Aug 23, 2012 |
I know I shouldn’t. I know some people say worry is a sin. That I’m either not a good Christian, or I need to let go or… whatever it is you tell people when they say they’re unreasonably afraid.
But I am.
Often.
I’m afraid every day of the unknown.
I’m afraid that I won’t get a “real” job and I’ll lose my house. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to support my small family. I’m afraid of what would happen to the cats if something did happen to the house. Dot, notsomuch. She’s young. She’s got relatives. She’ll be okay. But I worry about being separated from her and the felines and Bedford Manor. I worry about it all the time.
I worry about car accidents. I’ve been in ten plus hit as a pedestrian. All in the last 27 years. None my fault. But I worry about more. I’m afraid of being injured again. I’m afraid of never being fully healed from past injuries. I’m afraid of being without a car, and I’m afraid now that Dot has a license.
I worry that my past concussions will interfere with my future. That I might someday need assistance to be mobile, or worse: to remember.
I worry about bad things happening to my family. What if they get injured, or worse? What if we’re separated for some reason like moving away, or death? I’m afraid of someday not being able to have coffee with my mom or talk to my brothers on the phone or watch TV with Dot.
I’m afraid that Dot’s chance for a future, a really good future, is lessened because of me. Because I’m an unemployed, single mom and we are a statistic on the poverty threshold. I worry that she’s never really had a chance to succeed, and it’s all my fault for not doing more. I worry that we won’t be able to afford the transfer to a four-year University when the time comes.
I worry that choices I made in the past about people, places, events, and opinions will affect her future.
I’m afraid of always being in debt and never being solvent. Of not being self-sufficient. Of being a burden to those around me and never being able to pay it back, or pay it forward.
I’m worried that I won’t always be able to write well. To share my thoughts, my stories, my inspirations.
And I’m worried that I will.
I’m afraid that I’ll be successful and it will change everything.
I’m afraid that my past will always haunt me. That certain people will try to sabotage me and tell me I’m not good enough. I worry about expending more energy into proving them wrong than doing things right. I’m afraid the wrong people will care and the right ones won’t.
I’m afraid of the freedoms that being a Good Writer means: publication. Payments. Solvency. Recognition. Freedom to move, to travel, to explore. Obligations to work and opportunities to play.
The chance to be balanced. To give my family a future.
To live. To live the life I have planned.
I’m afraid of trying because I’m afraid of failure. But I’m also afraid of never trying.
I worry about saying, “I don’t know what to do,” and being laughed at. I’m afraid of being mocked.
I’m afraid of being alone.
And never being heard.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
This post is linked up with Shell at
May 12, 2012 |
It was a hard week for my People this week. One had a serious break-up. One lost a beloved pet. One lost a great-grandson. One marked the four-month anniversary of a death in the family.
And still others I know are continuing their own ongoing struggles. Family, health, finances, employment… and so many more aspects.
It seems that everyone I know ~ every one ~ is going through so much. Not just a little jostle, but a full-on battle to keep walking this tightrope of life.
And I’m at a loss for what to say to them. Individually, I want to run to them, hug and hold them and make it better. I want to be in the background cooking and cleaning for them so they can be on “automatic” and deal with what they need to deal with. I want to help.
And I don’t know how.
I want to build up walls and keep them all inside until they’re ready to face the world. I want to stop the world from hurting them.
I want to take their hurts away so they can have peaceful sleep. I want to fill them with comfort and joy and hope.
And for whatever reasons, I can’t. For whatever reasons, I can’t reach them. I can’t hold them. I can’t help them.
But I can tell them. I can cry for them.
My heart can break with them.
And trust me.
It is.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Oct 30, 2011
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
[For the original article, click here.]
This is another prompt from Writer’s Digest Community: You and a friend break into your neighborhood swim club late one night to go for an after-hours dip. While splashing around in the pool, you go into shock when a dead body floats to the top. Worse yet – it’s someone you know.
It happens that during the week I found this prompt, I had seen a few episodes of The Twilight Zone. I’ve not written much in the way of sci-fi or thrillers, so I wanted to give it a try.
What could be worse than discovering the “you” that you feel you are, is actually dead? How does a person reconcile the moment of death with the collision of their own body? Does the spirit and mind live on, and can it play tricks on you?
It’s hard to explore these questions in 750 words or less, but I did enjoy the challenge of what might be.
Oct 29, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Okay, I’m not one to go all in about spirits and things. I believe there are supernatural forces, but as a Christian, and a scaredy-cat, I ignore; nay, resist, such topics.
Most of the time.
Just over two weeks ago, I journaled about the death of my mentor.
We weren’t that close. He was someone I respected as a writer and creator. He encouraged and inspired me to continue in my own writing endeavors. Big words for what boils down to: I like what he said and did, and he saw potential in me.
And then he died.
I don’t know what to do with this void. Do I write about my personal loss? What personal loss? It was a peripheral relationship. So why let others in on my tears? Because he told me to. He told me to write. Every day. No matter what. In joy. In pain. On vacation. Write. Every day.
But for a few days of mourning, I stopped.
I guess that didn’t make him happy. I guess I still have potential. Because in the middle of the night, during a rare thunderstorm no less, I received an email from him. Last night. Two and a half weeks after his death.
I’m not joking.
The interesting thing is, it was the very first email he ever sent me. From years ago. I’d asked his advice as a writer, never thinking he’d respond. But he did. And so our writer’s relationship began. I’d had it saved on hard copy. Saved in my email inbox. And suddenly it pops up on my blackberry like a brand new message.
“Molly Jo… I will give you an answer which is the absolute answer. Write every day and write for at least a couple hours. … What you have to do is make writing a very high priority in your life … Writing is like weightlifting. The more you do it, the stronger you’ll get. … That’s the best advice I can give. If you want to be a writer, you gotta write.”
So. Here I am. Still feeling silly about being affected by the loss of someone who was not yet a dear friend. Still wondering what I could possibly have to write about. Thinking of my unfinished projects.
And in the middle of the night, the heavens opened to wash away my clouds; and he reminded me of what’s important. I write because I am a writer.
True story.
“I write for the same reason I breathe. Because if I didn’t, I would die.” ~Isaac Asimov
Aug 4, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
August 4th is always worth remembering. At least in my family. It’s not a holiday. No anniversary or birthday. It’s much more somber. It’s the day my Dad died.
And this time, it’s been thirty years. It just happened; it happened a lifetime ago.
I was young, then; in age and in mind. I was 13 with no mind to chase boys but less desire to play with dolls. I was in that stage. I sat at the kitchen table looking through the brand new JCPenney’s winter catalog. The one that every kid waited for. The pretty girls in sweaters on the cover. The hundred pages of toys in the back. The catalog was delivered in that afternoon’s mail, and it was always a treat when Mom said we could open its pages. She knew it meant wishlists and yearnings for things we could not afford, and days of begging for early allowances. But she was good about it all; taking it in stride of being a parent, and let me look.
It was hot. Hot the way August is always hot in the midwest: sticky and stifling. The air conditioner lent itself to a damp cooling inside.
Dad had come home from work early that afternoon. I was the only one around. It was a pleasant surprise, he wasn’t due back in town until that evening. Dad was the manager for a tri-state sales route. His team looked to him for leadership. He was good at what he did. I think it was in his blood.
He drove up, and I was thrilled. Just me. Just him. Some quality time. Unfortunately, at 13 years of age, a girl’s idea of quality time with her dad doesn’t typically mean house cleaning or mowing the lawn. But that’s what Dad had in mind. He wanted to do for my mom, what she always did. He wanted to take care of house and home.
I wish I would have known… I wouldn’t have complained. I would have helped, I would have been happier. I would have… done anything.
It was a few hours later when my brother walked home from his “business” of selling sodas to thirsty golfers two blocks away. It was his best day so far that summer. He was excited that Dad was already there to share in his accomplishment.
Mom’s coffeepot had a plug-in timer (before pots themselves were manufactured with them built in). The timer was defective, not always working. Sometimes the coffee would brew too early, or worse, not at all. So Dad had brought a replacement. “Shh,” he smiled, hiding the packaging after he installed the new one. “Don’t tell Mom. It’s a surprise.”
Mom came home shortly after and got busy making dinner. Corned beef and cabbage boiled on the stovetop in her old green pots and pans ~ the same green pots and pans that were mimicked in my kitchen playset. The aroma was Irish. Every so often, she’d ask me to put something on the table, or move something from it. As long as I could keep dreaming with the catalog, I was content to earn my pages.
Dad was in the Front Room. That’s what we called it back then. The living room. The TV room. The sitting room. All rolled into one. The Front Room. He was sitting in his black BarcaLounger, and it stuck to his arms and legs with a sticky ripping sound every time he moved for his ice water.
My brother was in the room with him; they were catching up, watching TV, being guys.
I heard my Dad call for Mom. She went to him, and I heard the panic in her voice. He wasn’t responding. I tried to look at the catalog, but it was confusing. The pictures blurred, but I didn’t want to look away. I didn’t want to be pulled from my dreaming into reality.
The neighbor-husband came. Did my brother get him, or did he just hear our screams? There was talk about phone calls, and people on the way, and more yelling.
This isn’t real. I stood between the Front Room and the kitchen; between before and after. I saw my dad laid on the floor, I saw the neighbor breathing into him. And I walked away. I went to my room and knelt and prayed.
This is my fault. I wasn’t happy to see him earlier. But, God, I’ve learned my lesson. And if you let him stay, I promise to love my dad more. I promise to do the chores without complaining. I promise…
But God had his own plans. Dad had a massive coronary. And at 6:04 that evening, I wrote in my vinyl-covered kid diary, “Dad just died.”
And my life was split between “Before” and “After”.
Before Dad died, we swam in the pool together. He took my brothers camping, but not me because I was a girl. I baked play-doh pies for him. We played Atari together.
After Dad died, we moved to California. I grew up. I had a daughter of my own. I take her to Disneyland. She paints. We play Wii together.
And I write. I remember, and I write.
I remember fireflies caught in spider webs along the highway. I remember backyard camp-outs and Sparklers on the Fourth of July. I remember the garden and big tomatoes. I remember teaching him how to read to us like Mom does, “with the voices”. I remember long drives to Grandma’s house, and beer-batter smelt, and a yard overwhelmed by dandelions which he always claimed was a weed but we didn’t believe him. I remember the story of the Bear Rug, that I still have. I remember the Rockford Files. I remember whiffle balls and crooked swingsets and building cardboard forts. I remember going into hysterics that night when Mom went to plug in the coffee pot timer; and I revealed Dad’s last act of love for her.
I remember you, Dad. I remember you like yesterday. I still miss you that much. And I know you’re proud. I love you back.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
