentic way. All this time, since December, I had struggled to communicate and play.

Usually, mania isn’t my friend. I lose sleep, I cause more weakness, I run down my body. But this time I thoroughly enjoyed the elevated mood and the urge toward creativity.

During this time, I made the slideshow I posted here on my blog. I mailed it to my family members. At last, after months of stagnation, I feel alive and purposeful.

Finally, I can play.

Love,

Gail

On Isolation

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I am an isolated individual.

In 1960 at the age of five, I was stricken with polio, completely paralyzed and placed in a steel cylinder which did my breathing for me. I spent three months in the iron lung. I could not communicate with anyone. As a result, I spent most of my childhood nearly mute, and at the age of ten I was given a diary and discovered writing.

I was and am a very deep and intense person. On top of that, I have extremes of mood from bipolar disorder and nightmares from PTSD. Writing has always been an outlet for me as I am less able to communicate verbally, still.

Socializing is painfully difficult for me. I understand the root of the problem, having been brutally bullied as a child, but I still long for connection with my fellow human beings and so I make an attempt through writing.

My isolation has produced things of which I am very proud. I have a book of poetry which is a lifetime collection of deep and meaningful observations on life. I have a published memoir of my experience with polio and my subsequent recovery. I have deep and meaningful relationships with Frank and my family members.

But in the dark of night, by myself because I am unable to sleep, the isolation of being so verbally limited pains me.

I like to write inspirational blog posts. This time I don’t know where I’m going with this, except to reach out and touch you and feel you close to me. We all walk this earth alone and die alone, and none of us can peek into the mind of another. But when we converse, when we risk our vulnerability to share our fears and weaknesses, we also risk connecting and understanding and caring for each other.

This week I will try harder to speak more to others. I will try more often to post my feelings. I will rely less on memes and more on authenticity to connect with my friends.

Perhaps in this effort, I will find myself a little bit less isolated, a little bit less lonely, and a little bit less fearful of rejection.

May we all strive to gain a little more authenticity in our lives.

Peace to you all.

Love,

Gail

Prose – Of Loss and Love

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I’ve been absent from my blog for many months now.  I am well and fine. It all has to do with happiness in my life, leaving me content to live it rather than write about it.

It’s time to get back here now and reconnect with all of you.

I did suffer two great losses in the meantime. My loving friend and Frank’s brother died unexpectedly at too young an age and with too many sorrows to his name. We spent holidays and Saturdays together and his wry sense of humor when paired with Frank’s while watching horror flicks at his apartment over take out lunch is missed by me tremendously. The two of them had a comfortable familiarity of mindset with one liners and commentary liken to Mystery Science Theater routines. If you haven’t seen any of these cult classics, or if you have, remember Kevin for me in his straight man brilliance.

I also lost a friend of twenty years, a wonderful poet and DJ of free form radio. I met Bob in an AOL chatroom and although I never met him in person, we were close enough for him to have nicknamed me Sunflower after Allen Ginsberg’s poem “Howl.” He knew what I had been through and how I had evolved and risen above the ashes of two painful decades in life. I knew about him, and he was in every sense a true friend.

I think I probably wrote about my move last September into a two-bedroom apartment with the love of my life, Frank. He is the reason for my silent contentment and happiness to such a degree that I haven’t felt a need to talk or write about it, but have been living the happiest moments of my life on a daily basis. He accepts me for all that I am and for all that I am not. He takes care of me as I have never been taken care of before. He is the beacon of laughs and reason where I found none in the past. We had a relationship before the move, but since sharing a home, our love and commitment has grown to immense proportions. I only want for him to be himself and be happy. Life and love really does boil down to this.

There is more to the story of our lives. I’m leaving that for another time when the pictures come back so that I can share some with you.

For now, I spend my days taking care of the flowers on the patio, birdwatching, and at night listening to the bullfrog that’s made a home in the storm drain right outside. Frank and I share the quiet happiness of love and we talk about my cat Mooshi who talks more than the two of us put together.

It’s good to be back. I didn’t forget any of you, I was just listening to my heart and the wildlife in the woods.

Love,

Gail