Do You Want To Know A Secret? Or, How I Accepted That I'm Not A Monster.

"You know that bad news never had good timing..."

-John Mayer

My grandmother lived with us when I grew up. There was always someone there to watch my brother and I our entire childhood. Both of my parents worked and as such having my grandma there made things a bit easier for them I'm sure. Looking back, I have happy memories of her being there. She got me to the bus stop. She made sure I got into the house in the afternoons. Once I was home, I was fed and happy. She would tell me stories about how she worked in factories making clothes or how she went to Mexico and it was "the dirtiest place she had ever seen". Apparently there were flies everywhere, on the food, on the people, everywhere. The one constant was laughing. And love. And caring. Ok three constants. She made me laugh all the time whether it was her critiques of our neighbors way of doing things or her observations of the news and world in general my grandma made me laugh all the time. As a kid I rarely got into trouble because I was kind of a nerd and as a result on the ultra-rare occasions where I was reprimanded she came to my defense. I was quite obviously the favorite and it did not go unnoticed. Very often my cousins would come over during the summer and my house would turn into the best run day camp ever. Pool days, five kids on the trampoline, seemingly endless days outside on bikes; summer days were a dream come true. She would make us all food and be there to make sure we were safe and happy. She taught us how to be tough but at the same time made sure we knew it was ok to be human and feel. When I hit my teens (or more accurately, they hit me, hard) she was there to keep watch. She gave me advice and told me the things I needed to hear (and sometimes did not want to hear) about life, the universe, and everything. My brother used to drive her insane, mainly because he was a little bit of a dramatic child. There were epic (an overused word I never use) battles in our house. My brother wasn't a fan of rules and therefore broke them regularly.  It wasn't even in a cool Han Solo-esq. rebellious way but rather in a "I don't feel like helping with dinner so I'll just sit here in my underwear watching Arthur and The Magic School bus in the kitchen while you do what you asked me to help with" kind of way. That is where the fights always seemed to begin; in the kitchen. She would stealthily walk in and ask him what he was doing. The next sentence was frequently some finely crafted lie like "watching the water boil" or " making sure nothing happens to dinner". Other times, when asked what he was eating (typically minutes before dinner was to be served) the reply was "nothing" though a cheese sandwich sit in his little hand half eaten and the unused cheese still on the table. First blood would be drawn and the shouting would begin. I would walk in to see what the battle looked like. My brother Michael standing his ground while she told him why eating two dinners was a bad idea. "I'm hungry and it's just a sandwich! It's not even big! Who cares?!" Her response was too quickly said, and usually half in Spanish, and included the admonition that he would "get fat". I would leave the room before I dared to laugh needing to maintain composure to retain my status as the favorite. Mike's dramatics would continue as he stomped down the hall  only to stop halfway to make sure his exit hadn't gone unnoticed. If he woke up my dad while stomping and got a second round of yelling it was like a bonus though my dad's part was never nearly as funny as my grandma's. These battles would continue through my high school years and into Mike's. As she got older my grandma slowed some but didn't give up much ground to him. 

When I was working and still living at home post-school, I would come home for lunch to check on her. Some days she was watching television in her room. Others she was in the garden with a kitchen knife tending to her plants. Now in her eighties, I had a real concern with her being home alone during the days.  I had visions of coming home and finding her on the floor, sick or worse, and not being able to do anything about it. This stress ate at me all day long and was an unbelievable burden to put on myself. On days I couldn't make it home, I was a silent mess inside. I would call the house and each ring seemed to last forever. 

Then came the day that never comes. I couldn't make it home due to a client meeting and when I got home she wasn't there. I called my mother who was at the hospital with her. Congestive heart failure had set in and she was taken away in an ambulance. She would never come home again. In the kitchen, standing by the tv, was her ironing board and on it one of my work shirts. 

Never the one to be irrational, I took the board kicked it over and tore the shirt apart. What I was really doing was tearing myself apart because, in my mind, this was all my fault. From that day until the day she died (and several years thereafter if I am being honest) I blamed myself for not just having a heart attack but her eventual death. It was ironing my shirt that caused this. Not the fact that she was 89 and it being her time. It was my fault. In some ways, it'll always be my fault. And saying that makes me sad because it's insane. I didn't kill her but in my heart I feel like I murdered her. And it is something I hadn't accepted until two years ago or so, while in therapy, and relating this story to some other failure I faced. Sitting in my doctors office, I discussed a missed opportunity and when asked how I felt I said " I guess its karma for murdering my grandmother. " 

And then i started crying, uncontrollably, for several minutes. I had never cried in therapy before. I had reached a breaking point and something I had carried inside for such a long time came out. Releasing it made me feel shittier than I had in a long time but then it was also freeing. My therapist and I spoke about grief and guilt, two subjects I could have a PHD in. We touched on the fact that she ironed my work clothes for me because she loved me. How doing things like that probably helped give her focus and made her feel closer to me. I had never looked at it that way before. Instead of focusing on that I went automatically to how her death affected me and how I was responsible. I had never noticed the self centered way I approached the situation. Thinking about it makes me feel a little embarrassed. 

It also made me think about guilt and how we can let things like it rule our lives. So many of us have a deluge of negative thoughts pervading our minds. We run into situations and assume the outcome will be bad. We look at our lives and focus on what we don't have instead of what we do. When I am in one of my low moods, I look around me and just see mountains of shit. I see myself as inarticulate, unintelligent and overwhelmingly mediocre. It isn't healthy and I know I'm only hurting myself but I'm human and have to remind myself that I'm not going to be perfect. I also have to remind myself that this is only for now. That isn't always easy to believe but it's essential to make the effort each time you feel low. Make yourself feel greater than instead of less than. I didn't kill my grandmother. Its not my fault. Thinking that does me no good. Instead what i need to remember is that she taught me a great deal of lessons. Things that have made me laugh, smile and a good person. I learned respect and understanding that everyone matters. Most of all, I learned that I am loved. People care about me. I'm important. Don't waste time on negativity and staying in your head. Get out there. When you are in the mindset of negativity your actions will be affected as well as the things going on around you. You create your reality; not in a holodeck kind of way but rather with the vibe you put out. The law of attraction is a real thing. You get what you give man so don't be a dick. If you put yourself into the mindset of being a loser then you're a loser. Simple. If you let guilt rule your life you're going to miss out on some important shit. Trust me. I know. Guilt is a waste of time. Allowing guilt to dictate your life and actions is even worse. Give yourself the chance to keep moving and not anchor yourself to worry rock. It's taken me a decade to realize it but I didn't murder my grandma. Her death was not my fault. I just said that aloud while typing it and for he first time I mean it. What I need to do is use the lessons that I learned from her to make things better than they are. It's the right thing to do and won't make you feel like shit if you do it. 

Unless of course you're the type who doesn't want to help and would rather just stomp down the hall. If that's the case, my dad wants to have a word...