Letting Go - Lessons Relearned

If I were to believe in reincarnation, which I don't, I think the lesson I am learning in this lifetime is simply to let go. I was reminded of the pureness of this solution just yesterday.

To set the scene: My son, B., has the diagnoses of Pervasive Development Disorder - Not Otherwise Specified (NOS) and Bipolarism - NOS. Why they cannot specify these things is beyond me. I can be specific. It is at times a living h***, for him and those of us who live with him.

One of the symptoms of bipolarism is the hoarding of food and the craving of carbohydrates. I know this intellectually. I have read it in all the books, on all the websites. And he is living up to all the printed descriptions. He can inhale a dozen cookies in five minutes. Down an entire jar of Nutella in a half an hour with a spoon, while hiding in his bathroom. Eat an entire box of crackers if left alone for just a moment. In an effort to save him from the inevitable weight gain and the trauma and health problems it can bring, I have alarmed my home with motion detectors and locks on refridgerators. I have lectured, yelled, gotten angry, raged against the fact he steals with no remorse to satisfy his craving, hidden the goodies in my closet, in little used cabinets, in the basement. And still he finds it. And eats it.

Now I could stop buying/making these items. But the rest of us like cookies, bread, crackers, carbs, chips. Especially me. I once tried the Atkins diet, and thought I would murder someone.

Now my frustration could be all about B's health. But it isn't. I hate having my stuff stolen. It goes back to childhood for me, since we were poor and my parents did not purchase junk food. So me, always in love with the salty stuff, would save my babysitting money to buy crackers, chips and chip dip. Pricey foodstuffs when you are 12. I would dutifully mix my chip dip up, put it in a container, tape it shut, tape notes to it that said "DO NOT TAKE. C'S ONLY" and put it in the refridgerator. Next day, inevitably, one of my three older brothers would have eaten it all. Despite my note. Despite my hours of working to buy the crap. Now, in retrospect, it was probably good they ate this stuff and saved me from myself. They are all fat, and I am not. BUT, that's not the point. They stole my food. Without consequence.

So fast forward to now. It makes me crazy B steals my goodies. When I want the chocolate, I want it NOW. Not after I buy it again. Or bake it again. So it makes me angry. Unreasonably angry.

Then yesterday, I am walking with my husband on our way to our anniversary dinner. We have been discussing B, and my frustration. And very quietly, on a street muted by chilly air, about three feet away, my husband simply says, "You could just let it go. If it really is his disease, you could."

It was as if a brick hit me. It had simply never occurred to me, this simplest of answers. I can set up an entire motion-detecting alarm system that would make the FBI proud, but this solution escaped me - and my system.

And then I realized I could. Let. it. go. Like so many other things I could not fix in my life. Marriages. A friendship of 27 years with a woman who became ultra-Christian and ultra-judgmental (I think they go together.) My job. My pain from childhood.

Not to forget, not to cease to acknowledge the truth of the events. But just to let the emotion around it go, cease, float away, leave me behind and free.

And so I did. I'm sure I will lapse, forget again to keep my hands open in life so that I do not cling to things that I cannot hold, fix, control. But for today, I am. Letting. go.

And I said to B. when I got home that I was sorry. And he said he could control himself a little more than he does. And he would try. And so will I. A mutual forgiveness of each other's needs there in the darkened stairwell.

My Life ... Without Pictures

If you are wondering what the title of my blog means, it is a concept I have often thought about, and was recently reminded about because I joined FaceBook and have been looking at photos of the people who are befriending me (mostly high school companions). I often look at people's pictures and wonder if they are accurate. I mean, are they smiling because they are truly happy? Or because the camera is there, and we've been trained since toddlerhood to "smile" for it? I can remember two photo shoots my family had taken when I was young. One was for my grandparents 40th wedding anniversary. (They celebrated their 40th instead of their 50th, because they were not sure they would live to celebrate 50 years. They made it to 60+.) What the photo shows: Church photo style, meaning everyone from the waist up against a blue background: Five kids, ages 12 to 2. Three boys, the oldest with longish hair popular in the seventies. Everyone has front teeth that are a bit to big for their mouths. (We grew into them.) Two girls, matching pink eyelet dresses sewn by their mother - one fair skinned with blonde hair in a bun on top of her head, the other obviously dark skinned with curly brown hair in a bun on top. A Father with eyes that turn down at the corners. A Mother with black hair cropped short, slim, also in a handmade dress. What the photo doesn't show: The Mother and Father had an enormous fight on the drive to the party (a common event - the fight, not the party) that ended with the Father threatening to hit the Mother with the back of his hand over the backseat (she always sat in the back seat, said the boys needed the legroom) if she didn't shut up. The girls crying quietly, the blonde one dying a little more inside. The boys silent. The fact that while making the dresses the Mother was short-tempered, yelling, jabbing pins accidently into the girls during the fittings because of her frustration. Crying while sewing into the night at her machine on the kitchen table.

Second photo, many years later: Bookshelves in the background at some professional photographers office. Same kids, however now the oldest boy is grown, married and has a two year old daughter with pigtails. The second oldest boy is engaged, and his fiancee is with us. Third boy in high school, as is the blonde girl. Brown haired girl is now much heavier, but has beautiful skin and eyes. Father, hair thinned, more wrinkles around the down-turned eyes. Mother, hair permed to a frizz, frozen smile on face. Everyone smiling. What the photo doesn't show: Mother and Father had huge row on way to photographer, photographer somehow wasn't performing to please Mother, who has saved grocery money for months to pay for this pleasure. Mother crying before, during and after photo shoot. Father furious. Not speaking before, during of after photo shoot, except for snide comments thrown to Mother before, during and after.

Shoot.

One of many times the photos from an event didn't match the events of the event in my life. So I am sceptical of the photos on my friends' websites and facebook sites. What really does their picture capture? Something someone wished to create, or a reality? A conjured family moment where everyone is smiling and the real hurt and suffering isn't showing? Or a real family that is really happy?

The only photos I love are those I capture when the person or object doesn't know they are having their picture taken. Those are the only pictures that seem true to me. My toddler happily complies; my six year old notices the camera and pastes on a smile. So I have to be sneakier to capture her essence.

So this blog is meant to be about my life... without pictures created; just the truth. Even if I have to sneak up on it.