Caftans: My Cloaks of Invisibility

I'm always amazed and especially touched when friends truly hear what I say, process it, internalize it, relate to it, and repeat it back to me. It's very satisfying and very validating.

This morning my co-worker of 20 years repeated back to me about how she's starting to see what I said is true--how after a certain age we become invisible. Granted, she's about 7 years younger than I am, but still she's starting to get a sense and a handle on what I said.

We complimented each other on our ensembles today, and after 20 years of togetherness, she and I have found we are dressing similarly these days. Yesterday was all black, and today is a splash of colors--we both are wearing multicolored garments with a lot of yellow and orange in it today. I said, "I chose this outfit because #1 it is clean and readily available; and #2. It doesn't make me look or feel fat." 

She then went on to say how she's doing what I have done, and came to the conclusion that comfort above all else is more important. She's not wearing stilettos anymore, and is choosing to wear what she wants. 

I was telling her about Imani Gandy, who I follow on twitter, and how Imani got well into what we'll call "the caftan life," and I have to say, I'm emulating that this year. So far, I've bought three caftans, and I have taken to swanning about my condo wearing them, and I hope one day to be swanning about a cruise ship wearing them too, with cute sandals and maybe some big chunky statement jewelry in primary tones, too.  Perhaps matching turbans are not far behind?

My coworker and I both compared notes about what I said, regarding our invisibility. While on the surface, some folks might say it is a negative statement on women aging; whereas, I will say the direct opposite: IT IS FREEING. It is freeing to wear what I want because it's comfortable or it makes ME happy. It's freeing not to have to consider if what I am wearing or how I appear might attract the attention of a romantic partner. 

It's freeing to be invisible and not have unwanted attention too. It's freeing to walk into the office and realize halfway through the day that my shirt was put on inside out and not one soul informed me of such. It's freeing to realize I neglected to pluck a chin hair or I might have a blemish on my face. The only one who sees it is me, the only one who matters is ME. 

Why did it take nearly 54 years for me to finally come to this realization?

My Existential Crisis

It's an understatement to say the last two years have been challenging. Quite frankly, I don't know how I'm surviving it at all. 2019 had its own series of challenges, and yet as the saying goes,  "fall down seven times, get up eight." And then 2020 proved that 2019 was merely child's play.

The austerities & precautions & isolation I've endured because of the pandemic (plus avoiding people who are very clearly deluded and recklessly stupid), grief over mom's death, which has unearthed yet another layer of grief over dad's death, my own health crisis due to the vaccine, and last but not least, MENOPAUSE to round out things for good measure. 

If need be, I can continue on this current path for a while more, but not sure how much more, as the isolation IS taking its toll on my emotional health. 

And when I say "isolation,"really, it's just me limiting exposure to friends & family who seem hell bent on either/or catching COVID or transmitting it, all the while claiming they're taking precautions, despite the fact they very clearly are NOT taking precautions: i.e. my sister attending super spreader events without wearing a mask; my aunt & uncle taking a cruise, then later a trip to Ireland; and a friend taking a cruise (and sharing a cabin with a stranger), then later taking a trip to Peru, a country where they don't have vaccines readily available like here in the USA; or my niece who has ONE KIDNEY deciding she's going to Florida for spring break. But whatever, fuck it, right? I can't live other people's lives, and they're just making choices I wouldn't. Yet, I resent being put in the position to "give face" like a give a shit if/when they test positive for this pernicious virus. 

Anyway. Yeah. There's a lot of seething resentment on my end. Not even jealousy. Just resentful that friends and family cannot be trusted to be careful, and then I'm cast as being antisocial because I refuse to put myself in a position where I might catch this virus. 

A byproduct of the isolation is feeling forsaken by friends and family. And the existential crisis of being aware that mom's gone, and mom was the glue that kept everyone in her orbit, and by extension, my orbit too.

I'm feeling abandoned, and it's also dredging up to the surface every friend or family member that's disgusted, disappointed, and dropped me. And in the end, I guess I should appreciate they're not actively in my life anymore, as they all, in the end, only used me for their own personal gain.

I think of my friend H., who I thought we were great friends going back to high school, and who not that long ago (maybe it IS that long ago--5 years +/-?) I made her a sweater I never saw her wear. Or M., who I haven't seen since my first wedding in 1991 and who consistently flaked out on every time we planned to meet in NYC (who, I might add, tried to shake me down for one of the 3 precious N95s I found in my dry wall repair supplies at the start of the pandemic). I think of my best childhood friend J., who just disappeared into the ether it seems. Countless cousins of mine, I've tried to contact, and well it's not important to them--I'm especially sad about mom's cousin B., who I always thought I was close to, who decided when dad died she wasn't going to "come back east for sad stuff anymore," and the last time she did come back east for a little get together at mom's I declined as I was still pretty chapped about it. 

I think of now former friends/co-irker or Sharlett, who, in the end didn't value me, and was a parasite who took what she could could from me, and when I dared to be bold enough to speak out about how she was treating me, she couldn't handle the confrontation and dumped me. And well, Brenda? She was a parasite as well, and clearly we have philosophically opposite ideas of what friendships are, and she at least owned up to the fact she was jealous of me (which accomplished nothing for me personally!) and who truly surprised me with her lack of empathy and surprised me with her capacity for careless cruelty.

I think of another person who I thought was a friend, T., who, the very day I was processing the fact that ten years worth of work was for naught and that I wouldn't be able to have a kid of my own, her response when she finally ran out of give-a-fuck was to say, "The world is overpopulated enough as it is." 

Then there are the friends who I've lost because of politics.

And lastly, there's my sister, who I reconciled with in 2017, but the  more I think on that, the more I realize that, too, was a means to an end for her. And rather than put any energy or focus into fostering our relationship, she's found Jesus (again), and would rather have yet another church organization exploit her Type A go-getter personality. Pretty much strangers are more important than I am. 

I shouldn't waste more time on this stuff, which I view as abandonments or losses, or something else which I have yet to identify. But there's something there that I just can't seem to let go. 

A good practice I've been doing these days is when I start thinking about each of these people, I quickly revert to CBT training and remind myself not to believe these distortions and that for every one of these people who have hurt me or dumped me, I have just as many (if not, more) people who want to be in my life.

I wish I weren't so highly sensitive. I wish that the abundance of friends was enough to wash away all the hurt feelings, and wash away the tears that I still cry about it all. 

And if all the tears are driven by menopause, I guess it'll be another 5-10 years until that well dries up. I just don't want to waste one more moment than is necessary crying tears for people that just don't matter anymore. 

Does any of this make sense? There's just so much overlap right now with my abandonment issues, grief (death IS the final abandonment), and menopause. It's really a devil's cocktail, and pretty difficult to navigate.  

To Be Crossposted Elsewhere

It's been two years and two weeks since mom died, and I'm still unpacking everything. And much like where we are in the pandemic--we're not at the beginning, and we're not at the end, we're at the beginning of the end. And I'm at the beginning of the end of that horrible initial phase of grieving.

Everything happened so quick. From the moment mom was officially notified that the virus was in the nursing home, then she was sedated before I could say my final goodbye, and then roughly 10 days of radio silence, her borked out of her mind, shallow breathing and sitting in her own filth, neglected by the people who were tasked with caring for her, until the dreaded, inevitable call came through that she was gone.

I have been stuck in an existential feedback loop, truly sad that I wasn't able to talk to her. I wasted too much time trying to advocate for her, when I should have been talking more to her. Then she was gone. I thought I was prepared for it. I thought I was emotionally detached enough. Trust me, nothing prepared me for what I've been experiencing.

Last night, I watched the second-to-the-last episode of This Is Us. This was a show she'd probably have thoroughly enjoyed. The final episodes are devoted to the ultimate passing of the mother, Rebecca. The scenes of her transitioning from being alive to being dead involves her character on a train, encountering people who were significant in her life. Rebecca is young and vibrant, and though she cannot see the people saying their goodbyes to her, she can hear their voices as if they were in another room. 

As I had hoped while watching this episode, I had hoped I'd gain something catartic and useful regarding the death of my own mom, since I wasn't able to be there with her. And fortunately, I had that catharsis.

In early 2014, mom almost died of a ruptured gallbladder. And as is the case with most of mom's health crises, they always held off on surgery until she was at death's door, because the surgery itself could have killed her. They waited until she was in sepsis. 

I remember showing up at the hospital and she was in post-op recovery, totally out of it, and we weren't convinced she would pull through. I crouched down and whispered in her ear, "Mom. It's me. I love you. I still need you. I still need my mom. But if you need to go--go. Don't stay for me. I love you."

Coincidentally, she rallied, and managed to live another 6 years after. This was beginning of 2014, and by winter holidays 2014, she had caused a rift between me and my sister, which caused me to stop going to family gatherings as I was avoiding my sister. 

People are complicated; life is messy. 

Life is complicated; people are messy.

The universe saw fit to give her nearly 6 more years, and yet, because of her own words and deeds, it threw a monkey wrench into how that precious remaining time was spent. No matter how much time we think we have, it's never enough. I wish I were more prescient & present.

From Xmas 2014 until July 2019, I avoided all family gatherings. I'd visit mom on Columbus Day, or a week before/after her birthday or Mother's Day. And sadly, Mother's Day 2019, the universe fucked me. I had an issue with the lock on the front door to my home, and despite the car loaded up with gear and food for a weekend at mom's, I had to stay home and deal with a locksmith, as Maharajah was in the UK on business. 

Life is what happens when you're busy making plans. 

Man makes plans, and God says "HAHA!"

Before I knew it, July 2017 she took a series of tumbles at home, which resulted in her deciding to stay in the nursing home. Columbus Day 2017 was spent helping my sister empty out the house and prepare it for sale. I didn't visit mom that time because I was filthy and exhausted and angry--angry at her, and angry at my useless brother. 

Winter holidays 2017 was spent heading to Singapore for a cruise, and dispatching the last of dad's cremated remains at the Equator January 3, 2018--the start of the 10th calendar year since his death. November 2018 we headed to India for the wedding of a cousin. I think I might have seen my mom one other time, perhaps Columbus Day 2018 which was a thankless visit. 

My final visit with her was December 2019, when I visited and dropped off a bag of treats for the holiday. It was a good visit. I stayed with her for two hours, of nonstop chatter. It was a good visit.

And then in mid-April 2020, my last chat with her, she was exhausted, and was "presumptive positive" with COVID. Despite the fact she claimed she was feeling better--I think that might have been the ativan talking. My last good bye was what I'd call an "every day" type of goodbye. Unlike all other times, I concluded the call with an "I love you," which was out of character for me. I spent too much time being angry with her, and too much time waiting for an apology or a true reconciliation that never happened. The best I could muster was a silent resignation and granting her or the situation amnesty. I always wished things were different.

For two years I've grappled with the finality of all this. I've grappled with the fact she was depressed for possibly her entire life, and intensified immensely after the passing of my dad in 2008, and her dad (her abuser) in 2012. 

I knew for a long time she didn't want to be here. I remember in 2008 when dad actually survived the surgery (which there was only a 10% of survival), her response wasn't a THANK GOD!, rather, her first words here, "I guess he forgot what a shitty world this is."

For two years, I've tried to find some solace or greater meaning in her death, that she got what she wanted--to cease to exist. Sometimes I feel that way myself, but that's just the surface shit--the reality is, I want to cease suffering. And isn't that exactly what death is? The discontinuance of suffering?

So while watching This Is Us last night, I was reminded that I did say my final goodbye (albeit in 2014). I want to think there was some greater meaning to me thinking upon that last night watching This Is Us. I shouldn't quibble over whether I said it in 2014 when her death seemed to be imminent but wasn't. Perhaps this is my subconscious self telling me to be kind to myself. That it doesn't matter when I said it, but the fact remains I said it at all.

55 Days And Counting

So it's 55 days (or 54 days "and a wake up" as we used to say in the military) until my dodgey hip is hacksawed out of me. I'm excited at the idea of removing this thing which has caused me easily 20 years worth of pain and discomfort, which over the last two years has led to a marked decrease in my stamina and my ability to do the things I want to do. Additionally, I'm excited about the idea that for the first time in my life, my legs will both be the same length. 

Unlike other medical things in my life, I refuse to allow myself to do a nose dive down a series of rabbit holes regarding the surgeon, as well as the procedure itself. It's bad enough I know what I know, but glad I'll be knocked out while they do it.

I've lulled myself into a sense of security (false or not) that the pain I'll endure post-op isn't going to be worse than what I'm living with now.

In fact, I'm not even thinking about it at all. The only things I am concerning myself with involves the concern of whether I'll catch COVID while in the hospital (especially while I'm unmasked for the anesthesia), and I'm more worried about how will I use the toilet or shower afterwards. I'm sure I could do "whore baths" for 1-2 weeks if I truly need to, but my surgery will be mid July, and I'd rather not forego full showers at all.

Additionally, I've been weaned off the Wellbutrin as I wasn't convinced it was helping me as I wanted it to help me, though Maharajah said it was helping me, and my primary care doc (who prescribed it) thought it was meeting her benchmarks for me. I just didn't feel it. And every time I had a weird tingle in my skull I kept thinking, "is this when the seizure finally will happen?"

So I'm off the junk. And I also canned my therapist who I was seeing for roughly the same time frame I was on the Wellbutrin too. I'd say 11 weeks was ample time to suss out whether this person was useful. And sad to say, he wasn't. 

I'm not a full on doofus. I know what I need to do. I just need HELP. I need someone, an expert, to tell me or show me HOW to do what I need to do. I don't need to waste one more moment with someone who is just circling the drain overstating the obvious and not providing anything useful--in addition to what I'll dub "toxic positivitiy." 

Last week I found myself with the first UTI in decades (if I've ever had one before at all), and couldn't see my primary care doc, and saw one of her associates. He was a pleasant surprise. He examined me and had me give a sample to be tested, wrote me an Rx for an atbx, then I asked about weaning off Wellbutrin, which he then wrote another Rx for 15 lower dose tablets and gave instructions how to take them. And I asked if he knew of any neuropsychologists nearby that I could see, and he thoroughly surprised me as he knew of someone, wrote me a referral, and I was on my way.

I called the neuropsychology practice and there's a 2-3 month backlog, so it won't be until mid July or August before I get in for an evaluation, but at least I started the process.

Hurry up and wait. Lots of ducks being set in a row, for a lot of progress and action in the coming months.