Hey Subconscious, WTF?

Last night I had a dream.  Sure, we all dream every night, so this alone is not a significant fact or even an interesting blog, except when looking at the content.  Last night's dream is mostly hazy, except for this crystal clear bit.

I was shopping in a mall, when I came across a toy.  She was the latest from the "Pretty Little Princess" line.  About the size of a Care Bear, with a face reminiscent of a Fraggle (and if you don't know what either of those is, fuck off... you are clearly too young to be reading this blog.)   She was a beautiful blend of lavender and teal. 

Her name was "Princess Battle Sword" and she came with a purple plastic long sword strapped in a sheath on her back.   You could put back her arm (oddly enough, she was a lefty) over her head and her built-to-grip soft plastic hand would click into place around the hilt of the sword.  Then with a press of a button, her arm would thrust forward, unsheathing the sword and holding it aloft as her little song played. 

"You must die

Die on your sword.

Glory in the battle

is the highest reward

You can kill

for what you believe.

Honor, Might &  Power

are what you must achieve."

(it's a catchy little tune.  I awoke singing it.  Am singing it still, disturbing as it is.)

I also remember noting on the box, that she was "For Children, 3 - 6yrs."

WFT, night brain?  No, seriously.... What.The.Fuck?

Relocating Me

The ever changing patterns of life, like a summer storm, blow all directions.  So when everything bottoms out in life, it is not uncommon to find yourself shifted to someplace new.  Sometimes this is metaphorical, but in my circumstance, it is quite literal.  After 17 years of life in Los Angeles, of supporting myself as best I could, of living alone or living with a love, I now find myself living in the basement guest room of my parents' home in North Carolina. 

There is rich comedy gold in the imagining of that road trip.  Me, My Mom, a 16-ft rental truck, my CRV and 9 cats riding shotgun (between the two vehicles.) More comedy in the imagining than in the experience itself.  However, we all survived, and I'm here to say that Motel 6's, in addition to being pet friendly, are usually pretty pleasant.

The "high country" (as they call it) is breath-takingly beautiful.  Dramatic mountainscapes drenched in a lush and living green that I had nearly forgotten existed in nature.  Clouds hang thick and low amongst the trees, like a lover nestling in your hair to whisper in your ears.   It has rained every day since I got here, and as a girl raised in hurricane country, who lived the last 2 decades in a desert, I couldn't be more pleased.  The locals keep apologizing for the "monsoon summer" but I revel in the hardy splat on my skin of each gargantuan drop.  And the nights... oh, there is something so familiar about the way a southern summer night presses against my skin, a wet heavy blanket of cloying sensual comfort.

But aside from the scenery and weather, I am basically in hell.

Gone is my sense of achievement, or independence.  Vanished is any confidence or shred of self-dignity that I might have had after the break-up.  My animal career is non-existent out here. My heart is hollow, brittle and angry.  I despair and am god-awful to be around.  I burst into tears hourly, have trouble making eye-contact with anyone, loathe myself and what I have become...  and because I tend to view time like a dog (1 moment = FOR.EV.ER!!!), I have no confidence or faith that "This too shall pass"  (no matter how many times my Dad quotes that.) I have completely lost the essence of who I was, and I mourn the passing of that vibrant fighter of a girl who lived in Los Angeles once upon a time.

I am "supposed" to be putting together a daily practice, a ritual of affirmations, grounding and journal writing.  But inner resistance is a mother-fucker when it grabs a good hold, and that depressing bitch has sunk her claws deeply into me.  My affirmations sound weak, false and hollow.  My journalling is erratic. It is very hard to find a quiet, good place to sit and write. My little room has a fold-out bed, a cat tree, a giant litter box and an armoire.  No chair.  Also, no natural light, as I'm in the basement. I had not truly realized till now how dependant I am on the light, for energy, hope and renewal.  If it weren't for my parents walking into the room to retrieve me, I would not get out of bed.

On my good days, I do some searching for where ever it is that I've gone.  On my bad days, I take pain pills and drink beer, checking classifieds for a place that will rent to a girl with 9 cats and bad credit, all between bouts of sobbing into a pillow.  I've cut off most communication with friends, because honestly, I'm embarrassed for them to see what I've become, and I'd rather they remember me the way I once was.

I am lost.  Have you seen me?

Little Things You Learn on the Internet

I recently found the Twitter account of an actor whom I adored, (and yes, it is a verified account, not just someone pretending to be him.)  This actor is ruggedly handsome.  The characters he plays are quirky and challenging, but humorous, and lovable in their faults.  I smiled at the thought that I might be privy to his occasionally charming witticisms. I even fantasized about sending a direct message that spoke of my decades long crush, sending him my number, perhaps cajoling him to a coffee date.

So, I clicked "Follow."

For the last 24-36 hours, my twitter feed has been practically held hostage by this man's rants.  He is aggressively anti-abortion, and was on that soapbox until Boston yesterday, at which point he began to spew racial fury and intolerance.   While I personally support the right to bear arms, I don't agree that any individual citizen carrying a conceled weapon would have avoided the unfortunate tragedy at the marathon.

I completely respect the fact that his twitter is his place to voice his thoughts and opinions on the political atomosphere in our country.  But on a day like yesterday, when the sadness of the state of our society is weighing heavily on me, I am uplifted and healed by messages of comfort and caring.  Tweets that address the immediate problem of finding missing loved ones, or opening your house to those who find themselves stuck in Boston unexpectedly.  I want to hear about humanity banding together to help make each other strong in the face of overwhelming hatred and fear. 

I mourn, selfishly, that my little fantasy is shot.  I pout (slightly) that not only will I no longer carry a torch for this handsome stranger, but that it will be more challenging to enjoy and care for his quirky characters.  But the knowledge of who this man is, what he chooses to stand for, is something I cannot ignore or forget.  There will be no more imagined coffee dates, no more fantasized witty flirtations, for who I am and who he is should never been in the same room together, lest there be a very vocal confrontation.

So, I clicked "Unfollow."

These are the ways we grow and learn.  These are the silly lessons of the internet, where we must face the wide range of human opinions and decide with whom we will stand.  I will offer support and love.  I will send my energies out to the spectators and cheerleaders who were taking a day out of their lives to encourage the runners, and the hundreds who, after the explosions went off, ran towards the danger to offer a helping hand.  It is a small thing I offer, this intangible message of love from the other side of the country, but it is what I have to give... and I belive it to be a wiser, more compassionate choice than standing on the bodies of the fallen, ranting for further legislation or retaliation.

Snow on the Mountains

I think the hardest part about the end of a relationship is that everything reminds you of what is gone.  Puts an exclamation point at the end of "EMPTY!"  And the urge to share the little commonalities doesn't stop just because the person is no longer there.

Yesterday, driving home from work, there were think low lying clouds obscuring the mountain tops to the East.  I wanted so badly to call him.  The boy loves snow boarding.  So much so that for one Christmas, he bought me gear and took me to nearby Mountain High.  After a daunting hour or so of abject failure on my part to surmount even the tiny 10ft of "bunny hill", I fell, cracking my head hard on the ice below me one last time, and tearily declared myself "DONE."  I sat drinking in the resort bar while he took a run down the mountain side.  We did ultimately redeem the day overall, and the picture I took of him at dusk on the mountain is still one of my favorites.  However, we never attempted to teach me snowboarding again.

Each year, as the snows hit, he would talk about "definitely getting out there this season."  And each year, whether it was lack of money, time or follow through, the snow remained unseen, the mountain unvisited.

When we broke up, one of his complaints about me was that I had no interest in sharing snowboarding with him (while his new "friend" was making her Christmas list of the gear she wanted, so she could hit the slopes.)  I thought it was an unfair complaint, as I was NEVER a snow girl, and he knew that when he moved in with me.  (I was raised in FL, people... I don't speak snow.)  Yes, there is valid complaint that I gave up without really trying much.  That I refused to take part in something that was important to him.  However, I was raised in a family where separate interests (even separate vacations) are considered a plus, not a minus.  So I was fine with him doing it without me... I WANTED him to make snowboarding friends, hiking friends, extreme sports friends.  I just didn't expect him to fall for one of them.

The view of the mountains brings all that back to me in a quick instant burst of thought, and yet still I long to call and say, "Have you seen the clouds?  There'll be snow on the mountains tonight!!" For I know that thought would bring a smile to his face, and I do so miss his smile.

It is a million little things, you know, that seem hollow without the sharing.  When I see a husky come into the shop, when our favorite TV show is on, when I rent a movie at RedBox, when I hear "Brown Eyed Girl" all punk-style... my hand reaches for the phone, to call, to text, to connect.  Having to still my own hand, find the inner strength to resist the drug I want so much, lands deep in the core of me, a rock tearing through my heart, thudding heavily in the pit of my stomach.

Many people, dear friends, tell me that I should feel happy, lucky even, that I no longer have an unfaithful, untruthful partner.  But all I can feel is the cold grey of those mountain clouds and the loneliness of unseen snow.