Heart-Sore, Heart-Sick, Heart-Broken- Levels of Grief

Grief, sadness, despair-  they affect us all in different ways, creeping into our souls and affecting every part of us, from how we eat and sleep, to the choices we make in the future. Some pains are so debilitating that we are stopped in our tracks, unable to move forward. Others rock us to our core, but ease a little day by day and allow recovery at a quicker pace. Coping mechanisms help, friends and words of loving support help more.  For me to sort through these experiences, I've found that it helps to be a little clearer in "labeling" the kind of pain I'm experiencing. And so I began using different phrasings to elaborate on levels of grief.

Heart-Broken:
When I found that my partner of 6+ years had been lying to me, cheating on me, and living another life, I was heart-broken.  That is to say, the bottom fell out of everything I knew and I was a pit of despair, disbelief and raw pain.  I felt like I had been dragged across a giant cheese-grater, tearing holes in every part of me. Betrayal engulfed me.  I not only lost him, and was losing my place to live, I lost my spiritual faith that there was a greater good supporting me.  I had no focus, no future.  I called my mother and said that if they would let me, I would move into my parents' basement, get a menial food service job to help pay bills, and take care of them as best I could, until we all aged into obscurity.  I gave up on everything.  It was only when they accepted some portion of my offer, and steps began falling into place to remove me from my life in LA and relocate me to the East Coast, that a tiny voice began to rebel and fight for the life I had.  By that point, too much ground had been lost and I was carried by the tide of events, out of my 2 decade world of friends and habits and into an strange new place.  I would wake in the dark basement bedroom of my parents' home, tears on a pillow from weeping in my sleep.  I did not know how I could recover.  I just woke up each day, out of necessity to pee and find a job, and I kept blindly going one step after another.

Heart-Sick:
Still gob-smacked from the pain of loss and relocation, I did begin to move forward, a bit, in North Carolina.  I secured a job, not in food service (which I know nothing about) but instead in animal care in a vet's office. That in and of itself shows that recovery was already happening.  As much as I swore that I could not care about life as I once did, I could not let go of my passion for animal welfare.  I did not love my job. In fact, most days I absolutely hated the stress of it.  The hours were long, the pay sub-standard, and I went home mentally, emotionally and physically drained.  But it gave me a reason to get up (other than needing to pee.)  I found my own living residence.  I had few friends, but I had some. I had no social life, but I read a lot of books.  I tried re-engaging my spirituality, not very successfully.  There was, for the first time in my life, no ocean for me to sit and watch (and the ocean is a great source of peace and strength for me, so this was devastating).  My apartment was on the dark side of a mountain, so no sunbeams came into warm my body or light my hopes. There was no place to go dance (another intrinsic avenue of healing).  At night, when the demons came to whisper in my ear, I had no defenses.   I was drinking heavily, cutting occasionally.  I was heart-sick.   Unable to say "This one thing is wrong", but I was trapped in an all-encompassing and overwhelming unchanging pattern of disrepair that seemed to have no solution. I trudged on, one day after another, with not much belief of improving my situation.  Only a small spark of hope kept me trying to better my situation.  Hope was so foreign and unrecognizable, I didn't even call it that at the time.  I just knew that something had to give.  Either it would get better, or my cutting would go too deeply one night.  I wasn't sure at the time which I wanted more.

But then came a job offer, and another relocation.  This had perks, as it was a job in my field, in a new state, with warmer temperatures and a home that had large windows for sun to shine in.  Somehow, I had turned a corner.  I was no longer sick or despairing, just anxious to make my new life work.   That was early Summer of this year.  Things have been much better, and I'm pleased to report that I'm doing fairly well, alive and kicking, trying to respark my magic, my hopes, and even my romantic opportunities.  Which leads me to my last category...

Heart-Sore:
Two months after arriving in this town, I found a club where I would go dancing, much to my heart's delight.  And there, I met a boy.  A sweet faced boy who was not my usual type, but upon conversation, I discovered to be charming, witty, and very unlike the stereotypical natives.   We began with a few tentative dates, to sushi, to the aquarium.  We shared pumpkin carving, and Halloween movies.  We laughed, we kissed... I tried to be slower in approach, but I emote with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. Not sure if I wanted this to become a serious long term thing, we had a conversation in which critical bits of information came to light that made it clear that I should no longer pursue the relationship.  It hurt like hell.  I had been so happy for 6-8 weeks after nearly 3 years of darkness.  I didn't want to let go, but I knew it was best.  (god, that sounds SO much like a cliche,  so fake, and yet my bloggy friends, it is true.)  I saw what was there. I saw the potential for happiness, and I saw the potential for disaster. It might be "good", but it could not provide what I was really craving, and worse case scenario, it had some small echos of my relationship with my ex, which is what sent me on this multi-year trip through the underworld to begin with.  For my greater good, and for the health of my continuing recovery, I let go. Endings suck, and I wept, but I was only heart-bruised... heart-sore.   No devastating despair.  No suicidal thoughts.  OK, I haven't eaten a decent meal in a week, and have probably drunk my body weight in cheap beer, but these are triflings of pain compared to 2012.  I'll lick these wounds clean, and be better for it.

It's so easy for an Internet meme to tell us to "Love like [we've] never been hurt" but the actual practice is much more challenging.  Still, I'm trying to put all the broken and sick parts behind me and open myself for the idea that rebirth is in process and healing is 3 steps forward/2 steps back (god, another cliche).   Yes, I'm still sore.  Still bruised, not just from this latest encounter, but from the whole experience, LA to here.  But I'm progressing through these levels of grief and making my way back to something new.

Author's Note:  I've been working on this post for a few days now, and thought it was mostly done... until last night, when Paris was so tragically torn apart by terrorist attacks.   Obviously, each person's response is different.  Perhaps you lost someone in these attacks and are heart-broken.  Perhaps you are worn down, unable to get through another day in such a violent world, trudging heart-sick from one news report to another. Perhaps your heart-pain manifests in anger, resentment, or a complete lack of ability to respond in any way just now.   Whatever your level of grief, however this violence affected you, please be kind and compassionate with yourselves, with others. Love and support to Paris.  Je t'aime.

Because Constant Fear & Shame Sucks #yesallwomen

Since leaving LA, I've grown more and more attached to the glittering city that was once my home.  I feel its heat, its hurts, its majesty from across the country, largely through on-line communications with West Coast friends. So althoughtI live atop a western NC mountain, the shooting at UCSB hit close to home and heart.

The #yesallwomen twitter string opened up even deeper wounds, as I read the brave flood of ugly truths that poured out.  Women everywhere revealed tales of abuse and shame at the hands of misogynistic society.  As I read, my own bitter stories began to bubble to the surface, but I could not find the words or strength to add my voice to the call for change.  As I speculated on these thoughts, I became aware that the longer I hid them, the greater my shame became and that by hiding behind other brave voices, I was in my own way contributing to the problem.  So here I am now, trying to get naked in words. 

I started bartering my sexuality early.  I knew there was power in it, knew I housed some wanted commodity and that attention and "affection" could be bought with a well-timed glance and seductive smile.  And hey, I like sex, so I figured it was a win-win situation to use what I had to get a moment's good feeling.  However, I made poor choices often and frequently the interactions left me not feeling loved, but used, empty and ashamed.  As a wounded soul, I attracted abusers and addicts like moths to a flame and I put out many times to avoid physical threat or angry confrontation.  Not exactly consent, but not what I would call "rape", for I did have some choice in the matter, even if my choices were sometimes made under duress.  I blamed myself when I got hurt, for I knew that I was playing a dangerous and stupid game.  Then came THAT night.

I was at a weekend event, in my college town, with a group of role playing/re-creationists.  In that environment, if you are female, you can have all the attention and alcohol you desire, and I was at home being the belle of the ball and having my pick of flirtations.  This was only a small gathering, around Winter Solstice, and the holiday energy was high and playful.  A male friend of mine kept my cup full of one intoxicant after the next and before I realized, I was beyond drunk.  It is one of the few times I can say that I drank to black out and beyond.  My unconscious form was taken to my cabin, on the outskirts of the campground, where I was staying alone, and my friends took shifts watching over me, as my body heaved out the poisons.  There was a man, never before seen at one of our local events.  No one knew him prior to the weekend, but he seemed a convivial fellow, harmless even.  So when he offered to take a shift watching the unconscious girl, my friends (who were also intoxicated, sleepy and no doubt tired of babysitting a drunk) let him. 

When I came to at some dark silent moment of night, this man was on top and inside me.  Bile rose in my throat, not just because of the alcohol.  "I'm going to be sick," I managed to croak out, and he took one hand off my hips and turned my head to the side so I could vomit off the edge of the bed, all while he continued his thrusting.  He told me that I was beautiful, that he'd watched me all night, and that I needed to let him finish.  I "owed" him that after being "such a tease" all night, when he was "kind enough" to take a shift watching over me.  Weakened, incapacitated, ill, I had no choice but to comply.

When he'd had his orgasm, he pulled out, redressed, was "kind enough" to make sure I wasn't going to fall asleep again (and I wasn't...at that point, I wasn't sure I would ever be able to sleep again) then he took his leave.  I crumpled to the floor in a puddle of my own filth and shame, and cried.

I told only a few of my closest friends what happened, and even then, a close female friend, while angry for me, commented that hopefully, I'd learned my lesson about drinking too much. 

No one urged me to take legal action. 

No one, not even me, called it rape (at that time.) It was just what happened to pretty and promiscuous girls who did dumb things. 

Did I make bad choices that night?  Hell yes, I did.   Did I "deserve" to be raped while unconscious?  No, I did not... but I didn't come to that truth for many years. 

I take responsibility for my actions that night.  I understand that I contributed to the events that occurred, BUT  being pretty and flirtatious is not consent.  Being unable to say "no" is not consent.  Having a vagina IS NOT CONSENT. 

No... #notallmen would have made this choice.  But the fact that one did, and NO ONE around me (including myself) fathomed the whole disgusting injustice and impropriety of those actions speaks of a sickness in our culture.  #Yesallwomen have the right to decide what happens to their own bodies.  #Yesallwomen deserve to live a life free of constant fear.  #Yesallwomen should proudly call for change.  The dark time of living in shame for being female needs to stop.

 #Yesallwomen have some similar sad story. This is just one of mine.  But if we are to cure this illness, then the stories must be told.  The dark must be brought to healing light. 

I will not live in shame anymore. 

Why I love the Internet

There is so much drama, so much strife perceived in every day life. Each day an economic struggle. Every argument an insurmountable disagreement after which nothing will ever be the same. And like a whirlpool, all this flows over my head with overwhelming force, and I struggle and drown and get sucked down into the very heart of the maelstrom.

Winston Churchill spoke of his depression as a large black dog that haunted him, growling and stalking and keeping those he loved at bay. If Mr. Churchill was right, and my maelstrom image fits too, then it might be best to say that for the last week or so, I find myself at the bottom of a roaring ocean, flailing and drowning, with only a large black dog to hold on to... and he bites.

Then a Sunday afternoon comes along which has some spare time and a bright sun peeping past the clouds. The blue sky seems unreal in its electric vivacious coloring, and it glistens behind the Griffith Observatory in a shot any cinematographer would glory to claim for his own. I see all this, but only in passing, temporarily blinded by all the ocean water and dog hair in my eyes. I return to my apartment and do some homework, and access the web, to check accounts, and perhaps peek at a few blogs (a pastime I rarely get to indulge anymore.) And a without realizing it, a life preserver falls neatly draped around my shoulders as I read the words of my tribe.

It doesn't take much to find people who mourn their losses, who sink into despairs. You can find someone bitching in front of you in line at the grocery store.... but until the vast Internet and blogs became a part of my life, I often believed myself alone in trying to persevere. But you... wonderful people you... so many of you speak of hope and joy and invigoration. You have weathered hardships, and have tremendous moments of great doubt, but you keep stepping forward, and I really do love you for it.

It is so easy and so popular to become resigned. Those that try to move past it are often called blind, ignorant, naive. They are mocked by those who secretly covet their indomitable spirit. And that mockery, if well-timed, can suck the wind out of renewed sails and drown barely afloat hopes. (good lord my metaphors are all over the place today... and I'm rambling.) My point is that I have a hard time keeping going. I get lost. I get overwhelmed. Sometimes I tell myself to go on. Sometimes I hope for more, then feel foolish for doing so. But the Internet has shown me that I'm not alone in these courageous charges of perseverance. If anything, I have seen that not only are there many out there who trudge ever forward... but MANY who seem to do it better than I. Who have ideas I haven't tried and wells of energy I haven't tapped into. They comfort me and inspire me and after 30 minutes or so of reading, I find myself possessed by the need to be outside, smelling the air, fascinated by blue sky and overjoyed at the feel of the breeze. I see the beauty in dandelions that grow between cracks in the sidewalk, and I'm blown away by the sound of bird wings as a flock of pigeons take flight.

Thank you Internet. Thank you heart-filled bloggers who express hopes and fears so honestly. Thank you, my dear tribe, for hopeful words, beautiful pictures and communities full of courageous passions. You open me to inspiration.

Sprung!!

Not all the thinking has been dreary and dark. I've had some epiphanies lately that have allowed me to begin viewing my life with a new set of specs.

I'm just finishing up Week 3 in Walking in this World. Now, I admit that I'm finding much of the book challenging. Transitioning from actress to animal behavioralist/trainer/keeper feels like walking away from creativity. However, the exercises remind me that life, lived to its purpose, is always creative. There is creation when a mathematician writes a proof, or a scientist searches for truth in a microscope. There is art in each human action, if only you let it exist. Therefore, I put my faith in the idea that my life still contains something anarchistic, untamed and alive, and I put together a collage art piece for speaking subconsciously with myself.

Holding a question/issue loosely in my mind, I spent nearly 2 hours pulling images that spoke to me. Some were as expected, animals or ocean. But others were surprising. Many were ripe berries and blooming flowers. Succulent fruits. Opulent pillows. Bold colors leapt forth in Blues, Reds and Purples.

Assembling the images into a message was the next part of the assignment, and oddly enough, I found they practically placed themselves. Even though I'd clipped out many words, only a few made it on the page. Most were simple. "Joy" & "Go. Do. Be." are the primary messages. However, the most unique picture and the most unusual words put themselves right at the heart of the piece. The visual is a stunning crystal formation, white & silver, pointing out in all directions, like a crystalline explosion.... or the tree topper in Superman's Fortress of Solitude holiday decorations. Under that, the words "God wants to see us happy."

Step 3: Write about what you have found. I sat there, pen in hand, overwhelmed by the message of my art (or my heart, as my fingers just Freudially typed). The piece is overwhelmingly about being ripe & ready for bloom. It speaks of joy, and expression. Unapologetic life, bursting forth with a center of divine guidance, inspiration and permission.

That's all well and good to look at and see... but to really GET that message was ... literally stunning. I sat motionless as tears rolled down my face. For you see, I never envisioned my life happy. Some girls put together dream proms or fantasy weddings. Others picture themselves ensconced in happy home lives, or pursing dream jobs. Me... I planned my suicide. Very elaborately, at the height of my fantasy career. Even in those frequently played movies in my head, I was not happy. Even then, I pictured myself emotionally alone in a sea of “friends.” I did not have love, although I had multiple affairs. I was tragic and under appreciated, like the “idols” I looked to at the time; Marilyn Monroe, Vincent Van Gogh, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin. Ask the people who knew me at 15 and they will tell you that I was a firm believer in “Live Fast. Die Young. Leave a good looking corpse.”

The more I thought back to my past, the more I realized that I never, NEVER thought I’d be happy. I never understood, or even imagined it was possible. I thought it was a good and positive goal to die before the world was ready for you to do so, like the old theatre adage “Leave them wanting more.” I thought "tragic martyr" was a fulfilling lifestyle choice.

No wonder my current situation seems so foreign to me. I wake up, and there’s not some feeling of overwhelming dread hanging over me. I’m not counting the hours until I’m dead. I get up in the morning and I have… hope. Previously, I would have thought this to be selfish, or childish, or both. I would have found the notion ridiculous, and would have scoffed shamefully at myself for even thinking it. But there it was… right in the damn middle of my piece. A clear affirmation that it is right and good to pursue what you love. The simple and loving statement that “God* wants to see us happy.”

I still don’t know exactly where I’m headed or what my life is going to look like in the future. But apparently, inside, I know that I am on the right path, getting riper each moment, preparing to blossom into happiness.

And as if to confirm it all for me, The Laughing Maiden opened her loving arms and with her soft breath, gave color back to the garden. Spring has sprung. No where was that more evident than at Pike's Public Market in downtown Seattle. I strolled through with a smile on my face and a blooming bit of hope in my heart. It is hard to be down when surrounded by hundreds of daffodils and tulips.

For more photos from our Pacific Northwest Adventures, be sure to check my flickr.

* GOD, for the purpose of this post and its various readers, may pleasantly stand for "Give Own Definition". I personally believe in a benevolent higher power, although I more frequently will call it Goddess or Universe. Whatever your specific definition, the point remains the same.

New Love

Tag is off on a business trip, and while I miss him terribly, I must admit that I've been spending my time with a new love. He's charming and attentive. His deep dark eyes speak volumes about his troubled past and his need for attention. He wins my heart each time I see him.

His name is Green Elley, Pen 6, but I just call him Big G. Sure, he has his flaws and quirks. He smells of fish. He's not potty-trained. He'll give the goo-goo love eyes to any sweet young thing that passes by with a bucket of herring. And the mucus... Yeesh, don't get me started on the elephant seal's amazing ability to generate and expel mucus.



Still, as I stood in Pen 7, in my chest-high waders, scrubbing seal poop off the concrete, I realized that I'd rather do that for free than deal with the office politics crap that I tolerated for 2 years at my last job.

If you too feel the pull of Big Green's dark & penetrating orbs, have I got a place for you! Imagine spending 4 - 5 hours listening to the varied barks and calls of California Sea Lions while blending up fish milkshakes. Picture yourself thawing and sorting endless amounts of fish while breathing deeply the scent of sea (and by scent of the sea, I mean copious amounts of pinniped guano.) Better yet, imagine that moment, where you collapse exhausted into your car seat, after hours of back-breaking work, and sit silently smiling, knowing that at least one abandoned Elephant Seal pup is still alive because of you and those around you.



If you live in the Southern California area, have a love for wildlife, and at least half a day of spare time a week... please think about joining the Volunteers at San Pedro's Marine Mammal Care Center at Fort MacArthur. We're heading into the "busy season", where we will soon be inundated with countless elley pups who have stopped nursing, but have not found the way to survive on fish alone. Summer can also bring algae blooms, which can lead to Domoic Acid Toxicity in Sea Lions, causing neurological damage in the animals. In short, this small but efficient rehabilitation center is about to way more animals than they have volunteer hands.

You can do it for that "good Samaritan" feeling. Or perhaps you want to do it as a write off on next year's taxes. Or maybe, you'll find yourself here just so you too can get a chance to look into Big G's amazing eyes. Whatever your reason, the experience can change your life. Trust me on that.

*snurf*

Marine Mammal Care Center at Fort MacArthur
3601 South Gaffey Street
San Pedro, CA 90731
Phone: (310) 548-5677
info@marinemammalcare.org

Back from the Brink

Ladies & Gentlemen, please pardon my absence... but when they tell you that this years flu is a bitch, I suggest you believe them!

Actually, it wasn't the flu in my case, but an over-achieving sinus infection, which got into my ears (causing pain there) and dripped down my throat (causing bronchial issues). After running a fever of 102 - 103 for THREE days straight, I finally made it to the doctor to see if anything could be done. I'm on horsepill antibiotics and even those took several days to get rid of the fever. IN short, I didn't really show up for my last week of work... and I'm just now starting to act and feel like a human again.

I did make a point of arriving at my desk for 3 hours on my last day of employment. I sat, bundled to the 9's, feverish and coughing, finishing up the expense reports and items that I promised would be done before I left. And in the end, when i had that last "wrap up" conversation with the Big Dog, he still made a point of saying how my inability to accept change in the personnel of the department caused my frustrations. NO JACKASS, it was YOU!! YOU caused my frustration, with your lack of spine and your double-talk. With your inability to understand human nature or communicate with any sort of clarity, YOU ARE THE PROBLEM. Now Fuck off! I am done with you.

Wow... does THAT feel good to type! Healing comes in many ways, I'm discovering.

I'm also discovering that life without rules is challenging for a work-a-holic like myself. I don't let myself sleep in terribly much, because I know that leads to depression for me. Amandarin suggested finding an early morning yoga class to go to, and I think that's a stellar idea. IN the meantime, I'm researching jobs online, and waiting to hear if I've been accepted to the LA Zoo Volunteer training class. (I interviewed on Saturday.) I sent in my application for school, and am doing reading and research on various job options out there. Trying to find my bliss, as it were.

It's a beautiful day outside. No rain. The wind smells fresh and the sun looks warm. I believe I'll head out for a day of errands and figure out the rest as I go.

Returning

Nobody wants to leave paradise. Adam and Eve were not known for any sort of celebratory march out of the gates. Milton didn’t write Paradise: Meh, I’ll get there again eventually. Generally, the point is to get INTO Paradise, not out of it… so you can imagine the sad sense of dread that filled my stomach as I heard the wheels of the plane thud onto the tarmac at LAX.

Hawai’i was, as always, gorgeous beyond words. The Big Island continuously amazed me with the many ways in which it is different from Oahu, or, really, any place I’d ever been before. I blossomed in its rain forests, shivered in the magnificence of its volcanoes, and gloried in its endless blue seas. I slept deeply, lulled by assorted calls of wildlife. I woke each morning pre-dawn and watched light creep across the skies through the branches of the giant monkeypod tree that umbrellas over the resort like a protective spirit. And I swam with dolphins and turtles and a 100 other colorful denizens of the deep… over and over again.

Needless to say, I’m still adjusting to being back. The desk is restrictive and not near any windows and my heart just isn’t back at the office. Tag and I had a few conversations during which we seriously considered what we would need to do, and how we would have to work, in order to permanently relocate. It would be some years down the road, but it would be extraordinarily worth it.

If ever you get the chance to travel to Hawaii, please don’t deny yourself the experience.

However, until that boat comes in… please feel free to enjoy some of the scenery.

Taking my Lumps

“The more time I spend in my body, the more difficult it is to lie.”

That’s the first line of a hand written journal entry I started last week. I only got down that first line before being distracted, so it is all that exists of that entry. However, last night, as I lay awake with wicked insomnia, it occurred to me again.

I am in the middle of a shift. A shift of body and mind and soul. A shift that is taking frustratingly long. I had a healing sometime last year, because I’d been feeling that “my skin doesn’t fit” itch. The healer spoke of angels and spirit guides, and said that they wanted to let me know that I was preparing for a shift (it was nice to have this verified, without asking about it or bringing it up at all). However, they wanted to let me know that said shift would occur in 3 – 6 years.

Now I know it’s not polite, but I believe I responded with “What the f’k?”

Throughout the healing, he would talk of all the work I’d done and how I was molding into this new soul form and each time, he would begin to hint that perhaps the shift would occur sooner, and then he’d stop mid sentence and say “3 – 6 years”. Eventually, he stopped mid-sentence and laughed and said “NO… they appreciate all the work you’re doing, and you need to keep doing it, but they want to make it very clear…. It’s 3 – 6 years. Stop pushing!”

Ever had your hand slapped by a spirit guide? I had to laugh.

That was a year ago, and the ever-crawling snail's pace of this shift is driving me bonkers. I’m doing some work, and I think the dancing is a large part of that. Dancing has always been a joy for me, but now it’s like life’s blood. I can’t do well without it. My sanity is becoming directly tied to my ability to be in my body and work it as a form of expression. However, this new level of personal intimacy has brought with it greater awareness and less tolerance for bullshit.

The last two weeks, I’ve had a series of health issues. Nothing drastic. A migraine, on top of food poisoning, last night’s insomnia, and now this morning, my throat is swollen so much I’m having trouble swallowing. Throat issues often relate to “not speaking one’s truth”. And that’s certainly the case here, as I am dealing with a great deal of anger towards someone very dear to me. Someone who needed a friend once and I was there, but now… they prefer a fan club, and when I don’t wish to be relegated to just another of the adoring masses, I get shut out.

Insomnia makes sense, as my soul is restless indeed. The anger has also stirred up my ideas on love, friendship, relationships, what it means to be self-sufficient versus self-involved.

...

And here the writing flow just dams up. Grrr. I guess that is to say, I don’t have words of resolution for this issues I am facing. And thus my body is turning on itself and growling and consuming itself. As much as I would like to run, avoid, or pretend that these ugly questions are not staring me in the face, my newly ‘tuned in’ body will not let that deception pass.

I find it fascinating and challenging that I cannot lie to myself- that the shift of living in what is real and what is now is REALLY beginning to manifest physically. Additionally, I would be VERY excited about it… if it weren’t kicking my ass up and down the block.