Last week, I went to play bingo, since I hadn’t been in quite a while. As I was updating my Facebook status throughout the evening, more than one of my friends alluded to “blue-haired ladies”. I’m quite certain that this is the perception most people have of the Bingo hall (and we’ll save age-ism for someone else to tackle!), but in reality, a Friday night bingo game is remarkably diverse. There are people of all ages, ethnicities, etc. Though Bingo (hmm. to capitalize, or not to capitalize?!) is considered a “woman’s game”, there are certainly a fair number of men that play, also. There are Latinos, Asians, African-Americans, and they all co-exist very nicely in the smoky haze. (well, except for that one time.) They are united by a common desire to hear their number called, and to go home with a few more dollars in their pocket than they came in with. (this last part only happens for a lucky handful of folks . . . ) 

It’s just a beautiful picture of what our world could be . . . 

or maybe I’m just cheesy. 

PS–I didn’t win. Now I want to go back next weekend, and so on, until I actually DO win. who SAYS I’m not a hopeless optimist?!

Here you go–read this. 

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/rushmore/peopleevents/p_sioux.html

Last weekend, after a very productive couple of days doing the Great Decluttering of 2009 (shout-out to the Life Coach and the Taskmaster! Couldn’t have done it without you!!! And to the Trash Eliminator too!!!), we went to Chicago overnight. Right outside of our hotel was this billboard:

Now, I don’t begrudge the state of Wisconsin for trying to drum up tourism business. Michigan is attempting the same, and it only makes sense.

But the words on this billboard caught my eye, because of something I had read in a book called Lies Across America. The book (which is a must-read!) stated that any time you see the words “Devil’s” in the name of a place, it usually means that the place in question was a sacred Native American site. Because they were deemed to be “heathens”, their sacred places were condemned, and in our 21st century ignorance, we still hold on to those names today.

Want to learn more?! Read the book–and question everything!

(bonus question: why does Lorraine no longer like Mount Rushmore?)

I sit next to her in the empty, echoing silence of the ER. I am so unsure of what to do . . . I lean forward awkwardly, trying to do the “mom” thing despite my profound inadequacy for the role . . .  I smooth her hair away from her face, trying to find words, or to figure out when to be silent. In the moments when I choose silence, I find myself blogging my way through it in my mind, beginning to write my way through my confusion.

We had a salesperson/consultant come and make a presentation the other day at work. It was literally painful for me to watch him, because he exuded that Willy Loman quality . . . it’s something I can almost taste when I  see it, and it makes me shudder.  It is literally painful for me to see someone who gives off that sense of bravado-infused failure . . . even watching Marley and Me, which was supposed to be a tear-jerker because of the dog, I found myself caught up in the lead character’s angst, his sense of not having done what he wished he had . . .

I don’t know what it is, but living, walking failure sends a pain through me unlike any I’ve ever known. I don’t know if it’s that it reminds me of my own father’s unfulfilled wishes, or if it’s just that I’m sometimes too compassionate for my own good, but I can barely take it. It has been literally painful for me to even write this entry. And the entry itself is kind of Willy Loman-ish itself.

But I just thought I would share . . . so that one less draft is stagnating in my blog vault . . .

I wrote this in December, and never got around to posting it. I’m not sure why, since it seems like I was just about “done” with it. but the perfectionist in me seems to have reared its ugly head once again . . .

anyway, a conversation tonight with a dear friend who cares enough to speak the truth to me made me think of this again, as I tried to explain the reasons behind my despair and sense of hopelessness.  Sooo . . . here goes. I’ll try to edit somewhat, but for the fact that I’m still feeling exactly the same way, four months later, it’s worth revisiting.

____________________________________________________________

12/10/08

Yesterday, I had the most disturbing/discouraging experience. It came under the guise of a seemingly benign, perhaps even happy, event . . . having lunch with a friend that I hadn’t seen in quite some time. But in doing the requisite “catching up”, of course I was faced to look back at what I’ve accomplished (or more to the point, what I HAVEN’T accomplished) in the time since we last saw each other. And that simple question: “So tell me, what’s been going on with you?” was enough to put me into quite a funk.

What HAS been going on with me? What do I have to report about my life? Nothing good, as far as I can tell. Nothing has changed for the better in the past two years . . . and in many ways, much has gotten worse.

Let’s start with my career, or as I like to say, “would you like fries with that?” Last week in therapy, I was recounting my pathetic little journey since leaving the phone company. And it occurred to me—I really have tried. I’ve pursued different things, at least partially. And doors have been closed in my face. Now, granted, I could have continued to pursue these things, but the fact is still there that I really have been trying . . .

I applied for the NYCTF (although, granted, I screwed up the interview by not preparing well enough). I would have re-applied, if I hadn’t so convincingly heard God’s “no” to that.

I looked into getting funds through No Worker Left Behind so that I could go back to school. I was actually pretty excited about this. I figured out that I would really love to get a certificate in Human Resources, and that perhaps from there I could find a job that would help me pay for the rest of a master’s degree. Training! Paperwork! Teaching, in a way, but minus the adolescent angst I might face in a classroom.

I jumped through all of the hoops. Even when I found out I’d been directed to the wrong set of hoops initially, I jumped again. I did my research, went to workshops, and made an appointment with a caseworker. And then . . . I was left behind. Because, despite my “underemployed” status, I am not eligible because they consider my undergraduate psychology degree to already be a “high-demand” degree. (As best as I have been able to determine, they’ve basically lumped my psychology degree in with other social services degrees . . . but with zero casework experience, the only “high-demand” job I can get using my degree would be as a patient care worker at Pine Rest or Forest View—for about $10.50 an hour. Ooh, sign me up, please! or not.  I suspect that, like Target, the psych hospital is more “fun” to experience as a customer than as an employee.)

I also applied for two different jobs at my church, and while I’m grateful beyond words that I did NOT get either one, the process served only to add to my angst.

So really, I have tried. I’ve taken some steps to try to get somewhere other than where I’ve been stuck for what feels like the past ten years . . .

But the reality is that I don’t see any hope . . . I don’t see any way that I am going to get out of this. And this does not leave me feeling very hopeful about my life and my future, to say the least.

(4/7/09)

And I have friends who care about me, who believe in me even when it seems obvious that I don’t believe in myself. People who love me for reasons I can’t understand. And they want me to find “it”, to find my way, to be happy . . . and they don’t give up on me even when I say that I don’t see any way, when  I whine about needing to give up  because it’s all just so hopeless . . .

I know what I love . . . this week. But I feel like it changes so easily, like I’m so easily swayed by circumstance and whim.

I know that I love to write, and I would love to be some cross between David Sedaris and Anne Lamott, but my chronic procrastination gets in the way. Or maybe I just get in the way . . . I don’t know.

But I’m 39 years old and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

When people catch up with me on Facebook, they often say to me (grasping, I always assume, for something to say, although maybe I’m reading too much into it) “Well, it looks like you’re still enjoying life.” or “well, it looks like you’re having a great time with life!” Is this what they say to me to cover up their pity once they’ve discerned that I have no man, no children of my own, no career to speak of? Or am I missing something, and are they seeing something I’m not?

If their words are really NOT mere flattery, then maybe I should just suck it up and agree with them . . . “sure . . . I’m loving life . . . having a great time!”  . . . but it’s not the truth, and I don’t know what to do about it . . .

More than once, friends whose opinions I value and trust have encouraged me not to give up . . . and I have to try to believe that there is something to what they see, even when I myself am just not seeing it.

I had the oddest experience the other day (well, actually, all of last week was odd, but I digress) . . . as we were reminiscing, my brother Michael kept talking about events that happened “before we got you”(which he gets a kick out of saying) and we would make “Babies R’ US” and “Baby Depot” jokes . . . even though at times I feel like that is basically what it was . . .

but one story he told me really touched me and made me re-think my usual assessment of my place in our family.  he said that he remembered the day that my family went into the city to “get” me . . . how excited he was. It was April 23, 1970 (the reason I know the date has to do with LMT; more on that later). Michael says that he remembers sitting on the floor, playing with the bows on my mother’s shoes. He was four years old.

The reason that this struck me was that I know a little something about kids . . . and I know that for a four-year old to have had this level of excitement, there had to have been some enthusiasm coming from the parental units that my brother(s) must have picked up on. So this little anecdote tells me something that doesn’t jive with the narrative I’ve held onto for so long. This story tells me that, at least at one point, I was truly wanted.

Now, I suppose it’s easier to want something (or someone) before you are fully conscious of what you will be “getting” . . . and, sentimental adoption rhetoric aside, I wasn’t really “chosen”–it’s not like there really IS a “baby depot” where you can go and pick a kid, any kid. The agency picks–they lie, too. I found out later that they told my birthmother that my adoptive mother was a teacher–but it was nice to hear this story, given the fact that when I was fifteen, my mother informed me that “I love you, Lorraine, but I wish I had never adopted you.” It’s nice to know that there was a time, however brief, when she didn’t wish that.

But that is the fear that those of us who are “chosen” must face every day. We were not “wanted” at least once, and we then lived in fear that those who had “chosen” us would eventually “unchoose”. My security as a member of a family is never absolute. I am not truly anybody’s blood . . . I do not really belong.

and it was bittersweet to hear my brother share this recollection because of another story that he has told me a few times . . . the story of how, becoming frustrated with him, my mother would sit him out on our back porch in just a diaper and his shoes (”just how we got you”) and tell him that she had made the call and that “they” (the adoption agency) were coming back to get him. They had “gotten” him, and they could send him back–such is the legacy of the “chosen”. and when my father got home from work, he would play along with the deception. I wonder sometimes how long they left him there, alone with the fear of being sent back.

maybe they forgot that kids tend to take this type of thing literally . . . maybe they didn’t realize the terror that their words would cause in the heart of my small and vulnerable brother. Or maybe they were just that that cruel. I’m not sure I will ever know.

So these are the two images in my head . . . the young family, eager to add a little girl, and that same family, wanting “out” already with her brother at a young age,  re-evaluating fifteen years later and wishing she hadn’t been a part of the narrative.

I live with this dialectic every day. It reminds me of who I am. But today, I have a new piece to add to the puzzle. Once upon a time, I was wanted.

DELIVERANCE SONG

by Nancy Bryan

I see the first faint streaks of morning
The night was full of bad dreams
I was home again
But nothing had really changed
I feel so empty from all the love I missed
From all that they could not give
God, you can help me to walk again
You give me a reason
(Chorus)
I’m drowning
Hear me cry
No matter how hard I try
The current is too strong
I’ve struggled for so long
Pull me from under the water
I’m drowning in all these fears
There are too many tears
Only your love can save me
Pull me from under the water
It’s easy to believe
What you hear over and over again
I’ve let my heart grow hard
`Cause I could never please them
God, you can see through my shell
Forgive me and make me Your own
I need You
I’m reaching out to You
`Cause You are my only home
(Chorus)

You took my place
When I should have died
You saved me from
A life of lies
You didn’t count the years of sin
And expose me for the fool I’ve been
You released me from my guilty conscience
And You let me have a brand new choice
You helped me forgive people that used me
And forget the times when I was abused
You covered my shame when I was unfaithful
And You took my pain when I was betrayed
You were wounded to make me whole
(Chorus)

I see Your hand
Coming over me
I feel Your power like the rising sun
Shining right through me
Your hand is strong
You’re lifting me
Above the crashing waves
Of the raging sea
And through the roar
Through the howling wind
I hear Your voice reassuring me
You’ve accepted me
I won’t be refused
You will fight for me
Yes, You’ll see me through
And I will be saved
© 1992 Maranatha! Music