This weekend was challenging. I find myself holding back, time and time again. Why?
We are here to serve.
Serve our elders, neighbors, friends.
We give in hopes that we too will receive. But do we?
We buy a drink for a friend.
We loan someone a pencil.
We hold the door.
We give a smile.
We give love.
We listen.
We pray.
We love.
But if we expect a return, we find ourselves empty.
Happiness comes from within.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Chapter 22 - There's More
Divorced and starting over, my brother Chris flew in and Gene was driving up from Florida to pack me up. I was 21 years old, separated in May 1988, filed for divorce, and moved into my own place. I thought it was a pretty good idea, staying in the same state as Nick's dad. But it wasn't all bliss. Working late was required, reliable babysitters, and a support system was sparse. Not to mention I felt like a target, I was cornered in the restaurant's kitchen and followed to my door from the parking lot.
By August I was back in Utah, had a three year old, worked three jobs, was living with my mother, and desperate to have my own place. These challenges have been the driving forces for me over the last 25 years.
I was desperate to get a place of my own. Mom and I fought constantly. She reminded me regularly that Sandy and Jenny were not going to babysit for me all the time, but daycare was robbing me blind, so I was determine to get myself situated.
Teri Hansen and I became friends, and decided to get a place together. That winter, we found a two bedroom place here we could work off part of our rent. It would work. Also, I started classes at the University of Utah, and I soon applied for student housing and work study.
In the spring of 1989, Nick and I moved into a one bedroom apartment in the University Village. This was a great environment to be in. I still worked two part time jobs and went to school full time. Frankly, we were on State assistance. It was the only way I could afford day care, go to school, and provide for my little family. Although challenging, Nick and I managed.
Sometime later, Mom's job was threatened, and she asked that I move in with her. She said she was afraid that she would lose her house. My co-dependent and broken mother-daughter relationship was very apparent. Hindsight, I think she would have been fine. But I did it, I gave up my apartment and moved back in. I continued to go to school, but it was difficult. Mom and I argued regularly about babysitting, house rules, and housekeeping. Mom never lost her job, and I moved to an apartment in Murray in 1990. Then in 1992, I lost my job at the University of Utah and soon withdrew from school. I never moved back home.
There's no doubt about it I was in a tail spin, burned out, and diving into a pretty dark period, full of depression. This would last for a couple of years and would include a few bad choice boyfriends, jobs, and disassociation from close family ties.
This chapter only scratches the surface of barriers built, friendships silenced, and anger festering. But with all great feats, there's more.
By August I was back in Utah, had a three year old, worked three jobs, was living with my mother, and desperate to have my own place. These challenges have been the driving forces for me over the last 25 years.
I was desperate to get a place of my own. Mom and I fought constantly. She reminded me regularly that Sandy and Jenny were not going to babysit for me all the time, but daycare was robbing me blind, so I was determine to get myself situated.
Teri Hansen and I became friends, and decided to get a place together. That winter, we found a two bedroom place here we could work off part of our rent. It would work. Also, I started classes at the University of Utah, and I soon applied for student housing and work study.
In the spring of 1989, Nick and I moved into a one bedroom apartment in the University Village. This was a great environment to be in. I still worked two part time jobs and went to school full time. Frankly, we were on State assistance. It was the only way I could afford day care, go to school, and provide for my little family. Although challenging, Nick and I managed.
Sometime later, Mom's job was threatened, and she asked that I move in with her. She said she was afraid that she would lose her house. My co-dependent and broken mother-daughter relationship was very apparent. Hindsight, I think she would have been fine. But I did it, I gave up my apartment and moved back in. I continued to go to school, but it was difficult. Mom and I argued regularly about babysitting, house rules, and housekeeping. Mom never lost her job, and I moved to an apartment in Murray in 1990. Then in 1992, I lost my job at the University of Utah and soon withdrew from school. I never moved back home.
There's no doubt about it I was in a tail spin, burned out, and diving into a pretty dark period, full of depression. This would last for a couple of years and would include a few bad choice boyfriends, jobs, and disassociation from close family ties.
This chapter only scratches the surface of barriers built, friendships silenced, and anger festering. But with all great feats, there's more.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Chapter 41: Quality of Life
Written by Angela Richey
~published in Folio 2008
Quality of life is living. Living is breathing fresh air, walking on raw ground and feeling the warmth of the sun.
We walk, we breathe and we feel in this chaos we call life. We walk on the sidewalk. We smell the exhaust. We feel the stress.
Get up, get ready, go.
Go to work.
Go to school.
Go to the store.
Go home.
Go, go, go, go.
It is the quality of life we lack. We are always on the run. We have too much to do and not enough time. We make the choice. We live in the city. We work to make money. We make money to live. We live to work. It is a vicious cycle.
We are done.
Today, we will bundle up warm, with gloves, boots and coats. We will go to where the air is fresh, the ground is raw, and the sun glistens as it dances on snow. Snow so pure and white. Untouched. It is simple. It is soundless.
No watch, no traffic, no want.
It is quality of life!
~published in Folio 2008
Quality of life is living. Living is breathing fresh air, walking on raw ground and feeling the warmth of the sun.
We walk, we breathe and we feel in this chaos we call life. We walk on the sidewalk. We smell the exhaust. We feel the stress.
Get up, get ready, go.
Go to work.
Go to school.
Go to the store.
Go home.
Go, go, go, go.
It is the quality of life we lack. We are always on the run. We have too much to do and not enough time. We make the choice. We live in the city. We work to make money. We make money to live. We live to work. It is a vicious cycle.
We are done.
Today, we will bundle up warm, with gloves, boots and coats. We will go to where the air is fresh, the ground is raw, and the sun glistens as it dances on snow. Snow so pure and white. Untouched. It is simple. It is soundless.
No watch, no traffic, no want.
It is quality of life!
Chapter 42: One Wish to Find Bliss
Amazing how she stands there,
Bright, with character and flare.
Strong walls so steadfast,
Her inner strength will outlast.
She stands empty, dark, and hollow inside.
When rain falls and wind blows, she’s likely to cry.
Clouds drift and snow’s cold
Full of life, she’ll never grow old.
Her exterior is resilient,
Her demeanor, rather pleasant.
She’s warm and inviting.
Smart features defining.
The shutters are open,
Her spirit’s not yet broken.
Her details are stunning
She’s clever and cunning
Wood’s worn, she’s torn
Paint’s faded, She’s jaded.
But her beauty is endless
One wish... to find bliss.
Bright, with character and flare.
Strong walls so steadfast,
Her inner strength will outlast.
She stands empty, dark, and hollow inside.
When rain falls and wind blows, she’s likely to cry.
Clouds drift and snow’s cold
Full of life, she’ll never grow old.
Her exterior is resilient,
Her demeanor, rather pleasant.
She’s warm and inviting.
Smart features defining.
The shutters are open,
Her spirit’s not yet broken.
Her details are stunning
She’s clever and cunning
Wood’s worn, she’s torn
Paint’s faded, She’s jaded.
But her beauty is endless
One wish... to find bliss.
Chapter 22: Rebellious, a Bit Devious
Written by Angela M. Richey
~published by City Weekly 2007
Where have you been…. my long lost 'friend'
Its been sometime, how the hell have you been?
Rumor has it you're rebellious, a bit devious
To be honest, I'm curious and perhaps even envious.
I'm defiant, unruly, unleashed and untamed.
I'm not sure what's caused it - except the season has changed,
'Live life to the fullest' that's the name of the game
If trouble finds me, I have no one to blame.
I've read the news, there's no report nor bad views
The City’s too quiet, I think we should riot!?!
Good laughter, fun times, and maybe some brews.
Tomorrow call sick – my boss - he'll buy it.
Quickly pass the day, for its time to play
Bring on the night, the timing is right.
So don't hesitate or it maybe too late
Call soon, don't wait – lets open the gate!
~published by City Weekly 2007
Where have you been…. my long lost 'friend'
Its been sometime, how the hell have you been?
Rumor has it you're rebellious, a bit devious
To be honest, I'm curious and perhaps even envious.
I'm defiant, unruly, unleashed and untamed.
I'm not sure what's caused it - except the season has changed,
'Live life to the fullest' that's the name of the game
If trouble finds me, I have no one to blame.
I've read the news, there's no report nor bad views
The City’s too quiet, I think we should riot!?!
Good laughter, fun times, and maybe some brews.
Tomorrow call sick – my boss - he'll buy it.
Quickly pass the day, for its time to play
Bring on the night, the timing is right.
So don't hesitate or it maybe too late
Call soon, don't wait – lets open the gate!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Chapter 21: Legally Its My Choice
There are numerous decisions we make throughout our life time. We choose the people who will be our friends. We choose where we live. We choose to have children. We choose to stay in close contact with our families. We choose to give and we choose to take. We choose to love and be loved. We choose between good and evil. One might even say we choose life or death. This weekend I witnessed most of these major choices.
There is a part of me driven to care and love people, often those people are prone to defects related to dysfunctional families. I guess I can relate to the dysfunction of my own.
Bill, a very close friend of mine, is a man with a very good heart. Unfortunately he is also very egotistical and selfish. Which he tries to overcompensate with generosity, which may be considered selfish acts based upon his need to salvage relationships or gain admiration from peers.
He also suffers from mental illnesses that causes "life interuptis." Because I care about him, I find myself challenged by maintaining a friendship and rescuing someone who has uncontrollable urges and an addiction.
Alcohol you control it; or it controls you.
There is a part of me driven to care and love people, often those people are prone to defects related to dysfunctional families. I guess I can relate to the dysfunction of my own.
Bill, a very close friend of mine, is a man with a very good heart. Unfortunately he is also very egotistical and selfish. Which he tries to overcompensate with generosity, which may be considered selfish acts based upon his need to salvage relationships or gain admiration from peers.
He also suffers from mental illnesses that causes "life interuptis." Because I care about him, I find myself challenged by maintaining a friendship and rescuing someone who has uncontrollable urges and an addiction.
Alcohol you control it; or it controls you.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Chapter 13: I don't want to be a daughter
It was a warm June morning. The moving van was loaded and it was time for the last hugs and kisses and final good byes. Mom was on her way to starting a new life across country. Unfortunately, I couldn’t help but think that one day we would be helping her to return and it wouldn’t be the first time for bailing her out.
My sisters, both in their early twenties and quite close to my mother, tenderly hugged mother as though they would never see her again. Their eyes were red and filled with tears.
With a bit of frustration in his voice my brother Chris stood next to me and said “Don’t you care? You don’t even care!”
Unlike my siblings I didn’t feel the deep rooted love a child has for a mother. I hugged her and wished her good luck but didn’t shed a tear; a lump didn’t fill my throat.
The van drove down the road.
Later that week my brother called and asked me “Why is that you cry at the drop of a hat but when it comes to mom leaving you didn’t even shed a tear.”
I told him that I just don’t have the same relationship to mom as they did. I don’t have the love and affection, and perhaps I’ve just grown cold over the years and by the way I had been treated.
He said “Yeah Ang, but you need to let it go.”
Am I resentful? Perhaps. What is it that bugs me so much? Could it be that during my teen years I was responsible for much of what my mother should have been? Did I realize her mistakes even in my youth?
I was 39 years old that day she left, and I can not understand why I am so angry with her.
My mother, in all her naivety, got knocked up (16), went to school for a short time, re-married (28) and divorced again at a young age (37). Her second husband, was abusive, morally bankrupt, and no more than a blemish for a father figure. She did what she could as a mother between 1966 through 1984.
She and Joe, her second husband, believed in purchasing an old home move in and remodel them. Although Joe had a good job with Mountain Bell, he would find every avenue to make money. Swap meets, flea markets, were his idea of a good time. At one point he had a bicycle shop where he and my mother would repair bikes to make a little money. As a family, on the weekend, we would often go into the mountains to cut truck loads of wood to sell. In the summer, my brother and I sold tomatoes on a corner of main street. All of these negative memories of Joe, the only positive thing is he taught us, by way of anger and abuse, was to work hard.
My mother worked most of the time I was growing up. At the bicycle shop and then a job a Zim’s craft store. Household duties and evening meals were my responsibility. The house had to be cleaned and dinner cooked by the time she and Joe came home from work.
Mom would leave meat on the counter to thaw , so that I could cook it for dinner. At age 10, I was given instructions how to cook over the phone. I learned how to cook meatloaf, grill pork chops, make homemade spaghetti sauce, Italian stew, stroganoff, and many other dinner meals. By the age of 11, I had learned not to over cooked pasta, not to scalded myself and not to burn garlic bread. Seems like a big responsibility for a 11 year old.
When I was 12, they had a new baby girl. By age 14, they had second baby girl, and I had even more responsibility. Joe began bar hopping. Intrigued by the go-go dancers, wet t-shirt contests, experimented with drugs, and became part of the smut of the scene at the time. Mom, the submissive wife would follow. I babysat the girls after school, late nights, on weekends and always during the summer months, sometimes from sun up til sun down.
I practically raised my two little sisters. I could wash, sterilize and fix bottles. I fed, bathed and diapered them. During the summer we would walk a half a mile to the park, to play. Jenny my youngest sister cried often. My friend Sara would complain “is that all she does is cry?” Jenny was always hungry and generally an unhappy baby.
Responsibility of “chores” is one thing for an adolescent, it is yet another to bear the responsibilities of raising siblings, running a household and being neglected emotionally.
Perhaps, I don’t want to be a daughter.
My sisters, both in their early twenties and quite close to my mother, tenderly hugged mother as though they would never see her again. Their eyes were red and filled with tears.
With a bit of frustration in his voice my brother Chris stood next to me and said “Don’t you care? You don’t even care!”
Unlike my siblings I didn’t feel the deep rooted love a child has for a mother. I hugged her and wished her good luck but didn’t shed a tear; a lump didn’t fill my throat.
The van drove down the road.
Later that week my brother called and asked me “Why is that you cry at the drop of a hat but when it comes to mom leaving you didn’t even shed a tear.”
I told him that I just don’t have the same relationship to mom as they did. I don’t have the love and affection, and perhaps I’ve just grown cold over the years and by the way I had been treated.
He said “Yeah Ang, but you need to let it go.”
Am I resentful? Perhaps. What is it that bugs me so much? Could it be that during my teen years I was responsible for much of what my mother should have been? Did I realize her mistakes even in my youth?
I was 39 years old that day she left, and I can not understand why I am so angry with her.
My mother, in all her naivety, got knocked up (16), went to school for a short time, re-married (28) and divorced again at a young age (37). Her second husband, was abusive, morally bankrupt, and no more than a blemish for a father figure. She did what she could as a mother between 1966 through 1984.
She and Joe, her second husband, believed in purchasing an old home move in and remodel them. Although Joe had a good job with Mountain Bell, he would find every avenue to make money. Swap meets, flea markets, were his idea of a good time. At one point he had a bicycle shop where he and my mother would repair bikes to make a little money. As a family, on the weekend, we would often go into the mountains to cut truck loads of wood to sell. In the summer, my brother and I sold tomatoes on a corner of main street. All of these negative memories of Joe, the only positive thing is he taught us, by way of anger and abuse, was to work hard.
My mother worked most of the time I was growing up. At the bicycle shop and then a job a Zim’s craft store. Household duties and evening meals were my responsibility. The house had to be cleaned and dinner cooked by the time she and Joe came home from work.
Mom would leave meat on the counter to thaw , so that I could cook it for dinner. At age 10, I was given instructions how to cook over the phone. I learned how to cook meatloaf, grill pork chops, make homemade spaghetti sauce, Italian stew, stroganoff, and many other dinner meals. By the age of 11, I had learned not to over cooked pasta, not to scalded myself and not to burn garlic bread. Seems like a big responsibility for a 11 year old.
When I was 12, they had a new baby girl. By age 14, they had second baby girl, and I had even more responsibility. Joe began bar hopping. Intrigued by the go-go dancers, wet t-shirt contests, experimented with drugs, and became part of the smut of the scene at the time. Mom, the submissive wife would follow. I babysat the girls after school, late nights, on weekends and always during the summer months, sometimes from sun up til sun down.
I practically raised my two little sisters. I could wash, sterilize and fix bottles. I fed, bathed and diapered them. During the summer we would walk a half a mile to the park, to play. Jenny my youngest sister cried often. My friend Sara would complain “is that all she does is cry?” Jenny was always hungry and generally an unhappy baby.
Responsibility of “chores” is one thing for an adolescent, it is yet another to bear the responsibilities of raising siblings, running a household and being neglected emotionally.
Perhaps, I don’t want to be a daughter.
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