A Consternation of No’s

A good friend once said I could see a patch of blue in a Galway sky.  If you’ve never been to the west of Ireland, then be assured the skies there are often the softest shade of gray.  That friend later took her own life and I sometimes wonder whether my ‘sunny’ disposition annoyed her or if it helped her battle the dark constantly around her.

We were very good friends, so probably both.

Later, when my son came out as trans, I joined an on-line community of trans-parents.  While my sense of humour lightened the load for some of the other parents, it really grated with others.  To be honest, I didn’t understand the deep, abiding grief some parents felt when their child disclosed to them.  Before coming out to me, my own child had struggled so long with unhappiness, I’d resigned myself to this being a lifelong condition; learning there was a fixable cause actually brought incredible joy to my life.  What did it matter, what gender child I had?  As I said then, I’d rather have a living son than a dead daughter. 

I’ve always thought my relentless happiness stemmed from being a realist, but actually studies show that depressives are more reality based than the rest of us.  It’s probably more to do with my reaction to NO being, WHY NOT?  I’m a fixer by nature.

Lately, there’s been a glut of NO in my life.  To the degree that I want to scream at the universe, How can you be so fucking negative????????  These are NOs without rationale, which makes them weigh more than an understandable NO.  I suppose the weight of NO has to do with how it changes a person having impact or empowerment in their life. 

In other words, if guacamole isn’t on the menu, I can choose something else or go to a restaurant where it’s served.  But I cannot make a theatre put on my play.  I cannot make someone return a phone call.  I cannot make an agency accept the documentation I have to hand.  Those are the big fat NOs.  The ones that leave us helpless. Which is probably why I’m a fixer.  I don’t want to feel helpless.  

When I was a little girl, I saw the mulberry tree on fire through an upstairs window.  I calmly went downstairs and told my parents.  My mother later said that because I was the quiet child (yes, it’s true), that when I spoke, people should listen.  This set me up for a struggle in adulthood because in reality, people find it easier to say NO to someone who asks nicely, than to someone who tears a rag to get their way.

Hello.  My name is Lora and I’m a person who can see blue in a Galway sky.  If you scream at me, I’m more likely to hug you than to scream back.  If you don’t hear me after diligently trying to speak to you, I walk away.  This does not mean that I don’t feel the bite of your NO.  I do. 

There’s someone like me in your life.  Maybe at work.  Maybe in your family.  Maybe next door.  Someone you rely on but someone you often say NO to.  You may wake up some day and find that person gone.  And you’ll think they were an ungrateful bitch, when the truth is, you’ve taken them for granted. 

So, other Blue Sky See-ers . . . last night, we made ourselves giddy thinking of collective nouns.  Since today’s topic is NO, I’ve decided the collective noun for NO is consternation.  That’s how these illogical NOs make me feel.  Consternated.

You and you and you, go ahead and feel consternated, but do not let these naysayers get you down.  As they say under the soft gray Galway skies, fuck those begrudgers.

Do not let them do to you what they did to my friend in Galway.  Live.  Say YES and live.

Love With A Hook

Thirty years ago today, I became a first time mother.  If I had a different type of child, I’d write about how easy he is to love, brag about his wonderful talents, his remarkable bravery, toss a few of his quirks into the salad to make it real, end on a soppy note.  The thing is, today is his day; a blog like that would make him squirm with embarrassment.  My blog about his graduation DID make him squirm.  Instead, we’re going to a sushi bar with friends and hopefully laugh ourselves silly.  We may even get a puppy if we’re lucky.  (Seriously!)

Red letter days remind me about good and bad aspects of family, which I suppose is true for anyone who didn’t grow up on Little House on the Prairie.  My work in trauma has tested and, in some ways, broken the illusions our culture puts forward as absolute truth about family.  Sometimes, this causes me to make decisions about people in my private life. 

My son says I’m judgemental.  I say I’m experienced.  It’s difficult to know in advance which is correct, because while I am more experienced than my son, that experience is skewed.  I’ve lifted too many rocks and seen what lived underneath.  That’s made me a big believer in the power of memories.  We create a memory, it stays.  If it’s a bad memory, it harms.  So I think we need to be somewhat selective, not give everyone the benefit of the doubt.

In real life, that’s a wonderfully fine tight rope that needs assessed all the time.  These are real lives I interact with, reject or accept, so there are real life consequences for my choices, to both myself and other people.  In writing, however, I worked under the misconception that no holds were barred. 

Years ago, I wrote a fictional story about a woman who suffered domestic abuse.  An editor rejected it with the note that they only published stories about strong women.  I wondered if by ‘strong’ she meant not-real.  In my world, any woman in a relationship, gay or straight, could be a victim of domestic abuse, not just the ‘weak’ ones.

In my current manuscript, a father’s children collude with his narcissist ex-wife to cause him social and fiscal harm.  His children do what is called, ‘identifying with the aggressor’ (the mother).  In kidnap and POW situations, we know it as Stockholm Syndrome.  My character feels forced to cut off contact with his children or go down in flames.  A male reader told me that a parental relationship isn’t equal, and a father should always be there for his children.  He said the father’s decision made him unlikeable and as a reader, he couldn’t invest in the man’s story. 

These are the myths about families that keep intra-familial harm in business. 

A long time ago, a counselling supervisor referred to a client’s parenting style as ‘love with a hook in it’.  Think about that.  Not false love.  Not abuse.  Love with a hook in it.  The child is loved but with a painful consequence.  Not every dysfunctional family lives in the Bates motel. 

In one of Neil Gaiman’s talks at the Edinburgh Book Festival, someone asked him if Ocean at the End of the Lane were for adults or children.  Gaiman said children can deal with violence and other scary things.  They live in the same world we do and see a lot more than we think they do.  But what he didn’t think children should have to handle is Ocean’s conclusion that some evil things are too big to conquer without a price, and as such, classified the book as fiction for adults.

We need more fiction for adults.  Go write it.

Happy Birthday, El Punko!  Thanks for coming to live me all those long years ago!  You rock.