The gift

What if everything is unfolding exactly as it ought to?

I received a gift in the barest of meditations just now. It was just a few minutes of breathing and stretching. I was seated on the kitchen floor with my legs in a “V” in front of me, leaning forward to stretch my back and hamstrings. Even though it was hard to breathe deeply in that position, I forced myself to, the action causing my torso to gently rise and fall as my lungs filled with air. Unbidden, a thought formed, an insight. A realization.

A gift.

The insight was, I’m not “unemployed,” “unable to get a job,” or “useless.” It was more like, what if things are unfolding exactly as they should? You’re a writer. That’s all you’ve ever been, all you’ve ever wanted to be. You’ve been granted the gift of time. Why not stop twisting and turning, fretting and casting about—and settle. Settle into this new reality. The insight was, You’re a writer. Act like one. Embrace this. Take it, and yourself, seriously.

And then, I relaxed a little. I felt held, seen, recognized, released. The terror and panic eased. And the story I’ve been telling myself became questionable. I’ve felt frightened, panicked, even, and humiliated too, for most of this year.

Did I tell you I applied for a job as a gift wrapper at a local toy story? Didn’t get that job either. And the guys at Yoshi’s, asking me in bemused tones when I last was a hostess… and I said 1987. Yep. That happened. But you know what? In that moment, I wasn’t so hard on myself. I was actually almost amused. And the guys, all three of them, were really cool. We vibed.

They were gentle with me.

It was all okay.

It’s been a hell of a week. Daisy has a huge cancerous tumor in her mouth. The care will be palliative. She’s fine right now, not in pain. But, she’s pooping in the house on the daily, and it’s no fun, I can tell you. Add to that the geriatric (and possibly senile?) cat whom I discovered has been peeing on the exquisite sage-green vintage camel hair Evan Picone jacket I scored for my son. I’d been smelling barnyard and couldn’t figure out where it was emanating from. Then, I discovered it—wrapped, under the Christmas tree, soggy and putrid.

Urine was all over the tree skirt as well, and she even filled the little hollows in the tree stand with disgusting, oily cat pee. I was livid. Almost murderous. I kicked her out of the house, of course. And began the long task of cleaning. I washed the jacket on cold to get the urine out and brought it to the dry cleaner. They said I already shrank it, and they don’t work with urine, vomit, etc. anyway. They said it was lost. I threw it in the dumpster. That was my son’s main present, the one I was excited about.

Oh well. It’s just stuff, as they say.

Last night, I dreamed I was driving a car down a very steep, long, dark hill. The car was accelerating rapidly. I knew I needed to press the brakes, but I discovered I couldn’t move my feet. It was like they were nailed to the floor. I tried and tried, to no avail. I was panicking, and I knew I would die. There was nothing I could do, but just hurtle along until inevitable impact. It was terrifying.

B. is coming back to the U.S. for a visit after more than three years in Venezuela. I thought I was excited. I thought it was the right thing. He hasn’t seen the kids in all this time. How could it not be the right thing? But, my son and I have been sensing he is growing manic again, after three blessed years of peace. That is why he’s brave enough to fly now. We are so scared, my son and I, that we can’t even breathe the words “manic” or “mania,” for fear we will somehow bid them.

I got a call from Daniel, B.’s son from a former marriage. He said, I just got a weird text from dad. I think someone is trying to scam him. He wants me to send $1250 right away to some guy…

I said, Do nothing. That’s for some travel agent. We were working on his ticket. You don’t need to send the money. We are handling that, and he knows that.

I called B. He was urgent. It was like life or death. He had to pay this guy, he needed this ticket. I texted my son, who’s in Ghana at the moment. He responded, I talked to Papi from the airport two days ago, and he said nothing about this. I don’t like the sound of this.

I spoke with my therapist about our concerns. He gently reminded me of boundaries. He said, You don’t have to host him. He said, If you do decide to host him for one week (as I had planned), he needs to give you a detailed itinerary set in stone for where he’s staying each week, and he needs an activity plan for each day. He reminded me that my ex- has “untreated bipolar disorder.” He said, It’s not his fault he’s sick, but it is his responsibility to manage it.

I girded my loins and called B. I broached my concerns. He seemed to be amenable, but then suddenly, he snarled, Are you gonna be drinking and leaving shit all over the place?

I went cold all over. The old trauma washed over me.

I also realized in that moment how far I’ve come. And how totally impossible it was for me to go backwards.

I said, evenly, steelily, and with authority, I rescind the offer. You are not welcome to stay here. I will see you for coffee. We can visit a museum. But you may not stay here.

He spent the next few hours cajoling me on WhatsApp, apologizing, even begging. I said, My decision is final.

This is major progress for me, and you know what? I feel incredibly relieved he won’t be staying here. And the possibility that he is not my responsibility is absolutely astounding. It’s giddying and tantalizing. And totally new.

B.’s sister sent me a message from Venezuela. She said B. is doing better, he’s cooking, he loves us, etc., etc. She’s working on me to change my mind. But, I won’t. I texted back, We love B. too. We are excited he is coming too. We are also nervous. I’m afraid he’s at the beginning of a manic episode, and he doesn’t seem to have a plan for managing it. I told him I cannot help him if he gets in trouble again, and my cousin cannot help him if he is arrested.

She hasn’t replied.

Finally, this week I went against my therapist’s advice and began sending messages to my daughter again, to all three channels. I called, I texted, and I emailed. I said I love and miss her. I invited her to my Christmas party, which is tonight. I invited her for Christmas. I said there’s a room for her and her girlfriend.

She didn’t reply. I’m upset, but nothing like last year when I was riven with unmanageable grief and crying basically constantly.

I’m better now. I’m also more philosophical. My dear friend E. said, Christy, do you remember what we were doing in our early 20s? Were we calling home?

No. We were not. We were living in an incredible apartment in Budapest right after the fall of the wall, where Roma (aka “gypsies”) played fiddle in the courtyard and residents put milk on the windowsills in the winter because they lacked refrigerators. We were attending the opera (for a few dollars), taking taxis all over the city, and partying like mad. We never ran out of money there. Never. It was incredible.

Touche. She has a point.

It’s okay. My kids have their own lives now, and they will live them as they see fit.

And guess what? That means I also have my own life now, for the first time ever. I mean that. After a childhood obsessed with rescuing my mother from addiction, my 20s spent trying to rescue my sister from addiction, and my 30s and 40s taking caring for my children and a bipolar partner, now, in my mid-50s, it’s my life.

And I have no fucking idea what to do with it.

So far though, I’m still green light on the Peace Corps, which means my hurtling car will take me to… Tonga (!) on June 16, in a mere seven months. I know it will come quickly. And then, after 27 months in service, I will face what’s bound to be a very different landscape to my life. I will be free to… what? Return to California? Or go to Europe with my EU passport and hang out in Spain for a while? Maybe work for an NGO, which I think might be easy to do after a Peace Corps stint.

Which would take me full circle in my career, back to non-profit foundation work, with echoes of my time with the Open Society Institute, my first real job after college, where I helped Eastern and Central European academics write grant proposals. That was much more fun that writing copy for technology products. It was more rewarding too.

So you see? My speeding car might know exactly where it’s going. Maybe it needs to take the controls from me so I can’t let fear overwhelm me and dictate the terms of my life. When I told E. the other day that I was going to defer the Peace Corps and “work for a few more years” (so I can pay for the re-model and take some pressure off my son), she said she had no patience for me. She said, You have no idea how lucky you are. You have no commitments, no ties. You’re free. And you have enough money. You can do this. Just because you’re afraid doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go.

We all need friends like E.