Holy Mackerel

In my "unusual but traditional" childhood, profanity and foul language was not tolerated. The use of these words brought a quick reaction, reprisal and punishment. And that punishment was isolation. Being sent to your room had certain benefits, but separation from the activities and movement of a large family was certainly not preferred. In understanding the need for emotional expression, my mother provided us with acceptable phraselogy. One of which was, 'Holy Mackerel.' Located in the midwest, none of knew what a mackerel was. But we knew the use of this phrase indicated emotionality of the highest sort. Surprise, fear, anger, hurt, disappointment, pleasure, whatever. 'Holy Mackerel' could cover it all, if supplied with the correct tone of voice and volume.
This week, victim to Professor DeFrancisco's demand for the life story, I uttered, 'Holy Mackerel,' and it was in a somber voice. "You can write it out going backwards, you can write it out going forwards, or you can start in the middle and cover both ends. I don't care. Start writing."
I have started writing it from the point of losing my job. I like to say that I lost my job, for certain reasons. This morning on the walk, I said, I QUIT my job. From that point forward, I saw nothing on the walk, I heard no birds, I crunched no snow, and felt no freeze. I was so damn cold this morning when I got back to the car, my cheeks were gray and hard. I did not feel the frostbite. I had no idea where the dogs were, and had to backtrack to find them. I can not pray when I am in a rage. So there was no prayer this morning, except when I kicked an ice ball off the back tire of the van and said, 'Dear God, help me.' Now I have to fill out DeFrancisco's form on behavior and defenses. Check, check, check on reactive and defensive behavior. I suppose one could say, this is 'writing therapy,' at its best.

About a month ago, I bit the bullet on removing my antique furnace. This has been the one complaint of all potential buyers, and viewers of my house. I saw no reason for this complaint because the furnace worked fine. I have never been cold in this house. I thought removing it was a complete waste of a good furnace. But over and over again, in trying to communicate this, I ran into fear. Every person who looked at the furnace was afraid of it. You can't argue with fear. I found a great guy, Dave, to do the job. I knew from meeting him and talking it out, we were completely attuned to each other. He had great ideas, and he had corgis, a small breed of dog that I adore. He had a great reputation, skilled and focused. We coordinated the schedule, and I did my end: I tore out the furnace, and disposed of it. A major undertaking and strenuous in a way that redefined strenuous. Dave did not return. I waited the first week, calm. I relied on my understanding of the trades, and what can happen to tradesmen. I knew and understood that the change in the weather had whisked Dave away from me.

By the end of the third week, I was seething. I had the red emotionality creeping up my neck, hot and burning. I was ready to blow.

I was perfectly comfortable in my house. I had the corn/pellet stove and the temperature of the house with this stove, is always toasty. Being without a gas furnace in the middle of the winter is not a problem for me. The only problem is that my dogs are too hot, and pant. I hate panting.
So I had to keep the stove adjusted to the emergence and presence of panting. That was my only challenge.

So what is the thread here? Trust. My basic life issue is not love. It is trust. I get angry and am mad when the struggle to trust is afoot and on the table.

I QUIT my job, IN A RAGE, because at every turn within a political construct and upheaval, none of the players could be trusted to do what they were supposed to do. Including the highest official of the University, mandated by his position, to do what was right.

I moved close to a rage because I trusted Dave.

I am currently in a rage at my brother Jim, because I trusted him.

I have reacted, IN A RAGE, within personal relationships because of this issue. My issue: trust.

I was raised to express myself without profanity. In deference to my mother, I should have a T-shirt printed out with this on it: FOOL with me and see what happens.

I know where this is coming from in my life story. That is not a mystery to me, nor a secret. It has to do with landing in life with a birthmark across my head and face. It clouded, influenced, formed, defined, and affected every relationship that presented itself to me for the first twenty years of my life. Add my father to that, and you have got the whole package. My father is dead, the birthmark is gone. The trust issues are not.

All I can say is Holy Mackerel.

Dave showed up this week and installed the furnace. I discussed all of my feelings, in an on-going way with Patrick, my neighbor. I explained, though he knows, what I usually do in a situation like this, blow up. I told Patrick that my goal in solving this problem was to not blow up. To get through the entire thing with complete control of my rage reaction. Patrick was great. He called and e-mailed me every day to help me manage my feelings and stick to the goal.

The installation is a piece of art. Dave proceeded with his great ideas. He changed the air flow through the house in a very creative way, to maximize the furnace. He brought warm air to a large family room that has always been cool. He told me stories about his corgis, and stories about himself. We have become friends. I made him coffee and let him smoke in the basement. I brought him an ashtray.

I say again, Holy Mackerel.