Birth of the (m)Other

The end, or a new beginning.

2010-05-06T14:40:00.003-04:00

I've been meaning to make this post for quite a while, but I keep putting it off.

Recently I had a bit of a wake-up call about the public-ness of this blog, and I seriously considered making it private, but I stand behind everything I've ever written here. Fully.

However, I would like a place to post my more recent writings, which are much more of the fiction persuasion. I would love a place to put up my finished short stories for anyone to read who wants to read them, but I worry about privacy and plagiarizing (is any of my writing good enough for anyone to want to copy it? probably not, but I'm not taking chances), and also if I want to publish any of my work someday, I can't have it up in a public place.

So, I am creating a private, by-invite-only fiction blog. I can only invite people whose e-mail addresses I have, so if you want an invitation, please e-mail me (Miranda E Piris @ gmail dot com, no spaces). (Or leave a comment here with your e-mail if you're okay with that.) The only e-mail address I have is my sister's, so if you're not my sister, e-mail me!

If you ask me and your intentions are good, I'll add you to my new blog. Friends, family, well-wishers, I hope to hear from you.

Most likely, this will be my last post on this blog. It had a good run. I'd feel more sad about it, except I'm writing my ass off this year, and I feel AWESOME about that. 75k and going strong!

Cheers.

Three months in

2010-04-15T13:10:00.002-04:00

Well hello!

I haven't posted anything since January, but the writing is still going strong. Earlier this month I did a little retrospective about the writing I've done so far (writing about writing, what a navel-gazer I am). Here it is:

I started this year with a goal of 200,000 words. I was so excited to start. I had no plan for what I was going to write; just trusted myself to writing, that it would come to me.
I am over a quarter of the way toward my goal, and I could not be happier with the transformation that has taken over my life. I feel like writing a thank you note to whoever put me up to this. I'm not sure if I should address it to my past self or to God. I am too modest for the former and not devout enough for the latter.
I spent January writing things for myself, sort of getting into the groove of things with prompts. I ended up writing my first allegory. I hadn't finished a story in years, but I finished that one, and I felt so proud of myself. I felt a newfound confidence in myself. I felt that the 200,000 word goal was doable.
February, I tried my hand at short stories. I started several. I wrote what my sister later told me was called “microfiction.” I wrote scenes. I found that writing fiction was much harder than responding to prompts. It takes more time, more heart, more dedication. More pushing.
March got difficult. My stories, it seemed, had run their course. Pushing plotlines any further seemed futile. I cast about for material and came up short a lot of the time. But I pushed through, and wrote even when I didn't have anything to write about, and milked stories. Fortunately I had my story lottery to lean on, seven randomly picked prompts as seminal points for thousand-word-minimum stories. I got some wonderful material from those, and am still working on them.
Now it is April. Looking back on the past three months and seeing how much I've written (over 50,000 words), I'm in awe of my own abilities. But even more amazing than the word count is how I feel about myself, and what I've learned.
I'm reading The Right to Write by Julia Cameron, and her take on writing really speaks to me. She sees it as a spiritual thing, something you need to do every day just like eating, something that helps you make sense of your life. What I feel about writing does touch upon the spiritual. It has radically changed my life. I want to write through everything. I want to write as therapy. I want to write to understand myself better, my life better. And I am doing that. It has given me more confidence, made me more open and honest about everything. I feel like I added a dimension to myself. Or found a dimension of myself that was lost for a while.
Before I started this writing project, I felt flat, like something was missing from my life. I felt two-dimensional, like a lifeless drawing on a forgotten pad of paper. Writing has helped me jump off the page and live fully.
I'm still in the learning process, of course. I'm still just three months in. I'm learning to craft characters, I'm learning how to follow plots, I'm learning how to tackle fatigue and lack of ideas and my own personal blocks. I'm learning to fight lapses in self esteem.
Most of all I still haven't tackled dealing with an audience. I can swallow my pride and send bits and pieces of my work to my husband and my sister, but letting people read my work is very difficult for me. I'm so afraid of getting shot down. I know my fledgling writing-ego is very fragile yet. I'm working toward it. I know one of these days I'll just have to dive in and let real writers read my stuff. I'm just not ready yet.

On that note, I do plan to post some of my writings (like, real writings) soon. I've got a few pieces of short fiction that have gotten the stamp of approval from Anthony and Aimee, and I feel comfortable putting them out in the world.

I feel awesome.

That is all.

3 weeks in

2010-01-22T12:18:00.001-05:00

I have not been blogging, because I've been writing.

New Years' Resolution numero uno is going very, very well. It's been three weeks now, and I've written every single day. My daily goal is 548 words (that adds up to my 200k goal over the course of the year), and while some days I haven't quite written that many, on most days I write far more. I'm overshooting my goal by about 1500 words already.

The three week mark was significant for me, because my childhood piano teacher told me that if you can do something consistently for three weeks, it becomes a habit. And so it has! It's no longer a matter of "am I going to find the time to write today"-- it's "what am I going to write about today?"

Here's what I wrote today; it seemed vaguely blog-worthy.

What I Want to Write About, Really.

I have felt for a long time now that I have something in my mind worth writing about; it just hasn't come together yet. But there's something there, building. Maybe everyone has this sensation of all of their thoughts, experiences and knowledge sort of stewing together in their minds, which will someday combine perfectly and come out as a work of art. If the novel I have building were a cake, I would be somewhere between the mixing of the batter and the putting it into the oven. Maybe mixing and adding ingredients is what I was doing all along, and now, since I have been writing every day, this is the process of pouring the batter and letting it bake. Maybe I should have used a different metaphor.

Anyway, there are several elements of this creative dish that I would like to have come out in the finished product, so let's brainstorm that. My goal (my dream?) is that in the end, the different elements will be well combined but still retain their own unique flavors, like in any good dish.

These elements are (in no particular chronological order):

Motherhood. There's no way I can keep motherhood out of my writing now that it's such a part of my life. It is who I am now, so it's going to come out in my characters. Even when Jodi Picoult had a 40-year-old female lawyer with no children in one of her books, the woman was still maternal in a way, and ended up a mother in the end. I think the same would happen if I tried to write a childless character. Plus, there are so many funny and poignant and bizarre elements of motherhood and childhood; there's lots to write about there.

Psychology, psychoanalysis, Lacan, abnormal psych, etc. I worry that my brain is just a little rusty on these concepts, but as the past year has shown me through my blog, they're easily conjured. I'm not sure exactly how these things will come out in my writing, but a few things that fascinate me in particular are schizophrenia, and the psychological effects of trauma (both in childhood in adulthood).

The supernatural. I don't particularly believe (or disbelieve) in ghosts, but I still find paranormal stuff interesting. I spend more time than I'd care to admit reading stories and watching shows about paranormal stuff. It's fascinating and it never gets old. I also love horror movies, and I pay specific attention to what is particularly scary about them, to me. Often it's just the suspense. A lot of times when it gets to the super-scary, everyone-in-the-audience-screaming parts, I'll think “Well that was scary, but this happening would've been scarier.” I've sort of got a mental list going of things that would freak me the hell out.

What I'm most interested in doing is trying to combine the psychological element with the supernatural element. What if you thought you were seeing paranormal stuff, but it turned out you were just showing the first symptoms of schizophrenia? What if you were already schizophrenic, but were seeing paranormal stuff and no one believed you? There are lots of avenues to explore along that line between what's in your head and what's real but unexplainable.

I also dabble with thoughts about religion, but I'm not sure I'm well informed enough about religion to write it. Environment is also something to ponder, and I've got an edge on that, since I've lived both in rural Maine and New York City. An interesting thought is that my urban dweller friends are creeped out by the woods, whereas I was fine in the woods but really creeped out by the city until I'd lived here a good long time.

So there you go, Internet viewers. A peek into my process (that sounded dirty). Will I write the Great American novel? Time will tell.

Worthwhile resolutions: 2009 and 2010

2009-12-17T12:29:00.003-05:00

I don't usually start thinking about New Year's resolutions until well after Christmas, but this year I'm starting early.

It seems like 2009 was a crap year for everyone. It certainly had its ups and downs for me. But it's coming to an end, and I have high hopes for 2010. A new decade. A full year with a toddler, not a baby anymore. I'm employed and we are certainly more comfortable financially (not to say we're real comfortable; we've gone from "freaking out" to "okay for the moment").

So let's think about resolutions to make the new year better.

First, let's revisit last year's resolutions. I'll copy-paste:

1. Continue writing.
2. Be more adventurous, less shy, more confident, less timid.
3. Read, if not 50 books, as many books as possible.

Okay, starting with number 3. 50 books was a stretch for someone who regularly reads long-ass novels. But I have read 37 books and am working on the 38th, although whether I'll finish it by the end of the year is questionable (it's Dostoyevsky, nuff said). For those interested in a list of books I read this year, they are here: http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/1846816-miranda?shelf=read-in-2009

I read some good ones. The ones that really stand out for me are Black Boy, Roots, Beloved, and Cold Mountain. Guess I'm a sucker for a long, sad novel.

Resolution Numero Dos really ended up happening, which is kinda surprising. I've become comfortable with this city. As a tutor, I regularly navigate it by myself to get to my students. I'm constantly meeting new people that way. I'm still shy (always will be), but my timidness has really fallen by the wayside, mostly out of necessity due to my job.

I also joined a meet-up group for Brooklyn moms, and have made a couple of good-acquaintances-almost-friends.

And Téa is a social butterfly, so that has forced me to socialize with people on the train, at the playground, in stores, etc. Now that she knows the word "Hi," there is no stopping her. She loves people and most people respond to her in a very positive way.

So that just leaves the first resolution. Keep writing. Cue the "wah-wah" music.

I mean, I haven't stopped writing altogether, so that's a plus. But as you all know (pff, I'm saying "you all" like there are people besides my sister and my husband who read this), I only update this blog occasionally. I update my LJ more frequently, but I don't really consider that real writing. I *barely* consider this blog real writing.

Okay, so I made a start in 2009. For 2010, however, I'm pushing myself just a *teensy* bit more.

On LJ, there is a community called "Get Your Words Out." Basically it forces its members to pledge to write a certain (very high) number of words in a year. Like NaNoWriMo, but a whole year instead of a month. I have pledged to write 200,000 words in 2010. What "counts" encompasses anything creative (fiction, poetry, etc), and essays that are non-school-related.

This is going to be a challenge to me, since writing can't really take priority over being a wife and mother and tutor, but I'd like to try to make it a priority over reading. Despite the challenges, this seems like the perfect year to do this, since I'm not working full time, and I'm not in school.

So, goal one for 2010: Write 200k words.

Hope and despair

2009-12-09T12:52:00.002-05:00

It's been almost a year since I started this blog, and it seems like it's kind of petered out. Have I run out of things to say, or am I holding myself to too high a standard?

I found this community on LJ, which lets you pledge to write a certain word count in a year. The lowest is 100k words in one project. I want to do this. I don't know what I'd write about or even if I'd share my writing with anyone, but I want the practice. I used to be a writer. I want to be a writer again. Maybe I'll just shoot for a short horror story or something.

More on that later, perhaps.

Another horoscope:

"Indignation is one of the most rewarding of emotions," writes Theodore Dalrymple, "as well as one that automatically gives meaning to life . . . There is nothing like irritation to get the juices circulating and the mind working." Of all the ideas that have made me irritable and indignant in recent weeks, this one steams me the most. I disagree so completely that I am practically beside myself with paralyzing rage. And as I plunge my attention further and further into his ridiculous proposal, I feel the tension coursing through my body. I sense my mind becoming swampy, my perceptions distorted. There's a good chance that I am inducing in myself a state of stressed-out stupidity. Please don't follow my example, Aries. It's possible that sour fury could be useful to you at other times, but right now you should avoid it. If you want your intelligence to work at peak efficiency in the coming days, you'll need long stretches of tender, lucid calm.

Totally agree with the quote. Irritation is basically what I run on, as my husband will attest. At times it does give me a lucid attention and a kind of gumption to get things done. But at other times, it does mire me in a "state of stressed-out stupidity." I think lately I have been falling into the latter category more often. Stressed-out stupidity kind of defines my 2009 experience, actually.

So, calm. Yeah. I'll work on that.

Speaking of stress, my sweet, laid back, well-behaved baby has become a toddler. On the one hand, I'm enchanted by this upright, fast-moving, curious little girl with her expressive face and her adorable little "Hi!". On the other hand . . . She's a toddler. With all the trappings: She's easily frustrated, stubborn, and often teething, makes a giant mess, gets into everything that's not nailed down, and has boundless energy. And I continue to worry that I'm not doing right by her. Plus the teething-related sleep deprivation has turned me into a useless zombie.

I've become jealous of everybody who is not me. Several weeks ago, I started writing a post enumerating the many people I am jealous of. Let me copy-paste:

People who are in grad school
People who get married before they have children
Women whose pregnancies were planned
Women whose husbands are excited about having additional children
People who are financially comfortable (not rich, but not struggling)
People who are still in college
Women who had real, traditional weddings
People who own houses
People whose babies sleep through the night

I often wish I could go back in time and have a talk with myself a couple months shy of two years ago. I don't know if I would have come to a different decision about my pregnancy, but it would have been nice to be informed of the repercussions of my decision. Here was my understanding of my choices:

1. Have an abortion, and regret it my entire life.
2. Have a baby, and ultimately be glad I made the choice, but possibly grieve over my life being so changed.

In a nutshell, #2 is correct. I never expected, however, that motherhood itself would come with so many mixed feelings. I thought I would love my baby, take to mothering very well, and have a happy little dyad. I do love my baby. But it's so much more complicated than I could ever have known.

I wish Anthony and I had had more time together. I wish I'd had a proper relationship with him, a proper marriage proposal with a ring, a proper engagement, a proper wedding. A proper honeymoon. I wish we weren't struggling. I wish I could get a full-time job without the headache and expense and worry that comes with finding quality daycare. I wish Anthony could have been happy about finding out I was pregnant. I wish I could have been happy about it. I wish I could have spent my pregnancy excited, reading a hundred baby books, buying a hundred toys and outfits, dreaming about the little bundle of joy to come. Instead I was dirt-poor, worrying about bills, totally indifferent to the bundle of joy and trying not to think about it. And sometimes I even look back on that part of my life with nostalgia, because it's even worse at times, now.

One of my biggest problems is how Téa has impacted my relationship with Anthony. It's just a psychological dynamic that we were totally unprepared for. Whenever she does something to annoy him, I take it personally and I feel like he's annoyed with me, because I made her. And then I feel guilty for ruining his life. Basically, whenever he is unhappy or stressed out (which is all the time), I feel guilty.

Guilt pretty much runs my life, honestly.

I didn't mean to make myself cry, here. I didn't mean to ramble this much.

I guess I do have things to write about.

Almost.

2009-09-11T10:15:00.000-04:00

I don't usually pay much attention to my horoscope, but I was led to this one in sort of a weird way, and it's pretty damn uncanny.

ARIES [March 21–April 19] I don't think I'm being unduly optimistic when I say that you're on the verge of achieving a victory over your bad self. You have been dealing more forthrightly with the lowest aspects of your character and have also become aware of the difference between your out-and-out unregenerate qualities and the unripe aspects of your character that may someday become very beautiful. There's a second sign that you're close to transforming one of the most negative things about you: You have almost figured out the truth about a murky curse that you internalized some time ago. When you identify it, you will know how to banish it forever.

Oh, the look on my face when I read this horoscope. I think I'm going to have to subscribe to this zodiac guy (Rob Breszney). You don't have to know me well to know that I've been battling some demons lately. Let's break it down, shall we?

I don't think I'm being unduly optimistic when I say that you're on the verge of achieving a victory over your bad self.

True. After a bit of soul-searching, discussion, and some hormone shifts, I am feeling a lot better about things.

You have been dealing more forthrightly with the lowest aspects of your character and have also become aware of the difference between your out-and-out unregenerate qualities and the unripe aspects of your character that may someday become very beautiful.

What are the lowest aspects of my character? I suppose this hearkens back to my little essay about my dad, that whole Edwards why-am-I-worth-the-space-I-take-up thing. It's so easy for me to feel very bad about myself, not so much in a self-pitying way, but in a self-berating way. I start feeling useless. And to sum up, I often feel like I'm not making my parents proud, which is one of my biggest motivations in life. I don't know if that's a good motivation to have or not.

Anyway, one of my worst character flaws is that I tend not just to feel like I'm not worthy of my parents' pride, but to feel that I will never and can never be worthy of it. Total uselessness. Total despair.

Moving on to unripe aspects. I hope and pray that I will someday become the woman I'm forever striving to be. Someone successful, secure, happy. Someone worth being proud of. Someone who can tackle things with confidence. And I'm starting to see that a little bit, as far as my job goes. I'm forced to deal with strangers, so that's getting easier. And as I teach more lessons, I'm becoming more confident in myself as a tutor. I can be good at this.

There's a second sign that you're close to transforming one of the most negative things about you: You have almost figured out the truth about a murky curse that you internalized some time ago. When you identify it, you will know how to banish it forever.

That "almost" is a key word here. And I am figuring it out. The more I read books and forums and articles about parenting, the more I think about how I was raised, and how I'm going to do things differently.

I have always felt that my parents did a very good job, and my relationship with them is great. But they weren't perfect; no parents are. I was an extremely sensitive child, and very shy. I only realized this fully when I worked at the after-school program, and realized that no child there, no matter how shy, was as painfully shy as I was as a kid. I found it humiliating to talk to strangers. I turned bright red at the drop of a hat. I was so sensitive to the anger and disappointment of my parents that I'm kind of surprised they ever really had to punish me. My little sister was the button-pusher in the family, and made my parents (especially my dad) angry with no fear. Meanwhile I walked on eggshells to avoid making waves of any kind.

(And here I'm sure my sister will remind me that we did fight with each other, and that obviously made our parents angry, and I most certainly initiated most of those fights. I won't deny that I did my utmost to piss off my sister, which is what I was punished for 90% of the time I had to be punished.)

I was such a sensitive child that I couldn't take a joke or a tease or an off-color comment lightly. I remember just about every negative thing my parents ever said to me, stuff that they've long forgotten.

I remember when my sister was a baby and crying a lot, as babies do, and I said to my mom, "Don't you wish you'd never had her?" (What? I was FOUR.) And she said, "Maybe I wish I'd never had you." This sent me into a fountain of tears, instantly. Probably not the most sensitive thing she could've said to me, but in retrospect she was trying to say "That's not nice, Miranda. What if someone said something like that to you?" What I heard, very clearly, was: "I wish I'd never had you." Years later, when I was still a kid, I reminded my mom of this incident and she said she didn't remember it, and would never have said that to me. But it's burned into my memory.

I cried a lot as a kid. Bedtime was often a source of tears, because I would lay in bed thinking about things, and end up mulling over something that upset me. (I've always been a poor sleeper; as far back as I can remember, it has always taken me an hour or more to fall asleep after going to bed.)

Once when I was a second-grader, I came out to the living room long after bedtime, in tears, and wailed to my parents that I had no best friend. All my friends seemed paired up with each other, and I was the odd one out. My dad, frustrated from many nights in a row of me coming out to the living room with sob-stories, made the grumpy retort: "Oh Miranda, why are you always thinking about things?" Again, the insensitive response of a tired parent, which I understand now that I'm an adult. At the time, I heard "I don't care about your problems, and you've made me angry by bringing them up." Again, etched into my memory forever.

These slips made by my parents were the exception, not the rule, of their parenting. On the whole they were very loving, supportive, everything good parents should be. But it just goes to show how much of an impact words can have on a sensitive child.

It's a lesson for me as a parent. My goal with Téa is to help her to be a more secure child than I was, and a more confident woman than I am.

Nightmares

2009-09-03T11:13:00.002-04:00

My worst dreams are about Téa's skin. People tattooing her without my permission; her skin inexplicably torn and falling off in strips.

When she was born, before I saw her, the doctor told me that she had two "lesions"-- one on her face, and one on her hand. He used the word "lesion." My heart sank and I wondered what kind of disfigured monster I had created.

They showed her to me finally, and she had a beauty mark on her cheek. And a mark on the back of her left hand, that we thought must be a bruise, but it turned out to be a Mongolian spot. A greyish-blue birthmark. I still haven't forgiven that doctor for frightening me like he did.

What strikes fear into my heart is somehow marring this beautiful, perfect girl. I don't let her into the kitchen while I'm cooking. If I'm carrying hot coffee into the living room, I make the widest berth possible around her. I warm up her food and then wait till it's cold again before giving it to her. If she's out of my sight, worst-case scenarios start popping into my mind.

I can't help but think that somehow, someday, something is going to happen to her. I've lived a life of very few tragedies. I keep feeling like I'm due for one. I keep thinking, "I need to enjoy her as much as possible while I can; she may not live to be any older." I try to think how I would cope with it if she died. I read stories about babies her age dying-- I force myself to read them, and yet I can't help but read them with a morbid sort of gluttony, like they're some kind of horrifying pornography. Babies her age can die. They die all the time. They die so easily.

I examine her chubby, perfect body and think, "How easily this could be dead." A sick thrill of fear runs through me. I pray that she'll be spared, that somehow her delicate little body will survive this dangerous world unscathed.

Almost as much as I worry about her dying, I worry that I am doing everything wrong for her. That she'll end up developmentally delayed or autistic because of me. I worry about this every single day, almost constantly. I worry because my 11 month old isn't talking yet. She's not even close to the age where I should worry about her not talking.

She's a very happy child, seemingly intelligent, and does amazing, cute things like dancing, and is learning to clap, and babbles nonstop, and has started nodding while she does it, as if she's very convinced of what she's babbling about. She's incredibly active, and has taken her first steps. She's also very social; she smiles at people on the train and at the playground. She stares at people until they smile back at her. If she spends any time at all with new people, she'll crawl into their laps.

And still I worry. I feel like I'm a terrible mother. I'm actually, for the first time, starting to consider not having another child, because I don't feel good enough. I always thought we'd have another to round out the family, but things are hard enough with one. What makes me think I deserve another?

How I spent my summer vacation

2009-09-01T08:26:00.003-04:00

Summer is quickly coming to an end and we survived. There were ups and downs, as there always are. But most importantly, we survived.

Highlights:

Téa cut two teeth and is currently cutting her third. Teething is hell.
I joined a Brooklyn moms group and actually met some other women. Slightly awkward since they were all about 10 years older than me and much wealthier, but socializing was still refreshing.
I found a $50 bill on the ground.
We went to Maine for a week. Téa and I went up alone on a midnight-to-8am bus ride, and she was very well behaved. It was absolutely wonderful to be around my family. However,
I did not get invited to the wedding of one of my high school friends. There's been some drama between us, but it's long past, or so I thought. It hurt a lot, because EVERYONE else was invited and it would've been so great to see everyone again. I'm still bitter about that.
The week after we went to Maine was one of the worst weeks I've had since Téa was born. I was ridiculously depressed and anxious. I'm still fighting off the depression, and I'm starting to wonder if it isn't PPD.
The August heat wave was god-awful. Next summer we are getting AC, I don't care what it costs. I refuse to spend any more time in a humid 90-degree apartment with a sticky, grumpy child.
One of the root causes of that horrible week was me fretting about starting work. Starting a new job always causes me ridiculous levels of anxiety; I hate doing things when I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing. And there was just no alleviating the anxiety until I had my first lesson with a student. I've now taught four lessons, and I feel completely better about it. It's actually fun, something I look forward to. It's nice to get out of the house.
The day before yesterday, Téa took her first steps. Three in a row. She hasn't repeated it since, but she has been practicing standing up all on her own, which is very cute. Most of the time she'll stand up just so she can dance. She loves dancing, and actually has rhythm, which amazes us.
Anthony started a part-time job. It's only 4 to 6 hours a week; on Wednesdays and Thursdays he goes to work early so he can go to his second job afterward, and comes home late. Both of us working part-time is great for our financial situation, but those long days are rough. Mothers were not meant to stay home alone with babies day in and day out with no friends or family. You know those stories of depressed moms who kill their children? Andrea Yates? Yeah, that all makes sense to me now.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to kill my baby, no matter how tempting it sometimes is. But there are times when I REALLY REALLY need a break, and there's no break in sight. My mom is hundreds of miles away. My best friends live several states away. My in-laws... let's not go there. But there is no help. And when Téa is teething, and it's hot, and I can't stop her crying, and I haven't showered in days, and it's been almost a year since I had a stretch of sleep more than a few hours... You see where I'm going with this. Sometimes (OFTEN) I think Anthony can't possibly appreciate what I do and how insane it is driving me.

And that's a whole other rant I don't want to get into.

Basically Téa's at that tough age where she's getting around like a toddler, but there's no communicating with her. I've heard this described as "legs without brains." I know toddlerhood marks the beginning of a tough stage of meltdowns and defiance, but I look forward to being able to communicate somewhat.

Anyway, like I said, we survived. And the summer heat has thankfully abated. We'll get into our groove, hopefully.

Turning a corner

2009-05-11T09:29:00.003-04:00

I've been busy lately; no spare moment to write and no spare thought in my head to write about.

There's been a very marked change of mood in my little family unit. Anthony finished the last class he needed for his undergraduate degree. No word yet on what his grade was, but he knows that he passed. I didn't quite realize how much that class was hanging over his head (and my head too) until he finished it. He's suddenly much happier, more confident, more spontaneous.

One thing that was causing me some grief was his involvement in doing stuff for the baby. I'd ask him to do a simple thing like feed her some cereal, and he'd grumble about it. I haven't yet learned to ignore the grumbling. The other night I just started feeding her myself, and he grumbled at me for not asking him to do it. I told him I didn't want to fight about it, and that annoyed him.

Last night I made cereal for the baby, and very carefully asked him if he wanted to feed her. "Anthony, I'm just asking in case you want to do it, but if you don't, you don't have to. Would you like to feed the baby?"

He called me on tiptoeing around him. "Why do you have to ask me like that?" he said.

I sighed. "I just don't want to fight. How should I ask you so you don't get irritated with me?"

"Just say, 'Anthony, feed the baby.'"

I stuttered a bit, trying to find a way to tell him that two months ago, asking like that would've annoyed the hell out of him, but I decided not to get into it. "Ok, fine, just feed the baby."

And he did feed her. And he didn't get mad at her suppertime antics. And he helped me read to her before bed. I'm still trying to get used to this non-stressed out Anthony.

The other factor that has changed the mood for us is how my job training is going.

I had a mini-meltdown the week after session III; I got a bit overwhelmed. The session didn't go quite as well for me as I had hoped. I thought I prepared very thoroughly, but it turned out that I missed a section, and had to do a mock-tutoring session on the section I missed. I lost points on preparedness and a couple other things which I should really have had in the bag. I suddenly started to worry about the possibility of not getting the job. All that work, all that time invested, and so many of my friends and family knew about it--- to not get the job would be humiliating.

So I was worried about the job in general, and then on Thursday (two days before Session IV), I was overwhelmed by the amount of work I still had to do. It's tricky trying to get all the homework done in time. I basically have to work through every nap Téa takes, and then wait for Anthony to get home to get the bulk of it done. Then I'm still interrupted by having to feed her, change her, put her to bed. By the time 9:00 rolls around and she's out for the night, I'm often too tired to get much accomplished.

So, Thursday was upon me, I still had hours of work to get done, and I was tempted to just give up on the whole thing. Fortunately, I didn't.

Session IV went much better. I was well prepared, I had more energy; I felt better about it. At the beginning of the session I finally outed myself about being a mother. The trainer was thrilled and asked me all about the baby; apparently he wants children someday but his wife doesn't. Opening up about my family life made me feel a little more comfortable, and my grades for the session were much better than the week before. The next session is the test, and I feel confident that I can pass it.

I came out of the session feeling great. Anthony met up with me in Manhattan and we took the train to Prospect Park in Brooklyn. I wasn't expecting much, because it's the city, but it's actually a really beautiful park. When you're in the middle of it, all you can see is a vast grassy field and a little wooded area, and there's no sign of still being in Brooklyn-- no buildings in sight, no traffic noise. Téa really enjoyed herself. She was smiling and babbling to herself as we wheeled her around. She attracts quite a lot of attention whenever we're out. I sat her down in the grass, which was a new experience for her. She looked sort of bewildered; it was very cute. People walking by actually stopped to look at her. I really wish we'd had a camera on us. I don't know what I did to deserve such a sweet, beautiful little girl, but I am so proud to have her.

I keep digressing from the point, which is that we're happy. I think it's going to be a good summer for the three of us.

More adventures of identity

2009-04-23T17:10:00.000-04:00

It's been a busy month.

A few weeks ago I was feeling a little lonesome and bored, so my friend/former roommate decided to come pick me up and take me back to Massachusetts. We lived together for a year and worked together for three years before Téa was born, so going back up with her was sort of a blast from the past. I hadn't been to Mass since November.

It was great seeing all the kids and parents again. It sort of felt like I had never left. But last time I was there I had a tiny sleeping newborn, and this time I had a smiling, wriggly little chub-a-lub. She crawled around on the floor and hammed it up for some of the parents. I'm so proud of her.

A lot of memories welled to the surface, both good and bad ones. A bit of college nostalgia. I'll have to dedicate a future entry to that topic.

Honestly I've had this half-written entry open in a tab on my browser for many days now, but I've been hemming and hawing about what to write about, exactly. My trip to Massachusetts was very significant for me, but it was a bit overshadowed by Big Job Happenings.

Last Saturday I started the training for a job I'm applying for. To recap: I've had to do a phone interview, an in-person interview, and two very long standardized tests to make it this far. After the training (which is three more Saturdays with a whole lot of homework in between), I'll have to pass yet another test to know if I get hired.

I've decided not to name the company I'm applying to, by the way; most of my friends and family know what it is already, and if you want to know, ask. But I'm not sure that it's quite appropriate to make it public, especially since I'm not yet hired. In short, it's a tutoring job for a very well-known company.

I was very nervous but excited about the training. Nervous because of my fear of the unknown (meeting new people in a new environment, and having to introduce myself to them-- eek!), and excited because I was SO ready to get out and do something challenging and intellectually stimulating again. I once again left the baby in Anthony's capable hands and took the train to Manhattan.

I was the first to arrive (score!), and chatted with the trainer a bit. He was younger than I expected, and very nice, which was reassuring. I felt confident. There were only three other people in the training, which was also reassuring; I function much better in small groups. The training, and the job, seem like they'll be challenging, but doable. I just can't express how proud I am to be finally working toward a job that I can be proud of, that brings in a considerable amount of bank, and that I think I can be good at. I've been working on the training homework every day, since there's so little time in the day to spare for it (I have to wait till Téa's napping or in bed for the night, so I'm not interrupted by her every 2 minutes). I'm so excited!

An oddly refreshing detail of the training: I didn't mention Téa the entire time. I mentioned Anthony, but nothing about being a mother. No one there knows that I am a mother, which is weird, but also sort of nice in a way. I can just be myself for once, instead of Téa's mom, a half of a dyad. I'm sure I'll mention her at some point just in small talk, but for now I'm enjoying this thing that I used to take for granted, but that now I rather miss: Living my OWN life, as an individual.

A mini-rant and adventures in mom-identity

2009-03-31T12:00:00.000-04:00

I was going to write an entry complaining about the peripheral men in my life, but I'm not sure it would do any good for anybody. Let it just be known that the following annoy me:

Men (both former love interests and not) who claimed to want to be my friends, and were in fact good friends of mine, until I got pregnant. There are so-called "friends" that I literally have not heard from since they found out I was having a baby, over a year ago. And others I hear from on occasion but who really haven't talked to me much since then.
There are a few older married men whom I idly talk to online (I frequent yahoo chat, for some stupid reason). These are men in their 40s who have become bored with their wives and think that even though they are fat and bald, young women like me are going to be inexplicably drawn to them and flirt with them. Here's a hint: No. Even before I was happily married, I was never interested in older men.
Men (again, from yahoo chat, sometimes they also fall into category 2) who try to tell me that I married/had a baby too young and my marriage is going to fail, and/or my life will no longer be fulfilling. I don't even feel the need to justify my decisions here.

Okay, that kind of ended up being a rant regardless, but trust me, it was only a fraction of the rant I gave Anthony the other night. I should clarify that I was ranting to him about other people; he's exempt from my "men suck" rants.

Anyway, I wanted to write about my Sunday, which was a novel experience for me. I had to go to Manhattan to take a test for the job I may-or-may-not have. The test was about 4 hours long, so I was obligated to leave the baby with Anthony for longer than I ever have before. He went to Manhattan with me to find the place, and I had time to get some last-minute coffee and feed the baby before I went to the test center. The test started around 10. At noon I had a break, called home, baby was sleeping and all was well. I left the place around quarter to 2, and purposefully did not call home before hopping on the train. If the baby was upset, I didn't want to know. I called when I got off the train, a few blocks from home, and Anthony was noticably less chipper than when I called the first time. Téa had cried herself to sleep, after eating a decent amount of cereal. Not a huge deal; she cries when I'm home as well. When I got home, she woke up, looked at me, and calmly (not ravenously, as I expected) ate when I offered her the boob. She wasn't traumatized and she didn't starve. All in all it went quite well.

What struck me most about the whole experience was how surreal it was to be out and about without the baby. While interacting with and looking at the people around me, I kept thinking: "No one here knows I'm a mom." My motherhood has become such a part of my identity, I almost didn't know what to do with myself without it. I felt vulnerable, but free at the same time. I kept being afraid that someone would hit on me. This wasn't just me being conceited; before I got pregnant (and even while I was pregnant, oddly enough), I got hit on a lot. Of course, with a squirmy baby strapped to me, men pretty much avoid me. But without her there, I felt unprotected-- to a stranger, I was just a young, single woman alone in the city. Fortunately I kept my head down enough so that no one talked to me.

The freedom felt nice. I felt so light, figuratively and literally: It's much easier to get around without 15lbs of baby and however much of her stuff I've got to carry. I kept feeling like I was leaving something behind, and looked back at my train seat as I got up at my stop: "What am I forgetting? Oh right, I don't have Téa with me. I just brought my purse."

Yesterday Anthony worked from home, and I left the baby with him while I went to do laundry. I couldn't believe how much easier that was without the baby! Just walking there and back with the bags of laundry in my cart was easier. I could freely move laundry in and out of the machines without the obstacle of the baby strapped to my chest. It went so much faster and I didn't feel like my arms were going to fall off when I got home. I think I need to do laundry sans-Téa from now on (until she can walk, I guess).

Lastly, I just got my test results back. I gotta retake part of it. Didn't do too shabbily though, for my circumstances. I couldn't study for it until it was almost too late, and got VERY little sleep the night before. Guess who's to blame for both those things? Hint: she's teething and I'm about to change her dirty little butt.

Books: My anti-drug.

2009-03-24T11:50:00.002-04:00

I feel this blog may become more book-oriented than Lacan-oriented, because I'm a total bibliophile lately, but I think I'm okay with that.

I just finished Roots: The Saga of an American Family, which gave me more nightmares than any book I've read to date. I dreamed about being in the dark hold of the ship, scared and sick. That part of the book horrified me the most. I knew that Kunta Kinte was going to be kidnapped, but the first 150 pages detailing his life in Africa sort of lulled me into a false sense of security. Then out of nowhere he gets beaten and chained and taken to America, never to see his family again.

I'm sure anything I could say about Roots has been said before, but nevertheless, I have now read it. It didn't tell me anything I hadn't learned before in history classes, but it definitely made it more real.

I wanted to get into some Dickens, whom I've never read before, but after Roots I can't bring myself to read white literature right away. So I decided to read Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwidge Danticat, which is a novel written by a 16 year old Haitian girl. It caught my eye at Barnes and Noble, for two reasons. One, because it was in the Oprah's Book Club section, which I'm not ashamed to admit liking. Oprah chooses good books, damn it. I read many of them before they were picked by her (The Good Earth, East of Eden, Anna Karenina, to name a few), and consider most of her picks to be really worthwhile works of literature. I gotta respect anyone who can get Midwestern housewives to read Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Toni Morrison.

Anyway, the second reason it caught my eye was because it was about Haiti. I've been following this blog about a rescue center in Haiti, which takes in babies and children who are sick, malnourished or injured, and provides care until they are well enough to go home. The pictures of children with kwashiorkor are particularly disturbing, with their swollen faces and legs and empty eyes. It stuns me to see toddlers much older than Téa that weigh far less. If I had money to donate to the rescue center, I would.

Despite having only barely started reading the new book, I had a dream about it (sort of) last night. I dreamed I was in, not Haiti, but Jamaica, and I was being given a tour of this wealthy white person's apartment, which was on the top floor of a really rickety old building, the bottom floors of which were occupied by native Jamaicans. The wealthy apartment was really beautiful, but the building had such a bad foundation that it wasn't level; the whole building listed to one side. I was thinking that it was a great apartment, but I'd be afraid to live in it; the building seemed like it was just about to topple over.

I'm sure that means something, but I haven't felt like interpreting dreams lately.

I should really write more often. It's difficult to find that time when three things miraculously align: I feel like writing, I have something to write about, and I have time to do it. I'd blame the baby, but who am I kidding? It's always been like this! I guess I'd rather have the missing factor be "time to do it" rather than "something to write about." So often in college I'd feel like writing for myself and have all the free time in the world, but my mind was a blank.

What dreams may instill

2009-03-11T11:19:00.003-04:00

So I guess a new post is in order, to keep people from freaking out about me. My husband and my sister made me feel a lot better about life after they read my last entry.

What also helped was a dream I had Friday night. I dreamed that I went to my interview, and it wasn't a job interview, it was a college interview, for an alternative college like Hampshire. I didn't tell the girl interviewing me that I had been to Hampshire already, cause I guess I wanted to start my BA over again. The interview was really free-form; basically she didn't ask any questions, just sat there and waited for me to talk, like a Lacanian psychoanalyst. After a long period of silence, she told me the interview was over and she'd get back to me (but I knew I'd done poorly; I was expected to just talk without being asked to). I was not discouraged; I was angry! I gave her a piece of my mind, letting her know that not only had I done interviews for an alternative school, and done them a hell of a lot better than she was doing, I had graduated from an alternative school, and did really well there. I told her that her interview style was going to filter out a lot of really good students who just weren't big talkers, and she should be more inclusive of shy people.

I woke up feeling validated and confident. The weather on Saturday helped a lot, too. It was beautiful, sunny and warm. I dressed in my new suit and a pair of heels and we set off to Astoria for my interview (Anthony and the baby came along). The feeling of confidence from my dream stayed with me. The interview went really well. The woman interviewing me was very nice, and really only asked me a couple of questions (which I answered with no hesitation, since I had practiced what I would say beforehand) before telling me about the next step in the process. I start training at the end of the month. She also said that usually she asks more questions, but I seemed so qualified that she didn't need to bother. So that was a nice little confidence boost.

We celebrated by going straight to Manhattan, to check out Barnes and Noble, walk around a bit, and eat some Indian food, which I've been craving for months. I really gotta learn how to make that stuff, cause I'm still craving it.

Thinking over my dream again, I realize that it had another meaning for me, outside of giving me some much-needed confidence. It's very telling that in the dream I was interviewing to go back to college. Lately I've been feeling very nostalgic about my college days. I know that makes it sound like college was many moons ago, and it wasn't really. A mere two years ago, I was still working on my Div III (read: thesis, for those who didn't attend Hampshire). But it certainly was in another life, or another chapter of my life. And sometimes I miss those days.

This nostalgia annoys me in some ways, because I know it wasn't as fun at the time as it seems like it was looking back on it. I had a lot of fun in college, but I spent just as much time being miserable. I feel like I started college off on the wrong foot, and did a lot of things I wish I hadn't, and didn't do a lot of things I wish I had. I wish I'd been more involved in activities and less involved in relationships. I had my heart broken my first semester, and spent the rest of my college career breaking other people's hearts. I wish I'd had the balls to take up blacksmithing or study abroad or, I don't know, a million other things.

Things I did do in college that I am proud of:

Had really good working relationships with several different professors, and learned LOTS from them.
Wrote a Div III, among other things, that I am really proud of, even to this day.
TAed a couple of classes. I even led a class one day when the professor was gone. ME LEADING A CLASS, HOLY CRAP. I also gave a lesson on Lacan's graph of desire, and did a damn good job of it.
Made attempts to explore my spirituality. I went to meditation groups a few times, studied Buddhism, and attended a Buddism convention.
Got into piercing/tattoo culture. At one time I really had a lot of piercings, most of which I have since taken out. I sometimes miss all the money I spent on piercings that I later removed, and often I miss the piercings themselves. I regret nothing about getting them, though.
Started working at Capacidad. At first I hated that job, and had no f-ing clue what I was doing. But it grew on me and I ended up staying there for almost three years. I worked there until the day before I went into labor. I came back to visit several times with Téa. I miss that job a lot.
Worked at the Social Science office for about three years. I cannot tell you how many hours I spent at the copier, doing the bidding of the faculty. I learned a lot about the S.S. department though, and got to listen in on a lot of gossip.
Kept a journal basically the whole way through college.
Attended a few meetings of a feminist group of some kind, I forget the name of it. But I got to learn about cloth pads and Diva cups and all sorts of neat stuff. Nuff said on that, lest I delve into TMI.

There's probably more that I'm not remembering, but all in all, that's a lot to be proud of. Still though, part of me does wish I could start all over. I'm proud of the things I did academically, but not so much socially. I think I could have done a lot better if not for the asshole who broke my tender freshman heart my first semester, but that's a story I'd rather not tell.

This is not to say that I'm unhappy with my current life. I'm glad I'm married to Anthony and very glad, despite the various inconveniences, that I had my daughter. Even though she's teething right now, which I know is going to be trying.

I'll end this entry with a note about my renewed zest for reading. I finished Name All the Animals and Love in the Time of Cholera, which I absolutely hated the ending of, and Anthony laughed at my ranting about it. After that I had to read Jane Austen's Persuasion, because although good ole Jane can be dry, at least her endings are always extremely satisfying. I felt much better at the end of Persuasion when all the loose ends were tied up nicely, although slightly predictably. And then I read The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, which I've had hanging around since we inexplicably found it on the shelf at Capacidad. It was nice and readable and short. A good little break before the book I'm now tackling, Roots by Alex Haley, a 700-page bohemoth which has been sitting in its intimidating, dense way for months. I'm 30 pages in. So far so good. This should consume the next 2-3 weeks of my life.

So that's where I stand on my New Year's Resolution of reading. I'm keeping track of what I read on goodreads.com. One of my little reading goals is to read more of Time's 100 best English-language novels from 1923 to present. I've read 21 of them, which isn't too bad. Roots isn't on there though, so I guess that goal is on hold for the moment.

Anyway, I should sum up so I have a little time to read before the baby wakes up. I'm a little annoyed that my blog entries of late have deviated from Lacanian theory and become more tl;dr about my life, but oh well. I'm going with it.

Breaking down

2009-03-06T13:02:00.000-05:00

I keep starting entries, then waiting so long to finish them that they become outdated.

I had a phone interview this week that went well. An in-person interview tomorrow. It seems like a nice part-time job, something I can do evenings and weekends so we don't have to put the baby in daycare. And a job that I have the right experience for, that I could probably be good at.

So why am I so down?

I've had a pit of dread in my belly all week, one that's totally out of proportion to the normal anxiety about a job interview. I haven't felt this awful since I found out I was pregnant.

Well no, that's not true. I felt this awful throughout my pregnancy. I felt awful during those sleep-deprived, lonely first 6 weeks of Téa's life. But certainly more awful now than in recent months.

Not only am I nervous about the interview itself, I have mixed feelings about actually getting a job. First of all, my social anxiety is really getting out of control. Living here has been scary for me since day one, but it seems my agoraphobia is growing by the day. I can't bear to go outside without Anthony, even to do mundane things that I've done before-- going for a walk, picking up some groceries. Even walking to the damn train station to meet him takes some summoning up of courage.

I recently realized that other people do not live like this. And that worries me. I wasn't always like this. What the hell is wrong with me? My hands are shaking as I type.

My second fear about having a job, closely tied to the first: Being away from Téa. It's not that I fear for her welfare; I'm sure Anthony can handle being alone with her. It just feels unnatural that I should be away from her. It feels unnatural to try to feed her from a bottle, as we've had to practice doing lately (she's not taking it well). And I'm still not over the disappointment of finding out my freezer supply of milk is useless, because I'm pretty sure my milk has excess lipase, which makes it curdle really fast unless I scald it, which I haven't been doing. It all just feels wrong to do, when I can just pick her up and nurse her. I don't think she eats just because she's hungry; she wants food AND comfort, which a bottle just can't provide.

I just want to stay home with the baby, although my constant dread has been affecting even that part of my life. I feel like I haven't been a good mother lately. I take care of all her needs, of course, but I feel like I don't know what I'm doing. Do I play with her enough? Do I play with her in the right ways? Do I read to her enough? Should I hold her more? Should I talk to her more? I often worry that she's going to end up autistic or poorly socialized because of me. I know she loves going outside and looking at stuff, but I can't bring myself to take her out every day.

I used to clean the house everyday, but now I don't even do that except on weekends. I force myself to make dinner, because I don't want Anthony to spend money on take-out food all the time. My energy is gone. All I ever want to do is sit and read.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I feel embarrassed about having written this all out, knowing who's going to read it and the reactions I'll probably get, but it all had to be said. Something has got to give here, because this just doesn't feel right.

The ineffable

2009-02-19T11:00:00.000-05:00

My new preoccupation has become ghost stories. Not the fictional kind; the ones that I like are (or at least claim to be) real personal accounts of supernatural goings-on. Everything from living in haunted houses to seeing weird stuff on the road to Ouija board phenomena. The stuff that really enthralls me is of a religious nature, which is telling.

I think I'm starting to get into one of those periods of my life where I feel the empty spot where religion could be. I spend most of my life happily not thinking about the Big Questions-- why we're here, the purpose of my existence, whether I'm living a good life and what will happen if I die. But every now and then they start to haunt me and I get a hankering to believe in something, anything. And lately things have all been connecting in my head.

Time for bullet points!

I'm reading Name all the Animals by Alison Smith, a fictionalized memoir of a girl growing up in a very Catholic environment. She wrote that during her childhood, up until her brother died, Jesus was as real a person to her as her parents, and would talk to her. She also writes about praying to a statue of Mary. Sometimes I really wish I had someone or something to pray to. The thought ran through my head the other day that had I grown up in such an environment, I would probably be an exceptional Catholic.
I haven't had any real supernatural experiences, except for playing around with a Ouija board with my best friend when we were 12 or so. We spent a summer talking to this "good" spirit named Nick and a "bad" spirit named 6. These two spirits were at war with each other and would battle over who was speaking to us through the board. One time the planchette was moving around wildly and then flipped over quite violently. I asked my friend why she did that, and she immediately denied it, saying she thought I did it. I don't remember feeling especially frightened through any of it. I'm not sure either of us really believed what was going on, although we also knew we weren''t moving the thing ourselves.
The only other thing close to a supernatural experience I've had was when my family and I were staying at a hotel at Disneyworld, and as we were all drifting off to sleep I felt a very distinct tapping on my forehead, like someone was tapping with their finger. Three firm taps. That also didn't frighten me, although it was surprising.
Reading scary stories tends to freak me out a lot in real life, because despite being nonchalant about the Ouija board when I was twelve, I am a big huge baby when it comes to ghosties and such. So the other night when Anthony and I were laying in bed talking and suddenly the staircase motion detector light came on, I freaked and he ended up going to make sure no one was out there, wielding the knife on his Leatherman.
The next night, we were hanging out in the living room when we heard a noise coming from a plastic shopping bag that was in the middle of the floor (we'd picked up a couple of things earlier and just left it there). I dunno if it was the bag settling or a bug got into it or what, but again I freaked out and Anthony went and stomped it and it stopped making noise. Bottom line: I am SUCH a baby. I think if anything ghostly were to actually happen, I would wet myself and hide under the covers crying for the rest of my life.
I know I'm not using these bullet points correctly but I don't care.

Do I believe most of the stories I read? Yes, yes I do. I don't have any theories about ghosts. However, I do not share my husband's belief that when you die, that's it and you're dead. I think some part of us is eternal. I've dabbled with beliefs about reincarnation and spirits, but really I don't know what to believe. I always thought I'd end up a Buddhist, but I studied Buddhism pretty heavily during my last year of college and it just wasn't compelling.

One of the main reasons I do believe in life after death is my unwavering belief that my grandfather (who died of emphysema several years ago) and my aunt Sam (who died of an aneurism when she was 19) are watching over me. There's no reason or logic behind that belief, and sometimes I feel a little foolish admitting to it, but it's just a feeling I have, almost a hunch.

One January when we were both in college, my sister and I were driving down to Massachusetts in my car. I was going to drop her off at her school on the way to mine (this was at the end of winter break). It was going to be a long trip, so I let her drive first, because I knew how to navigate better once we got into Mass. It was snowing lightly when we left the house, but nothing we were too concerned about.

When we hit the Portland area, the snow had turned into freezing rain. It was eerie. It seemed like it was just rain and the road was just wet, except that ice kept forming on the windshield, and we kept passing cars that had slid off the road and hit the guard rail. I want to say we saw 3 or 4 cars off the road in a 20 or 30 mile stretch. I started to get a little worried, because my sister didn't have a lot of experience driving in bad conditions. I told her to pull off at the next rest area, and she did.

Except, the car slid on the ice on the way into the rest area and ended up smacking headlong into a curb. Long story short, the car was damaged, I didn't know exactly how badly, but certainly didn't want to continue on to Mass, so we turned around and went home.

My mother was so happy to see us get back home safe. She said she had a bad feeling about us making the trip that day, and prayed to Aunt Sam and Grampa to protect us. She took our minor accident as a sign that they were watching over us, keeping us safe from what could've been a worse accident (the ice storm continued on in Massachusetts, so we would've been driving through it the whole way).

Later I was annoyed at my "guardian angels" because it seemed like the accident was going to cost me a lot of money. The repairs cost 950 bucks and my deductible was $500, a whole lot of money I didn't have. As it turned out, the estimate by the insurance company ended up being $1500, so they sent me a check for $1000. I came out of that accident with 50 extra bucks.

I think I've strayed from my point, and also run out of things to say. If any of you (either people I know who read the blog or anonymice who happen to run into it) have any ghostly, supernatural, or related stories to share, please do!

Fatherhood from a mother's perspective.

2009-02-17T10:15:00.000-05:00

I've been watching a lot of the A&E show Intervention, and sort of psychoanalyzing as I watch. A lot of factors in the addicts' lives repeat. Almost all the addicted women were molested or raped, usually as children. A lot of them had absent or weak fathers, and try in their adult lives to make up for this by dating much older men. Of course, all I can think of when I watch this show is Téa. I've made Anthony re-watch a few episodes with me to warn him about how NOT to be a father.

One particularly disturbing episode featured a girl who couldn't swallow. She had a feeding tube put directly into her stomach as a teenager, because she just stopped eating. She said she experienced massive fear and panic when she put food in her mouth, because as a child she was forced to perform oral sex on a man. Really fascinating how trauma shows up in the body.

The father figure is a huge part of Lacanian theory. The symbolic father (which is not necessarily the biological father) is crucial in a child's psychological development. The symbolic father is whoever or whatever becomes the Name-of-the-Father metaphor, which disrupts the mother-child dyad. I've written about this dyad in other entries; the child desperately trying to be what the mother desires, and the mother sort of just letting that happen, maybe hoping that her desire can or will be fulfilled by the child (again, all this is unconscious).

"In French, 'Name' and 'No' are almost the same word (nom/non), and so 'Name of the Father' becomes 'No of the Father.' This 'no' is a prohibition-- no, you cannot become (the mother's desire). In order for the child to function in the symbolic register, of society's laws and symbols, the fantasy of becoming the complement to the mother's lack cannot be maintained."

The Name of the Father is Lacan's take on symbolic castration, which Freud wrote about. The result of this is the child coming into the symbolic register, which is basically the world of language and the laws of society, and becoming a "desiring subject." This is also the beginning of the unconscious, which is a whole other can of worms.

When the child becomes a subject of desire, she also takes on a structure-- one of three: neurotic, psychotic, and perverted. These are not psychopathological; everyone fits into one of these three structures. They have nothing to do with mental illness or pedophilia. "Structures are a way of organizing the subject's discourse, conscious and unconscious experiences, and the way one experiences one's own body" (quoted from my thesis).

I'll write more about the neurotic and psychotic structures at some point, because they are fascinating. The structures always struck me as the most interesting and disturbing part of Lacanian theory.

The law of the father must come through the mother. Sometimes the mother does not let the Name of the Father get through clearly, or at all. When the mother completely blocks the Name of the Father, the child ends up with a psychotic structure. When the mother lets it through but dismisses its importance, the child ends up in the perverted structure.

"The mother and child have a pact, essentially, that they are outside the law-- cultural prohibitions do not apply to them. The pervert knows what's right and wrong, but she does not live by these rules." (from my thesis, again)

A lot of the male addicts on Intervention really seemed like they must be in the perverted structure. They often lacked a father figure and were spoiled by their mothers. I always feared that if I had a son (this structure most often happens in boys), I would end up having this kind of "we're above the law" pact with him. Actually, when I had my big plans to write a novel last year (pre-Téa), I was going to write about a woman who gives birth to a son, and ends up with that kind of relationship with him.

Fathers are so important. I feared for a while about what kind of father Anthony would be. His own dad was abusive, absent when he should have been present, and only present in the most damaging ways. Anthony admitted to me the other day that he was afraid he'd end up being the kind of dad his father was. If that were to happen (I told him), I would do what his mother failed to do, and leave.

I think getting that fear off his chest was a relief for him, though, because lately he's been bonding with the baby much more than before. I think men find babies a little difficult because they are so mommy-centered, especially breastfeeding babies. Téa has become my heart and soul, and I wouldn't be surprised if Anthony's felt a little left out. But lately he's been playing with her, talking to her, dancing with her (which is adorable). He's taking his place as the third figure in our little Oedipal world.

Which is great for me, because finally I can take a shower or a nap without being interrupted by her where-did-mommy-go screams.

True Love: Part II

2009-01-31T14:02:00.001-05:00

Honest love, which is characteristic of noble people, whether they be rich or poor, is not generated by desire, like the other, but by reason. It has as its main goal the transformation of oneself into the object of one's love, with a desire that the loved onebe converted into oneself, so that the two may become one or four....
And as this transformation can only take place on a spiritual plane, so in this kind of love, the principal part is played by the "spiritual" senses, those of sight and hearing and, above all, because it is closest to the spiritual, the imagination. But, in truth, as it is the lover's wish to achieve a corporeal union besides the spiritual one, in order to effect a total identification with the beloved, and since this corporeal unity can never be attained, because it is not possible for human bodies to be physically merged into one another, the lover can never achieve this longing of his, and so will never satisfy his desire. --Tullia D'Aragona (1510-1556)

I read and reread this Tullia D'Aragona quote (note to self: read up on this woman), trying to fit her ideas together with Lacan. "Honest love" sounded a lot like the love of the subject for the Other. But perhaps it is something different-- the "transformation" driven by love instead of desire.

Anthony proposed to me on the Manhattan side of the Williamsburg Bridge, looking out over the water in East River Park. It was a warm July night, I was 6 months pregnant and severely creeped out by the area. We had walked through an eerily quiet area of projects to get there, and behind us was a poorly lit playground. We sat on a bench facing the water and talked. I think we were arguing about something, but I don't remember exactly what. He started telling me how much I meant to him (perhaps I had accused him of not loving me enough; give me a break, I was six months pregnant). I turned around to scan the playground; I was sure there was some evil hobo preparing to spring out at us with a knife. As I was turning back to face him, I heard him say "Will you marry me?"

I whipped around to look at him and he was down on one knee. My thoughts fumbled for a second. I wanted to give him crap for popping the question here, because I was still afraid of the imaginary hobos. But I figured it would probably be good to give the standard answer to the standard question, so that we could cherish the memory forever and so forth. "Yes, of course I will." We hugged, kissed, had our little squee about being engaged, and got the hell out of there.

I had been engaged before, and interestingly, that proposal was far more "romantic." It was on top of a mountain in early fall, and the ring was lovely. But that was for all the wrong reasons and the relationship subsequently went downhill faster than a concrete block on wheels.

Anthony and I have been married for a month and a half now, and I think I love him more every day. The most annoying thing about him is that I can't stay annoyed with him. Even when I go to bed irritated by him, I end up forgetting and snuggling with him. He makes me happy.

I was thinking, too, (and I forget if I've written about this before) about how I no longer have to perform. A few weeks ago we were walking down Myrtle Ave, and walked by a teenage girl wedged between two boys her age. I heard that flirtatious tone to her voice. That cutesy persona that I know so well. Boys that age (and even older) fall for that persona. That carefree, flirty, slightly aloof mannerism is completely calculated. I used to do it. I remember well walking home from high school with two or three guy friends, keeping them at arm's length but hopelessly in love with me. An attention-getting performance. I see women younger than me do this with new boyfriends, as well. I feel so freed; I no longer have to perform in any way.

Reminds me of this song:

I'm so tired
Of playing
Playing with this bow and arrow
Gonna give my heart away
Leave it to the other girls to play
Cause I've been a temptress too long
--Portishead, "Glory Box"

I'm sure I probably did "the performance" with Anthony when we were first together, but I don't remember it. Possibly I didn't need to do it, because he was pretty well smitten to begin with. So was I. I still am.

Just for the sake of mushyness (hey, it's almost V-day after all) I'm going to end with a list of things Anthony does that I love.

Whenever he goes to the store, he feeds my candy addiction by picking up a Butterfinger or a bag of gummy peach rings-- my favorites.
He wipes the counter and stovetop after washing dishes. He actually does this more often than I do and gives me crap for not doing it.
He gives me a kiss every day when he gets home from work.
He cuddles with me every night. Last night he even protested when I pulled out a book in bed, because he wanted to cuddle. I don't know how he achieves this nightly cuddling without his arm going numb.
He devours whatever I cook, no matter how good it turned out or whether I screwed up on it, and always proclaims it to be delicious. I can't tell if he's lying or not.
He doesn't mind wearing the baby in the carrier in public. I think he likes to do this, actually, and doesn't see it as an emasculating activity. He will also very willingly push the stroller.
He gives back rubs whenever I request them, no questions asked, no complaints, no matter how tired or achy he is, and never asks me to return the favor.
He enthusiastically codes things for me.
When I have a good idea, he tells me it's a good idea, and does it, instead of whatever less-good idea he had first. (I've had boyfriends who would NEVER do this, so I see it as pretty awesome.)
He would go out in the cold for me and pick up hamburgers. (Inside joke.)

Love you, pookie. <3

Updates

2009-01-23T12:01:00.000-05:00

Just a few little updates. I realize that I leave a lot of entries as "cliffhangers" and have failed to follow up.

A while back I wrote an entry called "True Love: Part I". I do intend to follow up that entry with a part II, and in fact have started that entry, but it just hasn't come together yet. I have a lot of half-formed entries just waiting for further inspiration.
I never did get that errand done, but I did get out of the house. To my surprise, it was really cold, so Téa and I could not have got far anyway. The next day I took her to her doctor's appointment, which was so traumatic (for both of us) that I decided to put off the errand until next week.
I ended up writing down one dream, which is now just sitting on the notepad by my bed. It's a shame; I've had a lot of good dreams and have failed to write them down. I'm trying to catch up on sleep and it's not going well. Téa will sleep through till 6am a couple of nights, and then have a bad night (like last night-- woke up at 2am and then twice again before 6:00, and was wide awake for the day at 8:00). As soon as I start feeling human, my energy gets zapped yet again.
Re: My New Years' resolutions: I'm certainly not setting the pace for 50 books, but I have been reading. I finished Michael Ondaatje's The English Patient, which was beautiful, and am now reading The Three Daughters of Madame Liang by Pearl S. Buck, one of my favorite authors. It's really enthralling; I've been reading it while I nurse the baby, and I've gotten back into my habit of reading before bed. And, obviously, I haven't given up this writing thing yet. People even read this thing!
I still don't know what my unconscious is saying.

I am pondering the idea of e-mailing one of my college professors, who taught me everything I know about Lacan, and telling her about this blog. It'll probably take a while to work up the courage.

The gaze

2009-01-20T10:04:00.000-05:00

“I can feel myself under the gaze of someone whose eyes I do not see, not even discern. All that is necessary is for something to signify to me that there may be others there. This window, if it gets a bit dark, and if I have reasons for thinking that there is someone behind it, is straight-away a gaze." -- Jacques Lacan, Seminar I

I was thinking this morning about why I keep putting off the errands I should have done weeks ago.

It came to me: This city scares the hell out of me.

This is a fact that I'm quite ashamed of. When I first visited the city, I was overwhelmed and excited. I come from a tiny, rural town in Maine and had trouble navigating the tiny city of Portland. New York was unimaginably huge. My trips to New York were always accompanied by Anthony, however, and I never felt frightened with him around, even in the sketchier areas. Pre-Téa, I thought how amazing and exciting it would be to live in the city with Anthony, to be free to explore it as often as I wanted.

So now, here I am, and I really don't get out and explore the city. Three things hold me back.

1. It's !#&@ing cold. And, worse, it's windy. I can't really blame myself for not going out when it's eye-wateringly cold out.

2. Téa. Both for the above reason (she's about as big a fan of the cold as I am), and because taking a baby out into the world is a hassle. I either have to wear her (and she's getting quite heavy) or bring her stroller, which is tough for one person to handle on the trains (stairs, nuff said). Plus her diaper back must accompany on any long trips, and I've got to plan around when she nurses. I'm not the biggest fan of nursing in public, although I do it if need be.

3. I'm scared. I was trying to figure out why exactly that is.

Am I afraid of getting lost? No, I pretty much know how to get from A to B, and Anthony's only a phone call away if I lose my way.

Am I shy around people? Yes, but that doesn't really deter me. Whatever clerks/bus drivers/etc people I've had to deal with have been, for the most part, extremely nice. And though I'll occasionally encounter a heavy accent that I have to decode, which I find really embarrassing (Hey, I grew up in Maine, remember? No foreign accents), communicating with people isn't really that bad. Plus, I always have a baby attached to me, and people love her.

It hit me, finally. What frightens me about this city is the gaze.

I constantly feel like someone is watching me in this city. Walking down the street, getting on the bus or train, walking into stores-- there are people everywhere, and I feel like they are all looking at me. This was not so much a problem in Maine or Massachusetts, because there were much fewer people, and I just drove everywhere. In a car, you're all alone and most of the time no one can see you. You're free to sing along to music, curse at other drivers, etc. Here in New York, I feel exposed.

It doesn't help that I'm extremely conspicuous. Strawberry blondes with blindingly white skin are not common here. So to some extent I'm really not being paranoid; people DO look at me. Even in our Polish neighborhood, I stand out.

But I am being paranoid. I feel like the eyes watching me know that I'm not from around here, that I'm sort of fumbling my way around New York and I don't fit in. Like they've caught me at something. Like I don't belong here.

So much for being adventurous. This fear is really debilitating. However, I do have an errand today. We'll see if that gets done.

Birth of the (m)Other

2009-01-17T18:29:00.000-05:00

“The Other is the locus of speech and, potentially, the locus of truth, which can be called on, even from the position of the unconscious, and which, latent or not, is always already there” Lacan, J. (1981). The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis.

I don't know whether Lacan writes anything about becoming an Other. I suppose he must. I guess being a psychoanalyst must be sort of like being the Other.

I still find it odd (I always will, I'm sure) that to my daughter, I am the Other. Her whole life, the driving force behind her existence and her unconscious, will be indelibly marked by me.

I've never really written much about my pregnancy. A few updates in my LiveJournal. I wrote a very detailed birth story. But my innermost thoughts about being pregnant, I mostly kept to myself.

In January, I suspected I might be pregnant. My cycle was off, and usually it's quite regular. I just couldn't figure out how exactly I could have become pregnant. I had only been off the pill for a couple of weeks (most people trying to conceive have to try a few months after stopping the pill, right?), and we had used protection. I started drilling Anthony about what he would want to do if I was pregnant. He wouldn't answer until we knew for sure. I waited until a weekend when he was visiting me. I bought three dollar store pregnancy tests. Early in the morning, before he was awake, I tested myself. The first test was clear as day. Two lines. I didn't believe it. I must've done it wrong. I rechecked the box and used the second test. Two lines again. I didn't even have to wait the 30 seconds or however long it said to wait; the lines came up immediately.

I got back into bed beside Anthony. He snuggled with me.

"Well, I did it."
"Did what?"
"Tested myself."
". . ."
"I'm pregnant."
"What?"

We weren't upset so much as mystified. I told my roommate that same morning; in retrospect I wonder if I should've kept my mouth shut. It breaks my heart to think about that morning, and the few subsequent weeks. It was so hard to come to grips with it and decide what to do. Anthony had money, but I was flat broke, despite working three jobs. We had only been dating four months. We had two clear options, and they seemed equally undoable. Keeping the baby meant changing our whole lives, risking our short-lived relationship and our financial well-being. Getting an abortion would take a heavy toll on my emotional health. I didn't know if I could go through with it. I knew I wouldn't regret having the baby; I knew I absolutely would regret aborting it. Anthony was supportive of whatever decision I made; I couldn't get him to say what his preference was. It was my decision, ultimately. Later he said he really did want to keep the baby, but I'll never know if that's true.

Once the decision was made, I kept waiting for the next milestone of pregnancy, at which point I thought I would feel a connection to the baby. We heard the heartbeat. It was neat, but I didn't feel much emotional attachment. At the first ultrasound I got to see the wiggly little fetus, the little head and face and limbs. I felt a vague fondness, but no real sense of love for this creature living inside me. At the second ultrasound, we got to see the little fingers and toes and organs, and we found out we were having a little girl. I cried when I found this out. I felt happy. But I still didn't feel this "bond" that pregnant women speak of. I enjoyed poking the little feet that moved around in there, and found it cute when my belly was hiccupping. Even into my third trimester, though, my pregnancy just felt surreal, and I couldn't grasp that this giant belly was a baby. (I also continued to wonder if I should have had an abortion. Even well beyond the time it was too late, I agonized over the decision.) By the time my due date rolled around, I was uncomfortable and tired and just wanted her out. I was sick of being pregnant.

It was still surreal after I gave birth (by C-section, after 44 hours of labor). Anthony held her next to me and I looked at her little face. "She looks just like you, Anthony." (She is the spitting image of her father; everyone who sees her says so.) I was too tired and drugged up to absorb the situation. They kept trying to put her into my arms as they wheeled me back to the room; I couldn't hold her and couldn't manage to make them realize that.

The next thing I remember is breastfeeding her, and being amazed that she latched right on the first time. I had read up on breastfeeding beforehand, and it just floored me that this less-than-an-hour-old baby knew was she was doing much more than I did. When my family members held her, she regarded each one very carefully with her little brows furrowed.

It took me a couple days to bond with her. She spent her first couple of days in the nursery with an IV and an oxygen tube, and I couldn't breastfeed her for a while. Finally, though, when she was back in the recovery room with me and I was starting to learn how to take care of her, I got a rush of maternal feelings.

I don't remember much about those first several weeks. I got so little sleep. I lost all of my pregnancy weight, plus some. The pain and gore that came along with breastfeeding is too graphic to even write about. But Téa and I bonded.

I don't regret keeping her, although I do still wonder what my life would be like if I hadn't, or if I'd never gotten pregnant in the first place. I think I'd still be in New York with Anthony, but with a lot more freedom and financial security. A small price to pay.

It's hard reconciling my pregnancy with motherhood; the former made me so miserable, so stressed out and terrified and unsure. It's a wonder she's so laid back, with all the stress hormones I must've sent through her system.

Anthony was traumatized by the many hours of labor I went through, and claims he never wants us to have another child, but I hope we do. I so envy those women who go through their (planned) pregnancies happily. I'd love to experience pregnancy again, when we're financially stable and truly ready for it. I feel like I got cheated of a very beautiful experience, because I was too busy freaking out. Next time around, I want to do it the right way.

Dreams

2009-01-12T08:22:00.000-05:00

I've been having some disturbances lately. Insomnia, nightmares, exhaustion, random pains. Possibly the winter blues kicking in, as it usually does. Téa's not been sleeping as well as before; I guess her 4 month sleep regression is starting early.

I dreamed I was pregnant again, and it wasn't Anthony's. Somehow I'd had an abortion and was still pregnant, and I was terrified that the baby would come out deformed.

I also dreamed that I took a wrong turn while skiing, and had to ski down this giant cliff. There were these little ski jumps every several hundred feet, and then I was falling off the cliff again. The final ski jump had boulders falling onto it, and I was sure I'd be crushed. But I wasn't, and then I fell into a freezing lake and had to swim to shore. Once I pulled myself out, I found myself right near a warm building, and went in to recover.

I'm contemplating starting to do Lacanian analysis on my dreams, which involves writing them down in detail as soon as I wake up. I've been wanting to do this for years, and I do have the perfect set-up-- the streetlights make our bedroom light enough to read in at night with all our lights off. I wake up at least once in the night to feed the baby, and could probably write while she's eating. Interrupted sleep makes for the best, most vivid and analyzable (made-up word?) dreams. And I've been dreaming a lot. I remember them when I wake up, but soon forget them.

I think I'll put a notebook next to the bed tonight.

Worthwhile resolutions, in action

2009-01-06T13:39:00.000-05:00

(This is sort of a continuation from the previous entry. I split them into two different posts for the sake of audience. I figure two shorter entries are more likely to be read than one giant entry.)

Maybe not an act of forgetting, but an act of stupidity led to the first test of my New Years Resolution.

The resolution:
2. Be more adventurous, less shy, more confident, less timid.

The scenario:
I borrowed a friend's car for the holidays, as she was going on vacation elsewhere in the country and needed her car looked after anyway (in New York you can't just leave it parked somewhere; it's gotta be moved several times a week for street sweeping). All was well, I drove us up to Maine for the holidays, and drove back to New York without incident. Then, the most dreaded part. I had to find a parking spot.

Téa (my three month old) was an extremely good rider for the entire 6 or 7 hour trip from Maine. We got home, we unloaded the car, we relaxed for a few minutes, then got back in the car to find an overnight parking spot. At this point she was at the end of her patience with riding, and I can't blame her. After a few minutes of driving around looking for a spot, she started fussing. And then crying. And then wailing. I was nervous already, anxiously looking for a spot (I hate parallel parking, hate driving on the streets of Queens, hate doing both of those all the more with cars behind me, which there were). I pulled back up to the house and ordered Anthony to remove the screaming baby from the car; I'd go find a spot myself. I drove around for another 10 or 15 minutes, sure I would never find a space at this point. The later it gets, the harder it is. Finally I saw a space, or what I thought was one. On the corner of a street, there was a bus stop, then a fire hydrant, then a driveway, all of which I knew to avoid, but behind those things was what looked like a perfectly legal spot. It seemed a little iffy, but I was at the end of my rope. I was tired, I was cranky, and I there was the distinct possibility of a very hungry crying baby at home. I parked there.

I felt nervous all weekend. I wanted to get rid of the car so I could stop worrying. My friend was coming back Monday, so Sunday we set off to move the damn thing back to her house.

I was panicking as we were walking toward the car, sure it would be gone (I get a bit worst-case-scenario when I'm anxious). Lo and behold, it WAS gone. It got towed for being too close to the bus stop.

So, my Great Queens Adventure was yesterday. I had to

1. Take the bus to the impound lot, up in West Maspeth (Queens)
2. Walk from the bus stop to the lot (about a mile)
3. Get car
4. Drive back to my friend's house in East New York/Bushwick area (Brooklyn)
5. Take the L train home

All by myself, with baby in tow.

So, here was my first chance to be adventurous! confident! less timid!

I was scared shitless when I left the house.

It really helped to have the baby along; I had someone to talk to. A lady on the bus talked to Téa (who looked at her suspiciously; she'll be a good little New Yorker) and asked me about her. The bus driver was nice, which I was not expecting (seems like no one's very interested in helping anyone here in the city, usually). He let me know when we got to the stop, but I knew anyway, because I had a detailed list of what roads we would pass before getting to the stop (thank god for the internet).

We got off the bus and were suddenly in sort of a creepy industrial district. Lots of warehouse-looking buildings and 18 wheeler trucks. It was a little windy, so I pulled up my coat around Téa and she slept. People at the impound lot were very friendly, especially when I commiserated with one of the workers about what an ass some guy was being. (I'm of the opinion that no matter how pissed you are, you should always be polite and friendly with people who are just doing their jobs.)

Got the car, drove out of Maspeth, part of Williamsburg (ew!), through sort of borderline Bed-Stuy (at which point I locked the car doors and prayed for green lights), Bushwick, and finally to my friend's street just over the border into East New York, where I parked the car in a LEGAL spot and got the hell out of there on the L-train. Téa was fussy in the car (short stop-and-go rides annoy her), quiet on the train and the walk home. She was all smiles when we got home (me too, god!).

Thus concluded my first real solo (completely boring) adventure in the city. I took the bus, walked, drove a goodly distance, and took the train, alone. For a homebody who entered the city feeling completely terrified of it, I navigated pretty well.

Next adventure: Getting a New York ID. Ugh.

Acts of desire

2009-01-06T12:25:00.000-05:00

"Writing is an act of desire, as is reading. Why does someone enclose a set of apprehensions within a book? Why does someone else open that book if not because of the act of wanting to be wanted, to be understood, to be seen, to be loved?

"And desire is also an act of reading, of translation" -Dionne Brand

It's been a few days, and I was starting to get The Fear, that I've lost my nerve as far as this writing thing goes. I've set the bar very high for myself-- regardless of whether this blog is any good or not, it has been good for me. My entries so far have been written with as close to my full heart and mind as I can manage. I feel good about what I've written and I've worked through some things. Where to go next?

I took the above quote from a random blog. I do find myself hoping that people will read this blog and understand me, and praise me for being so insightful and so creative. I can't seem to escape the gaze of my potential audience (which I suppose is a present absence; I'm sure not many people are reading). It's sort of annoying because escaping an audience was my whole reason for starting a new blog; my old LJ was just a performance for people I knew were reading it; each entry sort of shamelessly whored itself out for comments.

So, what to do about this writing for an audience thing? I think it's inevitable. Even in my paper journals, I always had in mind the idea that someone might read them someday, and so I censored myself a bit even there. Maybe there is no act of writing that is completely oblivious to the gaze of the other. So, I work through it. I just need to keep in mind that this blog is for me.

Lately I have been dealing with various calamities and thinking about the signifier, which is how the unconscious reveals itself, through speech, dreams, and most notably for this entry, forgotten acts.

Thanks to my knowledge of Lacan, I am struck with fear whenever I forget something that I really should have remembered. What does that mean? I think. What is my unconscious trying to tell me?

I'm sure most of these acts of forgetting are fairly meaningless, but for example, on the day I got married:

I remembered the marriage license. I remembered the rings. I remembered my wallet and even double checked for my Metro card. We dressed up, I did my hair and makeup, we brought everything the baby could possibly need, and we set out.

We got to Manhattan. We walked around and took pictures of City Hall until our two witnesses showed up. We went in. We got in line. I opened my wallet.

My drivers license was not where it was supposed to be. Immediately I knew exactly where it was-- in my jeans pocket, the jeans I wore two days earlier, when we got the marriage license. I had to show the ID to get the license, and instead of returning it to my wallet like I always do, I slipped it into my back pocket.

So, on our wedding day, two and a half hours before city hall closed, I realized that my ID was an hour train ride away. We had to drag Anthony's friends, who came along to be witnesses, all the way back to Queens. I ran back to the house while they waited for me on the corner. I grabbed my ID (just where I knew it would be) and my sneakers (I had been wearing heels but we would have to run to make it back in time, so I changed shoes). We caught a cab to the city hall in Brooklyn, which was closer. I changed back into my dress shoes in the cab. Only later, after we got married, when we were on the way home and my feet were aching, did I realize that I had left my sneakers in the cab.

I don't quite know what these forgettings mean, if anything. Anthony will joke that I was sabotaging our wedding day because I didn't really want to marry him. But I did marry him, happily, and so far so good on the whole being married thing! But I do miss my sneakers.

Worthwhile resolutions

2008-12-31T21:50:00.000-05:00

“This poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the cross-roads still lives. She lives in you and in me . . .; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh.” –Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

So Virginia Woolf wrote about William Shakespeare's sister, who was just as much a poet as her brother, but who never wrote a word.

One year ago, my New Year's resolution was to start writing again.

Getting back into writing has been a goal of mine since I finished college, but I never quite got back into it. As a child, I wrote every single day-- I made little books out of printer paper. As I got older I started writing more complex stories. When I was 11 I started writing in a journal daily. I began just after midnight New Year's Eve, 1997. When I was a teenager I wrote a few lengthy stories and many, many bad poems. Once I got into college I stopped writing for pleasure, although I enjoyed weaving a narrative voice into my essays.

I planned to spend 2008 writing a story, the plot of which I had a vague idea of, and reading 50 books. I didn't do either. I spent 2008 creating life and freaking out about where my life was headed. I beat myself up about not keeping a journal while I was pregnant, but honestly I didn't really want to document what I was going through. I was stressed out and miserable for most of it. And of course, doing any writing for the first few months of my daughter's life was impossible; I was lucky if I got to eat three meals and take a shower every day.

So, here I am, a year later, starting to write fairly prolifically again, for the first time since high school. So, my New Year's resolutions are the following:

1. Continue writing.
2. Be more adventurous, less shy, more confident, less timid.
3. Read, if not 50 books, as many books as possible.

"This opportunity, as I think, it is now coming within your power to give her. For my belief is that if we live another century or so . . . and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; . . . then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. . . . I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while." –Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

The elusive signifier

2008-12-30T11:52:00.000-05:00

I dreamed that I was still caught in the repetition. I had broken up with Anthony to pursue an ex-boyfriend yet again, only to realize that I had made the wrong decision and I really did belong with Anthony. I tried to remember why I had broken up with him and couldn't-- I could only remember what good memories I had with Anthony and how miserable I was.

I woke up snuggled among Anthony and our daughter and a cat, and happily realized that I hadn't broken up with him, hadn't cheated on him. Bad dreams are so good at making you feel grateful for the status quo.

Why am I still dreaming of the repetition? Perhaps this blog is starting to trigger some disturbance, as I hoped it would. I'll have to listen hard to hear what my unconscious has to say.

The truth of the unconscious, the truth of desire, cannot be found in the traditional Freudian way, by delving into the past. The unconscious insists on being heard in the here and now--- through speech, through behaviors, in dreams and in bodily symptoms. The main way that the unconscious repeats itself is through signifiers, words or sounds that repeat in an individual's speech, which she cannot hear but which conceal an unconscious meaning. . . . Repetition is the manifestation of the unconscious, of the drive, and of desire. (Quoted from my senior thesis.)

I have let go of the repetition in my relationships. In the past I was constantly dumping one poor boyfriend for another, constantly looking for someone who was better for me.

Now that I'm married, I have given up the search. Even before we got married, even before my life was tied to him irrevocably through my pregnancy, being with Anthony felt different. I felt a sort of freedom from other men. I was still pursued by other men, but I felt nothing for them, instead of the ambivalence and curiosity I had always felt before. When someone asked me out, I felt amused instead of anxious. I felt calmer. I no longer felt like I was performing.

Something, though, still repeats. While I was pregnant, I had recurring dreams of Anthony abusing me, leaving me, or getting hurt himself. I called him often while he was out, always afraid he wouldn't get home safe. I still have recurring dreams about breaking up with him (but it's always out of my power; like I'm a victim of dumping him). My unconscious insists on being heard. What exactly is it saying?

True Love: Part I

2008-12-27T02:45:00.000-05:00

In Swann's Way, Proust wrote of Swann's jealous love of Odette, triggered by her absence. He was completely uninterested in her until she was unexpectedly absent from where he wanted to meet her, and suddenly his love was insatiable. He wanted to know everything about her, her whereabouts every second; he needed to possess her completely. As I read the book, I recognized these jealous tendencies in myself, and it has repeated with my husband.

My roommate of the time introduced me to him. Before we even met I found his online journal, and began reading. After we met, I read the entire thing. I wanted to know everything about him. I needed to possess him just as Swann needed to possess Odette. It is an impossible desire. One wants not only to possess the other's body and self but their past, their time, their existence as a whole. Anthony lived a few hundred miles away, and while we were apart I was jealous of everyone that got to be near him. I held grudges against people who had wronged him before I had even met him. I fantasized about meeting him earlier in his life. I mourned the years we spent apart.

I have written about the hysterical neurotic and her need to keep desire unattainable. Anthony, by his own nature, kept himself at arm's length. He is very shy and incapable of understanding why someone would want to know everything about him. He refused to answer all my questions, and it tormented me. Of course, this made me even more hungry for the answers. He is still a closed book (without, however, being impossible to communicate with), and perhaps this is part of why our relationship works.

I have mentioned Lacan's sexuation theory, whereby the woman must choose between trying to be the man's object of fantasy, guessing at his desire and trying to emulate it; and accepting her aloneness and navigating desire in her own way. I met Anthony after several months of trying to do the latter.

I wrote a letter to my mother which I never sent, when I had ended a relationship with The Other Guy:

You and I are both navigating womanhood, Mom. You need Daddy, you depend on each other like old friends, but you pursue your own desire. I think you want me to do the same— to follow my own desires, to be independent, but also to have a man in my life, to not be alone.
And this is what I want too. Easier said than done! There are so many complications, Mom. I want to be what he desires. I want him to be what I desire. But he’s not. And I can’t stand to be exactly what he needs; I feel stifled. I want to be independent but not alone, desired and desiring, without depending on a man, but not lonely, either.
But the independent woman who follows her desire must acknowledge that she is alone, according to Lacan. It’s so painful and yet it rings true, Mom! I hope I can learn to navigate it like you do.

I wondered about how my mother was seemingly navigating her own desire, while still maintaining a close partnership with her husband, my father. Their lives have always been separate but together. They enjoy their own hobbies, most of which do not overlap. They are very different people, and yet they are in love. One does not possess the other; they are not bending over backwards to please each other. There is mutual respect. All my life I have been looking for this kind of relationship with a man, but I was too eager to become exactly what a man wanted, and too good at it. When I split up with That Guy, I made a firm effort to stop this bad habit.

Anthony did not make demands of me. He accepted me as is, allowed me to be myself and loved me. And I finally had the strength to be myself. We didn't have everything in common, and we didn't need to. Our senses of humor were compatible and we spoke the same language. I still marvel at how wonderful it is to say something and be understood. We talk to each other about our passions, which are completely different from each other. He supports me in doing what I want to do, and what fulfills me (example: this blog). Finally I have found a way to navigate my own desire with support and companionship, just as my mother has done.

Disturbing desire

2008-12-25T22:33:00.000-05:00

I've been going through old things. Stuff I wrote in college, when I was first getting to know Lacanian theory, and later on when I was immersed in it researching and writing my thesis. At that time, I was enduring the final throes of a relationship gone sour. I was taking a wonderful course called Disturbing Desire: Proust, Woolf, and Lacan, which was an extremely apt name for the class. The excerpts we read spoke to what I was going through in very disturbing ways.

"Our belief that a person takes part in an unknown life which his or her love would allow us to enter is, of all that love demands in order to come into being, what it prizes the most, and what makes it care little for the rest." --Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say. This was not the case with my fiancé of the time. We were attending college in separate states (geographically and otherwise). The trouble with him was that he was not absent enough.

The hysterical neurotic must keep her desire at a distance. Achieving her desire is her worst fear. Love is at its most intense when the object of love is at a distance, unattainable, impossible.

I kept my relationship with him on the rocks in order to keep the relationship. The arguments, the threats, the ambivalence-- I maintained my desire by manipulating the situation. Only if I kept him at bay with constant fighting could I maintain my love for him. The relationship was doomed. At the time I wrote:

Desire is the desire of the Other. I keep rereading this concept and I think of my desire for him, how I must respark it again and again by keeping him at a distance. I feel like the omnipotent Other, trying to make him guess my every whim and conform to it. He is such a bad guesser. “I’m worried about our relationship,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere, don’t worry,” he says. I sigh: “That is not the problem.” I wish he would keep me at a distance like I do him, so that I might desire him like I used to. “The only true paradise is a paradise that we have lost”. He is not lost; how can I desire him?

Okay, so a bit more clarity here. Why am I rehashing an old relationship? Certainly I no longer feel any twinge of emotion. No regret, no lingering flame, etc. The reason is twofold:

1. It's Christmas, and the first Christmas that I am introducing my husband to my family. Two years ago I was spending Christmas with That Other Guy. The fleetingness of love disturbs me a little. I want to explore how my current relationship is different from the old one. How is it that I have, seemingly, attained what I wanted-- I married my beloved, we live together, we have a beautiful baby girl-- and here I am, sitting happily beside him, content with my life? I have never felt so settled, so happy, so satisfied. I want to explore what changed for me and how that came about.

2. During the crashing and burning of that old relationship, I was looking at my life through a Lacanian lens and writing about it. This is my first time with this exercise since then. So I'm not just rehashing the relationship, but looking back on exactly how I was reading my life into Lacanian theory and writing about it. I remember it being very disturbing and very revealing for me. I'm hoping to prod and analyze and be disturbed again. The unexpected things that pop out of such a psychological journey are amazing.

So, we let go of the old relationship, my old experiences, and begin exploring my love life of the past year and a half.

A thing I wrote years ago (slightly modified), and a response

2008-12-23T20:20:00.000-05:00

My father and I share afflictions– quick tempers, stubbornness, and the weight of our own standards for ourselves. When I think of what’s been passed down through generations of my family, I think of his family– their traits, their values. There’s very little of material worth that’s been passed down through the Edwards family, but none of us complain much about that. The Edwards stubbornness is legendary– my great-great grandfather died refusing to go to the hospital for an intestinal blockage. Incidentally, his wife was killed in a hunting accident– her gun went off while she was hopping a fence.

My father hates two things above and beyond anything else in the world: waste, and laziness. His abhorrence of waste came through necessity– as of yet, no Edwards has been able to afford the luxury of waste. My dad’s a notorious packrat. His greatest fear is throwing something away and later finding out that he could’ve used it for something. When my great grandfather died, my dad cleaned out his garage. Dad came home with a boxful of old junk– mostly stuff my great grandfather had hoarded for countless decades. Grampa was a packrat, too.

My dad’s loathing of laziness is a trait all his own. He works hard, and expects others to do the same. He can, however, allow for failure in others, as long as their intentions were good. He can’t accept failure in himself.

Six years ago, my father didn’t come home from work. He owned his own business then, a small shoe repair shop that never seemed to turn a profit. On the door of his shop that day, we found a note: “Gone home for the day. Sick.” My father’s car was gone, along with a bunch of his belongings. On the counter in his shop, we found piles of unpaid bills and various financial forms. I was sick with guilt when I discovered that the forms that drove him over the edge were my financial aid forms. His business was deep in the red, and had been for years, and he hadn't paid taxes in a dog's age. Like a good Edwards, he hadn’t said a word about it to anyone.

Two days later, my father called from West Virginia. He’d felt compelled to drive south, to escape the bills, the stress, the pressure. He had contemplated life and death, gained some perspective, and decided to return. Another two days and he was back, and my parents began picking up the financial pieces. Beyond what pertained to practical matters, such as selling his business and getting the taxes in order, we never spoke of it. The ordeal fell out of conscious memory altogether, only to resurface at random. It takes me by surprise that I have managed to forget this incident, to genuinely bury it.

At the time, I could not figure out how my father could have done such an irrational thing– taking off without a word to his family, leaving us in suspense for two days before he called, not knowing whether he was alive or dead. Now that I, too, have gained some perspective, what he did seems to fit. The same Edwards that can’t admit he’s sick enough to see a doctor, also can’t admit that he’s wasted 20 years on a business that will always devour more money than it delivers. It’s a failure that reeks of laziness, of not trying hard enough. This self-destructive mindset is my affliction as well.

I had a hard time in high school, like a lot of kids do. Periodically I found myself stuck in an existential fog, unable to justify my life, to attribute any meaning or reason to it. It was during one of these times that I found a little note from my dad, scrawled in his almost illegible handwriting– Always remember, no matter how dark a day may seem, there’s someone who loves you – me. –Dad. He knew what I was going through and understood exactly what I needed, because the life or death question runs in his family too– Am I, myself, a waste?

Since leaving home for school, I’ve felt a rift between myself and my family. I’m the first Edwards to go to college, the first to move to a city far away, and the family picks on me about it. Their teasing is good natured, but there’s a palpable distance separating us now. I feel like I’ve jumped ship. Straddling the two worlds in my life, I feel like my great-great grandmother hopping over that fence. Like her shotgun that delivered the fatal blast, what stays with me is the question, the affliction. Like a good Edwards, I keep it to myself.

Miranda,

I just finished reading your piece, it evoked a storm of emotion in me, I am
first very proud of you and your insight. Not everyone can or will examine
themselves with such accuity. I look back to the time I left, overwhelmed by
stress, guilt and uncertainty. I know without a doubt, had I not gone, I
would not be here today. I hope I have not scarred those I love too deeply.
I also hope the lessons to be learned will not be overlooked. This
"affliction" can be a terrible thing but there is value in knowing yourself
and your motivations, I am learning.
I know and feel the separation you wrote about, I really think it has more
to do with your growing up than your going off to college. For my part, I
feel I have to learn who you are all over again and I want to give you the
space to become that person without inflicting the limitations of my small
world upon what can be your great big world. I think that you are headed for
a great life that you are only beginning to imagine. I love you and am very
proud to have you for a daughter.

Dad

The hysterical neurotic

2008-12-22T12:30:00.000-05:00

". . . in order to maintain his desire, [the hysterical neurotic] tries never to supply a possible fulfilling object for that desire, and in this way the resulting dissatisfaction remobilizes his desire in an aspiration, always more and more remote, toward an ideal of being" (Joel Dor, The Clinical Lacan, pp 80-81).

Nothing is more terrifying to the hysterical neurotic than having her desire fulfilled, so she avoids it at all costs, focusing on impossible ideals as objects of her desire. Nothing is ever good enough for her, least of all herself; she strives to become perfect aesthetically and intellectually, all the while berating herself for her perceived lack of beauty and intelligence. Making any important decision, such as choosing a romantic partner, is a source of endless anxiety for the hysteric; she puts off the decision as long as possible, and when she must finally decide, she is plagued by doubts about whether she chose correctly. Nothing she has is ever good enough; there is always something more, something better, to desire.

My heart was in my throat as I read about the hysterical neurotic. This kind of repetition was continually unfolding in my life, in my relationships: I would fall for someone, become the woman of their dreams, and ultimately dump them for someone else. I found it impossible not to look around for someone else, difficult to say no to the first guy who pursued me. Caught up in the problems and conflicts that always crop up in relationships, the new guy always seemed so much better for me, so much more understanding, more attractive, smarter, etc. I wonder how he is in bed? I wonder what our children would look like? I'd leave guy 1 for guy 2 and the same thing would happen again.

At the time I was studying the neurotic structure, I was engaged, but starting to have my doubts. We had gotten engaged too soon in the relationship, and it wore on us. We argued. I always felt like we were speaking two different languages. The sex was great, and I was naive enough to think that compatibility in bed meant everything. I was sure I had ended my repetition of trying to find someone else. I hadn't.

Half my problem was my constant fear/belief that someone better for me was out there. The other half was thinking I had found this person when I hadn't.

I wrote yesterday about the choice involved in the feminine position-- to become the object a, the complement to the man's fantasy, or to accept one's aloneness and navigate desire in one's own way. For certain I was doing the former. To some extent I'm sure I still am.

I considered myself a relationship chameleon-- I took on a man's interests, his tastes in music, his preferences, his sense of humor, and ultimately tricked many men into thinking I was perfect for them. I didn't really do this consciously; it was easy, natural. I would start dating a man, and all of a sudden I liked everything he liked. I would say things that made him laugh. I would pretend he pleased me in bed. (I know my husband is going to read this and start freaking out.)

My last semester of college, I started realizing that my fiancé of the time was all wrong for me. I painstakingly broke it off, and for once there wasn't a new guy awaiting me. I avoided serious relationships for a while. I had to get to know myself outside of a relationship. In the past I had only known myself by knowing who I was dating.

I went on a few dates. I had to accept that I wasn't going to be perfect for every man. I tried to just be myself. I had to deal with rejection.

By the time I met Anthony, I had figured out how to live without needing constant validation from a man. I felt secure in myself. I was, I think, starting to navigate my own desire. Consequently, I was able to have a real relationship. With Anthony, I could finally be myself. I felt completely accepted by him. I could reveal to him the worst parts of my personality and he still loved me. He encouraged me in finding my own way. He pushed me (still does push me) to find a career that I love, something that'll bring meaning to my life.

Still I fear that I'll end up dissatisfied; that my nature really is that of the hysteric and I'll soon be caught up in the repetition again.

A note about names

2008-12-21T23:26:00.001-05:00

Birth of the (m)Other

Homage to Birth of the Other, by Rosine Lefort, a Lacanian psychoanalyst.
According to Lacan, the Other imposes language on the child. Babies are born helpless, at the mercy of their parents and language. She must address her need to her primary caretaker, the (m)Other, in the form of a demand. Needs can never be fully satisfied, however, or even fully expressed-- language imposes limits. What the child demands is not just satisfaction-- when the child cries in hunger, she is crying for unconditional love as well as food. This need/demand for love is never satisfied. What's left perpetually unsatisfied is desire.

Navigating desire

Homage to my senior thesis in college: Lacan, the Buddha, and the Self: Navigating Desire and the Human Condition.
Desire is crucial in Lacanian theory. A child's first desire, born of the unsatisfying response to the demand, is to become what the Other desires. A child notices that the (m)Other's desire goes beyond the child, that the mother has a lack, and she seeks to become that very lack. At some point, the child must be given a firm no-- you cannot become exactly what your mother desires; you cannot fill that lack. This shifts the discourse to the child's own desire.
To vastly oversimplify Lacan's sexuation theory: A woman must choose either to attempt to become the complement to a man's lack (much like the baby tries to become the mother's lack), to become his fantasy, or she can acknowledge her innate aloneness (the Other can never satisfy her, and she will never be the perfect complement, because it is impossible) and navigate desire in her own unique way.

Violet

I'm not set on Violet; I may change it at some point. I first came across the name in Siri Hustvedt's What I Loved; I fell in love with the name and dreamed of bestowing it on my daughter. However, my husband wasn't fond of the name and in the end, neither was I-- it's the name of a character, not a real person. It makes for a decent pen name, I think.

Into the void

2008-12-21T18:42:00.000-05:00

So thus begins my recollections of the past year and a half in no particular order. I was trying to figure out exactly where to start, and the first thing that popped into my head kinda surprised me. Here goes.

The first thing I want to work through is the death of my neighbor's daughter.

I brought Téa up to Maine for the first time in October. When I got there, my mom informed me that Kristen had killed herself. I thought she was joking at first. I searched her eyes for any sign that she was kidding. She wasn't. I started crying.

The story goes, Kristen had a jerk of a husband and two sweet little daughters, aged 3-or-so and 10 months. She'd been struggling with depression for several months, and was getting worse. She begged her husband not to go on a fishing trip he'd planned for a weekend, because she didn't feel good, but he went anyway. Her mom came by to visit, and she was just about comatose with depression. Her mom (who's lived across the street from my parents since before I was born) brought her home and tried to get her into counselling. Apparently she was hospitalized for a while and then released; I'm not sure when that happened. The night of her death, her parents put her on a 24-hour suicide watch. Her mom even brought her into the bathroom to keep an eye on her. At some point, she was out of supervision for a few minutes (I don't know exactly why this happened, but I certainly can't blame her parents-- watching someone every minute is difficult, and I'm sure they thought she'd be fine by herself for just a moment). She shot herself with the one gun in the house they had neglected to dispose of.

I don't know why they took their eyes off her, why they had guns in the house, why they had so many guns in the house that they could possibly forget one, or how she got a hold of that gun. It doesn't matter. She had it planned; it would've happened one way or another.

Her jerk husband now won't let Kristen's mom see the little girls. She loves her granddaughters and spent a lot of time with them when Kristen was alive; they would obviously be a great comfort to her now that she's lost her daughter. But the asshole won't return her calls. It's a tragic situation all around, and it couldn't have happened to a less deserving family.

I grew up with Kristen and her brother. My mom wrote them into my baby book as my "first friends." Kristen's mom babysat me. I hadn't really talked to Kristen since I was 12 or so, but we saw them across the street, her daughters playing in the yard. She seemed happy. I know she was a very intelligent and kind person.

Her suicide hit me hard, especially since she left behind two little daughters and I had just given birth to a little girl of my own. She was still nursing the younger one. She must've been so miserable, so ill, to take her own life and leave her family. Not just her daughters, but her brother, a year older than her, her mother and father (she was especially close with her mother) and her 12 year old sister. This will impact them all for the rest of their lives.

I can't imagine leaving my daughter behind. She freaks out when I take a shower. Even though she's only 3 months old, I think it would really traumatize her if I suddenly disappeared. She knows my face, my smell, the sound of my voice. I comfort her best and I'm her only source of food. It's amazing what a unit we've become in 3 months; we'd be devastated without each other.

I have thought long and hard about Kristen's suicide. I've run the scenario over and over in my mind. The blast of the gun. Her parents running into the room to find her dead. My parents heard the screams from across the street. Several emergency vehicles came to the house. Kristen was rolled out in a body bag. My parents saw the family bringing out chairs and pieces of carpet. Things that got messy.

I try to figure out what her state of mind must have been. And what it must feel like to find your daughter dead, when she was alive just moments before. And where Kristen is now. I'm not religious, but I can't think of her soul as being in the same place with my grandfather and aunt Sam. I don't feel her watching over me. She just feels gone.

A beginning.

2008-12-21T15:18:00.000-05:00

I realized the writing bug had bit me when I was answering survey questions on my other blog, and my answers became so ridiculously long that no one would ever read them.

I kept a journal for over 10 years, writing regularly if not daily, until the summer of 2007. I don't know exactly why I stopped. Shortly after that, I met a man who changed my life completely.

In late September 2007, I met Anthony. We hit it off (read: hopped into bed together) right away. We fell in love, despite our relationship being long distance (I lived in Massachusetts, he lived in NYC). In early February 2008, I found out I was pregnant. We freaked out but in the end decided to suck it up and have the baby.

On September 22nd 2008, one year to the day after Anthony and I first "hit it off," I gave birth to my baby girl, Téa Lourdes. I spent the subsequent 3 months falling madly in love with her.

I always kept a journal because I didn't want to lose anything. I wanted to record all my important memories. I feel like I have the past year and a half stored up in my head, waiting to get out in words, and I feel an urge to finally get that done before the memories start fading away.

And, this may be too ambitious, but I'd also like to revisit my Lacanian research and entwine it with these memories somehow. Maybe add a little psychoanalytic perspective to my life, to give it more meaning. The interpretation of memory can't be separated from the memory itself. Memory is only a reconstruction.

We'll see where this goes, I guess.