For Picklestraw, Part 2

Now it's been 22 years since you died. More than 3 years longer than you were alive. More than 5 times as long as I knew you. And yet I still think of you on the anniversary of your death.

Granted, it had already been a hell of a bad year for me. I was working my way out of a deep depression and trying to work through so many things. Your death was the cherry on the "grow the hell up" sundae I'd been served that year. I realize I remember it so vividly not just because of you, but because of where I was back then.

Yet even though I am so far from the mental place, I still have these mental postcards of that week. Certain phone calls, conversations and images are like this weird mental scrapbook that I can look at whenever I want.

I don't want to very often. I would much rather imagine your reaction to something then to remember how much your death hurt so many people. I do the same thing with my grandmother - imagine her reaction, I mean. How she would have loved my kids. Stuff like that. With you, it's always been more complicated. And less okay.

Because I still - all these many years later - don't know what the hell you were doing that night. So I feel like anything I imagine is tainted by the fact that maybe I didn't know you at all. That's a hard thing for the 19 year old in my head to admit. She's a little dramatic, as you know.

I'm no longer sure of what happens when you die, either. But I hope that somehow you found peace and felt everyone's love.

Dear World

Dear World,

    As I write this (last Friday for those of you reading it on the day it posts), I'm following reports on Twitter about a shooting in mid-town Manhattan. Where people I know work. Where I've happily taken my children and actually thought about doing so today. World, I'm getting really sick of hearing about mass shootings.

     I don't want to get into a fight about gun control, World. Sure, if there was a sharp shooter in mid-town or in the Aurora movie theater or in wherever the next shooting happens, s/he may be able to take out the killer if s/he happens to have a loaded gun on his or her person, the killer is not wearing protective clothing and the sharp shooter gets a clear shot when people are running around freaking out, then a concealed weapon permit would have saved lives. Sure, there's nothing wrong with hunting or target shooting as sports and/or ways to get meat, though I fail how to see 100 round magazines and Uzis are sportsmanlike. And sure, guns don't walk out the door and start shooting by themselves.

    That's the part I want to talk to you about, World. People using guns to kill people. Surely we can agree that all these killers are profoundly mentally ill? I'm not saying that they're not responsible for their actions or don't deserve to be severely punished, I'm just saying that they've got big mental health issues. Can we all agree on that? Okay? Okay.

     World, nobody just wakes up one day so mentally ill that s/he thinks a shooting spree is a good idea. Which means instead of spending all this time and energy on what wrong AFTER a person loses it and pretends life is a video game, maybe we should pay attention to what's going on with people before they lose it?

Aren't we all supposed to be smarter than this guy?

      Like maybe mental health care could be more affordable and accessible? And maybe we could see it like we see any other trip to the doctor? Do you think people who get cancer treatments are weak? Or people who use antibiotics? No? Then why is there a stigma when people take care of their mental health? If you don't expect people to overcome cancer through sheer force of will, why would you expect people to overcome anxiety or PTSD or bipolar disorder or addiction* that way? 

     We keep talking to our kids about bullying and its effects. Which is great. But maybe we should realize that adults do it too, yet we have no teachers or parents exhorting us to stop. Or, if we're not bullying actively, we're ignoring the neighbor who is quiet or weird or whatever. We look the other way when someone near us is in pain, unless that someone belongs to our family or church or other kind of tribe.

     World, this whole tribal thing? It's not working. Dehumanizing people who are different, who we consider "other", that's what opens the door for mass killings. We are all human, no matter what our belief system. We all hurt, we all grieve, we all have dreams. All of us. Even the person who is so broken that he starts shooting in the street. Why can't we all remember that?

                                                                                                      With love,
                                                                                                         Jen


*I am in no way diagnosing these killers with these disorders, nor saying that all people with these disorders will become evil without treatment. Got it? 



 

Dear Douchebag

Dear Douchebag in the  black Mustang,

      You clearly got the question about what the yellow line means wrong on your driving exam, so I thought I'd help you line. The yellow line means that each lane on the road is going in a different direction. So even though there were several cars in front of you, it's NOT OKAY to hop into the other lane, drive around the other cars and then turn in front of them. You see, Douchebag, (can I call you "Douchebag"? Or do you prefer "Asshole"?) I was turning into that other lane. The lane you were not supposed to be in, because you were going in the opposite direction. I almost hit you head on, because you darted out of your lane like you were trying to pass people on the highway.

     Newsflash, Douchebag: The middle of our small downtown? At 5:30 pm on a Friday? NOT A HIGHWAY. Also? Kinda crowded. With people driving THEIR CHILDREN around. You're lucky that I was paying attention and moved around you. You're lucky that the cars you cut off (you know, the ones you cut around and then crossed in front of to make your right turn) were also paying attention. Otherwise you would have been head on or T-boned. Then your shiny black Mustang wouldn't look so pretty.

     I have to apologize here, Douchebag. I was so flabbergasted - and concentrating on driving safely - that I did not get your license plate number. I didn't get to call the police about your driving, which is obviously what you wanted. I mean, that kind of stunt is OBVIOUSLY a cry for help. Either you wanted to get in trouble for something or you are so completely arrogant that you think you don't have to obey driving laws. Which is it's own kind of cry for help. But hopefully someone else was able to get your plate number. I'd like to imagine that even right now, you are getting the kind of help you need. From that grumpy police officer.

                                                                                                    Sincerely,

                                                                                        The Bitch in the Minivan

Sometimes I Hate The Park

Dear Lady-at-the-park-this-morning,

First, congratulations on your new daughter. I'm sure she's adorable, not that you ever uncovered her long enough for me to see her face. Also, may I commend you on your well-behaved boys. They played well with my Lovebug and seemed very polite - they actually got your permission before going on the jungle gym and waited for you to join them.

I'm sure you noticed that my children did not ask me permission for anything. Not even the toddler. They roamed freely within the confines of the playground. I followed the toddler, who seems to have a strong urge to return to the emergency room. My kids were all over the place, but I always knew where they were. Okay, I knew where they were for the vast majority of the experience.

I'm sure you also noticed that I was the only adult with my children, while your husband sat patiently with your sleeping baby. I wonder how you'll handle things when he's not there. I wonder if you'll still give me dirty looks after you've taken 3 mobile children to a park by yourself. I wonder if you'll still sniff at me when your boys become more independent and don't want to do the same things all the time.

I sure hope we run into each other again. Preferably when my youngest is a reasonable 3 year old and yours is a toddler.  And you don't have any back-up.

Sincerely,

Jerseygirl