Month: January 2009

I spent the whole of 2008 trying to figure out how to tell my family about our situation. I’m not kidding — the entire year. Well, except for my sister. I told her early on. But the people who read this blog knew what was going on before most of my family did.

So I have trust issues. Whatever. I think I come by them honestly.

I delayed so long because I wasn’t sure what response I’d get. I could get a lecture about right and wrong, about what’s moral and what’s not; that would not be without precedent. I could get judgment about what a bad person I am. Also not without precedent. I could hear what a disappointment I am, how ashamed they are. Again, the precedent thing. To say it as kindly as possible, my family and I do not agree on who I really am or what kind of person I am.

I also delayed because of my mom and her ongoing undiagnosed illness. Earlier this year, the doctor had told my dad to take her home and let the inevitable happen. She was going to die. She was suffering from “a failure to thrive.” She’s been going to die for 25 years, but this time, according to the doctor, she was really going to die. She did not. So I didn’t want to say anything when she was going to die that might speed up the process and I didn’t want to say anything once she wasn’t going to die that might upset her and make her die all over again. Does that make sense?

Finally, I delayed so long because — well, it worked best for me, for us, and I was feeling protective of me and us. The longer I kept them in the dark, the more freedom we had to walk through this particular hell without the burden of their responses. I was assuming, anticipating, unhelpful — let’s just use that word — responses. As it turns out, I was right.

So throughout the year, at various family gatherings, I stuffed it down. Deflected conversation about me, about us. Focused on being “extra funny.” Oh, I’m so good at that. It’s sick. When the economy took its nosedive a couple of months ago and everyone in the family was affected in one way or another, still, I gave non-committal, generic answers to questions about how we were doing. I wasn’t ready to say and, besides, the holidays were upon us with the ho-ho-ho and baby Jesus and all. What was I going to say? “Merry Christmas! We’re losing our home! God bless us every one!”?

No. Really not the right time. Although, in retrospect, that might have been more fun than the method I ultimately chose.

But on the first Sunday of the new year, with the holidays finally over, I sent out a very brief email to the rest of my family — four people in all. A “just-the-facts-ma’am” kind of email. Nouns and and verbs, basically. All year long, I’d agonized in my head over this email, lost sleep over this email, felt sick, literally, sick to my stomach about having to send this email but it couldn’t be put off any longer. I fought hard against pouring my heart out and saying too much. Once I pushed “send,” I began to freak out with anxiety.

Hours later, one family member wrote back. Again, they knew nothing about our situation. Nothing at all. This is the entire text of the email:

Tracey,

Loved One

You know what, pippa? I really think I’m going insane. I do. I really really do. Because when I tell someone that, um, “we’re losing our home,” I don’t think the normal, human response is “thanks for the update.” Especially when we’ve said nothing at all along the way. It’s not the weather report, for God’s sake. And it’s not an “update.” That would imply I’ve given them information before this, which, again, I HAVE NOT. But, clearly, a family member of mine thought this was an appropriate response. Maybe other people would think that as well. If that’s the case, then I’m kind of in the minority as the crazy one who thinks it’s inappropriate, right? That would make me the one who lives in a completely different reality from other people, including those in my family and, well, that’s kind of scary to me. But it’s been 10 days now, and I am still not done flipping out over this email, so maybe I really am insane. It feels like I’m out in the ocean, drowning just offshore, and I’m waving frantically to my loved one, screaming, “I’m drowning! I’m drowning!” and my loved one just waves back and calls, “Thanks for the update!”

My kind of brain finds this unfathomable. This rambling post is my attempt to fathom it but I’m really not sure if I can. And I’m not sure if that means I should be afraid of my kind of brain.

Anyway, moving on.

So that’s the first response I got.

A few hours later, the same person sent a follow-up. Oh, okay, I thought, here’s where Loved One clarifies or expounds or realizes it was lame or something redemptive like that, please God.

There was no “subject.”

It was a chain email for a recipe exchange.

~ Hey! Hullo! I’m drowning!

~ Thanks for the update! Wanna recipe for stroganoff?

Honestly, I was beginning to wish I’d never said anything.

The next day, another family member weighed in with this:

I am sorry. Hang in there, this is another bump on the road of life, but you will get through it. As a very wise man once said, “Keep knees down and chin up.”

It ended with “love” and an inquiry into our new address.

After that, MB and I debated at length what “knees down and chin up” meant. He thought maybe it was a Kama Sutra thing and I thought — if the directions were reversed — it would sound distressingly like a Pap smear. I’m pretty sure it was meant as a reference to prayer, but darned if I’ve ever prayed that way. Whatever it was, it didn’t help. It basically meant nothing to me — hearing those kinds of platitudes. It pains me to say that because I love these people, but they are very hard to love. And the more family members responded in this way, the more isolated I felt. The first response felt like an outright denial of the situation; the second, like a complete trivialization. I felt chilled by the utter detachment of it all.

So that was two of the four family members I’d emailed. As of today, I haven’t heard anything from the other two. Not one word. This all sounds SO boo hoo hoo, please forgive me. I sound like such an ass. But I guess if it were me, if it were my daughter, sister, loved one, I’d try to put myself in her shoes. I’d try to imagine what it would feel like to go through this. I’d pick up the phone as a way to connect in the most immediate, firsthand way. I would try — as much as humanly possible — to be there for her, to show some compassion.

So that’s what I expect from them, I guess.

But again, I find myself wondering if I’m being unreasonable in my expectations. I find myself not sure anymore, not sure if my responses are …. normal as compared to the people whose DNA I share. To me, the situation is traumatic; it’s horrible, basically; our world is upside down. I don’t want my family’s pity or “oh poor baby” kinds of emails from them. No, I don’t want that. (I’m sorry — I’m writing this on the fly, something I shouldn’t do because I’m never sure if I’m making any sense.) What I want from them, I guess, is some sort of acknowledgment that the situation is actually as significant as it feels to me walking through it. The consistency of their responses makes my blood run cold because I perceive the situation so differently, but it also makes me question the way I perceive it. Their collective silent shrug makes me wonder if that is indeed the proper response. Maybe it is just a bump on the road of life. Maybe I should just keep my knees up and chin down or knees down and chin up or arms akimbo and legs flailing and I will feel much better about losing my home. Maybe I need to just embrace utter silence on the issue, like some. Maybe I should just have a Pap smear and 12 hours of Tantric sex and I’ll have a fresh new outlook on every single little thing.

Maybe I just need to lighten up. You know, no big whup.

Okay. This is unseemly of me, I know. I’m cringeing even writing this. I feel like I shouldn’t be writing this. But …. I’m just gobsmacked by the whole thing. I actually feel worse since sharing this news with my family. It feels so much heavier — because I told my family, for God’s sake. Denial. Platitudes. Silence. Where am I supposed to put all of that? What I am supposed to do with all of that? I keep checking my inbox to see if one of them has written anything else; I keep checking my cellphone to see if one of them has called. It’s pathetic.

They haven’t.

And I have a feeling they won’t. That’s the response. Situation over.

Ack. Enough of this. It is what it is.

Through the gaps in my blinds, I could see them, the man and woman who came knocking on my door on Christmas Eve eve. He looked mid-fifties, white hair, wore jeans and a Chargers’ jersey. No. 17, to be exact, quarterback Philip Rivers. I rolled my eyes. I hate that look — grown-up men in football jerseys. You are not Philip Rivers. You are not LaDainian Tomlinson. You are not any NFL player or coach or even water boy. Please try to dress yourself in the morning with that fact in mind. I took a reasonable and instant dislike to him based solely on his attire.

The woman stood behind the football jersey, all in black, the late afternoon sun bouncing off her bright blonde hair. She looked like some kind of stripper, frankly. Belted black leather jacket with faux fur trim, black leather lace-up boots, stiletto heels. Faux face. Faux hair. The works. I had no idea what was under that jacket but I was kind of afraid I was going to find out. They knocked and waited while I secretly narrowed my eyes at both of them. Who were they? What did they want? A woman in slutty boots and a man in a football jersey on my doorstep on Christmas Eve eve. Was this a joke? Had someone sent me some horrifying NFL strippergram? I hovered near the door where I could see them but they couldn’t see me. I don’t know why I was hesitating because unless it’s someone I know or UPS at the door bringing me goodies, I never answer it. Really. Never. If I’m home alone, I just want to be left to shuffle around in my Kleenex box shoes and paint my curly fry fingernails. Is that so much to ask? But now I debated. I considered it, I guess, because the curiosity was killing me. I figured this: If it’s a strippergram, I’ll slam the door before anything happens and my face gets too red. If it’s Greenpeace or something, I’ll slam the door before they get too long-winded and I have to tell them no. Whatever awaited me on the other side of the door, I predicted a door-slamming in my imminent future.

So I opened the door.

Sunlight slammed into my face, blinding me for a moment.

Jersey Boy spoke.

“Are you Tracey So-and-So?”

“Uhm, yes.”

There was a weird pause. Yup. Here we go. Strippergram.

“Okay. Well, my name is Joe. This is Slutty Boots. We’re here to take back the house.”

And my entire world froze over.

“What?”

“We represent the bank. We’re here to take back the house.”

“What??”

It didn’t make sense. Their words. The sun shoved heat down on my head but I began to shiver. They looked past me into my home.

“Can we come in?”

What??

I glanced over my shoulder into the living room. Or, more accurately, the rubble of our leftover lives. We’d been sifting through our belongings for weeks, packing and tossing, packing and tossing. Stacks of boxes leaned lopsided here and there. Half-filled trash bags dotted the floor like some deflated obstacle course. Some of them actually contained trash. Others contained our stuff because I’m a lazy packer. Every chair in the room had something on it. Books, more books, even more books, the cash register from Boheme, a Sundance Film Festival poster, old VHS tapes, a fan. I noticed, as if for the first time, the two square splotches of test paint on the far wall — one russet, one butter-colored — and remembered smiling while I smoothed them out, buzzing with pride and possibilities, a long time ago it seemed now. Looking at them through the glaze of this moment, they seemed like odd spots of flush on a wall sick and ashamed. A few feet away, my trampoline loomed like a torture device, propped up against a chair, its legs menacing outward. Large irregular chunks of Pergo floor were missing, ruined from the water leak a couple of weeks ago, giving a sense that we owned a pack of very large and very bad and very hungry dogs. Warped floor panels poofed up randomly waiting to trip people because I was too lazy to pull them up. In the breeze of the open door, I saw the dust bunnies I’d ignored skitter around the edges of the room because, these days, a numb apathy had closed my eyes. I closed them again and held my breath …. held my breath …. held my breath ….

Jersey Boy interrupted. His voice was more forceful now.

“Can we come in?”

Can you come in? …. what? … why? … uhmm …..

And suddenly, something long-forgotten flooded through me and my eyes flashed open. I cared. I cared more than ever. My entire body was shaking with how much I cared. I wanted to run upstairs and grab my husband’s rifle and make a last feeble stand, like some geezer cowpoke yelling, “Get offa my land!” I cared. I cared about nothing else but my home, my lost home, and keeping these strangers out of it forever. Protecting my debris field. My private debris field. All those stacks of shame.

No. No. You can’t come in. You can’t ever come in. Go away. Please go away. You need to go away.

Silence for a moment. They were just waiting, I guess. Waiting for me to cooperate. I shielded my eyes to look at them, saw the blank expression on his face, saw Slutty Boots scuff her toe along the ground.

Then I tried to answer the man, say something other than “what?” I could only manage a quaver, it seems.

“You’re here to take the house back right now?”

I imagined Slutty Boots staggering around in her heels, schlepping boxes, moving our entire life out onto the sidewalk for the neighbors to paw over, like I’d seen sheriffs in Florida doing on 20/20 several nights before. I hadn’t slept well at all since then and demanded MB call our lawyer for reassurance that wouldn’t happen to us. He’d soothed my fears and yet, it was a lie, I guess, because … here they were. Those people. The house takers. The stuff dumpers. Sure, they didn’t look like those guys on 20/20, but this was Southern California after all. Maybe Slutty Boots and Jersey Boy were more official than they seemed. Well, I hope she breaks a heel. I hope she twists an ankle. I hope he throws his stupid jersey back out. I couldn’t think anything but petty grade school thoughts. Really, I couldn’t think much at all. I stood in the doorway, freezing in the heavy sunlight, shaking from knowing that the year-long theme of my night terrors was now really here.

I clung to the doorknob in my palm as if it would somehow save me.

(more to follow)