No One Will Remember Me
"Belanglosigkeit" is a German term meaning "lack of significance or irrelevance"—and I, D### H#########, embody this... in most spheres of my life and to the majority of people I encounter, particularly to those I never cross paths with, but most of all to N######## D#####. In this space, I am the most irrelevant, possessing the least significance. Yet, I am everything I am due to the full ownership of my most relevant and profound gift - "Kinder". I am because I am a mother, "Mutter". So, while I am everything because of her, I am simultaneously nothing. Herein lies all that I am not - and all that I am.
2025.04.28
WEDNESDAY - Today I will pick Peyton up to bring her to her afternoon therapist appointment. And tonight, we will celebrate her birthday. I think her original due date, if I’m not forgetting, was April 21, 2002. And here we are 23 years later. To me, the 23 years does not seem long and drawn out... it seems like a flash. Like, seriously – in a flash I can simply go right back to 23 years ago and feel it as a part of me now. I have nothing profound to say about any of this, so now we have writer’s block. Great. Now I get it though... they say write. So let me. Just write. Just be. Just do.
The point is simply to take the morning slow and let the stomach settle, right? Ha ha. As if.
The point is to have a masterpiece spontaneously spill out of me and write it into a book which then gets picked up by Oprah, hits the bestseller list, and is then devised into a movie. I’m famous. I'm honored and exalted as such a talented --- writer? Or character of the book? Honored as a survivor of so much? Or as a sage who offered hope to all others? Or do I just write so that my daughter can find this one day and know how much I loved her and accept how imperfect of a person I am, but it’s ok – because she read my book and connected with the character (me) and now has sympathy.
Speaking of lost daughters – how dare I sit here and cry AGAIN over this? My daughter isn’t gone. Luanne’s daughter is gone. Gone forever. That makes my whole body hurt so much.
Ya know how when you have a sadness or a gloom or an anger or a drive inside you that hurts so bad... then you cry and it’s almost like a balloon filled to capacity was able to leak out some of the air and it doesn't hurt as bad anymore? Like the tears are that air, that pressure, that “too much-ness" that makes things hurt – and releasing some of them helps balance the pressure.
Of course the ‘thing’ is still there... the lost daughters, the ache.
Lost?
I was just talking to Tracy yesterday about the words we have and don’t have. The limitation of words in the English language creates a problem. We are forced to choose a word to try to explain something that doesn’t fully cover the actual thing we are trying to say. We used the example of “love” and of “lover.” Well, she used the example of “sovereign” and I knew that if I tried to dissect the load of that word with her it would be too heavy. But here, I can use that example. There is no one here to argue with me because they misunderstand.
So – to her – sovereign is a very positive thing. A very clear, light, and balanced thing. I think, to her, it means freedom in a spiritual way as well as a patriotic way. So, I appreciate and align with ‘sovereign’ as a human existence of being free. But where I differ, or where she would pick a fight with me, is over the political sovereignty. While she does pay her real estate taxes, she doesn’t agree with it. Where I do pay my taxes, I do see value in it. Does that make sense? And that is where, I suppose, the word sovereign is too small and too limited to talk about what we want to talk about – at least if you were trying to put it into 1 word. And sure, we’re humans – we can, after all, use many words to describe things. But the problem is that sometimes we get stuck on one – and the word has its meaning to us – and we’re stuck so we can’t see that it has a different meaning to someone else.
To me, sovereign was a nice word, and then (and this is just my opinion, not the end-all, be-all of right-vs-wrongness, so unravel the damn panties that just bunched up into your tight crack and withhold judgment long enough to just accept that having opinions is not a bad thing – geez, already) somewhere along the line, the extreme right conspiracy theorists scooped it up into their bag of grievances and blame and said, “We are sovereign, so it’s illegal to charge us taxes, or to tell us what to do.”
And sure – I can offer some empathy to a point. I don’t think people-control and domination is good... but I do see enough chaos and mayhem to warrant having policing, controlling, making laws, and enforcing them.
So that’s one example of a word.
“Love” as an example... you get that, right? I don’t have to go into that.
I’m running out of coffee here, and wanted to get to “lost.”
Well, I want to because it would be divine to create a lot of angst and depression to get through my Wednesday with. Who doesn’t want to start their day with hot black coffee and angst and self-induced sadness?
Wow. I can totally understand why I segued away from “lost” when I did. That aching is back... that balloon is filling... filling... filling... and it took a lot of tears when I started writing to get that air balance back.
So how much “lost” can we talk about today? And how much “daughters” can we talk about today? Now it feels like a Sesame Street episode where they had a few letters on one side of the TV screen, and a few on the other side of the screen...
https://youtu.be/RVp5mTKM114?si=4h_qSbSPn6XK_hTZ
And they put them together... they get closer and closer together until you can see/hear/know the word... you remember, don’t you?
But we’re not 5 years old anymore.
And it’s not 3–5 letter words. It’s concepts.
It’s two words...
One on the left of this TV screen is “Lost” and the other, moving in from the right is “Daughter” (or daughters?)
And – slowly – because we don’t want the balloon to pop, right?
I guess if we pop as balloons we die? Or maybe popping as a balloon is just a mental breakdown? I've had those. And survived.
Wow, it must really be something to put back the parts of a busted, popped balloon. Wow – what an image.
Anyway... slow enough yet?
How close together are the words now... “Lost”.... “Daughter”...
Fuck it. Just say it.
Lost Daughter.
And now, tell the fucking truth.
Luanne lost a daughter.
Dawn has a daughter who doesn’t talk to her.
These are not the same things.
Lost is deeply, deeply painful.
I wonder how long it takes to put back a balloon that popped because a daughter was lost? (I don’t know if I can keep typing here. I’ll try.)
Ok, so all I have to say is that I am a total shit for thinking that I’ve lost a daughter.
That is the WRONG word for this.
But I don’t have the right word. Yet.
And I am so, so, so sad that Luanne lost a daughter... who I never even knew.
But I knew Luanne, so I can imagine that Bella was Luanne-ish... which was pretty close to perfect... and certainly not deserving of being truly ‘lost’.
I don’t even think we’re being fair to the word “lost” because we’re not talking about a set of fucking keys here.
If you lose your fucking keys – they still exist.
They can still be found.
They are still out there.
But we’re actually talking about “Gone” - as in, this can’t and won’t come back.
And this is a super painful concept to get wrapped on.
And the coffee is almost done.
Enjoy your Wednesday.
Don’t be sad.
Or do.
But at any rate, enjoy this day.
Or don’t.
But at any rate... live this day... because you are here.
And that was chosen for this moment.
And that moment could change at any moment... so...
2025.04.28
MONDAY - Last night, at Chipotle in Bridgewater, we sat near a table occupied by a father and his two sons. The younger boy appeared to be around six to eight years old, the older perhaps eight to ten. My back was turned partially toward them; I couldn’t see them directly, but neither was I entirely blind to their presence. A casual side glance granted me visual access. Yet, mostly, I listened.
I heard a loud splash, followed by an audible sigh of exasperation from the father, and a sharp gasp of fear from the youngest. What ensued was a tirade of shame, disappointment, and—let’s call it what it was—verbal abuse. Loud enough to be effortlessly overheard. I suspect the father’s volume was intentional, designed to publicly announce his disapproval of his offspring’s accidental soda spill. I further suspect he sought the approval of the other adults in the restaurant—eager to demonstrate that he was an exemplary father, so committed to his role that he would publicly humiliate his child for a moment of ordinary, childish clumsiness. How else could he salvage his "good face" in the wake of such imperfect children committing such unforgivable, imperfect acts?
At any rate, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own abysmal parenting. I can’t claim to know the underlying reasons—or perhaps excuses—for that father’s outburst. I can, however, speak for myself. And God, how low, how utterly mortifying it is to acknowledge that I was such an insufferable failure.
It mattered so deeply to me to construct the illusion of being a "good" parent, capable of producing flawless miniature humans, that I too would stop at nothing to make it publicly known that I did not condone children behaving like children. Spilling a beverage? An egregious offense! Of course it was! Their tiny fingers and undersized arms should, naturally, be fully proficient at maneuvering through a world built to adult proportions—and they should surely have mastered this by toddlerhood!
How else would they ascend to the rarefied perfection of prodigy and mastery, as our Wolfgang Mozarts and Tiger Woodses have? I mean, really, if by seven or eight years old they hadn’t sufficiently papered over all the ordinariness of me—the parent—and forged the very justification for my ego’s existence on this earth—to produce humans superior to myself, paragons of talent, prodigiousness... then who was I, really?
2025.02.26
THURSDAY - I will journal. That is the suggestion frequently proffered by Google searches... journal! They say it will clear the mental fog, the cobwebs, the overwhelm... Perhaps I have brain damage? Maybe I do. I need someone to answer this.
2025.01.26
THURSDAY - In consideration of suffering… my only understanding of this topic is encapsulated in the sentence: life is suffering… and from there it is only I, alone, who can interpret and perceive that. And feel that? And contemplate that?
I am consumed by my own suffering. It is almost laughable. I have no fractured bones. I harbor no affliction within my body. I have no malignancy devouring me from within. Physically, I am scarcely even aware of that one tooth the dentist warned me must soon be addressed. I feel no discernible pain or discomfort regarding it. Perhaps my suffering is that of the broken heart? The loss? The profound emptiness? Hardly. If that were the case, it would be ever-present… would it not? And yet, it only surfaces—the suffering of broken-heartedness—when I summon it to mind.
How sorrowful can a person become? Not precisely... depressed... or perhaps akin to depression? I do not know. I believe I merely mean sorrowful. Melancholic... or sullen?
2024.04.12
FRIDAY - My soul is heavy. Sad. Burdened. I hate myself. I hate who I am. I hate how I speak, and how much I speak. I hate what I say and what I don’t say. I hate all that I do, and I hate myself for everything I don’t do.
Yes, the issue with Caleb and Adler is on my mind. Of course. But that’s not even what I want to write about. I want to fix myself first. I keep trying to fix all the circumstances around me… like, “If I can fix the toxic work environment I’m in, then I’ll get better,” and “Once I fix how insensitive Joe is, and make him more loving and communicative, then I’ll be better.” And, of course, “If I fulfill my Universe-Granted role of ‘Mother’ and make good people out of my children—of course, I will have fulfilled my purpose and meaning and be at peace.” That is all comical… all so deeply me and so deeply comical.
The truth of it all, though, clearly to me right now, is that they are all fine—my coworkers and the company, Joseph, and my kids. There isn’t anything wrong with them… well, objectively, coming from me. I look at them and see all is fine. Yes, work is toxic, yes, Joe is insensitive, and yes, my children are still settling into this beast we call life—but they are fine. Fine with me.
I’m not. And I thought it was circumstances that had me broken. The sentiment I’ve maintained for 30 years was that if I simply got away from the alcoholic wife-beater, I’d be fine—only to see after my divorce, that I succeeded in ridding myself of that, and I’m still suffering.
So, trying to discover and uncover, and unpack and reveal and transform… oh, so many self-help books to read and scholarly articles on mental health to consume! I’m intelligent, after all, I can figure this out?
The latest… well, last week was the Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) discovery. Enlightening. But the latest…
Last night, with the typical whirling head, the endless thinking, thinking, thinking… “If only I think harder, I’m sure to figure this out!” But I can’t. I’ve thought hard and harder and harder for all these years. “I’m smart!”—sure, I’ll figure this out!
But my head (and heart and soul) hurt so, so very much from thinking so hard and being so burdened with ‘figuring it out.’ It occurred to me late last night—Stop talking!
Conversation with myself: Dawn, you talk so damn much, and you always end each day feeling guilty and ashamed for all the nonsense you let spill out of your mouth. You said you do this because you're nervous, but your foolish revelation of discovering you talk too much because you're nervous isn’t doing anything for you! You still do it! Just shut up! Stop talking. Stop getting yourself in so much damn trouble feeling like you have a right to express all your senseless beliefs and feelings. Stop. Just seriously, stop!
And then I thought: Can I?
So, that led to research on what this is. Sure enough… go figure… it is a real thing. Overtalking. Talkaholism. Interesting. It does appear to be another great little brain hijack too. I foresee some very interesting new revelations.
I wonder if my HSP, Tinnitus, Overthinking, and Talkaholism are related in any way? ;)