who do I know?

How is it that we can connect so deeply with the people we know only online? And what does it mean to know someone, anyway?

Last week, I talked with someone I hadn't seen in several months. Her daughter has a serious drug addiction that has led to legal problems, a pregnancy, and a probable stay in prison. I asked her what kind of support she is getting, and she went on to tell me about the online support group she'd found for parents of addicts.

In a family that feels dysfunctional in comparison to her friends, neighbors, and colleagues, with her online group, she feels understood in a way that doesn't happen in her daily life. Her friends know she's stressed and worried--but the other parents of addicts really "get" her. They provide an understanding mirror, to help her see the positive coping strategies she's developed and a way of seeing how functional she is in such a difficult situation.

I talked with her about the hysterectomy support website I'm part of and how normalizing it can be to simply have an understanding "me, too" in response to a question or concern.

It really struck me how much I have valued the understanding I get from the people I don't know, but who know me so well.

It hit me again tonight. I was chatting with someone I met through the hysterectomy support site. She recently lost her father, which made her grieve not only that loss but the loss of her mother many years ago. We were in an online chat that lasted two hours. I don't know if I would recognize her if I bumped into her at the mall, but for those two hours, online, I knew her very well. Although her loss isn't all we talked about, it was there, and I gave her virtual (((hugs))) and validated her feelings as best as I could. I think it helped a little.

In this online world, I don't have words for some of my best friends, the ones I know online. When my son had his accident and I posted about it on Facebook, many of the people who immediately responded were people I don't know face-to-face--but they care about me very much.

My mom sees that I currently have 186 Facebook friends. "How many of them do you really know?" she asks. "All of them," I say, "even the ones I've never met."

so how are you doing?

Every year, the end of August is filled with the joy of greeting friends and colleagues I haven't seen since May. This year, I'm finding a little less joy in the reunion. At the end of April, we had our nightmare of car crash/no insurance/job loss. After several months, people who genuinely care about me naturally want to know how things are going. So they ask. And it's horrible.

I got a message from a friend asking me why I was so aloof with her at a meeting yesterday. And here's why.

I'm so sorry, everyone. I'm anti-social because it's just too hard to be something else. You want to know how I am? Really?

I have a hard time answering the question, "How are things going?" because they're not going well. We still have only one vehicle (one that squishes my family uncomfortably), my husband doesn't have a job yet, and our finances suck. I get no paycheck in September, so they're about to suck even more. When you are nice and ask if I'd like to have lunch, the answer is that I'd love to--but unless you offer to pay, it isn't going to happen. Going out to lunch is, well, not in the wallet. And my husband is having a hard time, too, and is sitting around on his butt all day. He applies for jobs online (there's really not much out there) and he makes some phone calls, but he isn't doing any projects around the house and I'm still doing the laundry, loading the dishwasher, etc. When I'm at home, I'm trying to be supportive of him. This is really, really hard when I'm terrified. And I hate being home because when we're behind on bills, we get phone calls that I simply cannot bring myself to answer. The house is a mess, because when I'm at home I can barely drag myself off the couch to function. It's that hard.

My babies are growing up so fast and I feel like my life as a mom is passing me by. My oldest child will be a high school senior, and his younger brother and sister will be freshmen. I don't know where the time has gone, and now it feels like there's so little time left. Is there anything I've done right as a mom? Do I have enough time yet to still make a difference?

And when I seem to brush you off when you ask me how I am, it's because I don't want to burst into tears. It isn't just you. I blew off a good friend's party last week because I couldn't bear the looks of pity from people who care about me or the "and what does your husband do?" questions from people who don't know what's going on. I got trapped in the copy room last week while I was making handouts for a workshop. A well-meaning colleague gave me a half-hour of "I'm so sorry for you" and "Let me know what I can do." What can you do? You can treat me like I'm still me and not like a broke and broken person who has made stupid decisions and is afraid she won't ever get her life back.

So generally, things are not so great, but I've mostly been coping fairly well and am usually able to be positive.You are so sweet, and I know you care, and I just have had to stay superficial with a lot of people because it's the only way I can cope sometimes and because I don't have the words for my frustrations. And see, even writing this has me on the verge of tears that will pour down my face. I hate to cry because each time, I worry that I won't ever stop.

So, that's how I'm doing.

test

I'm trying to figure out if this twitterfeed thing is working for my blog. It makes me a bit nervous (especially because of one of the subjects I've been needing to write about), but there's only one way to see if it works!

would you like some cheese with that whine?

Would it make me sound like a bad wife and mom to say I need to have a place of my own?

I am, by nature, an introverted human being. Being around people (even those I love) is so very draining for me. My husband the extravert needs to be around people and thrives on conversation and sound.

Every since we got married, I've struggled with having time and space of my own. When the kids were little, being with them involved constant togetherness. However, they had naptime and, even when that stopped, they went to bed early. In the evenings after the kids were in bed, home life settled down.

Back then, we didn't have the internet. My husband had the tv on all the time (which completely drove me nuts), but I could generally sit in the kitchen and read or work, and I could sit in the living room and do cross-stitch or read despite the sounds of the tv.

When we moved into the house before this one, we had an extra bedroom with an office. I could spend time in there and recharge myself--even while working. Because the house was a split level and we had the tv room downstairs, I could be cleaning up in the kitchen or puttering around in other rooms of the house in relative peace and quiet.

When we moved here, I lost the time and space for my own place. The bedroom was shared space. There were no extra bedrooms. The first-floor rooms are all small and close together, with entertainment technology all over the place.

Summer has always been a bit of a challenge because there's so much more togetherness with the kids. As they've gotten older, they stay up later, and I no longer have quiet time in the evenings. However, I've generally been able to find pockets of time throughout the day when I can take deep breaths and immerse myself in my self.

This summer has been very difficult. My unemployed husband is around ALL THE TIME. He has had very few interviews, so he never leaves for longer than a quick dash to the grocery store. He is not taking the time he now has to do anything productive around the house, like cleaning the back portch, organizing the junk in the basement, sorting through his closet, etc. He is not reading, writing, walking, etc. So what is he doing? When he's awake, he is in front of the tv (loud volume because of street noise and his middle-aged hearing) with the laptop in front of him. He wants me in the room with him, and because he gets sad and grouchy and depressed when I'm not there (remember, he's an extravert) and it's one thing I can do to be supportive.

But it's really wearing on me. I don't have a single place in my own home where I can sit and just read quietly, recharge my internal batteries, think, write, read, knit, or anything I want to do with quietness. The few days I've tried to spend on the back porch or in our bedroom I've felt like an outcast of sorts. I feel like there is no place for me in my home. The kids all have their own rooms. Doug doesn't want his own space. And when I spend the evening in another room (like, sitting at the kitchen table), he and the kids ask me what's wrong and why I'm avoiding them.

It's because constantly being with even the people I love is more than I can handle!

I don't even have a chair, with my own light, with a magazine or knitting basket next to it. Is it so much to ask to have just one place that can be mine?

lost and found

I've just moved offices. Ever since I came to this campus in 2001, I've been in the English hallway. Several years ago, I got to move across the hall to a lovely big office with a tall window, and I didn't have to share it with anyone. I knew it was temporary, and that as soon as we replaced the faculty member who had been there, I would move again.

But being the packrat that I am (emotionally as well as in the usual sense), I grew roots. All my patterns of being on this campus were grounded in being in that area. My good friends are there. The refrigerator and microwave I use are in the Study Center, just across the hall. My printing goes to the Study Center. I get to see my colleagues' kids when they come visit. I've parked in the same lot for eight years.

Moving, although I knew it was coming, was a reminder of my status on this campus. I'm instructional academic staff, not faculty. Faculty get the good offices; IAS usually don't. If they do, those offices are shared spaces. I've spent the last month mourning my move. I waited too long to begin purging and packing. I refused to think about my new colleague because she represented my displacement. I've been so sad.

Yesterday was the big day. Once I got into my new space and could start settling, it was easier than I had anticipated. I was still sad. At this point, my biggest feeling of loss is related to the window. Come fall, when my colleagues return for a new academic year, I'm sure I'll miss them and my routine all over again. I'll be using a different parking lot and fridge from now on.

During this whole time when I've been anticipating my losses, I had forgotten one important thing: the silver lining. Yesterday, several of my new "neighbors" stopped by to tell me how glad they are that I'm now closer to them. One of my colleagues in a different building came to ask me if I'd like to have lunch with her and another colleague once a week next semester. The secretaries have all said how happy they are that I'm here.

So I'm still feeling a bit lost, but thanks to the relationships I have with people, I'm feeling a bit found, too.

dog bites woman

I've been feeling kind of slumpy lately, spending most of my time lying or sitting on the couch. It's just been so hard to get myself to move. Yesterday, I lay down in bed for an afternoon nap and suddenly decided that I'd had enough. I decided that I should be active rather than nap, so I grabbed my husband and our dog for a quick walk. Because I've been so inactive for so long--especially since my surgery--I said that I wanted to just walk around our block. I figured this was a good starting point, and it was good that we were doing something together.

Halfway around the block, Thor started paying attention to a boxer that was two yards away from the corner. The boxer was running back and forth along its chain link fence in the way that dogs do. Its owner was in the yard with it hosing something down. I saw the dog suddenly run through the open gate and, I thought, head for the front yard. I figured the dog would go to its own front yard and be waiting for us, so I started to turn around to take Thor back the way we'd come. Just as I was about to ask my husband to stand watch for us for a minute, the dog came barreling through the back yard of another home. Next thing I knew, the boxer was latched onto the back of Thor's neck, vicious and snarling with a jaw that wouldn't let go. Because I had Thor on the leash, I was in the middle. I don't know what I should have done, but all I could think of was how I could explain to the kids how their beloved Thor was mauled on their own block. And then I started to think of the veterinary expenses that we couldn't afford. So I grabbed Thor's collar in my right hand and the boxer's collar in my left hand. Finally, I was able to fling the boxer away just as its owner arrived (and Doug was getting ready to kick it). I lost my balance and landed hard on my butt on the sidewalk and then fell over into the grass. It was so embarrassing, but I was so scared and so very angry.

The owner seemed apologetic but didn't offer any information about rabies shots. As I checked Thor over for blood (he was fine, but had huge globs of dog slobber on him), I realized that my right pinkie finger had taken a bite. I took Thor home while Doug waited for the owner to write her name and address. We went to the emergency room so I could get it cleaned out well and because I knew the hospital would call the police who would then verify vaccinations. It was a much shallower wound than I had thought at first.

I have never been so scared in my life. I don't know what in particular scared me, other than the fear of seeing Thor's flesh torn away. I couldn't think clearly at all.

Later, I got thinking about all the times the kids have taken Thor on that same walk and how disastrous it could have been if the attack had happened one of those times, or if a small child had been present and gotten in the way.

The owner did call later to tell us that the vaccinations were current, although I will still be contacting the police to see if they have verification of that.

Today the wound seems okay, but my back is sore and stiff from being jarred. I had to take half of a leftover hysterectomy percocet last night so I could get past the pain to sleep.

is there a word for what you feel when an icon of your youth dies?

There's been so much I've been meaning to update here:

• My husband is still unemployed, although he had a really good interview last week.
• He was diagnosed with sleep apnea and is now on a CPAP machine. He and I are both sleeping better. Looking back, I realize that much of the fog of our life is related to the fact that we've been sleep-deprived for years.
• I feel that I am beginning to re-energize professionally, both in my teaching and in my administrative work.

What's on my mind today, though, is two losses. Today, both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died. Fawcett's death was expected. She had anal cancer, which is typically caused by HPV. Since that is the cause of the dysplasia I had a couple years ago (and need to get checked for again!), I've felt a special connection to her struggle. I always liked her and was very impressed by her work in "The Burning Bed" and "Small Sacrifices." Watching her strength and courage in the documentary of her cancer struggle last month made me have even greater respect for her.

Jackson's death was completely unexpected and was due to cardiac arrest. He was such an amazing performer. Although there was so much weirdness with him in what we saw of his personal life, his singing and dancing were absolutely incredible, filled with passion and energy and a talent beyond what I will ever see again.

So here I am, watching the CNN coverage of the deaths of the two biggest icons of my youth. I am oddly shaken. It is so easy for people to dismiss the value of the performing arts. Yet when I listen to the people on the news and read my friends' Facebook status updates, it strikes me how good performers reach into our hearts and souls. Although I don't think about Michael Jackson on a daily basis, he was part of the images and cartoons and sounds of my youth. He was part of my culture, and now he is gone.

They were both part of the backdrop of my growing up years, and I feel like a youthful part of me had died with them. I feel much more middle-aged now than I did when I woke up this morning.

May they rest in peace.