Charles Atlas Has Nothing on Me....

I always thought of myself as utterly weak: weak spirited, weak attitude, weak in will. Scared of what people thought of me; terrified if they were right. My confidence was non-existent, my fears overwhelming, my attitude always dipped to the negative side.

I now beg to differ with those old thoughts.

Difficult times made me want to crumble. Nasty people made me cry and question myself. I swam in an ocean of self-pity, always looking for someone to throw me a rope to drag me to safety before I drowned. Come to think of it, it's possible that that dependence on others was my biggest weakness, my hugest downfall. It's also possible that it also set the tone for how I felt about myself.

It never occurred to me that there was one person that I should have looked to for saving me: yeah, that's right - the one, the only....me.

There had to come a point in my life that I realized, hey, this is my life, not any of the assholes who came and went, who belittled me or betrayed me; not those who took advantage of my kindness or caring; not my family's; not anyone's: it's mine.

And that point has come now, even if midway through.

I'm a terrific thinker, even if I do over-think at times. But I toss everything around in my head until I either a) find an answer, b) get tired of hearing my own voice in my head (which is usually what happens), or c) until I make a discovery. I'm going with "b" and "c" and I'm good with that.

I've discovered through all my thinking that throughout my life, I never acted or reacted to things in a healthy way; a mentally healthy way. What, really, was or is the point of self-pity? It does weaken you and it holds you back. I'm sure the lack of self-understanding as a kid and immaturity as a young adult lent a hand in that, but there's only so long a person can use that as an excuse, say into your early twenties. As I started experiencing more and more painful things, as life got a little tougher, I still threw out that stupid fucking water-logged rope, wanting to be pulled into safer territory; a place where someone was waiting with potential answers to my life's questions and problems. I always wanted to put my life into someone else's hands. Shit, I allowed other people's opinions of me to shape who I thought I was, so... why not let them save me and be mental muscle, too?

Still though, when I think into the past, no matter how much I listened, how hard I tried, how much I wanted resolutions, nothing stuck. And I never understood why - until now. When it comes down to it, nobody but me can fix anything that's meant for me to fix. If a person can't fit into my size eights, how can I expect them to walk for me? No matter how many times my friends or family have tried to pick me up when I started to fall down, when they had to let go and back away, the only way I could stand on my own was by tying my laces tightly and finding my own strength. Nobody can hold me up, throw me a rope, or convince me of anything unless I'm willing to believe in myself and believe I can do it. Even if I wobble around, if I remain upright on my own two feet, hey, that's better than falling into a heap any day. The point is, it's ultimately my decision to stand or fall, laugh or cry, to try hard or wave the white flag, to sink or swim. And come to think of it, I don't think I ever really did crumble or drown. Obviously, I'm still here. So, it's possible that I always had the fins but was too afraid I wasn't a strong enough swimmer. Kind of like Nemo.

I've somehow made it this far in my not-by-any-means-horrible-life but through a life of self-doubt and uncertainty. I don't think I could have if I didn't have strength of some sort. And I sit and think about this all the time: where did it come from? Was it always there? If so, why didn't I use it? And then I think, well... maybe it had to be built up and stored for a time when it was needed the most. Maybe I needed to be weak in order to gain strength. Maybe I had to hop over piles of dog shit in order to find that clean spot of grass. Maybe the first part of my life was a pop quiz where I had to get half (or all) the answers wrong so that during the second part of my life when I have to take the real test, I'll be better prepared with better answers. Maybe I needed to walk a certain path in order to find the me that I'm meant to be. Maybe, just maybe, finding and embracing who I am is truly the key to strength - period.


And I think I've found her. Shit, I think I'm embracing the hell out of her, too. She's not half bad.

For all my mistakes, past and present, I'm becoming more and more okay with them as time goes on. I realize that I have to be. I know all my experiences made me who I am and because of that, I finally know what makes me tick, what makes me laugh, what's worth crying over. I know what my capabilities are, what's important, and the kind of people I want and need in my life and the kind of people I don't. I know when to care, when to not care, and when to be indifferent. I know that I still err in judgment at times, but I understand that it's okay because I'm human. And I know that sometimes you can control things and other times you can't and when you can't, then the only thing you can do is cross your fingers and hope for the best or hope that things will be what they're supposed to be. I realize life is difficult but it's up to me to make the best of it and to live it. And sometimes, you just gotta fucking roll with it and right now, I'm rollin'.

Finally, I can listen to other people's opinions, take them in, and decide whether I agree or not. It's no longer crucial for me to have everyone's approval. I no longer feel completely dependent on other people to make my choices for me. I finally feel like I can jump in an ocean and swim, even if sometimes it's just doing the doggie-paddle. I've put my weathered rope away because I want to swim as far as I can across the ocean on my own, riding the waves and drifting when it's calm.

I guess I can thank God that I've known weakness, otherwise I'd have never recognized my strengths.

"Seventy-Two"

Today, June 7th, would have been my dad's 72nd birthday and this December marks the twentieth anniversary of his murder. I have spent half of my life without a dad, and to tell the truth, I don't really remember what it's like to even have one.


Every year, when either his birthday, Father's Day, or the anniversary approaches, I tell myself , "Just don't think about it too much. Don't walk around or mope so people will know I am thinking about him. I can think about him, (or not), and cry about him, (or not)." Trying not to think about any of it just makes his absence even more overwhelming, which, of course, makes me cry anyway.


Last night I was looking at some pictures my mom posted on her Facebook page and I was so taken by both my parents' youth, their beauty, their...togetherness. It struck me that once upon half-a-lifetime-ago, I had parents - plural. In that other part of my life, never did I imagine that there would be any parenting done by anything less than two people.


As a kid, I always imagined that when I was a grown woman with my own kids, I'd return to my parents' house - my childhood house- to watch them "grandparent" my children. I struggle now, still trying to imagine what it would have been like. Would my dad be more interactive with them than he was with me? Would my mom have the kids sleep over on weekends and make them teddybear-shaped pancakes in the morning? Would my mom even wake up before 10:30 to make the pancakes? Would my kids climb the same tree that my sisters and I climbed in the backyard? My life seems punctuated with endless question marks. You know, I actually rent out small spaces in the worlds of "what-if," "it's not fair," and "why us? why me?" It's not even like I want to be in any of those places; real estate there is automatically included in the "losing-a-loved-one" package.


On any of the occasions that would typically honor my father's life, like today, it's his death that somehow winds up dominating my mind. It's not the memories of his life, or the memories of the (very) few things we did together that pop into my mind, but the way he died and what my entire family is missing because of his death that saturates my thoughts. However, there are years when his birthday comes and goes almost as if it's like any other day, but maybe because my kids have to be somewhere or the day is simply over-scheduled enough to keep my mind mostly occupied. While I always acknowledge the day somehow, even if silently to myself, and allow it to pass dry-eyed, I will still call my mom just because I want to acknowledge it outloud for her.


So many years have gone by now and all of the people in my daily life have no clue who my father was, including my husband and children. My mother recently said that she wanted to write a memorial to him on the twentieth anniversary of his death because, "I want people to remember him, to remember he was here." Maybe it wasn't in those exact words, but pretty close. When a person passes away, all you hear is that person's name for some time. But then what happens after those first few months or even a year? Nothing. Nobody ever mentions it again, as if that person never existed at all. At least that's how it feels. Certainly, I don't expect anyone to say my dad's name in casual conversation every day for the remainder of my life, but it would be nice if someone had a random memory to share with me about him. I'm a huge believer in sharing; I do it all the time. I remember seeing a friend many years after high school and telling her how I still remembered the smell of the soap in the bathroom of her childhood home, and also a funny story about her father, who had since passed away. She seemed so grateful to know that someone remembered those things, especially about her dad. Honestly, I told her because they were happy memories for me and I really wanted to share them just for the sake of reconnecting through that old childhood bond, but in the end, I was thrilled that it made her feel good on a completely different level.


I feel so accustomed to silence where my own dad is concerned. Sure, every once in awhile you have to tell someone that your loved one is dead if it comes up in coversation, and sure, he or she says they're sorry. As sorry as anyone might be, there's a certain disconnect to their sympathy because they never knew the person who died. I really wish someone in my life actually knew him, knew he existed which makes me understand my mom feels compelled to write a memorial in honor of him. Last night, feeling overwhelmed with life and feeling sad looking at the old pictures of my parents, I started to cry for a few minutes. Nobody wants to be sad alone, so I went downstairs to sit with my son and my husband but I started to cry again. My son asked me what was wrong and I said, "Tomorrow would have been your grandpa's birthday." Neither of them said a word. Their complete, yet faultless, disconnect to my sadness was because neither of them knew my dad nor understood my loss, but their silence made my grief even more suffocating. So, I called my mom.


I really never know exactly how I'm going to feel on Father's Day, when I have to give cards to my husband's dad instead of my own, for instance, or on my dad's birthday, like today. Maybe I'll mention it to my friend if we're on the phone, or I'll call my sister and talk about how old my father would be if he was still alive. Maybe I'll say hi to him when I finally go to bed, in the dark, at the end of a long day full of child-related activities. Maybe I'll cry alone, like I've done many, many times.


What I do know is that I love him and I'm heartbroken that he's not here anymore. But at one time, he was here. For all of you who never knew him, or for all of you who knew I once had a father but don't remember him, his name was Nathan Mizrahi.


And today, he's "Seventy-Two."