A Life Unheard

I’ve been feeling a bit down lately. Partially because a great plague has befallen our family, and it truly sucks. I’m a bit of a hyper, always on the go sort of person, and this illness has stopped me in my tracks, and it’s made Azita a big old grumpy puss. I’m not used to this because she’s almost always happy and cheerful.  Luckily this bug seems to be on its way out. But my general malaise remains firmly planted. This morning on my way in to work, as I sat there dreading the rest of my day (a regular occurrence as of late), I realized why.

I live a life unheard.

I walk through my days piping up when I think I have something to contribute to a conversation, and no one hears me. I go to work 5 days a week and have discussions in my area of expertise, and I leave the conversation realizing that no one listened to anything I had to say. My thoughts on the subject had no bearing on any outcomes. So I spend my days implementing other peoples’ ideas, and it’s frustrating. It’s frustrating because I went to school for a really long time. Too long. And in 8 years of my decade of higher education I studied the same thing to death, and then I found a job in the same field and worked in a career doing these things. And 13 years later none of that matters. I’m doing mindless work, and I don’t have a mind that likes to sit still.

Then I go home and things aren’t much better.

Let me preface what’s to come with a statement that I think I have a great husband. He does laundry and dishes, and he even scrubs the bathroom floor. With bleach, just how I like it. But he doesn’t listen to me.

Maybe it’s because he’s a man. We have a conversation, and when I’m talking I can see in his face that he’s thinking about something else. More than likely he’s thinking about the next thing he wants to talk about, because inevitably he interrupts me to express his opinion. And he never remembers anything I tell him, like “don’t forget we have x, y and z this Saturday” or “the doctor said we need to do a, b and c at Azita’s checkup.” He always insists I never tell him these things. Anyone in my family can tell you that I have a freakishly impeccable memory. I can remember conversations I heard when I was 4 years old nearly word for word. I can remember exactly what I wore to the first day of school in kindergarten. I can remember the exact cash register in the exact Giant near my childhood home where my sister bit me when I was 7 and drew blood because she wanted to sit on the bag tray at the end of the register’s conveyor belt. I’m just saying, I have a good memory, and if I remember that I said something, I said it.

My husband never remembers anything I say, because he never listens to it in the first place.

I expect a little of this in life. I know that what I have to say is not always interesting. We can’t always be on all the time. I also know people are sometimes preoccupied with other things. I myself am guilty of not listening quite a lot for this very reason. We are all busy and harried at times. Sometimes I can hardly hear a conversation because my mind is racing and mulling over the million things that need to get done. But when someone talks to me, usually I’m listening AND hearing.

I was raised in a home where children were seen and not heard. As an adult, though, I’m used to being heard.  I mean, in a work setting, I frequently know what I’m talking about. And in a personal setting, well, I think I’m usually nice and pretty damn funny. I’ve been known to entertain a room with my wacky stories, and I think I have an interesting opinion about some things.

I guess I don’t know how I got in this situation. It’s pretty damn lonely life never being heard, and the worst part is that I sometimes think I’ve resigned myself to this being the way life is. But I’m not ready (and I hope I never will) to walk through life like J. Alfred Prufrock. I may be a loner at heart, but I need some engagement to keep me going.

So, today I RSVPed “Yes” for a working mamas playdate. I’m going to make some working mama friends, and we’re going to play in a ball pit with our babies and hopefully talk. And I’m looking forward to it and feeling better about things already, because there’s nothing like taking action in the present to turn life around.

The Post Where I Spout Depressing Talk

Sometimes I have moments where I take an honest look at my life — where it’s been, where it is, where it’s headed — and I wonder how did it end up this way? And, I don’t mean that in a good way. That doesn’t include Azita. She really is the best decision I’ve ever made, the best thing that’s ever happened to me, just the best thing period. I just wonder about everything else and I wonder how are other people happy in a world like the one we live in? The polar ice caps are melting, people are killing each other, children are starving, I hate my job. How do people get happy? And how do I learn that trick? If anyone knows how one gets happy, I wish you’d teach me or at least point me in the right direction. And please don’t say ignorance. I already know it’s bliss, but I just can’t take that route.

Please excuse that digression. We’ll now return to the regularly scheduled upbeat portion of our programming.

Elizabeth Mitchell Saves Our World

This past weekend I had one of those moments where I felt like there would never be a time in my life where I wasn’t suffering a setback.  I’ve had a lot of good times in my life, but like just about everyone else I’ve had a lot of bad times too.  Lately I’ve been thinking that things are so great. Then last Saturday morning happens, and it was clear that Roger and I had another major setback in our journey towards our goals. It sucked. It really really sucked all kinds of unsavory things, and I’ll admit that I cried.

And I felt really down and sorry for myself. Down enough so that we canceled all our plans for Saturday, and instead we did the one thing that usually makes us feel better when life isn’t going our way — worked really hard. We cleared out our storage unit. We did loads and loads of laundry. We cooked. We cleaned. We rolled our sleeves up and exhausted ourselves, but I still stayed up all night worrying myself awake.

Then Sunday rolled around. We had tickets to take Azita to her first show — Elizabeth Mitchell live at Jammin Java. Azita loves Elizabeth Mitchell. While she can’t really voice her musical preferences yet, I assume she loves her because whenever she’s crying we just need to pop in some Elizabeth Mitchell and she’s suddenly smiling and cooing. The sudden turnaround is really miraculous actually. Turns out that a little Elizabeth Mitchell is good for Azita’s parents also.

As we sat there at Jammin Java worrying about life as we waited for the show to start, kids were running up and down the aisles. They were laughing and screaming and crying and singing, and Azita stared in wonder. Her head flipped back and forth trying to take it all in. Her eyes were giant saucers. Her mouth was fixed in a big grin. She giggled. She cooed. She shrieked with delight. And then  Elizabeth Mitchell got on stage and started singing.

And Azita began to wave her hands and smack them on her leg to the beat of the music. It was then that I knew it would all be ok. There really are few things that can be a setback now. Azita is in my life, and that means that I will always be exactly where I want to be.