Sunday, September 20, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
A Compilation of Events
It might just be me, but the more time that passes between blogs, the more difficult it is for me to collect my thoughts.
I've been going through a hard time lately, the details of which I don't think are necessary to post on here. With the help of country music, Captain Morgan, and a certain blonde-haired blue-eyed somebody, it's all quite bearable.
We have started the second grade with a bang. I can't believe the e-mails I have been getting. Dylan has put a whole new spin on this parenting thing. Last week's e-mail contained the sentence "In closing, Dylan speaking like he is British is not only a distraction to the other children, but a concern for me, as it is difficult for him to concentrate on anything else." ...uhmmm...WHAT?!
Yeah, so, I have learned quickly that the kid I spend a majority of my time with is a totally different kid at school. This is a crying shame because he is such an awesome kid and that is a stupid way to behave.
My computer is still not where I need it to be. I am still missing a few important programs that I really need. It's difficult for me to function without a creative outlet, so I am trying my hardest to just relax and do without for now.
I wanted to mention something else that is hard for me to use words to make sense of. The last month or two has taught me something new that I was previously completely oblivious to, but I think needs a good, clear explanation.
I always put these big prefaces like what I'm about to say is going to change someone's perspective. I never expect that to happen. I just hope to clarify things as they become clear to me.
Anyway, the point I am trying to get to is that women are so fragile. It's interesting, because all this time I thought I was beyond a lot of the bullshit that generally hurts most women's feelings. I learned that sometimes, I am not. None of us are really exempt from being hurt. The difficult thing to decipher sometimes for us is that the other party sometimes doesn't mean it.
Think of all the times something has come out wrong, all the times you've realized your sense of humor doesn't match up with the person you're telling jokes to. For women, it almost never matches up. I can say that it doesn't matter whether it was intended to hurt my feelings, if it did, it did, and nothing can undo that.
When you combine a woman's fragility with her inability to forget things, if you've hurt her, you're better off giving up than trying to fix it. That's the truth.
I'm not at a place with anyone where repairing the hurt they have caused is worth fixing. Some women are. Sometimes when time is invested, when children's well-being is involved, when it is an unresolved family matter that lingers and aches daily, it is worth fixing. Most times, however, it's totally worth it to me to wash my hands of it all.
It is a fine balance for a woman to pick her battles and know when to quit. It's a difficult thing to compartmentalize the variety of pains we have experienced and to discuss the correct problem with the correct person. Sometimes things overlap. Sometimes our storage space overflows. Sometimes we just need to cry it out. But, sometimes, it's not worth the battle to begin with and the person who hurt us just needs to join the ranks with the others.
So, if you've hurt someone and you can't come up with a way to fix it, realize that it has to be worth it to the person you have hurt. Maybe it was worth it yesterday, but it isn't today. Maybe it will be worth it after a few months but not today. But, if it isn't now, there is a good chance it may never be, and maybe you should just apologize and be on your way.
In other news, today is September 11. It is the eight year anniversary of the twin towers attacks. Approximately one year after the attacks, I had Dylan. When I think of myself on the day of the attacks, I wonder what I would say if someone told me I would have a baby in a year. When I think of myself on the day of the attacks, I wonder how much it changed me. I don't know a scale of measurement for something like that, but I am not the same person I was that day.
It was a clear day. A crystal-clear day. After the news got through my skull, I remember looking in the sky, half expecting to see flames all the way in Chicago, because it felt as if the whole world was melting. Turns out, it wasn't, but something was taken from me that day, a degree of naivety and ignorance that I would have gladly held on to just a little longer.
I sat in my bedroom and listened to the president on the radio that night. I thought about joining the military. I wept a little out of confusion more than sadness. I was scared. I spent the next few days on edge. Airplanes didn't fly past unnoticed, and for a good amount of time, I wondered if I would ever feel safe again.
When you're young and you realize that nothing is inpentetrable, you begin to open your eyes a little wider than you did before. I began to see the evil in things I was too stupid to see before. I started seeking security and certainty. I changed that day, from a misled adolescent to a frightened adult. It wasn't a change I was willing to make, but felt like I had to for my own safety.
I haven't felt safe since. I have a question mark in my head. Following September 11, I exposed myself to all of the things I was always told I shouldn't. I realized the antithesis of fear was knowledge, and I learned about so many of the things I was always told to fear. It didn't always end well, but it made sense to someone on the cusp of the rest of her life.
I think the attacks struck the generations differently. I think my parents were disappointed more than scared. I think folks my age were changed and grew into a generation of cynics. I think the children were scared and will grow into a generation of skeptics.
Anyway, I'm glad we still take time out to remember September 11, 2001, because it gives us a chance to reflect on a lot of things, even if it's inward.
"All of a sudden there were people screaming. I saw people jumping out of the building. Their arms were flailing. I stopped taking pictures and started crying." -Michael Walters, a free-lance photo journalist in Manhattan.
I've been going through a hard time lately, the details of which I don't think are necessary to post on here. With the help of country music, Captain Morgan, and a certain blonde-haired blue-eyed somebody, it's all quite bearable.
We have started the second grade with a bang. I can't believe the e-mails I have been getting. Dylan has put a whole new spin on this parenting thing. Last week's e-mail contained the sentence "In closing, Dylan speaking like he is British is not only a distraction to the other children, but a concern for me, as it is difficult for him to concentrate on anything else." ...uhmmm...WHAT?!
Yeah, so, I have learned quickly that the kid I spend a majority of my time with is a totally different kid at school. This is a crying shame because he is such an awesome kid and that is a stupid way to behave.
My computer is still not where I need it to be. I am still missing a few important programs that I really need. It's difficult for me to function without a creative outlet, so I am trying my hardest to just relax and do without for now.
I wanted to mention something else that is hard for me to use words to make sense of. The last month or two has taught me something new that I was previously completely oblivious to, but I think needs a good, clear explanation.
I always put these big prefaces like what I'm about to say is going to change someone's perspective. I never expect that to happen. I just hope to clarify things as they become clear to me.
Anyway, the point I am trying to get to is that women are so fragile. It's interesting, because all this time I thought I was beyond a lot of the bullshit that generally hurts most women's feelings. I learned that sometimes, I am not. None of us are really exempt from being hurt. The difficult thing to decipher sometimes for us is that the other party sometimes doesn't mean it.
Think of all the times something has come out wrong, all the times you've realized your sense of humor doesn't match up with the person you're telling jokes to. For women, it almost never matches up. I can say that it doesn't matter whether it was intended to hurt my feelings, if it did, it did, and nothing can undo that.
When you combine a woman's fragility with her inability to forget things, if you've hurt her, you're better off giving up than trying to fix it. That's the truth.
I'm not at a place with anyone where repairing the hurt they have caused is worth fixing. Some women are. Sometimes when time is invested, when children's well-being is involved, when it is an unresolved family matter that lingers and aches daily, it is worth fixing. Most times, however, it's totally worth it to me to wash my hands of it all.
It is a fine balance for a woman to pick her battles and know when to quit. It's a difficult thing to compartmentalize the variety of pains we have experienced and to discuss the correct problem with the correct person. Sometimes things overlap. Sometimes our storage space overflows. Sometimes we just need to cry it out. But, sometimes, it's not worth the battle to begin with and the person who hurt us just needs to join the ranks with the others.
So, if you've hurt someone and you can't come up with a way to fix it, realize that it has to be worth it to the person you have hurt. Maybe it was worth it yesterday, but it isn't today. Maybe it will be worth it after a few months but not today. But, if it isn't now, there is a good chance it may never be, and maybe you should just apologize and be on your way.
In other news, today is September 11. It is the eight year anniversary of the twin towers attacks. Approximately one year after the attacks, I had Dylan. When I think of myself on the day of the attacks, I wonder what I would say if someone told me I would have a baby in a year. When I think of myself on the day of the attacks, I wonder how much it changed me. I don't know a scale of measurement for something like that, but I am not the same person I was that day.
It was a clear day. A crystal-clear day. After the news got through my skull, I remember looking in the sky, half expecting to see flames all the way in Chicago, because it felt as if the whole world was melting. Turns out, it wasn't, but something was taken from me that day, a degree of naivety and ignorance that I would have gladly held on to just a little longer.
I sat in my bedroom and listened to the president on the radio that night. I thought about joining the military. I wept a little out of confusion more than sadness. I was scared. I spent the next few days on edge. Airplanes didn't fly past unnoticed, and for a good amount of time, I wondered if I would ever feel safe again.
When you're young and you realize that nothing is inpentetrable, you begin to open your eyes a little wider than you did before. I began to see the evil in things I was too stupid to see before. I started seeking security and certainty. I changed that day, from a misled adolescent to a frightened adult. It wasn't a change I was willing to make, but felt like I had to for my own safety.
I haven't felt safe since. I have a question mark in my head. Following September 11, I exposed myself to all of the things I was always told I shouldn't. I realized the antithesis of fear was knowledge, and I learned about so many of the things I was always told to fear. It didn't always end well, but it made sense to someone on the cusp of the rest of her life.
I think the attacks struck the generations differently. I think my parents were disappointed more than scared. I think folks my age were changed and grew into a generation of cynics. I think the children were scared and will grow into a generation of skeptics.
Anyway, I'm glad we still take time out to remember September 11, 2001, because it gives us a chance to reflect on a lot of things, even if it's inward.
"All of a sudden there were people screaming. I saw people jumping out of the building. Their arms were flailing. I stopped taking pictures and started crying." -Michael Walters, a free-lance photo journalist in Manhattan.
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