“What happens in this house, stays in this house,” her father was known for bellowing. Well, it sounded like drill Sargent level orders to her but if the neighbors could hear him, they never said a word. They certainly never questioned him. No one did.
When she stepped outside the front door that was painted red, she closed it quietly, respecting the invisible do not disturb signs on every door and window. With each pace forward, her feet crunched across the gravel, jolting her ears with each step. She had learned early that being seen or heard could hold dangerous consequences for her. She suffered through each step as if a childhood monster were right behind her, ready to snatch her up if she wasn’t fast enough. Finally, she made it to the grass and gave way to a full sprint. With the monster in hot pursuit, she ran in a panic until she reached her finish line: the tree.
Out of breath, yet exilerated, the nine-year-old scans the perimeter of her property cautiously. Reasonably sure no one can see her, she hoists herself up onto the first branch she can reach and continues her climb to the middle of the tree. It’s a spiral motion, her climb. In what’s left of the innocence of her child-like imagination, she envisions herself climbing a spiral staircase in a fancy mansion. But this long spiral staircase with a view leads to only one room.
Once the young girl completes the climb her room, the monster stops chasing her. Maybe he’s too big for the staircase or maybe he’s afraid of heights but he doesn’t fit into the world she has built in the tree near the road in her front yard. No one except her does.
She settles herself into the only seat in the “room,” a solid branch to sit on with one behind it that serves as the back of the “chair.” She looks around her neighborhood, the occasional car that passes by, the random dog barking. and soaks in the safety she feels in this moment. She can see them but they can not see her. It is a blissful realization.
She liked to keep the room in her simple mansion orderly and quiet. To the left of her chair was a bookshelf. Two branches that sat closely together held a book and a journal. To the left of the bookshelf was the clothes line, meant to hang her baby dolls clean clothes and blankets. There were branches in front of her chair that served as the baby dolls bassinet, and clothes and blankets for the baby doll. In her house, the baby was kept clean and safe. Everything was in order. In her house, babies got story times and lullabies. In her house, babies were cherished.
This tree, this second home, was where she began to reinvent herself. For the moments she could escape to it, she knew there would be no shouting, no fighting and nothing to fear. In her real-life home, there was potential for all these things. At school, she was never “right,” either. She was unfocused, experienced social problems and was labeled “out of control” emotionally. Eventually, this label followed her just about everywhere she went. Continuously being told either to get it together or that she was not good enough, the treehouse became her only refuge.
It was in this tree and outside of the red door that she could begin to imagine a different life. Beyond that, it was in her treehouse that she began to fantasize about showing the world a different version of herself. There in that treehouse, she knew that even if she could never tell the world what went on in the house with the red door, she could show the world…something different. Yes, she would show them who she was. First though, she had to overcome her tendency to run, and her fear of falling.
Stay tuned for part two of the first-ever series from Up off the Mat: The House with the Red Door
The invisible lines between the various parts of my life woke up blurry today. I am far from a master at it but I’ve done this tight-rope dance before. A few days back, after a vallant attempt to combat my tendancy for winter isolation, uncomfortable thoughts and emotions started to creep up on me. I could feel it, as I had counteless times before, first in the pit of my stomach.
Emotions that could be called “vulnerable” ones, such as sadness, anxiety or fear aren’t anyone’s favorite jam. Historically for me, they have been cause for the development of an emergency escape plan. Not only did everything in me scream “run,” when I felt pain, it was most important to get away before anyone saw me in a state of what I viewed as personal weakness. It felt much safer for me to retreat to the solitude of my own darkness, often not treating myself very kindly on said-“retreat.”
In the darkness of my own thoughts and emotions, no one can see me trembling from the inside. My stomach churns, my teeth grind and my head often aches as I take cover from the thoughts that take up space in my brain:
To do lists a mile long that have not been started, adolescent sons, missing brothers, ailing loved-ones, college credits, fear of failure, hope for the future-woah, I still have not begun that to-do list.
It is not long before I have crossed so many lines in my head that I am not sure where to begin with untangling them. When I try to picture the boundaries of these lines in my mind, they represent a ball of yarn that a kitten has had free access to until nap time. By that time, I drop down into “real-life” (the present) for a moment and realize I should probably be doing something productive (full-time college while parenting is no joke) but which priority in my web of worries do I attempt to tackle?
Damn, I feel like I’ve BEEN tackled at this point. My head aches from the teeth-grinding and my stomach doesn’t know if it is hungry or needs to purge. Alas, there is no time to worry about such trivial symptoms, I am STRONG and I have that to-do list bellowing at me to stop being so…vulnerable.
I haven’t seen her in person in many years. Though we have often had the all too common, “we should get together soon” chat, it just hasn’t been in the cards. Not for a very long time. Neither of us have said it but reconnecting wouldn’t be about seeing each other’s faces. It seems like forever ago but Melissa and I met each other’s souls. I am convinced now that I am older (and hopefully, wiser) that Melissa was a real-life angel sent to me at a time in my life that I needed some saving.
I was impressed with her presence from the moment I met her. I had been introduced to Melissa through a guy dated briefly at that time. Prior to meeting her, he had sung her praises. As it turned out, she was the one thing he was right about while we dated. What a blessing she turned out to be.
As I recall this period of my life, I am struck by the fact that I cannot remember my ex’s face at all. I can, however. clearly bring up images of Melissa. Her smile was beautifully infectious, and she had beautiful, mysterious features to back it up. Melissa, who was just a bit older than I, had the same off-the-cuff wit that I had, with a true confidence that I did not. I looked up to her. The relationship that had been the reason she and I had met had begun to make me feel uncomfortable. After a while, I was smart enough to make sure Melissa was around when I went down to visit, but not yet strong enough to simply stop seeing him.
He made me nervous from the beginning. I will never forget the feeling I got the first time he and I locked eyes. The fact that I ignored this gut-feeling and moved forward despite it is in my eyes only forgiven because I was able to escape an unfavorable outcome. He was handsome, he was edgy. There were many moments this “edginess” made me uncomfortable, yet I could not name the feeling beyond that at the time.
Melissa was a great distraction. She was always glad to come over when I came down to visit and I was more eager to see her, each time. She made laugh, we had much in common but most importantly, she made me feel safe. The guy I was dating was a big dude and an even bigger personality. He liked to drink and the more liquor he consumed, the louder he got.
I have long been uncomfortable with being in the company of people
who are intoxicated. I grew up around substance abuse and I am familiar with both
the damage it can do to the person using the substances and to those around
them. In my experience, heavy use of substances can make people unpredictable.
These truths I had come to know and the confidence and self-love I had yet to
gain were a dangerous combination for me in this relationship at the time. The
louder my ex got, the drunker he got, the more submissive I became. (This may come
as a surprise to people who know me now)
Melissa was not submissive. At least in my eyes, she was brave and strong. Fierce even. Not only had she been through more than I had and survived it, she wasn’t done kicking ass and taking names. This girl showed up. Melissa began to plant the seed in my mind for what “showing up” as a woman and a friend, really means.
As I became more and more silenced by the increasing chaos around me, Melissa’s voice became more boisterous. She wasn’t afraid to speak up to the guy I dated or the guy she dated. She would yell at them to quit trying to find the bottom of the bottle, grow up and show some respect before I could even say, “wow.” I would watch in awe as she gave these grown boys what for, half expecting one of them to come at her for embarrassing their already sad state of being. They never did and I took note.
One night we all went out to see a band at a bar that was nearly an hour from my ex’s home. I could feel the iciness in the energy but took it as the nerves that often come with new experiences for me. One adult beverage was enough to take the edge off and off we went, all piled into one truck. Everyone had fun that night. Everyone except my ex.
I noticed something was wrong when we were still at the bar. He had expressed some jealously earlier in the evening and had taken it upon himself to “ice me out” for the remainder of our time out that evening. Knowing I had done nothing wrong, I assumed he would eventually get over it. On the ride back to his place, it became apparent that he was not over it. He was just getting started. Again, the tension in the air reduced me to silence.
We were dropped off back at the house and I knew I had to stay. Though I had only had two drinks, I had made it my policy to refrain from driving after even one drink. The rising tension was going to have to be cut through another way.
As soon as we got back into his house, he became visibly angry. Clearly, he had been holding onto his frustration about my imagined wrong-doings at the bar earlier. He began to raise his voice at me. At first, I tried to deescalate him by staying calm and reassuring him. This seemed to be ramp up his anger even further. Realizing new action was in order, I went into the room off the kitchen, where my belongings were. I began packing my things. He followed me into the room and began to yell even louder. Then it happened.
I turned to attempt to exit the room and he squared up to me, blocking the door. The next words out of his mouth, combined with the I-mean-you-harm expression on his face, will stay with me for as long as I live. He looked me straight in the eyes, just as he had the day we met and said, “you’re in trouble now, aren’t you?” I was cornered.
In my mind, I had only seconds to consider what this giant of a man would do to me based on the actions or words I chose next. Surely, he was expecting the polite, meek, small-town girl response he had gotten up until that very moment. That was not what happened.
“What are you gonna do?” I screamed at him loud enough to strain my throat, “fucking do it!”
To this day, I’m not sure who was more surprised. All I know is that he walked away from that exit without another word.
I walked away from that house as quietly as I had arrived. I have told almost no one about that experience. I’m not even sure Melissa knows, though we have stayed in touch over the years. None of us knew it then, but Melissa may have saved my life that day. How different would that night had turned out, had I not witnessed the courage and tenacity she had practiced with the same man? I shudder when I think about it, even now.
Today, with many years of growth and new experiences behind us, Melissa reached out to me. When I opened my messenger, I was pleasantly surprised by some photos she had sent me of us, “back in the day.” Looking at these pictures, I was instantly able to feel that warmth, that safety, I had felt being near her so many years ago.
Sweet Melissa, my angel on earth
We reminisced for a short time of days gone by. Small talk quickly gave way to the soul-searching our bond was founded on. We were both please (and I sense, a bit relieved) to share that we have both found healthy, happy relationships. Beyond that, Melissa has been able to overcome a lifelong struggle with scoliosis of the spine that has led to several surgeries, being bed-ridden at times and nearly throwing in the towel at others. Melissa has shared a great deal of her pain and suffering with me over the years but today, she had a message of gratitude to share.
At one-point bed-ridden due to crippling back pain for two years, an angel entered her life and spoke louder than any doubts she had ever allowed herself to hear. “For two years post-surgery, I was in bed. The news that I was going to be a Nana got me motivated to get up!” (Up off the Mat, you say?)
Her gratitude gushed on and I was thrilled to listen. “I was physically able to watch my two and a half year and 22-Month-old grandbabies all day last Monday! I was exhausted after but so happy that I was able!” (That’s it, girl!)
How invigorating it was to share in each other’s passions
and successes after so many years. It was at that moment that I realized that
Melissa was struggling at least as hard as I was when she was doing God’s
service as my angel here on earth. How selflessly she had given of herself at a
time when she likely needed a helping hand herself. I wonder now if she knows
what an inspiration and a beacon of hope she has been in my journey towards
becoming a woman I can live with. If you’re reading this, my friend, thanks for
keeping me from getting knocked down on the mat. Here is your soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqK8YeZYqbA
I’ve been doing a rather intense amount of processing in the past couple of weeks. Both on my blog and in my often busy mind, the resulting purge of thoughts have been doing the work I believe they are intended to. We are supposed to feel the emotions inspired by our reflections. Those feelings are supposed to guide us in our actions moving forward.
Lately, the topics that have been taking up space in my brain (and on my blog) are complicated, to say the least. The weight of the words we speak, the ways in which we define our individual sense of safety and final farewells with loved ones are life events that consume my days; and the hours in which I attempt rest.
The power that the words we choose to speak hold wore heavily on my heart as I sent my son off to school each day this week. After an eye-opening weekend spent with two sixth grade boys, I felt more aware than ever of what he was facing as a social being at school. As a result, I felt more frightened for him. At times, I was sick to my stomach over the thought of him navigating the flurry of hate-speech that seems to flow from the mouths of adolescents like projectile vomit.
“Joey isn’t dating Lily anymore.” My son said to me one afternoon this week. “He got dumped by her.”
Now I know little Joey. In an attempt to empathize and keep the conversation going, I asked how little Joey was feeling following being “dumped.”
“He’s cool with it. He doesn’t even like her anymore. He says he wishes she were dead.”
I’ve had several perspectives offered to me regarding the speech patterns our children use with each other and the way they interact with each other. Reactions from other parents range from shared horror at what our youth are exposed to before they even hit junior high to, “we had it just as bad back in my day.”
In my opinion, us “back in the day folk” are only half correct. True are right, kids still had a tendency to be hateful towards one another in the 80’s and 90’s. I can recall a handful of memories built by some ill-meaning kids from my school years; but I won’t do that here. Not today.
The difference between the kids we were then and kids today, is that I did not fear the students who were making my days at school more of a challenge. My biggest concern was if the guy that went around barking in all the students faces was going to bark in mine, today. (looking back, maybe we should have been concerned.) He wasn’t going to put his hands on me. He hadn’t called me on the phone the night before, trying to arrange a fight for the next day. Never once did I fear he was going to shoot my classmates and I.
Not for one second am I attempting to over-simplify what is clearly a multi-level problem. Know that. What I can confidently say is that to compare the system we got our education in to the one our children are attending is a massive oversight in perspective that we cannot afford to make. Children today are facing what we did, much more; all in the age of the intranet where none of our words or actions can be escaped. Ever.
Saying “I wish she were dead,” will never again hold the same weight or meaning that it did in the 80’s and 90’s. To me, saying these words in the same flippant, gossip-ridden manner one would have said them twenty years ago is to rub our right to life in the faces of those we have lost tragically in learning spaces that have become war zones.
What can be done? For me, it has become about changing the focus of conversations with my child. That change began last weekend in the company of two sixth-grade boys who clearly craved guidance back to a path that felt more natural to them: kindness.
“He wishes she were dead?” I asked my son. “What do you think that means? What does it mean to wish someone dead?”
For my son, being asked to stop and think about the words he had just so easily uttered, was enough. “To wish someone were dead would mean that they weren’t here anymore. You would never see them again and no one else would, either.”
I didn’t have to explain to my son what that loss meant. At age eleven, he has felt the loss of a close family member three times, now.
“Wow, that would be sad,” I said to him with geniune empathy in my voice, “do you think that is what your friend really meant?”
“No,” my son said thoughtfully, “Joey may just be embarrassed that he got dumped. He may just not want to hang out with Lily or see her anymore because of that.”
Later in my son’s life, I hope that these conversations bring the true meaning of the words we speak, the attention they so deserve. The words we speak have the power to either reveal or cover up (no matter how temporarily) the feelings we are experiencing. If we can learn to express ourselves accurately and pointedly through the words we speak, we stand to avoid miscommunication and to get our needs met more effectively, in life.
The gift of language, both written and spoken, is one that has been handed down in my family through generations. Growing up, my parents shared their version of the worlds most beautiful language in musical and written form. As a result, my brother and I harbored a deep appreciation for literature and music of all genres. We also both became writers who never turned away from public speaking opportunities. Growing up, we were given endless avenues to explore and fall in love with, all of the ways we could express ourselves with words. What modalities do you use to explore the wide world of language? How do you share these opportunities for growth and learning with your children?
Professors sure do like to make you think. I know, that statement seems an over-simplified one. We must work our minds like a muscle to gain knowledge. It would stand to reason then, that any good instructors’ goal would be to stretch our minds to bounds they haven’t exceeded before. Recently, my already stretched to the max mind was thrown into overdrive by a seemingly simple question posed to me in a class I am taking for my Mental Health Degree. (Class name withheld, confidentiality) It was less of a question really and more of a thinking point. Our professor wanted us to start thinking about when we, personally, felt “safe” in our personal lives.
After pondering this question in my mind for several days, I began to consider that I may be over-thinking the concept. I’ve been guilty of lacking focus a time or two in my life, so I’ve learned some tricks about reigning myself back in. Researching is a skill I first learned from my mother that I have trained myself to fall back on when I am craving understanding or perspective. In this case, a search on the definition of the word “safety” seemed like a logical first step in getting on-track:
Safety: Relative freedom from danger, risk, or threat of harm, injury, or loss to personnel and/or property, whether caused deliberately or by accident. (www.businessdictionary.com)
Wait, what? Does anyone else feel like we danced around this definition a bit? Prior to reading the “official definition” of the word, I had attempted to envision what safety meant for me. My mind traveled to things that make me joyful. My first thought was of the beautiful flower gardens I had last summer. The moments our family spent soaking in the sun, taking in the different garden smells throughout the summer with the varying array of vibrant colors were my new definition of what “peace” felt like. They were our first flower gardens. We built nine of them and we were one-hundred percent hooked on gardening.
Photography by: Jen Cousins
I also knew that any moment spent in the gardens I loved so entirely were moments that potentially brought me closer than I ever wanted to be to one of my biggest fears. Snakes. In short, I do not like them. I respect their right to live and thrive, as is the case for me with all living beings. That said, I do not want to see snakes in my garden, on the television, on my Facebook feed or in a pet store. The fear a snake-sighting instills in me is one that presents itself as panic in my gut, tightness in my chest and a general terror that cannot be reasoned with.
I did have a couple of dreaded run-ins with a snake that took a liking to our gardens over the summer. It was nothing short of a miracle that the neighbors didn’t call law enforcement to report a violent attack the day Mr. Snake and I met up in the Lavender bush. Man did my foolish screaming terrify that poor thing. As it turns out, snakes move quickly AWAY from you when you scare the daylights out of them with screaming fit for a murder in progress. Last summer was the first time I was able to meet a snake on that level. They were at least as scared as I was, poor things. They can still be scared far, far away from me and my lavender. For fear of offending my english major friends, I’m going to do my best to be where the snakes ain’t.
Photograph by: Jen Cousins
I’ll likely scream loud enough for even the farthest neighbors to hear again this summer. (I really have tried to overcome this, guys,) What I know for sure is that we are looking forward to Spring time in the biggest way. We have already started to plan our gardens and I’m guessing Mr. Snake is looking forward to all that the warmer weather has to offer, too.
As I wrote about my fear of snakes, I felt my fear for them in my body. Even now, I can still feel a tightness in my chest and a slight lump in my throat. As I acknowledged my love for gardening and all the healing it brought to me in three short months, I felt a release in my heart and began to breathe easier.
Photo by: Jen Cousins
Safety is not a place, or a person or even a thing. Safety is both a state of being and is meant to be experienced in the small moments we consciously choose to acknowledge. Do we choose, in this moment, to take in the smell, the feel and the radiant colors of the garden? Or do we choose to fear the snake that may or may not appear and then disappear at any moment? Maybe in the end, the answer to the question of safety is about perspective within moments.
“I like dogs better than people,” he was known for saying. People on the outside of our immediate family would laugh this common statement off. The deep affection my father held for his four-legged friends was legendary. My mother, my brother and I would laugh too: but through clenched teeth while in mixed company. We knew that in private, my father truly did prefer to make friends with even the worst dog over his favorite human.
Growing up, there was never a time we didn’t have at least one dog. Much to my mother’s dismay, it wasn’t uncommon for my father to return home from a road trip or a work site with a puppy or a stray dog. Looking back now, the approval of one of our most memorable rescue mutts, “Muttley” (that lacked hair on his tail-end and smelled awful even after a grooming from a life-long skin condition) meant at least as much to my dad, anyways.
After “the Muttley experience,” we learned not to question the many dogs that followed. Our family mourned when we lost Bandit, my parent’s black lab-cross of seventeen years. We celebrated when Dad returned home from a road trip up North with Dustin the Beagle. Dustin and I bonded over flea-picking sessions while I wondered silently when my father would look at me with the same sparkle in his eye he got when he looked at any of our dogs.
I may have secretly resented my father’s affection towards those dogs but it was during these grooming sessions in my back yard with them growing up that I started to understand. These dogs listened to me intently, with a complete absence of judgement. They understood me without words, they loved me without condition.
I’ve heard people say that everyone gets one special dog in their life that they never forget. For our family, we were lucky enough to have a pair of them. Rosie, who will never be remembered for her smarts and Charlie, the rock-diving black lab bring many fond memories for our family. One memory with this comical duo changed my life in a matter of minutes.
It was the dead of winter and my dad had packed up his two best friends Charlie and Rosie, some tennis balls and a racket for a trip to the ocean. For hours, he slammed those tennis balls our into the crashing waves, our family dogs tirelessly chasing them. I don’t recall being bothered by the cold Maine air that February day. Neither dog seemed concerned either, as they retrieved ball after ball. They paid no mind to the icicles forming on their chests.
Rosie, the younger of the two, was famous for fetching the ball and not returning it. She preferred to drop the sandy, slobber-covered ball on the beach, bark at it relentlessly and roll all over it. This caused me to laugh hysterically at her foolishness. When I looked over at my dad, he was laughing, too. On this day, for the first time, I started to understand how my dad could have the reservations he did about people.
On this day, my dad was as happy and free as I had ever seen him. Sometimes if I close my eyes, I can still picture it. His teeth were showing when he looked over and shared a smile with me. I can feel the vulnerability I saw in his eyes as I realized that after nineteen very long years, both our joy and our pain came from the same place. I did not express this truth to him with any more than a look that day. Thankfully, I was able to tell him before he passed away only a few short years later:
“You don’t need to worry about me or the baby, dad. You really did teach me everything I need to know to go forward.”
Currently, I am listening to a pair of eleven year old boys enjoy each others company in the room next to me. They decided my suggestion of learning some new songs together on their guitars was a good one. They are being kind to one another. My son is taking his time to gently explain to his friend how to play the bass line of one of his favorite songs. The snow is falling lazily outside. It’s a snow day at home and the moment feels so pure.
Then I hear it. It’s a simple statement made by one of the boys that stole the innocence from the moment. “I’m not doing this to be popular, but learning music is going to make us so, so popular!”
The boys couldn’t have known it but we had moved both back and forward in time all in the same moment. That one statement, meant to be a positive one, made my heart sink. Instantly I was brought back to the earful I had received from both boys the night before about what they face in their social circles with the peers they meet at school.
It all started with a good old fashioned wrestling match between boys, you see. There was a bit of pushing back and forth between the boys and a lot of joyful laughter. I noticed they were getting a bit rougher with each other but had learned to expect this after having my share of boys my son’s age around on a regular basis. I warned them to go easy on each other but that is not what happened.
A few minutes later, the once-friendly wrestling match had turned ugly. Suddenly both boys were in tears and one of them was claiming to be injured. As it turned out, the wrestling between boys had escalated over a dropped phone and neither boy was happy with the other over the outcome.
I talked to both boys individually, then helped them through having conversation together about the aggression that had transpired between two kids who call each other friends. Ultimately, the boys agreed that they would rather let the incident go than to cancel their planned sleepover.
As the evening wore on, I continued to closely observe the interactions between the boys and any interactions they had with their school friends. Closer examination of the nature of the communication that goes on between children in the sixth grade truly opened my eyes. Or so I thought it did, at least. I was astonished at the way this group of “friends” talked to each other.
These kids weren’t talking about sleepovers or the most recent basketball game. (Which many of them have in common) They weren’t having easy-flowing conversations about the fun activities they were participating in this weekend or upcoming events they were looking forward to. This group of friends instead has instead learned to “relate” to each other by who can take the cruelest verbal “shot” at each other.
Now I’m not talking about kids joking around and maybe going a little overboard with it. What I saw were ten and eleven year olds caught up in a vicious cycle of one-upping each other in what they refer to as “burning” each other. For those who aren’t caught up in the lingo of today’s youth, “burning someone” thankfully has nothing to do with fire.
Burning someone refers to making a joke (no matter how deeply the content of that joke may cut) at the expense of someone else. That is, everyone is laughing about the joke except the person who is the victim of the joke. What I learned by observing this group of kids is that their version of “joking around” with each other was the only way they chose to interact publicly. Interested in how this worked, I did what I usually do when I don’t know the answer to a question. I ask someone with more experience in the field in question than I have. In this case, I asked not one, but two eleven year old kids.
When I say I asked them, it should be said that I was truly curious about the answer. As it turned out, genuine curiosity was just what the doctor ordered when it came to getting kids to invite you into their worlds for a while. Over dinner, I explained to them what I had observed both with their interactions with each other and how they spoke to their peers. I told them I was genuinely confused with the downright cruel language they used and wondered out loud if that’s what being a friend meant to them.
Of course that wasn’t what being a friend meant to them. I knew the answer to this because I am familiar with the love and support that surrounds these children every day within their families. Thankfully, they were able to explain the social system of sixth grade to me. Regrettably, I can now never un-learn what they told me.
My son’s friend explained to me right away (and my son chimed in often and agreed) that there is a hierarchy in place. Impressed with his use of such mature vocabulary, I wondered if he knew what the word actually meant. He did.
The sixth grade hierarchy essentially consists of who ever is at the very top of it this week, along with a few minions that serve as the top seat holders side kicks. The position of side kick is a coveted one, but it comes with a price that costs many. To be considered as a main side kick (and not a dreaded outsider) you have to “make the kid at the top of the hierarchy laugh a lot.” Apparently a good knock-knock joke is not acceptable comedy material. Instead, the goal on this comedy tour is to make the kids at the top laugh by using risky hate speech to hurt another kid. (Presumably, an outsider is the target)
Who is at the top of this hierarchy ebbs and flows from week to week. Sometimes they are at the top, but they spend a great deal of time and mental energy to get there. These kids days are consumed with either chasing the popularity dream or avoiding the doom of being labeled an outsider.
If you’re overwhelmed, in disbelief or just plain heartbroken by the often silent battles our kids face every day, so I was I. Still trying to process all they were so openly sharing with me, I began to freeze up in my responses to them. What could I say that would make this transition in their development any smoother for them?
Just then I realized that the conversation had moved to the living room. I was sitting on the couch and they had sat on the floor in front of me, as if joining me for story time. I looked down at these two boys, sitting indian-style in front of me. As if by time machine, I had two young boys, still full of wonder and innocence, staring back at me.
“Mommy, thanks so much for having this conversation with us. We are learning so much and this is a great conversation to be having,” my son said to me.
I looked at the two smiling boys in front of me and I realized that my words held more weight than I had given them credit for. Overwhelmed with the idea that hate speech is the way into the “in-crowd” at the place they go to learn, I had forgotten that words used in love can be just as powerful as those that mean harm.
I believe that at this age, kids instinctively know the difference between right and wrong. Children in the sixth grade know that words can and do, cause damage. The problem lies in what we as adults, (aka, the true top of the hierarchy) choose to allow to become “normal” in our children’s every day language. I chose to question hate speech I was hearing from the mouths of adolescents. In return, I gained insight and perspective on what our children face as they enter their teen years. Beyond that, I was able to plant the message that language matters in the minds of two kids that I believe were glad to be reminded.
Both the written and spoken word hold an incredible amount of weight in today’s society. At this age, the words our children hear and speak regularly will contribute to their social, emotional and intellectual development. As they advance in life, the power (or weakness) their words hold could be the difference between a successful life, or one riddled with struggle due to unnecessary communication problems.
Teaching our kids that their choice of vocabulary can have lasting effects for them and for whoever their words make it to is in my opinion, crucial to who they become later. We must always remember that in 2019, there are no words that are spoken or typed that do not leave a timeless impression. What messages are the words that you choose sending to your children? Is it a message you would want shared with the world?
A little-known secret about me: my writing editor was a real hard-ass. He had a fancy job at the Bangor Daily News as a political reporter and he’s one of the only people I know who got paid to attend Harvard for a year. He knew the ins and outs of writing better than anyone I knew, so I stuck with him when it came to my own writing. But as much as he was known for his talent as a word-slinging reporter, he was known for not mincing his words.
I thought Chris Cousins cut-to-the-chase communication style may have had to do with the fact that he was my older brother, but I learned differently at his funeral in August. His boss Robert offered a hilarious account of Chris’s no-nonsense expectations for writing pieces with a fine example.
My brother was a humble guy, but he had no problem giving his boss hell when it came to what he considered to be lazy word choice in headlines. He was not shy about it, especially when it came to the word get. “Don’t ever, ever use the word get in one of my headlines,” Robert said he was known for saying repeatedly.
We all laughed, knowing how passionate my brother could be when he truly believed in something. I laughed, recalling editing sessions with him on Google Docs that may have stung my ego but served me well as a writer. For those who aren’t familiar, Google Docs has an editing program that allows more than one user to be in a document at the same time. I adored watching him in action. He would transform what I considered to be an “okay” piece into something worth publishing, in mere minutes.
These editing sessions with my brother were not for the faint of heart. My brother expected the best from me, as he knew I did from myself. In this situation, there was no time for leading questions such as, “is there a stronger word you can use here in this sentence?” He preferred the more direct approach, “change this, passive verbs piss me off!” I suppose you’d have to know him but that was the ultimate expression of love from Chris Cousins. Furthermore, the lessons resonated with me.
I would often send my brother writings with no title. I would tell him I just hadn’t thought of one yet but that wasn’t the case. I had long-since dubbed my brother “the headline king,” and nothing pleased me more than to get my writing piece back with a title suggestion from him. Never did the title he provided have the word “get” in it. Ever.
Yesterday I posted a blog. Clearly still delirious from narrowly surviving a two-week bout with the flu, I thought I had a snappy title with “Getting comfortable with the cringe-worthy.” (Hey, all of the teenagers are using the word “cringe” these days, right?)
Then it hit me. It hit me harder than any comment from my brother on Google docs had ever had. I had committed the Chris Cousins cardinal sin of headlines. Robert had the good grace to refrain from mentioning my lame, cringe-worthy title when he saw and re-posted my blog. Upon my horrifying realization that I had disappointed my brother and he was giving me the much-dreaded look of shame from above, I knew I had to act swiftly. (That disappointment is rough guys, even from the beyond)
This morning, I did something I have never done and changed the title of an already published blog. Now called Sounding off on the cringe-worthy, I can rest knowing I’ll never make that writing mistake again. Six months after his passing, we all have much to learn from Chris Cousins about life and writing. Most of us have a tendency to get lazy or impatient regarding the things we claim are important in our lives.
The truth my brother never seemed to forget is that every effort worth making at all, is worth taking your best shot at. This is true when it comes to pursuing our relationships, our passions and even those things we don’t want to do; but must. Every step we take, every word we choose to speak or write, matters more than we realize. Our every choice leaves an impression on those around us while we are living: and a legacy for those we leave behind. What choices are you making today that affect people’s lives and your legacy? Choose wisely, Big Brother is watching.
Recently it was brought to my attention by a concerned, well-meaning friend that I may have taken a prolonged trip to negative-town. Noting that I haven’t been myself lately, she was growing increasingly concerned that I would sink into a depression that I would have a hard time coming back from. It was my pride that responded to her initially, reminding her in no uncertain terms of all I have gotten Up off the Mat from already in just three short years.
For new readers, the hurdles I have fought my way back from include: brain surgery, the passing of my long-time best friend, the untimely passing of my only sibling and most recently; caring for my mother as she endures terminal illness on hospice. I made an agreement with myself long ago that I was going to come back from these adversities in a way that I would like myself for. More than that, my ultimate goal was to face fear in a way that would help others get Up Off the Matt as well.
Part of that has been just plain getting up again after I “fell.” When I had brain surgery, I fought my way back with a tenacity that made my caretakers frustrated and at times, nervous. (No one wants to see someone in recovery from brain surgery hiking the rocky driveway everyday, but I was determined to get stronger.) When my best friend passed away from an overdose, I finally began tackling my goal of starting college to become a substance abuse counselor. I put that goal on fast-forward by participating in public speaking engagements on the topic of addiction. When my beloved brother passed, I started a new semester at college two weeks later and earned Dean’s List. I began my current semester with my mother on hospice. For me, it is all about progress in spite of everything that threatens to hinder it.
With each challenge life threw at me, both the reader and the writer in me were inspired. First, I would set to Google and see what I could learn about each topic. Knowing all I can about what I am facing helps ease my mind. It gives me a sense of control when I feel like I have an idea of what to expect in the days to come. What I found with each topic was that there was plenty of information out there in medical-speak. There are copious amounts of medical articles written by doctor’s and psychiatrists that will educate you on grief, terminal illness and even on craniotomies. (Don’t google that one, you can’t unsee that.)
For me, what was lacking was personal accounts of what it felt like for someone who was actually going through a major illness or loss. What could I expect from that point of view? Was what I was feeling normal? Would I be okay again? Finally, I wanted those who were maybe just starting their trip down “negative-town-lane” to see that I made it. I got Up off the Matt. Every. Single. Time.
That’s not to say that I didn’t get knocked out more times than I can count at this point. There were times I even laid there for a while, flailing and kicking; resisting the fall. Heck, there were even times I had to be rolled out on a stretcher. Guess what I did when I woke up from that much needed nap? I got up and I walked out of that place. Chin down, hands up, ready for the next round.
That’s really what Up off the Mat is all about. I know I’m not the only one who has been knocked down by life repeatedly. My mission is to be a witness to those stories, I know they are out there. Speak on them. Tell your stories loudly, no matter how they may make people cringe or hurt for you. Then you show them. You show them that you may fall down a time or two but you will never, ever, tap out.
The following is part one of a three-year old story from my old blog. Why is it my “old blog,” you ask? I have spent much of the past three years following a major health scare redefining who I am as a person, a mother and as a writer. Believe me when I tell you, I relate to none of these role’s in my life the same as I did prior to brain surgery.
Up off the Mat is about new beginnings, the bravery it takes to face them and acknowledging the pain we sometimes endure getting there.
Here is part one of the story that inspired Up off the Mat, taken from my old (and now inactive) blog, Glovesoffsportstalk.wordpress:
Still a Fighter
See the last white tree on the right? That was my goal just now, walk to there and back. A month ago, before diagnosis and surgery, I never could have imagined what a challenge this could be. I was active, grooming dogs (sometimes handling 15-plus dogs a day) and was always up for a good hike. I was pursuing my passion of writing, putting myself out there and having some success at it. The universe appeared to be conspiring in my favor and man, was I grateful. I was happy. A headache, neck pain and a case of the spins lead me to an MRI, which lead to surgery (yup, on my brain) two weeks later. Diagnosis? A benign brain-tumor, about the size of a golf ball, pressing on my optic nerve. Well damn, that was a game changer.
Now, three weeks post-surgery, this walk was my biggest challenge today. Nearly desperate at this point to take control and get stronger, I trembled and wobbled my way through it. I felt frustration, I fought back tears, thinking of how very far the road ahead of me is. That effort will likely exhaust me for the remainder of the day. But I will do this, day after day, until it becomes easier for me. I will not let this set-back kill the fighter in me.
**Originally published November 19th, 2015
Part two, What grew back when they cut out a piece of my brain:
Up Off the Mat 