Generational Trauma (rough draft)

 

I’m fighting curses,

Fighting generational pain

Finding progress

Only to find another lives, hides in our brains.

I thought it was over,

Thought the anomaly –

 The broken hearts, being lost without a map,

 ended with me.

But here I am again,

Staring into a void I don’t know will be.

Finding a mess, unknowns, questions driving me insane.

Wondering about a future, if there’s one to see.

A Letter to Cats

 Dear Cats touring cast,

I saw you were sharing Cats memories on your Instagram page today, and wanted to share my own memory.

When I was five I watched the Cats video tape for the first time. While the memory of my first viewing is not very clear, I am quite positive I was obsessed after the first set of cat eyes. I quickly learned that Bombalurina was the most amazing character I had ever seen and spent many days debating on whether Rum Tum Tugger or Macativy had a better song. The VHS was quickly added to my family’s collection, I watched it every day.

My mom used to come upstairs to the TV room to see me dancing along as best I could, I would stretch every night so one day I’d be able to kick my foot to my head, and I obsessed over T.S. Elliot’s original source material. As I mentioned, my first viewing took place when I was five - this obsession and dedication to the show lasted the next five years, but it reached its peak about two years in when I finally got to see Cats live in Minneapolis.

I remember walking along Hennepin Ave, we had just finished a very fancy lunch, and I was wearing my super cool, Cats t-shirt. Suddenly in the distance I saw it. The familiar blackbackground with glowing eyes beckoned from the marquee of the Orpheum theater. I couldn’t believe it. Cats, my musical, was happening right there, the very same day I was in the cities. Shocked, I turned to my mom, begging face prepped and ready to cry if needed. 

“Cats! Do you think it’s the real Cats?” 

My mom looked down at me, a sad smile on her face, “No, I’m sure it’s some Disney version with cartoon cats.”

I was determined to find out. I pulled my mom across the street, barely looking for cars, craning my neck to find any clues that would point to my dreams coming true.

“Look, it’s the real thing! See! Can we go, can we see it?”

Again my mom looked down into my hopeful eyes, her face set carefully. I knew my family didn’t have a lot of money, I knew it was very unlikely we would ever get to see my show in person, but I was so close to my dream - I needed to at least ask.

“Please, please can we?”

“I don’t know…maybe someday. I’m sure it’ll be back someday.”

My heart sank. I wished I had never seen the marquee. I wished I had never even known that the show I loved was in the same town as me. Other children and their families would be watching my favorite show, and I would never know that magic. But I understood, and I prepared to leave. Taking my mother’s hand, I started to pull her toward the direction of our car.

She didn’t move.

I turned to her one last time, impatient to get away from the scene of my first heartbreak

.

“Someday is today.”

I can’t describe my reaction, but if child me reacted the same way adult me does there was screaming and jumping, and probably some singing. I sat in the very back row and was able to watch the magic of the Jellicle Ball. Peering through binoculars I saw the dance moves I knew by heart, I mouthed the words I had been singing on repeat for years, and I committed everything I saw to memory knowing this was a formative moment.

As I grew I found more musicals to obsess over, my mom and I had many more somedays. And yet, every time I am asked, “what is your favorite musical?” My first answer is a confident, “Cats.”

Now Cats is coming back to Minneapolis. I am much older, much less flexible, but still know most of the moves, all of the words, and can even play parts of the show on the piano and the bassoon. Buying tickets was a no brainer. I always knew a tour would return and I would be able to relive my childhood memories and create new ones as an adult. Of course, I always knew my mom would be with me.

Unfortunately, I was incorrect she passed away a little over a year ago, too early to live out many of our planned somedays. But as I pressed purchase for my ticket, as i prepare now to see the show, I know she will be in the theater with me. She will take my hand and see my smiling face, and she will know that I know she is with me - now, everyday, and every someday.

As I said in my opening paragraph, I wanted to share my memory with you. I don’t do this to simply share my Cats experience, or to tell a sad story, but to thank you for all that you do. Thank you for getting on that stage every day, sometimes more than once, and putting your heart and soul into the show. Thank you for creating memories for many young people to one day look back on and say, “that’s where I fell in love with theater.” Thank you for giving families a chance to connect, share, and base traditions around. Thank you for giving me, and every audience, a someday.

Yours,

Anastasia Pauluk

Frozen

 In a world that rushes past, and expects you to move fast and all the time, it can be hard for someone with ice in their veins. There are days, the sun shining and warm winds blowing, the ice thaws it is easy to move and do what the world demands. But when the ice takes over. Fingers freeze, brain trudging along, how do you explain that to those in sweaters? 

My body doesn't do that, doesn't fake a warmth until movement is possible. I will freeze until the sun comes back, the world moving around me and wondering why I stand still. How do I explain that it's not a choice, it is a state I live in and wait to exit. How to explain? How to make them see I don't choose to be frozen.

Thank You for Your Patience

 Whoops, I got off track. But that's okay because I am back and I didn't beat myself up about it, I just knew I could continue again tomorrow - which is today. 

This idea has been a big part of my growth these last few months. I have always been an all-or-nothing type of person, which is not a great way to reach any goals. I will try my hardest to be 100% all the time, which by the way, is not feasible. But I believed I could do it. Because if anyone could, it would be me. My whole life I have had to run 100% or higher at all times. I would go to school and be my best, then I would go to work and be my best, go to play practice or speech and perform my best, and then go home and do homework, take care of my mom, and be my best. When you have no choice but to be 100% you believe that should be possible all the time. 

It's not, and the people who praised me, how dare you. I am learning that trying is good enough and if I don't have the energy to try, then rest is also okay. Big steps to learn at 28. Thank goodness I'm not fully formed yet.

All to say, I am here and am writing, back in the saddle. Thank you for your patience!

Left with Nothing, Given Everything

  

“When you die, do I get all your stuff?” she asked seriously.

She was five years old and had just left her third funeral within the last six months. After watching her parents pack boxes and distribute belongings, it hit her. Mom and dad had siblings, people they shared with throughout their whole lives, but it was just her. She was the only child and there was a lot of stuff in that house, would she put it in boxes one day?

“Honey, you get everything.”

“Oh.”

That wasn’t okay, there was too much stuff for a five-year-old, what would she do with it all? Where would she put it? She was going to have ten golden retrievers when she grew up, these were not small dogs, what was she going to do?

 

When I was a child, my biggest concern was what would I do with all the stuff my parents would leave me with when they died. They owned a lot of items that I didn’t care for and frankly didn’t want. I would inherit the fancy dishes, family heirlooms, furniture, and boxes full of junk that we hadn’t looked for in years, I was terrified. As I grew older, this fear dissipated a bit. My mom moved into a smaller house, which allowed me to be straightforward and tell her what I would and would not keep, and they were going to live a long time. I had years to slowly throw things away.

Then my mom died. I inherited the stuff. Going through the different boxes, documents, and the boxes we still hadn’t opened, I thought back to five-year-old me. She was so concerned about being left with everything, that she didn’t consider what it would feel like to have nothing.

I didn’t realize then that one day I would be alone. I would be surrounded by boxes but would no longer be surrounded by her arms. I would have pictures and videos, but I wouldn’t have her. I was five, how was I supposed to have thought this far, now I am here wishing for more.

I want more time, more memories, and more laughter. I want to go through those boxes with her and learn all of the family details I ignored before. I thought I would be left with everything. I am learning what you aren’t given is worse.

I was not given more years. I don’t have phone calls on birthdays or Christmas presents or reassurance as I wander through life without her. I am left here with boxes when the one thing I want is gone. I was not prepared to be left with nothing, I was waiting for everything.

Overthink with Me

I have been asked for a writing sample. I went through my previous posts, and all I can find are half-baked thoughts or dead mom stories - is that what they want? Should I give them an academic paper with citations and complex musings? Should I tell them how anime can be integrated into lesson plans:

    In the show, "The Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime," we are presented with Rimuru, a man who has been reincarnated as a slime. Despite the stereotype that slime are weak creatures who could never be powerful, Rimuru creates a monster township, develops a trading system, and saves the forest many times. What this teaches us as a society is appearances cannot tell us what someone is capable of, nor can preconceived notions about race, gender, sex, etc. As the anime continues we often see Rimuru going above and beyond what a slime has thought to have been capable of, and he uses the stereotypes to build his power and reputation.

Is this what they would like? Or should there be a creative writing element? A poetic, thoughtful metaphor that brings all of my experiences and thoughts alive?

        Purple.

I tried pretty hard to come up with an example for that writing type, but I am blocked. Honestly, I am overthinking. I'll find email templates I've created, and maybe a short blog post and send those. How's that corporate America?

Journal Entry

 I didn't write this weekend, but I think that's okay. I was pretty busy and emotionally exhausted. Just about blamed not having access to a computer, I was on a computer most of yesterday - Netflix doesn't have a word docs feature. Also, realized there is a thing called a notebook, I could write on paper. Though if you've seen my handwriting you know what that's not the best idea.

This weekend was tiring. I woke up early on Saturday to attend the Walk to End Alzheimer's. This was my first time doing it. It has been almost two years since my mom passed, and I thought maybe now it was time to start doing something. I also assumed that because I haven't been crying as often or as easily I would be able to get through this without crying, after all, it was a walk, what is emotional about a walk? Apparently everything.

Only a few people asked who I was walking for, that was great. But here's the thing. This is a group activity. People will be there with their family members and friends, having a nice time, and fighting dementia. The only thing worse than being alone in a crowd of people is thinking about the one person who should be there but isn't when surrounded by a crowd of people. Imagine going to Disney world, alone, on your birthday, knowing you had promised your best friend you would go when they were gone, and then you're surrounded by the crowds of smiling, happy, joyful people. This was about ten times worse.  

The crying happened all day. Thank goodness for swag tables with sunglasses and my ability to be invisible. 

The walk itself was lovely. Minneapolis is truly one of the best-looking cities, with tall buildings and great weather, what more could I ask for? Oh, I know, my mom, but that's cool, whatever, I am glad I did it.

Hopefully, this all leads somewhere good, hopefully, we start to figure something out, but until then, like our demented friends, we are wandering around lost and confused, hoping someone can tell us something good.

So I am still exhausted. And I am still pretending to be fine. It's a little easier now that I'm at home where I can close a door and lose myself in everything but my thoughts, but I can feel it. I feel the exhaustion and sadness in my bones, pulling me into a heavy embrace. I am pretending, I am not doing a great job.