Writing by Jennifer Saginor on Friday, 13 of February , 2009 at 1:28 am
One daughter will eat to fill the void, while the other one won’t eat at all, hoping love may come along and save her.
I will become sickened by my parents’ obsession with weight and the dichotomy they represent: my father helped people starve themselves while my mother counseled those who were starving.
One charity event blended into another, as I attempted to prove myself to be a good daughter who kicked the whole Generation X, party-girl-slacker image. Eminem’s: “The Way I Am,” blared through the speakers of my black Escalade.
My mother is honored for an Eating Disorders Program she began. It was a fabulously catered celebration. No one ate a thing. Ironically, I find myself in her upstairs bathroom with my finger shoved down my throat. My stomach reflexes. I gag. My insides pour out.
My mother addresses the crowd in the backyard.
“We give people that little bit of hope during a time when no one else can. We like to think of ourselves as the light peeking through darkness.” As my mother discusses light and darkness, I watch my lunch swirls down the toilet.
In time, I won’t eat at all. The thought of food will repulse me. I will become pale and emancipated, vying unsuccessfully for my mother’s love and attention.
As a child, every day my father held up a mirror of my mother. And today my mother looks at me and sees my father’s reflection. In me, she sees a part of her past she was trying to forget. She sees my father.
My mother is allergic to me.
I re-enter the party, saying “hello” to my mother who is in a frenzy. She looks fabulous, resembling Rene Russo in her tailored Valentino suit and lightly tinted Gucci frames. I tense up when she looks me up and down.
My stepfather acknowledges my presence. “I see you finally made it.”
I smile with little amusement, surprised how much effort it takes to act polite these days.
My sister, Savannah, reveals in her position as the “favored” daughter. In fact, she will go to any extreme to make sure her position is not compromised.
I look around at all the plastic faces, afraid I may puke again.
“Mom is trying to get rid of us by making us attend all these fake family functions.”
“Can we talk about something less depressing?”
“Welcome to an adult conversation.” I say, convinced everything is a childhood conspiracy. My parents brought me into this world to torture me with their absence.
I checkout her new Armani suit and Manolo Blahnik high heels with sparkling gem stones. Her new diamond necklace from Barney’s blinds me.
“Another gift from Mom?” I ask.
“I’m so over this tit for tat shit.” Savannah says.
“Especially when you’re the one collecting direct deposits from Mom every month.” I say.
“Here we go again.” She rolls her eyes.
“How dare I compare myself to your lavish, kept lifestyle.”
“You chose to be a writer.” Savannah says.
“I forgot, being creative doesn’t imply needing love and support.”
“What happened to make you so cynical?” Savannah asks.
“Ascribing to darkness has always been one of my attributes.” I say.
I’m tired of trying to smile and fit into a society that expects us to act in a civilized manner. Tired of trying to fight behaviors I could not withstand as a child and have grown into as an adult. I’m spitting on a society that blames our youth for turning out the way we do, because who do they think raised us?
“You must take responsibility for your own life and actions!” Dr. Phil tells us, Dr. Laura tells us, the world tells us. But what do they know about us?
My mother grabs Savannah’s arm and ushers her over for introductions.
“Mom needs you,” I whisper bitterly. Savannah rolls her eyes like I’m the fucked up one.
I swallow my pride, assuring myself that my mother did not see me or that I am really not here.
I start to panic and know it’s time to leave.
Category: Uncategorized
Writing by Jennifer Saginor on Sunday, 23 of November , 2008 at 4:18 pm
My mother. I have spent so much of my life trying to figure out who I am.
What I didn’t realize was that who I was trying to find was: her.
“You are no longer my responsibility.” She yells.
Did she mean now or when I need her most?
I’ve spent years trying to repair my relationship with my mother. I live for the moments when she is kind and loving, as much as I despise myself for it. I love her and she does not hear me calling. What lingers’ between us are two different versions of my childhood.
On her third marriage, to a retired multi-millionaire, she makes it very clear who her favorite daughter is; in fact, some of her socialite friends are surprised to learn she has two daughters.
My sister gladly casts me aside, so she and her husband can resume their “favored” and “financially kept” position while I am sequestered the outcast of the family.
Everyone says my mother is getting back at me, silently reminding me of the mistake I made as a teenager. There is no point in talking to her because she does not hear me. I can stand right next to her, but she does not see me. It’s as if I’m not even there. To her I am dead. I died a long time ago.
My sister and I have come full circle, like oceanic tides. It’s never the money or gifts that drive the wedge between us. It’s the secrecy, lies and unfairness of it all. When I confront them, they make me feel like I’m the crazy one.
There is an inequity going on but no one will admit it. I watch from the sidelines, feeling all along that this is my payback for moving out of Mom’s house as a teenager and into my father’s. You can tell my mother does not care about the inequity. Instead, she secretly revels in this subtle form of retribution.
“It’s your karma.” She says, supporting my sister and her husband while I am stuck in my teenage dynamic with her. I am trapped inside my childhood. My mother will not let me out. I want to evacuate but can’t. I want to escape and share the kind of relationship my sister enjoys, but I am not allowed. She is too busy to be bothered with a daughter she gave up on long ago. She and I never discuss the fear I endured growing up with my father, the horror that keeps me up at night. Instead, we pretend it never existed as we plod through pettiness.
The thing about family is, no matter how close you think you are, greed always wins out in the end.
Inside, I am a crowd of children, all different, all wanting their mother’s approval.
I am alone, the authentic one, still searching for truth in a family of lies.
I never hear from my mother again.
Category: Uncategorized
Writing by Jennifer Saginor on Friday, 7 of November , 2008 at 4:52 pm
The overwhelming amount of anger and sadness over loss on Proposition 8 on November 4 is now turning into action at Equality California. Equality California, represented by NCLR, ACLU, Lambda Legal and Munger, Tolles, Olson has filed a suit with the California Supreme Court asking that the election—the result of outrageous lies and questionable tactics by the other side, be thrown out.
Human Rights cannot be taken away by a mob vote.
It is very important to ensure victory in court !
Help by signing petition saying “I demand my equality back <http://www.kintera.org/TR.asp?a=aoLELLNpHcLKJ2J&s=evJULeNWJfLTI9NQIrE&m=enJJLPOpFdLSF>
Category: Uncategorized
Writing by Jennifer Saginor on Thursday, 6 of November , 2008 at 3:15 am
A great revolution begins with a single person willing to change the destiny of a nation.
Only by defeating a powerful enemy can one prove his or her real strength.
Category: Uncategorized
Writing by Jennifer Saginor on Tuesday, 7 of October , 2008 at 7:10 pm
Work in progress. Scene from sequel to PLAYGROUND:
I jolt upright gasping for air. The clock reads 8:30 AM. My eyes flicker. Memories of a bad dream. The phone beeps off the hook.
I take a deep breath, willing the panic to subside. I have so much anxiety I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack and die.
I pop a Xanax under my tongue and fall back asleep for hours. I wake up exhausted, detached, with my heart racing from unresolved emotional turmoil stemming from my past. It takes half the day to ward off the anxiety. By the time I deal with that I need a nap and the day is over.
The aftermath of a childhood interrupted has surfaced. That’s when things get pharmaceutical. Once a youth medicated for survival, now self-medicates to ease the mental noise that never ceases. I have succumbed to prayer and large doses of anti-anxiety meds to battle demons that threaten to envelope me.
The wonderful thing about anti-anxiety pills is that you can be at the epicenter of your own personal tragedy and not even know it.
How am I supposed to lead a self-fulfilling life when I have so much anxiety, I may drop dead any minute. The system has stopped working. I am still waging the wars of childhood.
I’m tired of trying to smile and fit into a society that expects us to act in a civilized manner. Tired of trying to fight behaviors I could not withstand as a child and have grown into as an adult.
I’m spitting on a society that blames our youth for turning out the way we do, because who do they think raised us? “You must take responsibility for your own life and actions!” Dr. Phil tells us, Dr. Laura tells us, the world tells us. But what do they know about us?
I slip into the chambers of my past. As a child, I was able to walk between two worlds, cross lines that most people never dreamed of crossing. All I ever wanted are parents I could rely on, who are consistent and loved me. Parents who could help me find my way in the world.
Today, I float in darkness, vaguely aware of a light at a distance. My parents may never live outside their realm of self-involvement. But I will always long for a time when we can be close again. It’s a secret type of longing, like an old lover you can’t get out of your head. My father cannot hear me from inside his cocoon no matter how loudly I scream. Our language is a distant dialogue filled with years of forgotten moments. My mother looks at me and sees my father’s reflection. She is allergic to me.
I suffer a void of aloneness and abandonment. I have been imprisoned here since I was a child, suspended in this solitary, embryonic state.
Around me are jet-set slackers and trust fund kids on a world class social circuit. Emotionally vacant souls with no motivation, wounded children turned drug addicts, all trying to numb ourselves into oblivion and escape memories of our past.
Generation quick fix consists of occupational slumming. The invasion of prescription pills. Self-medicating. Disconnection. Dissociation. Cognitive disruption. Distrust. No memory traces. Wake me up inside.
Where were we? Oh yeah. The fast track to nowhere.
The whole party socialite thing is a little played out, but whatever. I still ascribed to every American vice and addiction: “like” and “whatever” Valley Girl inarticulateness, arrogance, anti-feminism, a culture of entitlement, cell-phone addiction, Anorexia and straight-up narcissism. My ignorance comes from being sheltered. I was so accustomed to the high life that I had no idea what mundane, ordinary every day life entails.
Life includes the Four Seasons in Hawaii twice a year, a Marc Jacobs jacket every fall, Hermes Birkin bags, Chloe jeans, Balenciaga purses, Yves Saint Laurent Couture dresses, Cartier jewelry, Oliver People’s and Christian Dior sunglasses, Gucci totes, Monolo Blaniks, and Prada everything. My shallowness comes from never having to survive on my own.
It was generally believed that I received my degree at George Washington University, when in fact, I never went to class at all, though my outspoken persona was contagious. I was the rebel American’s loved to hate. In other words, the total incarnation of postmodern identity, the individual who had no inner self and happily accepted a superficial existence; the epitome of American materialism.
Though I radiated the appearance of sanity, I was held hostage by pharmaceuticals. Forget pill popping. This was straight up addiction. I had five different doctors call in prescriptions. It was essential to be on a first name basis with all Pharmacists in town.
A Chai latte was fine as long as I had a cocktail of anti-anxiety meds to go with it. I felt constant tension, tremors, muscle spasms and was emotionally drained. This was beyond fashion depression. My heart constantly raced due to overwhelming sadness. They say spiritual leaders refer to the Great “Oneness” as a pill referred to as Xanax. Eventually, Xanax was no longer working. Half the time, I forgot one was dissolving underneath my tongue. There had to be more to life than this.
The chaos in my mind is a sort of mental hemorrhaging. Images stream behind my eyes, fast and incomprehensible like an MTV video. If you are used to chaos then calmness seems so uncomfortable. Some imprints never go away. My nightmares haunt me. In them, everywhere I turn, security guards follow me. Someone wants me dead. I’m being chased by a one-armed Playmate. I’m paranoid and living the sequel.
Category: Projects
Writing by Jennifer Saginor on Sunday, 5 of October , 2008 at 3:08 am
“PRAY AWAY GAYS” is Sarah Palin’s church slogan. I wonder if that means I have to sit in the back of the bus? According to her, I’m not worthy of equal rights.
Sarah Palin’s views on homosexuality are offensive. US citizens were gaining awareness and moving in a direction of acceptance.
Truth is, no one can explain where homosexuality stems from. With that in mind, if it is derived from parental, environmental or genetic influences, how can one be “transformed” later in life? If one could prove these natural emotions were a result of human biology, Sarah Palin’s theory to “transform” insinuates she can override genetics. Otherwise, her logic blames society for the outcome, not individuals. Therefore, her solution suggests “fixing” problems caused by those who created them.
Thousands of teenagers commit suicide each year because of the shame, guilt and self-loathing her church and belief system imposes on people. I wonder if she had a gay, bi-sexual or bi-curious child, would they be enrolled in her “school of conversion?”
America represents freedom.
Marriage is not a luxury-It is a human right.
As a woman, she should understand discrimination and fight for equality in this country.
Her glasses are as transparent as her lack of economic, international foreign policy experience and human compassion.
Category: Politics
Writing by Jennifer Saginor on Sunday, 5 of October , 2008 at 2:41 am
Category: Playground: The Book
Writing by Jennifer Saginor on Sunday, 5 of October , 2008 at 2:35 am
Category: Playground: The Book
