Shock. Confusion. Wondering. Yearning. Regret.

According to the Global Language Monitor, there are more than 1 million words in the English language.  The website states that a new word is created every 98 minutes, that’s about 15 words per day.

All those words and I still struggle to name the feelings and emotions I have over my grandfather’s murder. I can’t catch a feeling long enough to really understand it …. or classify it. How am I suppose to process something I can’t name?

I recently finished reading “Out of my Mind” by Sharon Draper to my fourth grade class.  The story is told from the point of view of 11-year-old Melody, who suffers from cerebral palsy.  The exceptionally bright girl feels trapped by her inability to verbally communicate until she gets a machine that gives her a voice. The book ends, the way it begins. Here is an excerpt:

“Words. I’m surrounded by thousands of words. Maybe millions. Cathedral. Mayonnaise. Pomegranate. Mississippi. Neapolitan. Hippopotamus. Silky. Terrifying. Irridescent. Tickle. Sneeze. Wish. Worry.……They made my jumbled thoughts and feelings have substance.”

It’s that one line that speaks to me: “They made my jumbled thoughts and feelings have substance.” If I could only name them, maybe then I could process this whole thing.

My thoughts and feelings are most certainly jumbled. They are tangled and intertwined with no clear beginning and ending – no certain way to identify where one feeling ends and another begins. Every time I tug on one, something else emerges.

If I were to write a similar paragraph it would be this:

“Emotions. I’m surrounded by thousands of emotions. Maybe millions. Shock. Confusion. Fear. Anger. Uncertainty. Disbelief. Hurt. Resentment. Shame. Longing. Wondering. Yearning. Regret.…..A jumble of thoughts and feelings.”

Noticeable absent, though, is love. Where is it? Why don’t I have it?

The absence of it leaves a void. I fill it with shame. And there I stand, knee deep in this pile of “The Unnamed.”

I didn’t know my grandpa very well. My mom’s childhood was rough, to totally understate it. In my early years, I remember my grandpa as being drunk and having a violent temper. My mom wanted to protect us from that as much as possible so our visits were often short. Sometimes we didn’t even get out of that car because of his condition. I remember those rides home as being uncomfortably quiet. The only noise was the sobbing coming from my mom.  Again, there were no words we could say to offer her any comfort.  When my grandpa gave up the booze and went sober, we were able to visit but by then I was a teenager. We never really had a chance to connect and build any type of relationship and when we could I wasn’t really interested. There were too many missed opportunities and too much to overcome. Neither of us tried very hard, our time had passed.

I have younger cousins, though, who grew up knowing a very different man, a man who did stuff with them, made happy memories. Their pain over the lose is so much more than mine.  They truly lost a grandpa. I lost a man I called grandpa. Two very different things.  I suppose in my mess of emotions a little jealousy could be found over what I never had.

My grandfather was violently murdered, something that should never have happened. I cannot even process the series of events he went through or the pain he suffered. I just can’t let myself go there. So while I did not have a relationship with him, I am devastated over the way his life ended. And in that place, there are so many feelings that I do not understand or are just too hard to deal with right now.

As time goes on, I learn new things about the man I called grandpa. Some good, some not so much. He was a complicated man with complicated relationships. Nothing clear cut and easy. His life is like Jekyll and Hyde. My head is constantly spinning:  a neighbor shares a story about a time he offered help. Sweet.  He calls his African American neighbor a derogatory term. Sigh. He took my cousins fishing. Special.  He chased after another in an angry outburst. Sigh. He loves my grandma and misses her. Precious. His desires cause him to reach for a family member. Sick. He loaned money. Thoughtful. He refused to loan any more and was killed. What do I put here?

Nothing simple. No easy place to categorize these feelings.

So how do I begin? I’ve decided to lean on two words, my mantra if you will: forgiveness and determination. My faith is leading me down a difficult path, one to forgiveness. Forgiveness to myself for not desiring a relationship. Forgiveness to my grandpa for the pain he caused others. And what should be the most difficult, forgiveness for the man who took his life. I have a determination to find a way to forgiveness.

I chose to forgive because anger is a monster that needs to be continually fed. (And believe me, there is plenty in this story to feed this beast.)  I don’t want to be swallowed up by this rage. Hatred spreading like a cancer, a silent beast devouring my soul until one day I wake up and realize that I am dead from the inside out.

But this puts me in a very uncomfortable position. I feel trapped between members of my family. I’m walking through a mine field.  I understand their feelings of anger.  Their grandpa was a grandpa of relationships and happy memories. There is no denying that they have a right to their anger. They truly lost someone special in such a violent, senseless manner. I get that. But I didn’t. My grandpa was a grandpa by title only.

In those brief moments when I feel strong enough to be totally honest with myself,  I realize that as much as I fight it, I am angry too. But in a such a complicated way. I don’t even know for certain who my anger is directed at. I think it’s with my grandpa  - for the things he did and tried to do, and for all the things he didn’t do.

Then I realize that I’m just ….. tired. So tired. Exhausted, really.  I don’t have the energy it takes to be angry anymore. Besides, it seems to me that anger is what landed us all in this place of chaos we find ourselves living now.

So I tug on forgiveness only to realize that I find it easier to forgive a man for murder than to forgive the man that was murdered.  How messed up is that? And, thus, I find myself back where I started. I don’t even know what I’m feeling or who I’m feeling it towards. The murderer? Grandpa? Or …… is it directed at me?

As so I end how I began.

“Emotions. I’m surrounded by thousands of emotions. Maybe millions. Shock. Confusion. Fear. Anger. Uncertainty. Disbelief. Hurt. Resentment. Shame. Longing. Wondering. Yearning. Regret.…..A jumble of thoughts and feelings.”

“How to” disclaimers

Ok, so I can’t just sit back and let the kids have all the fun. This week we have been working on “How to” poems. We read “Bubba, the Cowboy Prince” and I just rolled. (Partly because I know people who actually look like some of the characters in this book.)

Anyway, it got the creative juices flowing so I went to town. Now, if you’ve read that book you know that there is a little fun being had with the good ol’  Texas cowboys and girls. Yep, I totally jumped on the bandwagon. I do not believe that every Texas cowboy or girl fits this description ….. though ……

Anyway, don’t write me in a big huff. It’s all in fun. You’re great people and I love you, everyone. (I couldn’t resist the rhyme.)

And yes, I was born a Yankee. And no, I can’t get the dang Texas version out of my head!!

How to be a Cowgirl

To be a Cowgirl, you need teeth with gaps for spitting chew.

A full set of chompers just won’t do.

Big puffy hair that reaches to the sky,

will put the twinkle in that cowboy’s eye.

A Texas cowgirl won’t wear boots that are pink

and will step right through piles that stink.

To be a cowgirl you need to know how to flirt

and not be afraid of a little brown dirt.

Girls of the city go for fluffy and frilly,

things that a cowgirl finds petty and silly.

You need to use words like pert near and purdy,

ya’ll is a fittin’ choice too, as is wily and durty.

To be a cowgirl in Texas is to have plumpy bright-red lips,

and a bold brazen sway of the hips.

You need a big ol’ mouth and a voice that is shrill

that can be heard in this country of hills.

So you know what it takes but do you have the gall

to stand up and answer the  Texas Cowgirl call?

How to be a Texan

Maroon or burnt orange,

definitely not purples or yellows.

Chose laters not Sooners,

like some of those other fellows.

Give up on supper,

it’s dinner that’s late.

Pile high the 4 Bs

on top of your plate.

(That’s Barbecued Beef Brisket and Beans

ranch style, of course,

for those of you

who hail from the north.)

Stop with the pop,

it’s soda down here.

Always keep jerky

and slim jims near.

In Texas it’s the bling

debazzled galore;

If you think you’re done,

there’s always room for more.

Plate-sized belt buckles

and stud-pointed boots;

and a bow-legged stance

will get you some hoots.

Size really matters,

in Texas it’s true.

Mini-Coopers and SmartCars

are simply taboo.

Everything is bigger in Texas

you’ve heard it said.

Now, good luck getting this poem

Out of your Yankee head.

Additions to “If you have boys..”

“Eat. Spit. Be Happy. It’s a sales motto, not a recommendation of how to spend your day annoying me.”

“No, farmer blows are reserved for farmers only and you are not a farmer.”

“Slow down, open your mouth and enunciate. I cannot understand a word you just said.”

“Did I actually give birth to you? What have you done to my sweet baby boy?”

“I’m just returning the favor. You embarrass me, I embarrass you back. That’s how I roll.”

“Deal with it. I’m the mom so I get to be the boss.” (A new way to say “Because I said so” which I swore I would never say to my own children.)

If you have boys ….

If you have boys, then here are some guarantees.

You will say, 

“Not at the table. If you must do that, please leave the room.”

“Chew with your mouth closed and please DO NOT TALK with your mouth full.”

“Can you slow down and try actually tasting the food.”

“Use your fork NOT your fingers.”

“Please stop farting. It is not funny anymore.”

“Please stop belching, you are making me sick.”

“Fine, if you must please do it in a room where I am not!”

“Please get that cup off the table! I only want cups of the drinking kind in here!!”

“I said if you can’t drink out of it, that cup does not belong in the kitchen!”

“Yes, you must shower because you really do stink.”

“No, we cannot bring any more living creatures into the house.”

“You cannot wear the same pair of underwear for five days in a row.”

“Someday you will be embarrassed to do that at the table.”

“I give up. I’ll be in my room now hiding behind locked doors with my nose stuck in a bottle of perfume.”

 

And here are some things are you guaranteed to see:

Athletic cups … on the kitchen table, on the kitchen counter, on the kitchen hutch and on the kitchen floor. Everywhere but where they should be when not in use.

Smelly socks thrown in closets, under cushions and right next to (but not in) the clothes hamper.

Humongous shoes left in the middle of the floor or right outside the closet door.

Rubber snakes under your sheets.

Fake bugs  on your pillow.

Creepy fake spiders under your pillow.

Grubs, beetles, lizards, fish, toads, and other interesting critters in your house.

Sticks, rocks, rusted bolts & nuts, BBs, coins, and other thingies in your washing machine.

And my all time favorites:

Fart wars, belching contests, armpit fart dances, wrestling matches that end in fist fights.

 

And despite their loud, smelly, freakish habits, if you have boys in your life you are guaranteed to be head-over-heels in love with them. They will drive you crazy, make you scream and sometimes want to run away. But when they give you their death squeeze hug, try picking you up and don’t turn away from your kisses you will know no greater love. They stretch you beyond capacity but in return these little men monsters are worth every bit of energy it takes to raise them (at least that’s what I’m told).

316,800 steps to go

So I finally decided to stop talking and start walking by signing up for the Avon 3-Day Breast Cancer walk in Dallas-Ft. Worth in November. But it is not the $2,300 or the walking up to 22 miles a day that has me axious. It is the probability that the wall of protection I have built around me will start to crumble.

So I am spending my time training not just my feet but my spirit. I think in order to get the most from this experience I need to identify my own emotions. Ahh, but I will save that for another blog because right now I don’t feel up to delving in that deep.

As many of you know, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years ago, which threw our family into the pits of hell. When you are faced with a diagnosis so close to you, you are forced to face things you’d rather not think about. And while mom is a two-year survivor, the fear never leaves you – she’d be the first to tell you that. I cannot begin to understand the battle she experienced, but I can tell you that a daughter faces a different set of emotions that bring us together, but also separate us. My hope is to meet women like me. Women who have not faced cancer, but have dealt with its blow as a “spectator” and all the emotions that observing brings.

Breast cancer also claimed the life of a friend this year and it has been her death, as much as my mom’s diagnosis, that has prompted me to take this step. Perhaps it was because of her age, or the fact that she left behind kids the same ages as mine. On top of that, a cousin-in-law died this year – not of breast cancer but of cancer. This ugly disease has reared it head in my family and on my heart in too many occasions. I am simply unable to sit by any longer.

Letting my emotions be seen is such a small price to pay compared to the women who have travelled a far more difficult road. It makes taking 316,800 steps into my own experiences the easier path, should I have the choice.

So I have a new blog, www.themammaryglams.wordpress.com dedicated to the 3-Day and the adventure leading up to it. I ask you to frequently check that blog as I intend to hold a silent on-line auction to help raise money for the walk.. You can also check my fundraising progress by logging onto www.the3-day.org/goto/dawn.vogel or check out my profile page on facebook.