Lightning Bugs and Dahlias: Savior Complex

Lightning Bugs and Dahlias: Savior Complex: You can't save someone that doesn't want to be saved. I've lost count how many times I've heard this phrase and even uttered it myself over ...

Savior Complex

You can't save someone that doesn't want to be saved. I've lost count how many times I've heard this phrase and even uttered it myself over the years. The past few days this particular phrase has been my mantra. I have a dear friend going through a particularly rough time. Unfortunately for me, her situation is eerily similar to one I found myself in and therefore I understand better than most. You see, I too have a savior complex. 

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I have a tendency to want to fix things: toys that are broken, essays that are poorly written and people that are broken. Most of the things I try to fix are easy: a toy can be sewn back together and an essay can be edited / trashed and started over, but a person, that is a different matter entirely. It has been my experience with the particular person I tried to save that it was easier for them to take me down than it was for me to bring them up. They had demons larger than both of us combined. Of course, while I was in the middle of it, the more I found out, the more I wanted to fix them. 

I knew them, at least I thought I did; nothing was too big for me to handle. You have a drug problem? Okay, well you've agreed to cut back on my behalf and that's a start right? You drink every day? That's okay too, because you text me when you get home from the bar so I know you made it in one piece. That doesn't mean I'm not uttering prayers the entire time and hoping they didn't take anyone else out with them should they not make it home safely. I made up every excuse in the book for them. They had a horrible relationship with their ex. They are looking to fill a void in their life that no person can possibly fill. They want to escape the pain and disappointment they feel. Their belief that they were worthless, unloved and that no-one would care if something did happen to them. We had numerous fights, as I tried to prove that I cared. I cared if they made it home at night. I cared if they took someone else out with them. They weren't worthless, nor were they incapable of being loved. I fought and fought to hold on to them and ultimately I failed.

There were days I felt like I got through to them. Moments in time when they decided not to go out that night and talk to me instead. Instances where they left the bar before they were completely hammered because they knew I'd worry. They dropped back from taking what I consider hardcore drugs to smoking pot. I took these baby steps as signs that I was slowly but surely making a difference. It wasn't until months later, driving in a car with them while they are drunk and I'm intoxicated, going almost 100 mph that somewhere in the fog I realized I hadn't made any progress at all; it was easier to go along with it. I had numerous reasons for going along with it: scared they'd leave and what would I do without them in my life, worried that if I gave up on them completely they were truly lost; hell, I even tried to reason for a moment I was the one that needed to relax just a little -- they were having more fun than me anyways.

Yeah, not really. What I came to realize after years and years of friendship and more months than I care to recall of trying to save them -- they didn't want to be saved. They were actually happy with the way their life was. They were able to do what they wanted, when they wanted and screw what the rest of us thought. They didn't need anyone and didn't want anyone either. They were a loner, a solitary being, their happiness and well-being didn't depend on someone being there. They had no problem abandoning those that claimed to love them or care even, as Captain Morgan, Vodka, Jameson, Jägermeister, coke, pot, acid etc would never fail them. They had everything they needed and it could be bought and didn't require any feelings or emotional attachment in return.

Being there now for my dear friend who has a similar person in their life breaks my heart. I listen to their pain as they ask if the problem is actually them? No, my dear, but that's what those types of individuals want you to believe. They need you to think that every argument is your fault. You want too much, you expect too much, you are pushing them for more than they are willing to give; the expectations you have are impossible to meet. All the lies, all the pain and in the end they leave anyways and crawl back in their bottle or their high. I thought being on the other side now would be easier; I'm the one that survived right? I walked away somewhat intact. Maybe I'm forever altered and my heart will never be the same. Maybe I'm a lot more guarded than I used to be and I can count on 7-8 fingers the number of people I now trust in this world. I say never again would I put myself so completely on the line, as all I did was lose myself entirely. I became a person I didn't know. In trying to save them, I nearly took myself out.

"I feel broken. I feel lost" my friend said. Yes, dear, and you will until you let them go. As long as excuses continue to be made for their behavior or you allow yourself to hope that one day they will change or want you the same way you want them; your heart will continue to break. I became the queen of excuses during my emotional, high-strung run with the person in my life; I've heard them all. It took walking away and acknowledging the painful truth that at some point, they will probably take themselves out through mischief of their own and I can't stop that from happening. The closer I am, just means they will probably take me with them -- especially if I'm riding in their car while they're drunk, staying in a hostile environment knowing they could snap or anything else that I know puts my safety in jeopardy at the time. Thankfully I have other people in my life that also have the savior complex, and they saved me. The difference is that I hated who I had become. I didn't like the world as I saw it through their lenses; it went against my core being and therefore, I allowed myself to be pulled up by those good people around me. You cannot save someone who does not want to be saved.

I'm on the other side. I survived. As I talk to my friend now going through her own heartbreak, I want to take her in my arms and not let her go. I want to blow fairy dust in her face so that she can sleep and see the world clearly, through refreshed and rejuvenated eyes. I want her to see that she matters and she isn't worthless; no matter what he says. She has a heart of gold and a pure soul that only seeks to better those around her. I want to save her from him, as I know the pain she's going through and the pain that lurks around the bend. Funny thing though, she's not on the other side of the pain yet and she doesn't want to be saved. She is still making excuses for him. The other shoe hasn't dropped. He hasn't completely broke her yet and until he does, she won't see that her world really is better off when he doesn't exist in it. She wants to save him, and I want to save her. I realize now the way people got to me was by loving me anyways. Being a friend when I felt like I didn't deserve one. They loved me and eventually I found my way back. So that's what I will do with her as she goes through hell -- I will love her . . . and I'm sure I'll still try to save her.

A New Kind of Normal

Over the past few days as I've thought about writing on my blog, I've considered that I should change the name to something reflecting my new status as a stay-at-home mom and all the adventures that ensue. However, that status is not permanent and seeing a canvas photo of some brilliantly colored dahlias the other day reminded me that this title does in fact fit. I wish I had dahlias in every room of my house on a constant basis.

Anyways, back to the subject of my blog, I feel so out of practice. There are constantly words running through my head, but putting them down is a lot harder than it used to be. I was pretty excited when I sat down the other night and wrote the opening pages of a new book. I've had this book in the back of my mind for over a year and half. The main character was actually supposed to be the lead in a book I finished a while back. However, circumstances changed and as I was writing the story it didn't wind up going where I thought it would. Last year I attended a writer's workshop at a festival and the author speaking made the comment that inevitably a story is never what you set out thinking it will be. She also commented that generally the first 20k words you write will be thrown out, as you are literally just warming up. Well, the storyline changed in my previous book and this character didn't work anymore, but I just couldn't shake him. He's become the kind of character that keeps me up at night telling me his story and is waiting for me to start writing it. I thought sitting down the other night and beginning to type would get him to shut-up for a bit, but instead the words came quicker and I had to stop typing when the baby began to cry. He will have to wait for a bit longer, as his story will come in pages at a time instead of chapters, but it will eventually get told. Re-reading this paragraph, as I keep getting distracted by music on YouTube; I sound nuts. Not just nuts, but like the certifiable kind. At least I do if you aren't a writer.

Life for me is a work in progress. I'm beginning to find a balance to being a stay-at-home mom while incorporating parts of myself back into the equation. Trying to write is always a positive step, as I haven't written anything but blogs in over a year and even then it has only been like one a month. The other day I realized the baby had been quiet for over an hour and I was able to finish several excerpts from an anthology called Tablet & Pen. The anthology was a gift from one of my professors in lieu of a baby gift; she knew I needed my sanity more than burp cloths. Reading, underlining small things in pencil as I went and considering it afterwards almost made me feel like normal. I found that by the time my daughter cried out looking for me to hold her I was ready to transition back to mommy mode. If this is how my life is meant to go for now -- well, it could definitely be worse.

I'm okay

This week, as I prepare to have my baby in a few short days, I've found myself looking back over this past year quite a bit. Granted, I think we tend to do that anyways as a year draws to a close, but I'm just doing it a little earlier than normal. In particular, I've been recalling a conversation I had in August with one of the deans at the law school I was attending. It was early on Tuesday morning and I had scheduled a conference with her to discuss my options. At the time, she listened to me talk for several minutes as I declared my pregnancy would not affect my studies and that I wanted to continue -- I needed to continue. She asked me particulars about the pregnancy and my personal life, while not saying much otherwise at first. Finally she sat back in her chair, looking like the lawyer she still is and she said the words I'll never forget, "No matter what you're telling me, I can look at you and see you're not okay."

I remember my mouth fell open, as I just kind of stared at her. She continued on by saying, "You remind me of someone I used to know, myself, in my early-to-mid 20's. I was juggling so many personal balls, academic balls and then professional ones that people would often look at me and ask how I kept it all together? I would tell them if I stopped everything would fall apart, and so I had to keep going; I was fine. It wasn't until years later when I hit my early 40's that I was able to look back at that time in my life and understand; I wasn't okay. You're not okay either, but you're too stubborn to admit it and you're terrified of dropping the numerous balls you're juggling. At some point you should allow yourself to admit you're not okay and then understand that the only way to get everywhere you want to go is allow yourself the time to do it. You can stay if you want and I'll help you do it, but I think you'll be a better lawyer, a better mother, a better spouse and you might wind up with your sanity intact if you just walk away for a little bit and take some time off."

The next morning I had withdrawn from law school and by that afternoon I was headed back to Texas. At the time I remember thinking that she was wrong, and didn't have me pegged quite as exactly as she thought. Still, I was exhausted emotionally and physically and I had to be honest with myself that my timing for moving, starting law school, trying to fix my marriage and have a baby sucked. Not to mention I had just endured the worst undergraduate semester of my career and while I walked away with all A's and one B; I considered those grades gifts from professors who knew me and knew that I was distracted. They were grading me based on the student I normally was, not the student I actually was in the spring, and I think that knowledge made it worse. I was terrified of coming back to Texas, where I knew I'd basically be home-bound with the pregnancy and I hadn't been home in over three years. I wouldn't have a reason or an excuse if my marriage didn't work now, as I was home and could focus on it instead of being pulled in a thousand other directions. My kids would finally have me home and it's pretty common knowledge I'm not a PTA mom. My academic identity was now gone, as I was no longer an undergraduate English major nor was I a law student. So what the hell was I exactly? All I could think for the first few weeks being back in Texas was if Hell exists -- this must be it. 

Three and half months have gone by since I arrived back in Texas and there have been days I didn't think I'd survive. I would literally find small things to do each hour, just so I knew the time was passing until I could go to bed and the day would finally be over. I've had to deal with a pregnancy that has been complicated and painful. Still, I found myself growing attached to the child I wasn't sure I was ready for as we survived another day, another week and another month together. Hearing her heartbeat, seeing her on ultrasounds became some of the biggest milestones in my life the past few months. My marriage, while not perfect, is finally in a healthy place. We've learned to communicate. I've learned to let him walk away when he's angry, as I know he'll come back when he's ready to talk. He is finally the priority he should have been all along and it's amazing to me the little things that make him happy. I always thought he wanted these huge things I wasn't prepared to give him, but most of that wasn't necessary. Surprising, to me at least, he just wanted me home more. My kids are happier because I'm home, and at times they lament that I am home now. It was easier for them to get away with things when I wasn't around to be on top of them. 

Looking back, I understand now that my law school dean did indeed have me pegged. I wasn't okay and I was terrified of dropping every ball I was juggling only to find out I failed. Failure has never been an option to me and the thought I was finally in situations so big and out of my control that failure was inevitable broke me. Taking time off was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was what I needed to do. I understand that now. As this year is coming to a close, I am looking forward to meeting my new daughter and celebrating the holidays with my family. We have a lot of plans already being made for next year in regards to where we'll end up and what we'll do, but for now the most important thing I can say is I'm okay. I'm thankful for the people in my life who call me out when I'm not ready to see what I'm doing, and I'm even more thankful that with some time I'm able to not only see but understand they were right. I'm okay and for once that's not just what I keep telling myself in hopes that it will eventually be true.

Home Sweet Home

Yesterday morning I woke-up with an image clearly emblazoned in my head. I have no idea what I had been dreaming moments before, but this image was plain as day. The picture in my mind was of a house, two stories, a wrap around porch, cedar shingles as predominantly seen in the Northwest; it was a craftsman style home. Immediately I knew what home I was seeing, as I've been looking at it for several days now on a home site. This particular house is in a neighborhood Jed and I have lived in before. To say it would be perfect for us at this time in our lives is an understatement. 

I always try to correlate my dreams to something or a rationale for why I had them. Maybe I am nuts for that, but I believe they do have meaning. Dreams, in my opinion are pictures, ideas, thoughts etc that our brain cannot properly identify or process during the day and so it works these things out at night when we are resting. Before I had fallen asleep the night before, Jed and I were laying in bed talking about this particular neighborhood. We were remembering the first house we lived in in Washington. The house was built in the 1913-1920 era and had charm galore. There was an English garden as I called it in the backyard, a massive tree in the front that Paige climbed (or attempted to anyways) and an "I Love Lucy" fridge in the kitchen. Probably my favorite part about that house was all the woodwork (original), hardwood floors, claw foot tub (that we never used) and original crystal knobs etc. However, we had a landlord that decided to sell the home within a few months of us moving in and we had to find a new place. At the time that was devastating and it put in motion what would transpire months later. 

His selling the house caused us to move to a different neighborhood that now occupies a lot of our discussion. The house was probably one of the smallest we've lived in, but it was comfortable and warm. The house was full of natural light and we had a pond behind our house that provided hours of amusement provided by different animals. The neighborhood was full of houses like the one I've been eying. Craftsman style. Cedar shingles. Trees. Cul-de-sacs. Quiet, very quiet. So quiet in fact, one of the things Jed and I were remembering is that I'd leave our bedroom windows cracked at night to provide a breeze. Even though it was beginning to freeze outside and we had to load the blankets on the bed to keep warm. The first night we were in the house, the cicadas were singing so loud I was legitimately freaked out; I had never heard anything that loud in my life (nor had I ever lived anywhere I could hear it so clearly). There was something about having windows open and the way it made your house smell: fresh and crisp. We actually had air conditioning at that house, most of them in that area do not (it isn't needed), but rarely did I have the air on. I always wanted the windows open instead. I miss that.There are a lot of things I miss. That house was probably the closest I've ever come to feeling like I had a home of my own.

The word home has a lot of different definitions. I have my childhood home where I grew-up. By that I actually mean the town, as my mom and I moved around a lot and once my grandpa died; I quit associating home with any one particular house. I have the home that is my grandmothers, where I spent most of my time as a child and when I'm scared or need someone to talk to, her home still provides a refuge to me. Austin, Texas (and it's surrounding suburbs) have been home off and on for the past 10 years. We've lived in different towns all around Austin, but I know exactly where everything is. I know the grocery store layouts, the local restaurants, coffee places, I have friends here etc. Belton and UMHB was home for several years. I found a family in my friends and professors. I fell in love with how small the town is. The house I lived in was never really home, but the town definitely was. Jed said something to me once when I was lamenting the fact we didn't have a home that was distinctly our own. He said that home is the people that are with you. For him, me and the kids are home and so wherever we are is home. I didn't understand that in so many words at the time, but looking back over my life; it has always been the people around me that causes me to associate whether I'm home or not. 

I'm ready to go home. Whether it is the house I've found or another one, it really doesn't matter. I'm ready to take my small family of four, that will soon be five and start our new adventure. I want our kids to have a security that I never had growing up. The same school from here on out. The ability to make friends and have those same friends going into the future; until it is time for them to spread their wings and leave. I do want a house that is our own, but I also understand now it is more important the people that fill that home. If I could leave now, I would. I've made my choice. We won't even discuss how long it took me to understand all this, the point is that I get it now. All I know is that Jed must have the patience of a saint because he's known this stuff for years. Still, I'm ready to take my family and go home to a place where the cicadas are so loud they freak me out. The place I can leave my windows open and the leaves are bigger than my hands. Where Halloween is celebrated at the elementary school and the entire town shows up. Pumpkins aren't carved because the rain will make them moldy within 24 hours, but every front porch has pumpkins sitting on them. A place where the leaves dance and stir in the air like a cyclone. More importantly, the home that sings to my soul and has been my sanity when all of it seems to be gone. I've been holding onto this place like it was the only lifeline in the world since June, and it's time I go home. 

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

Forgiveness and Reality Television Collide

Forgiveness isn't for the other person. Forgiveness is for yourself. Forgiveness does not condone their actions, but it allows you to move on. Without it, you will be stuck exactly where you are. 

Imagine my surprise to hear the above statement coming from Gene Simmons Family Jewels. I am not a fan of KISS. I really didn't even know who Gene Simmons was until I happen to stumble onto his show. The dynamic of his family intrigued me and I kept watching. This past season they dealt with some heavy issues. Issues that quite frankly I'm surprised they allowed to be shown fully on the show. As one of the final episodes was coming to a close, the lines above were spoken at a marriage boot camp Gene and Shannon attended. Those few lines somehow managed to explain something I had been questioning for months; how do you forgive someone else for what they did to you and how does someone even begin to forgive me?

During numerous conversations, I have expressed disbelief that a certain person in my life could possibly forgive me for certain actions. They were never able to express how they had forgiven me or even why, but simply kept reinstating that they just wanted to move on and they want to move on with me in their life. Meanwhile, they understood that for either of us to move on completely, I had to forgive someone else and I had to let go of the hurt and anger that I was continuing to bottle up. Being the stubborn person I am -- I refused to do so. Still, it takes a lot of energy to stay angry, and I was beginning to lose the fight, but I thought that to forgive meant that I condoned how everything unraveled.

The words spoken on Gene Simmons show made me realize I was viewing the situation all wrong and for once I began to understand how it was possible for this other person to have forgiven me. It really wasn't that they had forgiven me per say or were able to condone my actions, but they had begun to forgive their part in our undoing. By forgiving himself, he was able to move on and it just happens he still wants to move on with me.  It's quite funny actually that since hearing this statement, I seriously feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I'm okay with moving on. I don't want to be stuck where I've been for months on end, and if that means I have to forgive myself and let go, then that's what I have to do. Forgiving oneself is harder I think than forgiving someone else, but it is just as necessary. 

See, who said reality television never taught us anything?

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

Pillow Talk

Laying in bed, late at night, he told her out of nowhere, "You should start writing again." 

She murmured her consent without really agreeing.  "You know you're happier when you write" he continued. Not letting up, he pretended to ignore the fact she was silent. "Edit your book. Look for someone to publish it. Hell, write a new one. Just write."

Even though she didn't have much to say, she heard what he was saying. He is right. The only thing that makes her better is writing, and yes, she needs to be made better. No longer broken. Pick up the pieces, dust herself off and find out where she goes from here. Questions that can only be answered by delving into characters. Characters that she inevitably transfers part of herself into, but that are never quite her. Characters that have their own struggle, their own lives and that become as real to her as her friends. Yes, that does always make her better. 

"I know you're probably hesitant to go back to your book and edit it. I know you don't want to be reminded of him, but maybe if you can close the character of Jake, you can close him as well."

Wanting this not to be true, she finally spoke up and said, "Oh, no, the two are very separate for me now. The character of Jake started because of him, but Jake is now Jake -- he doesn't remind me of him anymore." This was true. Jake is Jake. He became something that the person he was based on will never be. Jake came alive. She could picture his walk, she could hear his accent when he talked, she knew what he'd look like if she spied him standing across a field or riding a horse. No, the only reminder of 'him' that Jake provides, is that he would have never been created without the re-emergence of this person in her life.

Still, maybe closure is what she needs. Lizzie needed closure and Jake provided that when he came back to her. She wrote it that way because she knew that's what Lizzie would have needed, were she real. So why is this any different? Shaking her head to herself, she knew instinctively it was different because she was afraid to write. Afraid what would come out if she gave her keys freedom to type. Scared that she wouldn't like the parts of her that emerge as she tries to deal with what comes next. Writing is a form of honesty, one cannot lie if they do it right. Knowing that, she wondered how hard she'd have to fight with the part of herself that wanted to lie and the part that wanted to write. 

"Are you listening?" he asked, as he nudged her gently. 

"Hmm? Oh, yes, sorry. I'm listening. Maybe I'll write some tomorrow."

Tomorrow has come and gone and no, she didn't write anything. Still, she's thinking about writing and she suspects it won't be much longer now.

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy