I’ve known of Vella’s impending doom (officially closing in February) for a few months, but I held off on announcing it because it didn’t seem worth mentioning.
Losses come in clumps for me. In 2020, I lost my foster daughter and my ministry within two months of each other. While most of my wailing during that time was focused on Izzy, I had enough brainpower left over to grieve the closed church doors as well. Both losses hurt, and closer to equally than I would have admitted at the time.
But the current clump has a clear winner. And it’s not Vella.
Mom
There are few things you care about losing while you’re losing your mother.
Sherry Johnson 01/06/1954 – 10/02/2024
When I read the email from Amazon, I shrugged and swiped it away. Mom was in ICU. Her rapid decline was all I could think about.
I didn’t write. Didn’t publish. Didn’t check if the crown sat atop my most popular book. Didn’t care that what I’d been doing for two years was about to poof.
The Zon Giveth, and the Zon Taketh Away
A few months after losing my mom, I finally asked myself how I felt about Amazon’s decision.
Ross sums it up pretty well:
I’m an outlier, as usual. Many of my peers found the news distressing. But for me, Vella’s demise brings the same relief as the canceling of a show I’ve stopped enjoying but can’t stop watching.
It’s About Time!
Part of being a good writer is knowing when to shut up. Always leave the audience wishing for more.
I will forever be thankful for the experience Vella gave me. I put myself out there, got some great feedback, made a little cash, and met some incredible people. But I was ready to go.
I’m glad Vella’s poofing, because it might be the only way I was going to leave. This doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like escape.
What’s Next?
My plans could change, but right now I’m thinking I’ll publish at least one of my books here on my website. Free! Which is exactly how I feel.
I recently confided to my bestie that I might actually be bonkers. Maybe not diagnosable, but at the very least, missing some mental hardware.
My Confession
I’m sure we all have quirks we don’t talk about. Maybe everyone experiences moments of doubt about their sanity. We talk to ourselves, possibly even to inanimate objects.
But does everyone try not to hurt a cup’s feelings? Because that’s what I do.
I’m sharing this, not because I really believe I’m crazy, but because I think I just figured out that I’m not. Bestie told me when I confessed this bit of weirdness to her that I’m not crazy. She’s a therapist, so she knows what she’s talking about.
But I don’t take anyone else’s word for it. I had to do this myself.
Therapy is good. So is not needing it anymore.Knowing when you’ve stopped needing it is key.
I’ve stopped doing EMDR, stopped seeing a therapist at all. I figured out that I work through the process naturally now. Most people gain that ability after a while, but I did it fast. It’s probably because I’m a writer, always seeking hidden connections and the ever-elusive why? In this case …
Why do I try not to hurt a cup’s feelings?
You may not be ready for the why yet. I’m sure the how has eluded you. Yes, I’m aware that cups don’t have feelings. In my brain, I’m aware. But my practice suggests it hasn’t quite squared up in my heart.
How to Hurt a Cup’s Feelings
I have a coffee mug warmer. Aside from my towel warmer, it’s the best gift my husband has ever given me. Now I can sip hot coffee all day with nary a visit to the microwave. It also allowed me to narrow my collection of lidded coffee mugs down to two. Anything that couldn’t sit on the warmer had to go.
My minimalist son would say one cup is enough. He’d toss out the less preferred one with no regard for its feelings. But I kept two, and they sit side-by-side in the cabinet. One is red and white striped, the other pinkish with faded print that once proclaimed Mommin’ Ain’t Easy.
The two cups are the same shape, weight, and size. They feel the same in my hand and on my lips. They maintain equal toastiness. They’re both faded to the point of ugliness. The pinkish one enjoyed its hay day when I had a daughter, the red and white one after I lost her.
Don’t get sidetracked!
My feelings about Izzy are not the point of this post. I’ve processed the love and loss of the foster child I dreamed of adopting. I don’t think I avoid the pinkish cup because of some unresolved pain associated with it. A future post may refute this claim, but it’s still not the point.
I choose the red and white cup every time it’s available. And I feel bad every time.
The worst is when the pinkish one is in the cabinet alone, but I know the red and white one is clean. I must either settle for the pinkish one or close the cabinet on it and go get the red and white one from the dishwasher. There’s no hiding the rejection when I choose the latter.
I’m feeling a sickness in my tummy as I type this. How must the pinkish cup feel when I close the door on it? It’s right there waiting for me, oh-so-convenient, but I go out of my way to choose the other.
I’m crazy, right?
I’m not stupid, after all. I know the pinkish cup feels the way all cups feel. Like cups, which don’t feel. The problem isn’t what I know.
It’s how I feel. Guilty. Cruel. Icky. Then stupid for feeling that way. What’s wrong with me? Do I actually have to overthink everything?
Yes, actually. It’s what EMDR trained me to do. That may not be an accurate assessment of EMDR. I’m not a therapist. But it’s the best way I can relate how I experience this process.
I take something I view incorrectly, like that I can hurt a non-feeling object’s feelings, and seek out why I see it that way. This requires me to be still and quiet, to allow myself to feel things I hate, to think things that come up while I feel that way, and to let connections writhe around until they click together.
What I realized today is that I don’t feel sorry for the less-loved cup. I AM the less-loved cup.
Once I made that connection, I went out onto my patio and got very still and quiet. I let all the memories that support my false-belief that I’m less-loved come to the surface. I watched them weave themselves together, creating a pathetic, but somehow convincing, story about my lessness.
And like magic, the straw appeared. You know the one. Its back-snapping weight is legendary. I isolated the single event that took my penciled-in ugly self-view and carved it in stone.
Favorite is a Four-letter Word
I knew I wasn’t either of my parents’ favorite child. I wasn’t my teachers’ favorite student. I had the Jan Syndrome, caused by a superior older sibling.
But there was one person I felt confident about. Granny Jacobs. I wasn’t her favorite. I couldn’t be, but neither could anyone else, because she didn’t have them. And that was enough for me. Loved equally was my happy place.
Until it wasn’t.
The Straw
We’d planned to give Granny a special gift. I don’t recall what it was or for what occasion, but it was a big deal. We didn’t buy it. We made it. One of those paint-it-yourself crafts. Since I was the most gifted artist in the family (meaning I colored in the lines, drew decently, and had mastered the art of putting dots at the corners of my letters) I did the work.
And since I’m the dramatic princess that I am, I planned out the giving of the gift as well, casting myself in the lead role. Princess Rach would place the gift into Granny’s hands.
My work garnered praise. My plan, not so much. I probably needed to be brought down a notch, but what actually happened was far worse. It turned me into a pinkish cup.
“Tim should give it to her,” I was told.
I’m sure I asked why. My heart has a fist on it right now as I recall trying to understand why my masterpiece would be better delivered by Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.
“Because it will mean more coming from him. He’s her F***rite.”
Little Rach tumbled down the rabbit hole, tiara askew, when she discovered she was less-loved, even in the most sacred place. In Granny’s perfect, non-favoring heart.
No one knew what happened to me that day. Not even me. But some forty years later, I’m still tumbling, grasping, disoriented, convinced that someone else could occupy my space better than I can.
I’m pinkish, but I’m no cup.
Am I less-loved? Or do parents sometimes say things without thinking and miss the holes they punch into their children’s hearts? I know I’ve done it. It’s possible the dreaded f-word wasn’t even used and that’s just how I understood it and now translate it. It’s also possible that no one favored my Marcia.
Oh, the journey I’m on! It seems, despite powerful prepubescent evidence to the contrary, I may not be a cup at all. I may be more loved than I’ve ever known.
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