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I should say: the house shelters day-dreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.
— from The Poetics of Space, by Gaston Bachelard

I wasn’t really into today’s Writing Group prompt (which is too bad, because I had the perfect opening quote).  I’m kind of having a hard time at the moment and wasn’t going to write at all, but since I committed to a post a day, I’m just going to write anything.

I feel anxious about a lot of things and it’s making me very uncomfortable.  It’s not fair to talk about it all here, but I will talk about one thing.  I’m afraid we made a mistake buying our house.  I think we rushed into it, largely at my insistence, and I think it is not really working out the way I hoped.  There are so many things that I loved when we looked at it, but now that we’ve lived in it for 7 months, it’s clear that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.  The people who lived here before made huge changes to the floor plan, and since we never saw the house fully furnished, I can’t visualize how they used the space, which makes it harder for me to see how to best use the space.  There’s SO MUCH SPACE (which is not a humblebrag complaint about how my house is too big; they created a great room/dining room/entry way/built-ins/etc. space that just makes NO sense and seems to leave a ton of wasted space).

The house doesn’t get a ton of natural light, which I didn’t realize – and I’m not sure how I could have known that before we bought it – and it makes me really sad.  In fact, it makes me wonder if the lack of natural light is contributing to how down I feel.  We have lots of windows, but our lot is wooded and we have long eaves, and so we just get indirect light, except in the great room, but you can’t grow plants in there because the direct sunlight falls in the middle of the room.  This really bothers me.

There are, technically, four bedrooms, two upstairs and two downstairs.  The more I think about it, the more I think we should have looked for something with at least three bedrooms on the same floor.  I worry about once we have kids.  You can’t move a little guy downstairs while the baby stays in the room we’ve dubbed the nursery, next to the master.  It’s not safe.  And the plan to move both kids downstairs in the future seems like it’s not really a good idea; the office, which would be the second bedroom downstairs, isn’t really set up to be a bedroom, what with the French doors that lead out under the deck and a fireplace.  And of course, this all so very cart-before-the-horse (which is another post altogether), but that doesn’t seem to matter when my mind starts racing.

I hate the paint color that we paid to have put up in the family room; we made a mistake when we picked the swatch.  We thought it would be super, super pale purple, but it’s actually lavender.  With the ugly sage/teal green carpet that’s down there – and which we’re not in a position to replace for the time being – it looks ridiculous.  I also sometimes think we picked the wrong gray for our bedroom.  David’s against repainting.

We still don’t have furniture or rugs for the great room, so we haven’t been able to have the open house I’ve dreamed about having ever since I imagined having a house.  We had a giant sofa all picked out – we used to go visit it at Z Gallerie – but then David decided he was having second thoughts and wanted to try it out again, but the last time we went, they’d taken it out of the showroom and it won’t ever be back, so now we can’t buy it because it’s too much money to spend on something we’re (he’s) not sure about.  Nothing else we’ve looked at has come close to being as perfect as that couch.

Our commute is at least an hour each way, sometimes longer.  That means I haven’t been able to find time to work out during the week in basically six months, and we rarely eat dinner before eight, which I really, really hate.  I often think we should have found something closer in, even if it meant settling for something smaller.  I worry, especially, about what will happen when we have kids.  When will we have time to see them if we’re spending all our time commuting and it’s basically bedtime by the time we get home?

Everything feels completely unfinished.  I mean, even after seven months, we still don’t have a workable (in my opinion) solution to where the mail goes when we bring it in.  The guest room still has shit everywhere, you can’t turn the stove down low enough, the bushes in front were planted too close together, it’s fucking impossible to keep the hardwood floors clean, and I’m an asshole who can’t do anything except keep a running tally of all the shit that sucks about her house.

I can’t talk to David about this.  He doesn’t worry the way I do, and he doesn’t see any of these things as problems (and I recognize that some of the things I listed are not actual problems, yes).  I also can’t bring myself to tell him outright that I think I regret buying this house.  And there’s nothing I can do except try to accept that it’s basically always going to be a work in progress (and therefore never perfect, which is problematic for me) and try to make the best of it.

“And I thought about how many people have loved those songs. And how many people got through a lot of bad times because of those songs. And how many people enjoyed good times with those songs. And how much those songs really mean. I think it would be great to have written one of those songs. I bet if I wrote one of them, I would be very proud. I hope the people who wrote those songs are happy. I hope they feel it’s enough. I really do because they’ve made me happy. And I’m only one person.”
–from The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky

Today’s Writing Group prompt:  What’s your theme song?

This is super easy for me:

I have loved this song since it came out, and it’s long been my signature song at karaoke.  I wish I had more time to get into it right now, but today’s a busy day for me.  My apologies.  Here are the lyrics:

Wonder
Doctors have come from distant cities
Just to see me
Stand over my bed
Disbelieving what they’re seeing

They say I must be one of the wonders
Of god’s own creation
And as far as they can see they can offer
No explanation

Newspapers ask intimate questions
Want confessions
They reach into my head
To steal the glory of my story

They say I must be one of the wonders
Of god’s own creation
And as far as they can see they can offer
No explanation

Oh, I believe
Fate smiled and destiny
Laughed as she came to my cradle
Know this child will be able
Laughed as my body she lifted
Know this child will be gifted
With love, with patience, and with faith
She’ll make her way

People see me
I’m a challenge to your balance
I’m over your heads
I, I confound you and astound you, too
Oh,  I must be one of the wonders
Of god’s own creation
And as far as you can see you can offer me
No explanation

Oh, I believe
Fate smiled and destiny
Laughed as she came to my cradle
Know this child will be able
Laughed as she came to my mother
Know this child will not suffer
Laughed as my body she lifted
Know this child will be gifted
With love, with patience, and with faith
She’ll make her way

We are masters of the unsaid words, but slaves of those we let slip out.
— Winston Churchill

Today’s Writing Group prompt is an image.  Rather than post it right here for you to see, I am going to try to describe it for you.

I have noticed in commenting on other people’s posts during this challenge that my descriptors need work.  I default to “this is awesome/perfect/great/beautiful/etc,” without being able (or, maybe, really taking the time) to say more.  I also often fall back on “this was so, so ______.”  Weak sauce.  So I am going to put the picture after the jump and describe it for you.  When I’m done and you have a picture in your mind’s eye, click through to see how well it matches up with the actual image.  OK?  Ok.  Let’s do this.

This picture is a black and white photograph.  It appears to have been taken several decades ago, probably in the 1960s or 1970s.  There is a chessboard featured prominently at the bottom of the frame and the picture is taken from an angle level to the chessboard, which appears to be on a table.  In the very near foreground, the white king stands tall.  Its edges are slightly blurry because the focus in the picture is on the man behind it (we’ll get to him in a minute).  Two rows to the right of the king, and three to four rows back, the white knight stands in left profile on a white square.  In the back of the picture, a man leans down, his chin touching the chessboard.  He wears a black sweater, possibly with a white shirt underneath, and a blank expression.  He is not unhandsome.  The right side of his face from his chin to his eyebrow is obscured by the king in the foreground.  Due to the angle of his head, his forehead is slightly furrowed.  He is looking at the king, not at the camera.  His hair is combed neatly.  He has thick eyebrows and two moles on the left side of his face, one just above his full lips and one right below his eye.  His visage fills nearly the whole frame, save a bit of negative space above each of his shoulders and the slant of the chessboard in front of him.

Ok, I think that’s everything.  Got a picture of him in your head?  OK.  Click through.

Continue reading “Use Your Words” →

“Try not to associate bodily defect with mental, my good friend, except for a solid reason.”
— from David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens

Disclaimer: This is a real work in progress.  I can’t seem to fix it so it doesn’t come across as a lecture, and that’s not my intent.  Please keep in mind that the “you” here is the general “you,” and is not meant to refer to what you personally might have done or said or thought.  Please also feel free to tell me to get over myself in the comments.

*************************************

I’m bailing on today’s prompt – my very first kiss was entirely forgettable and nothing to write home about (but if you want to know about a first kiss, you can click here – this is one of my favorites, despite the ending).  Instead, I want to touch on something that’s come up in a few comments lately but is by no means a new “problem” for me.

My hearing loss doesn’t make me special, you guys.  Here’s what I mean:

Toward the end of my third year of law school, a classmate I only knew in passing randomly came up to me and told me earnestly that she was “so impressed” that I’d managed to get through three years of law school despite not being able to hear.  This was clearly meant to be taken as a compliment.  And this happens a fair amount; in fact, it happened just yesterday in the comments section.

The other way it comes up is, “That sure must have been hard, but look how strong it made you.”  I call that the Magic Cripple.  This also just happened, on someone else’s site.

Let me be clear: I know there’s no condescension intended in these statements, that the people who say these things mean well.  I get that, and I appreciate it.  But the only thing statements like that do is reinforce the idea that I shouldn’t have been able to come through a thing like losing my hearing overnight, that I shouldn’t have been able to succeed at law school (or anything else) because I can’t hear normally anymore.

Having a disability and being successful are not mutually exclusive, and to imply that they are (even if you don’t realize you’re doing it) is harmful.  It perpetuates the stereotype that people with disabilities are less than and can prevent them from even being offered the opportunity to show what they are capable of.  It happened to me.  When I was finally ready to try to find a new job after losing my hearing (and my old job), I sent out hundreds of resumes (which stated that I needed to be contacted via relay) and called so many places (via relay) and was offered . . . three interviews.  And even each of those three places more or less openly doubted that I could do the job once they learned of my hearing impairment, even after meeting me.

The way I see it, there’s no magic in “overcoming” a disability.  It doesn’t make you brave or inspirational or strong.  You were either already brave and inspirational and strong before (or, at least, had it in you to be) or you weren’t.  What I mean is, some people will succeed after, say, losing their hearing or the use of their legs, and some won’t.  What determines that is who you were before, not the fact that a terrible thing happened to you.  I’ve talked about this before:

Sometimes people say, “You’re so brave,” or “I don’t think I could have handled it as well as you have.” I rarely think of myself as courageous, and people only see me that way because they think what happened to me is unbelievable.  They ask, “How did you ever get through it?” I say, “You do what you have to do. You get up every day, even when it’s hard, and you take it hour by hour – minute by minute if you have to: Get out of bed now; go to the gym now; eat lunch now; read this book now. Then you go to bed and do it again tomorrow.” Eventually, it isn’t so hard to get out of bed, and one day you realize that life can still be good and that you want to be a part of it.

You can’t imagine it happening to you, and if you tried, you’d assume that you wouldn’t be able to survive, let alone succeed.  God knows that’s how I felt when it happened to me.  But the truth, for almost everyone, is that you would.

Please don’t misunderstand me: I appreciate where you’re coming from, and I know you mean well.  I’m just asking you to think about the way you see me, and other people like me.  All I’m saying is, what I’m capable of with a hearing impairment is generally not more remarkable than what I would be capable of with normal hearing.  I’m different, but I’m not special.

Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence
— Alanis Morissette, Thank You

Today’s Writing Group prompt: Gratitude. Write a thank you note you’ve never sent, can’t send or can’t express.

Dear Dr. Ditto,

I don’t know if you remember me.  I came to you nearly 11 years ago only a few days after the worst day of my life.  I was 25 and terrified.  My world was upside down and I desperately wanted you to tell me it could be set right side up again.  You didn’t, of course; you couldn’t.  There’s no cure for the thing – there’s still no name, no one knows what happened – that stole into my room that night while I slept.  I don’t remember your exact words, but the bottom line was: “You might get a little better but, for the most part, this is permanent. I’m sorry.”  Ten months later, I got even worse, and your office was the first place I went, terrified again.  You told me the truth of just how much worse I was and, again, you said, “I’m sorry.”

I want to thank you.  For your expertise, certainly, but mostly for your kindness and your patience.  My parents and I were so scared and had so many questions, and I often spent large amounts of my time in your exam room in tears.  You told me I’d never get better in the gentlest way possible, but also made sure I knew that you and your staff – Kim was my angel, you know – would help me navigate my new life.  You made sure I knew that this wasn’t the end, even if I was sure it was.  When we wanted second and third opinions, you pointed us to the best places – UVA and Johns Hopkins – and called ahead for us.  When I decided to go ahead with my surgery, you gave me your blessing and a recommendation for one of the best implant centers in the country.  You gave me the map, but you let me chart my own course.  And I always knew you were rooting for me.

I should actually send this letter, or a less flowery version of it.  I think you’d be so pleased to see where I am now.  Nearly 36 and so different from the sad, broken girl in your office all those years ago.  I finished law school, you know.  You helped; you wrote the letter that made them get the best accommodations for me, that made it possible for me not just to attend, but to kind of kick ass, too.  Thanks for having my back.

I Googled you just now.  You’re still practicing, and I’m glad.  I think the world’s a better place for it.  I hope you’re well.

Sincerely,

Melanie