Month: August 2021

identity

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All of this sifting through possessions and selling my home have gotten me thinking about my identity. Self-identity is a uniquely human trait, a sum of many things that defines who we are. I started off with an obscured identity, one attached to the circumstances of my birth and subsequent adoption. I had another name, another birth certificate. I firmly believe (along with most other adoptees) that this caused a fundamental scar that has, in many ways, defined my identity more than any other factor. In adoption literature, this has been called the “primal wound.” Very often it is one of the first things people learn about me.

Another event that has defined my identity was a fall from a tree when I was seven. I cannot hide that I am deaf in my left ear for long, nor do I try. It has impacted my life on a near daily basis for fifty-five years. One of the top  hearing specialists in the country(the son of one of my dad’s neighbors in Tucson) did an informal test one night after we had eaten dinner. He said that even if they could restore some ability to hear  in that ear, my brain had forgotten how to hear on that side. Isn’t that amazing, that the brain could forget something so fundamental? Three years ago, when I was fifty-nine, I got a tattoo of the mute symbol inked behind my left ear. This indelible mark is an announcement that my deafness is a permanent fixture of my identity .

I’m a straight, mostly white woman. I have a BA in Anthropology and an MFA in Creative Writing. I’m a mom of one and a daughter. I currently have Lyme disease. I like movies, books, cleaning, cooking, reading and swimming. These are all markers of my identity that I most often want people to know about me. I don’t identify as English or Hispanic or Catholic or Jewish or descended from (blank). Those labels hold no interest for me. My genetic background is too complicated for explanation, and I belong to the atheist tribe, a highly fragmented group.

It’s also not by accident that no possessions or places are on this list. Both of those things are complicated. I’m from a lot of places but not really. I was born in Texas  spent 39 years there.  I’ve lived in Louisiana, North Carolina, and now Colorado. I’ve always had possessions, and like many of you, have collected more and more of them as time goes on. I’ve gotten a lot of pleasure out of most of them (not cars, though. I am not interested in cars at all except as a means from point A to B). I can tell you when I bought this or that, and I take care of them. But what does where I am from and what I own say about me? I am a Texan by default. My relationship with Texas is complicated and I don’t consider myself to be a Texan. Many of my possessions were acquired during my 29-year marriage, a time that doesn’t please me to be reminded of anymore.

The truth is, neither of these things are that important to me. However, there is a slightly larger than small place inside of me that cares about my identity as defined by possessions and places. In America, besides what you do, where you are from and what you have managed to acquire are two of the most basic facts people use to show their self-identity and their ability to be firmly rooted in life. Most of us have proud pictures of ourselves or someone in our families in front of their houses. Sometimes the people are standing next to their new cars. People proclaim “I’m a New Yorker,” or “Atlanta born and raised,” as if this makes them a member of a tribe. To not have things, or belong somewhere, is to be pitied, as if you have not done what is expected. And so I doubt my intuition that tells me that now is my time to shed both and go forth into the world.

Another part of me, that nagging voice of insecurity, says that the time to reinvent has long passed me by.  That I’m too old, or that I should be content with what I have and where I am. My intuition says loudly and insistently to fuck that noise.

I hate the adage “age is nothing but a number.” It is misused, trotted out as a paragon to healthy living and/or a firm denial of the reality of aging. The reality is that we do age in spite of our best efforts. No one truly knows how long they are going to be able to do all of the things they’d like to do. At our last meeting, my dad’s financial advisor had to ask me “what the life expectancy is for people with chronic Lyme disease.” I don’t know, nor does anybody else seem to know. The CDC sticks with its’ assertion that even with “post-Lyme disease syndrome” one can expect to be fully well in less than a year. They are full of shit. But they’re not studying outcomes, either.

I want adventure before I’m forced to shrink my world due to the vagaries of aging. The truth is I can’t manage the energy to have it all anymore, especially with the ever-present specter of relapses. I’m not even sure I want it all. My hope is that this great purge clears the way for a larger life with less things and a clear sense of who I am.

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the future

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I’m at an age where I’m thinking hard about what I want out of the backend of my life. Moving has only heightened the scrutiny, and the process is not one that lends itself to definitive answers. For some people that isn’t the case. They will stay where they are, basking in post-retirement bliss in a home they’ve paid off with kids and grandkids (and some with great-grandkids!)all living nearby. That’s supposed to be the dream, right? Not for all of us.

Dreams have a way of changing, or at least mine have. There was a time in my life where that sounded pretty good to me. I think it changed when Katie was twelve or thirteen. I’m not sure why, other than I was unhappily married with a daughter who adamantly insisted she was never going to have kids. At the time, I thought it was all a phase. Still, the seeds of change had been planted. As the years went on, I got divorced. Katie never changed from not wanting kids. I went to graduate school for writing (a big change in and of itself) and I got Lyme disease.

All future thought was on hold at my sickest. For six years, I thought of nothing beyond surviving through another year. Now that I am definitely “stable” (meaning  a random pattern of wellness punctuated by relapses), I think about the future. What do I want to do with myself? I made a list:

  • Torture my dad with my presence for his remaining years (who am I kidding? Dad an Keith Richards will be here long after I’m gone. They’ll dance on my grave.).
  • Take care of myself. This includes having the time/energy to work out, cook, go to movies, have adventures with friends. It also includes lots of down time to relapse without feeling guilty.
  • Travel. I want the time and money to go see friends, to travel to Paris, or Palm Springs, or wherever to watch tennis, and to go and see the world. I may even spend time living in one of the places  part time.
  • Have a home base in Denver with Katie.
  • Write, write, write.

I suppose I’ll do all of this as long as I can and see where I end up. Ultimately, I’ll end up dead, of course, but that shouldn’t keep me from planning the future. If the present is any indication, I’ll be with Katie permanently at some point, subject to being “taken care of” by my daughter. As long as I don’t kick up too much of a fuss, I should be good there.

Some people might be shaking their heads at the things on my list, or the inclusion of Katie in my future. I’ve long given up on what people think of my relationship with Katie. I’ve pretty much given up on what people think of my choices in general. But the stuff with Katie goes waaaaay back. She established her “difficult child” bona fides by the age of three. I got plenty of advice over the years on how to deal with her, mostly from people who didn’t have a child like Katie. Don’t ask me how or why some of us end up with children who can’t or won’t conform to what an ideal child should be. A child who doesn’t care about pleasing you, or is simply different. Rather, ask me what to do about it, because unconventional children require unconventional answers. At her worst, I worried if she would want to live. At that point, making her to do dishes or go to school seemed pointless. My decision to let go of all those preconceived “shoulds” and “ought tos” ultimately proved to be right for us.

I still didn’t trust my intuition about other decisions, even though I knew deep in my bones that I was doing the right things with Katie.  We joke about our entwined futures, but neither of us envision future plans without each other in some form or fashion. For us, the immediate future holds a flip: I’ll be the one coming and going and making the home will fall on her shoulders. My gut tells me this is exactly what I need—what we both need—but I’m still settling into this decision.

Really, it wasn’t until Lyme that I have learned that I DO know what is right for me and sometimes those around me, often before I’ve weighed all the pros and cons. Interesting, isn’t it, that it took serious illness that completely shook me to my core to realize that.

Knowing intuitively what is best for me and actually doing it are different things. Nothing about planning a future is easy, even when you’re older. The process of stripping my life down to the essentials induces something akin to pure panic sometimes. Letting go of anchors like possessions and places may leave me feeling unmoored, adrift in a new sea that has tides and waves I’m not ready for. However, it is better than being anchored by those same things, firmly grounded where I don’t want to be, held down by them instead of freed. It’s time to let go and trust that I am more than things, and that Katie is perfectly capable and more than ready to create a home that also has a place for me, just as I have done for her.

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restless

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I’ve moved enough times that there is a rhythm to each move. There’s the relief of deciding to sell the home and move. Then the flurry of activity necessary to get the house ready for selling. I had a head start on this house, because before COVID I had considered selling and got rid of a bunch of stuff. That was a great help. After that, there is the wait for someone to buy.

That’s where the rhythm sped up. I’ve never sold a home in a market like this one. It sold in three days. We only had one bid but it was the right one. Our realtor wisely negotiated for a sixty day close and an additional sixty day leaseback. Because the corollary for a hot seller’s market is a tough buyer’s market.

I really like our realtor. I hav known him for seven or eight years through swimming. He is a good swimmer, and I either swam a few lanes over in a slower lane or was lifeguarding while he swam. Showing up at a pool at 5 am, sleep tousled and in a bathing suit to voluntarily swim a few miles tells me a lot about a person. That’s how I knew he was a realtor, and it’s also how I knew I could trust him to be reliable and trustworthy.

I think it takes a certain type of personality to be a great realtor. You’re not so much as selling something as guiding someone through one of the most purchases most of us ever make. You have to get to know what the person wants, yet make it clear what they can have. You have to explain strategies and pitfalls and advantages and all sorts of terms. My daughter is a virgin home buyer, so a large part of our realtor’s job is to explain the whole process to her. Our realtor is pathologically cheerful and patient, and has done all of the above, and more.

So we have a contract. I’m working on all the problems of making repairs, which is always a hassle and has its own peculiar rhythm. In fact, everything about a move is a “hurry up and wait” kind of motion. Some days are spent worrying if you’ve done the right thing and other days are seemingly consumed in a flash with phone calls, appointments, and paperwork. If I add watching the Olympics or writing into the mix, it makes getting anything else done extremely difficult.

What I’ve discovered about myself is that I can no longer juggle multiple things and push through a hectic day without paying the price. I lose my train of thought on one thing when I’m interrupted and can’t get back on track. I fall asleep at eight pm and sleep until six but I don’t feel rested. What level of stress can I handle now? I guess I won’t know until I’ve tested the limits, and this move is proving to be the perfect situation.

I miss the rush of having a jam-packed day of chaos and knowing that I dealt with all of it. Katie and I were talking about the time she went back to her second semester of school in January 2005 and discovered that Pikes Peak Community College had a Zookeeping degree program. This was what she had been looking for. She withdrew from Mesa State, I came and got her, we drove to Colorado Springs, enrolled her in the program, found an apartment and moved her all within three days. I doubt I could do that now.

When we moved to this house I got the house in Evergreen ready between December twentieth and January fifth. Katie and I packed over 85 boxes. I also found a new house all before I left for Bennington, VT on January thirteenth for my first term of graduate school. I was still negotiating the contract on the shuttle bus from Albany to Bennington. When I returned ten days later, I had seven days to finish packing, close on both houses, hire movers, and move in February second. I know I couldn’t do that now.

This move is dragging out, though, because of the craziness of the market. I have started thinking about packing, but it’s too soon. Besides, I am getting rid of at least half of my stuff, maybe more. But that depends on where we move and how much space I will have and how much space Katie will have. Because this will be primarily her space, not mine. I’ll be a co-owner but not here for the day-to-day living. I’ll be in Tucson for a while, then I’ll be all over the place, I hope. Eventually I hope to live somewhere outside of the US for six months each year and travel to see friends/tennis tournaments/for pleasure for weeks at a time. It’s funny, that doesn’t seem daunting at all. Because I will have total control of my travel times, recovery times, and when I come and go. I won’t have to clean the house, or do yard work, or deal with all the everyday things that sap my energy.

The end result of all the chaos of downsizing my world will be worth it, though. A much smaller property which means much less upkeep. I’ll have a co-owner I can trust who happens to be my daughter. She is thrilled to finally be a property owner. A smaller payment, which means more money for living. And lastly, a great shedding of things from a former life. Time will tell if that will be liberating.

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