Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Saturday, November 14, 2015
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.
Sunday, September 07, 2014
Love Letter
My gods, beautiful, how I miss you. The smell and sound of you. The calm and endless love you surround me with. Beautiful lover, how am I surviving the days so far from your embrace?
Remember our cold mornings together? Chilled in the early air, I lay there, wrapped in blankets while you crashed sweet nothings in my ear, the taste of you still on my lips, salty and raw. I want to take you into me, know you intimately, feel your timeless tug and surge and relentless pounding rhythm. You are sex and life and fierce endless force. You are the edges of the earth, the blue along the horizon, the home of long ago dragons. You are everything and I am lost so far from you.
Inside you is everything I hold most dear and in your presence I can be nothing but honestly myself, weeping, laughing, struggling, floating. With you, I am buoyed up, sucked under, alive and encircled and whole. I never know how to give back to you all you offer me. I never know how to show my passions for you completely. I feel like a poser, a poor and unimaginative lover who gives meaningless chocolates at Valentine's day and forgets to gift you with daily gestures of my deeper heart. And yet, never have I felt you faulted me for that. Never have I left our time together feeling ashamed or incomplete or incompetent. Always you gift me with your confidence, your strength, your love. Always you leave me feeling whole and alive. You are my greatest lover.
If I could, I would throw myself into your arms, tangle myself in your kelp beds like a disoriented otter, until each inch of my body was wrapped in your sinewy embrace, and there, blue faced, smothered in passion, I would gladly breathe my last. I want to drown in you.
Without you, life is tasteless, save for the tracks of salt tears leave as they roll across my lips. I miss you.
Remember our cold mornings together? Chilled in the early air, I lay there, wrapped in blankets while you crashed sweet nothings in my ear, the taste of you still on my lips, salty and raw. I want to take you into me, know you intimately, feel your timeless tug and surge and relentless pounding rhythm. You are sex and life and fierce endless force. You are the edges of the earth, the blue along the horizon, the home of long ago dragons. You are everything and I am lost so far from you.
Inside you is everything I hold most dear and in your presence I can be nothing but honestly myself, weeping, laughing, struggling, floating. With you, I am buoyed up, sucked under, alive and encircled and whole. I never know how to give back to you all you offer me. I never know how to show my passions for you completely. I feel like a poser, a poor and unimaginative lover who gives meaningless chocolates at Valentine's day and forgets to gift you with daily gestures of my deeper heart. And yet, never have I felt you faulted me for that. Never have I left our time together feeling ashamed or incomplete or incompetent. Always you gift me with your confidence, your strength, your love. Always you leave me feeling whole and alive. You are my greatest lover.
If I could, I would throw myself into your arms, tangle myself in your kelp beds like a disoriented otter, until each inch of my body was wrapped in your sinewy embrace, and there, blue faced, smothered in passion, I would gladly breathe my last. I want to drown in you.
Without you, life is tasteless, save for the tracks of salt tears leave as they roll across my lips. I miss you.
Friday, August 15, 2014
On the passing of Robin Williams
As someone long diagnosed with depression, as someone who has spent time in a hospital after a suicide attempt, this tragedy just hits a little too close to the heart for me to process right now. I will just say Rest well Oh Captain. You made me laugh and cry. You transported me with your performances. You changed the world. I’m sorry that in those last dark moments you lost sight of that. You are irreplaceable. You will be missed.
Monday, July 08, 2013
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?
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?
Monday, January 07, 2013
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.
Monday, December 03, 2012
A Lone Reflection
a·lone: adj Separated, apart or isolated from others
lone·ly adj Affected with, characterized by, or causing a depressing feeling of being alone; lonesome.
Alone is a state of being. Lonely, a state of mind. They should be easy to differentiate between. They should be two separate things. But sitting here, on the ending side of a 6+ year relationship, I cannot always find a way to separate the two.
This time last year, I had completed the Spartan Sprint in Malibu, and felt empowered and invigorated. This Saturday and Sunday, that race once again took place, but I could not participate. I needed to work and make money, but to be very honest, it is more the fact that I cannot yet run it without him, and I'm certainly not in the place to run it with him (even though he participated both days and invited me along.)
I lost a lot of myself over these last years. I feel like a shell of the vibrant girl I once was. Reading some of this blog's archives, I hear her sweet laughter and confidence bubble forth through her tales, but she seems a stranger to me now. Where once, I dreamed of being unattached, proud of my independence, now I sit in a dark quiet room with cats and a computer for company and I dread the empty silence.
I do have moments. Crystalline insights and moments of connection where I feel that vibrancy start to cut through the clouds. This morning, I was feeling exhilarated and alive as I drove to work, promising myself that the worst of the darkness was passing and that I was well on my way to survival. But somewhere, in the dreary smallness of my day, amidst forced holiday retail cheer and a million commercials about kissing and "forever love", the bubble burst and the tears and confusion settled in like the storm outside.
I used to be ok being "alone", but I have not yet conquered the deamons that accompany "lonely."
So here I am, trying to connect with my age old touchstone, writing. Perhaps this blog and I will once again be on regular conversational terms. Perhaps I will return to my keyboard and let my fingers express the snippets of thoughts as they pass through my cluttered brain, purging feelings and fears, hopes and heartbreaks, leaving what is no longer needed here on the page. Perhaps bit by bit, I'll uncover that courageous girl with the sparkling giggle and a glint of hope in her eyes. And with her for company, how can anyone feel lonely?
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Mourning
Paul Newman
1925 - 2008
Rest in Peace, great spirit. You were as inspirational as you were beautiful.
As talented as you were endearing. Thank you for sharing with us
all the honest, integrity and laughter. We will not forget you.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Ghost Whispering
The weather warms up and I catch a cold. Ah Spring, how I love the smell of your irony.
But seriously folks, we're going on day 5 of my not having a voice, and it's just not fun anymore. The first day, when you get that gravelly low sound (which my sound engineer friend calls my "Demi Moore" voice) it can be a bit sexy and fun. But once that short lived stage passes and you are sentenced to silence (or in my case a nagging, hacking cough) the sexiness has passed and it's just a crapshoot of lousy-ness.
One can only drink so much juice and herbal tea. The extreme tenacity of the coughing fits leads the convulsing bladder to want to leak a little bit, and that uncomfortable feeling is not helped by being overly-hydrated. But not taking in a constant flow of fluids leaves the throat dry and scratchy and adds to the hacking... so there's really an element of Catch-22 here.
Add that to the fact that my dear friend Dreamschool just had to put down her beloved companion of 14 years (Farewell Ione, till we see you at the Rainbow Bridge) and it has just not been a stellar week here at the house of Teece. (True, it's been an even worse one at the house of Dreamschool)
I've had so many thoughts for blogs lately, so many of them have to do with letting go. Saying the things that need to be said and released. You know the sort of thing... well, I don't know. Does this happen to anyone else but me? Example: I'm driving, and the road is full of traffic, or maybe it's wide open, but basically my mind, my conscious thought, has seemingly shut down and I am in the Zen of just operating the car when BAM, my face blushes and I find myself speaking out loud, "But see.. I didn't mean THAT." I come to and look around and realize that it's just me in the car, and no one else has relived that embarrassment from my past except me. But in that quiet moment, it was a real and vivid as the day it first occurred. I have a ton of those. Moments when the past sneaks up and I find myself flushed or furious, saddened or humiliated. I wish they'd quit haunting me, and I've been toying with the thought that perhaps typing them up and setting them free is the cure for such ghosts.
They say that coughing, and laryngitis are manifestations of when the body needs to express something, but for one reason or another, it has been silenced. It is a very intimate thing and I'm struggling with the idea of just putting my dirty laundry out there. Perhaps I am not as ready to release as I thought. Or perhaps, this is just a part of the process, and soon a series of posts will begin
But seriously folks, we're going on day 5 of my not having a voice, and it's just not fun anymore. The first day, when you get that gravelly low sound (which my sound engineer friend calls my "Demi Moore" voice) it can be a bit sexy and fun. But once that short lived stage passes and you are sentenced to silence (or in my case a nagging, hacking cough) the sexiness has passed and it's just a crapshoot of lousy-ness.
One can only drink so much juice and herbal tea. The extreme tenacity of the coughing fits leads the convulsing bladder to want to leak a little bit, and that uncomfortable feeling is not helped by being overly-hydrated. But not taking in a constant flow of fluids leaves the throat dry and scratchy and adds to the hacking... so there's really an element of Catch-22 here.
Add that to the fact that my dear friend Dreamschool just had to put down her beloved companion of 14 years (Farewell Ione, till we see you at the Rainbow Bridge) and it has just not been a stellar week here at the house of Teece. (True, it's been an even worse one at the house of Dreamschool)
I've had so many thoughts for blogs lately, so many of them have to do with letting go. Saying the things that need to be said and released. You know the sort of thing... well, I don't know. Does this happen to anyone else but me? Example: I'm driving, and the road is full of traffic, or maybe it's wide open, but basically my mind, my conscious thought, has seemingly shut down and I am in the Zen of just operating the car when BAM, my face blushes and I find myself speaking out loud, "But see.. I didn't mean THAT." I come to and look around and realize that it's just me in the car, and no one else has relived that embarrassment from my past except me. But in that quiet moment, it was a real and vivid as the day it first occurred. I have a ton of those. Moments when the past sneaks up and I find myself flushed or furious, saddened or humiliated. I wish they'd quit haunting me, and I've been toying with the thought that perhaps typing them up and setting them free is the cure for such ghosts.
They say that coughing, and laryngitis are manifestations of when the body needs to express something, but for one reason or another, it has been silenced. It is a very intimate thing and I'm struggling with the idea of just putting my dirty laundry out there. Perhaps I am not as ready to release as I thought. Or perhaps, this is just a part of the process, and soon a series of posts will begin
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
On Rats and Women
They say that loose lips sink ships, and that rats will leave a sinking vessel. Therefore, I am wondering if a loose-lipped rodent isn't really causing its own problems? Sort of a self-fulfilling prophesy of doom.
To which I'm sure you promptly replied, "huh?"
That's where my mind is today. Confused and dark. Reaching for sense of it all and coming up with some sort of scrambled goo, black and icky.
***************************************************************************
I recently received some information. In the sick world of telephone games, it is once removed from the origin. However, it is from an eyewitness and a credible source.
Someone I once trusted has (as of late) had some serious personality changes. (I've seen a few of them myself.) I fear that she too is traveling to a dark and scary place. However, instead of seeking help, she plays the victim and lashes out nastily at others.
Where once I had a case of 'hero worship', I now find myself facing the human. I don't want to let the fact that I idolized her be the source of my disappointment. Nor do I really want to look at the fact that she may not be a very nice person after all.
I want to come at the situation from a place of love. I don't want to be reactionary. However, I cannot help but feel foolish that I ever felt safe with her. I cannot escape the feelings of abuse and betrayal that I am now experiencing. I cannot (and will not) deny that I am both hurt and angry. This is my stuff... I get that. But "getting it" doesn't make processing it any more pleasant.
Some people say that I should wait. Stick it out. Hang in there. They long to believe that this is just a temporary phase, and soon, the situation will magically remedy itself.
However, history has a habit of repeating itself, and I've seen the pattern of behavior before. Both in her past and in mine. I want to believe that this will pass without incident. But my life experiences seem only to point otherwise.
Do I stand by and believe? Do I wait it out? And when the hit comes, and I am curled in a ball by the wall, crying with the ugly truth of it all... can I blame anyone but myself for still being within arms' reach?
When does it stop being "hope", and just become "denial"?
I tell my students to nurture others, but not at the cost of nurturing yourself. For what good can you provide if you are too weak, too sick, too wounded to do so? Yet here I stand, unhappy, trying to believe in better. Contemplating staying around to provide nurturing for her (and others), at the cost of my own health and happiness. I despise playing the martyr. I want to "walk my talk", but in this case, that seems to mean walking away. That prospect is equally unpleasant.
Rats leave a sinking ship... sometimes I wonder if I have that same survival instinct.
To which I'm sure you promptly replied, "huh?"
That's where my mind is today. Confused and dark. Reaching for sense of it all and coming up with some sort of scrambled goo, black and icky.
***************************************************************************
I recently received some information. In the sick world of telephone games, it is once removed from the origin. However, it is from an eyewitness and a credible source.
Someone I once trusted has (as of late) had some serious personality changes. (I've seen a few of them myself.) I fear that she too is traveling to a dark and scary place. However, instead of seeking help, she plays the victim and lashes out nastily at others.
Where once I had a case of 'hero worship', I now find myself facing the human. I don't want to let the fact that I idolized her be the source of my disappointment. Nor do I really want to look at the fact that she may not be a very nice person after all.
I want to come at the situation from a place of love. I don't want to be reactionary. However, I cannot help but feel foolish that I ever felt safe with her. I cannot escape the feelings of abuse and betrayal that I am now experiencing. I cannot (and will not) deny that I am both hurt and angry. This is my stuff... I get that. But "getting it" doesn't make processing it any more pleasant.
Some people say that I should wait. Stick it out. Hang in there. They long to believe that this is just a temporary phase, and soon, the situation will magically remedy itself.
However, history has a habit of repeating itself, and I've seen the pattern of behavior before. Both in her past and in mine. I want to believe that this will pass without incident. But my life experiences seem only to point otherwise.
Do I stand by and believe? Do I wait it out? And when the hit comes, and I am curled in a ball by the wall, crying with the ugly truth of it all... can I blame anyone but myself for still being within arms' reach?
When does it stop being "hope", and just become "denial"?
I tell my students to nurture others, but not at the cost of nurturing yourself. For what good can you provide if you are too weak, too sick, too wounded to do so? Yet here I stand, unhappy, trying to believe in better. Contemplating staying around to provide nurturing for her (and others), at the cost of my own health and happiness. I despise playing the martyr. I want to "walk my talk", but in this case, that seems to mean walking away. That prospect is equally unpleasant.
Rats leave a sinking ship... sometimes I wonder if I have that same survival instinct.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Better.... Stronger... Faster
Two things about me as a child:
1) I loved me some "Bionic Woman"
2) I was a blind as a bat
I still am quite visually-challenged. For me, it is just a way of life. A thing that has always been. I don't remember a time when I didn't wear glasses. I can look back at pre-school pictures and see that I don't have them. But I don't actually have the memory of not wearing my heavy coke-bottle lenses in cheesy plastic frames.
My optometrist put me in contacts at age 8. Sure, that doesn't sound so remarkable NOW, but remember, this was the late 70's, and back then, such drastic measures were unheard of. (Not to mention, they put me in hard lenses. Not today's "rigid gas permeable" which are so much kinder to the eye). The idea was that the firm lenses would provide some resistance for the cornea, and perhaps retard the speed at which my growing young eyes were deteriorating. However, putting hard lenses into an eye is not the most comfortable feeling, and I was a child. Needless to say, I was not terribly regular about care and cleaning for my lenses and thus I inflicted upon myself any number of corneal abrasions, infections, corneal neovascularization and (my favorite) corneal ulcers (like herpes cold sores in your eyes... so pretty and so much fun!)
In my teen years, vanity won out and I began to utilize and care for my contacts much more. They became a part of every day routine: Wake, stagger to bathroom, reach for case, rub lens with cleaner, rinse off thoroughly (they aren't kidding about that), then put tiny pieces of plastic in eye. Proceed with day.
As I learned the appropriate sterilization and storage techniques, the amount of bodily damage decreased. However, the lens body count continued to mount. One contact actually "popped" and split while in my eye. A few have slipped off the iris & wedged themselves behind the upper eyelid. One contact was knocked out by the draft caused by a Frisbee speeding by my face. My childhood best friend washed another down the drain. One plummeted onto disgusting carpet at Chuck E. Cheese. One oversexed lens leaped out of my eye and into the lap of the boy on whom I was sitting during a 'tween flirting session. Imagine his joy when in my panic, I began pawing his crotch fervently. I'm still not sure he believed me when I said, "No, I'm just looking for my contact"
Because of the state and situation of my eyes and continuously degenerating vision, soft contacts or extended wear are not an option. So I resigned myself for a very long time to the fact that this was the way my optical life operated.
And then the buzz around LASIK began. Science and technology promised to fix and replace that which was no longer useful. With just a few moments of precise laser incisions, and a wham-bam-thank-you-mam recovery time, one might see clearly again.
At first, I resisted... unsure of long term effects and a bit cynical of all this 'new fangled science'. But the more I thought about it over the last year, the more intrigued I became. Of course, it doesn't help that in the last 16 months, my eyes have deteriorated severely again, and the contacts I bought in late '05 (as well as the 'back up' glasses I purchased this time last year) no longer correct me to 20/20. Additionally, my night vision has grown dangerously bad. Halos and glare keep me from focusing on the road, and reading street signs is just plain impossible.
So with my hope and hat in hand, I made an appointment with the local laser eye center. 60 minutes later, after multiple exams and painfully bright pictures of my retina, I was told.... No Go. That's right kids, my prescription is too extreme and my cornea is simply too thin to withstand the surgery. *sigh*
There is one option that might be available. Intraocular lenses (IOL)are tiny bits of plastic placed directly into the eye. As the doctor helpfully explained, a flap in the cornea is cut open and peeled back. The IOL is then attached BY CLAWS to the mid peripheral iris. Doesn't that sound like fun?
The surgery is more intensive than LASIK, requiring a full surgical suite and on-call anesthesiologist. The lenses must be custom made, requiring a number of weeks prep time. The surgery itself takes longer than a LASIK procedure. Recovery time is longer as well, taking as much as 3 - 5 days for full vision to return. Because of this, they only do one eye at a time. So add in an additional 2 weeks between your surgeries, during which time one eye is healing and the other is as crappy as you started with. yay.
Did I mention the implant attaches "by CLAWS"!?!
Did I mention that your very own Steve Austin eye will cost you 2 - 3x more than LASIK?
*sigh*
I didn't realize how much I wanted LASIK until I was told it wasn't an option. I didn't realize how tired I am of not being able to see, until it once again became the only way to be. And I didn't realize how really scared I am of eventually ending up without any vision at all.... until now.
Tag recently bought me a beautiful little digital camera, and I find myself carrying it with me at all times right now. It's like I want to capture every image that moves me and burn it on to my memory's retina.... so that further down the road, I can, if needed, flip through the photo album in my mind.
Bionics remain, in my world at least, just a piece of science fiction, suitable for vintage TV.
1) I loved me some "Bionic Woman"
2) I was a blind as a bat
I still am quite visually-challenged. For me, it is just a way of life. A thing that has always been. I don't remember a time when I didn't wear glasses. I can look back at pre-school pictures and see that I don't have them. But I don't actually have the memory of not wearing my heavy coke-bottle lenses in cheesy plastic frames.
My optometrist put me in contacts at age 8. Sure, that doesn't sound so remarkable NOW, but remember, this was the late 70's, and back then, such drastic measures were unheard of. (Not to mention, they put me in hard lenses. Not today's "rigid gas permeable" which are so much kinder to the eye). The idea was that the firm lenses would provide some resistance for the cornea, and perhaps retard the speed at which my growing young eyes were deteriorating. However, putting hard lenses into an eye is not the most comfortable feeling, and I was a child. Needless to say, I was not terribly regular about care and cleaning for my lenses and thus I inflicted upon myself any number of corneal abrasions, infections, corneal neovascularization and (my favorite) corneal ulcers (like herpes cold sores in your eyes... so pretty and so much fun!)
In my teen years, vanity won out and I began to utilize and care for my contacts much more. They became a part of every day routine: Wake, stagger to bathroom, reach for case, rub lens with cleaner, rinse off thoroughly (they aren't kidding about that), then put tiny pieces of plastic in eye. Proceed with day.
As I learned the appropriate sterilization and storage techniques, the amount of bodily damage decreased. However, the lens body count continued to mount. One contact actually "popped" and split while in my eye. A few have slipped off the iris & wedged themselves behind the upper eyelid. One contact was knocked out by the draft caused by a Frisbee speeding by my face. My childhood best friend washed another down the drain. One plummeted onto disgusting carpet at Chuck E. Cheese. One oversexed lens leaped out of my eye and into the lap of the boy on whom I was sitting during a 'tween flirting session. Imagine his joy when in my panic, I began pawing his crotch fervently. I'm still not sure he believed me when I said, "No, I'm just looking for my contact"
Because of the state and situation of my eyes and continuously degenerating vision, soft contacts or extended wear are not an option. So I resigned myself for a very long time to the fact that this was the way my optical life operated.
And then the buzz around LASIK began. Science and technology promised to fix and replace that which was no longer useful. With just a few moments of precise laser incisions, and a wham-bam-thank-you-mam recovery time, one might see clearly again.
At first, I resisted... unsure of long term effects and a bit cynical of all this 'new fangled science'. But the more I thought about it over the last year, the more intrigued I became. Of course, it doesn't help that in the last 16 months, my eyes have deteriorated severely again, and the contacts I bought in late '05 (as well as the 'back up' glasses I purchased this time last year) no longer correct me to 20/20. Additionally, my night vision has grown dangerously bad. Halos and glare keep me from focusing on the road, and reading street signs is just plain impossible.
So with my hope and hat in hand, I made an appointment with the local laser eye center. 60 minutes later, after multiple exams and painfully bright pictures of my retina, I was told.... No Go. That's right kids, my prescription is too extreme and my cornea is simply too thin to withstand the surgery. *sigh*
There is one option that might be available. Intraocular lenses (IOL)are tiny bits of plastic placed directly into the eye. As the doctor helpfully explained, a flap in the cornea is cut open and peeled back. The IOL is then attached BY CLAWS to the mid peripheral iris. Doesn't that sound like fun?
The surgery is more intensive than LASIK, requiring a full surgical suite and on-call anesthesiologist. The lenses must be custom made, requiring a number of weeks prep time. The surgery itself takes longer than a LASIK procedure. Recovery time is longer as well, taking as much as 3 - 5 days for full vision to return. Because of this, they only do one eye at a time. So add in an additional 2 weeks between your surgeries, during which time one eye is healing and the other is as crappy as you started with. yay.
Did I mention the implant attaches "by CLAWS"!?!
Did I mention that your very own Steve Austin eye will cost you 2 - 3x more than LASIK?
*sigh*
I didn't realize how much I wanted LASIK until I was told it wasn't an option. I didn't realize how tired I am of not being able to see, until it once again became the only way to be. And I didn't realize how really scared I am of eventually ending up without any vision at all.... until now.
Tag recently bought me a beautiful little digital camera, and I find myself carrying it with me at all times right now. It's like I want to capture every image that moves me and burn it on to my memory's retina.... so that further down the road, I can, if needed, flip through the photo album in my mind.
Bionics remain, in my world at least, just a piece of science fiction, suitable for vintage TV.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Flurry
I've had so much on my mind, and such the urge to write, but the laptop never seems to be nearby when I'm feeling eloquent... and the time I do spend on a computer (work) is wasted on scheduling and SAP. So instead of several eloquent posts, each dedicated to a single event - you get a bullet point list to summarize the flurry of activity.
- First of all, HAPPY WEDDING DAY to Slackmistress & Be The Boy. Their Detective Agency is finally "official" (and, I actually had time to watch it on the live webcast. She looked beautiful.)
- Speaking of blissful couples, Tag and I celebrated our one year anniversary yesterday. *grin* Well, actually we're celebrating it tonight, with a couple of tickets to the Loreena McKennitt concert.
- The Griffith Park fire- yes, Tag and I and the kitties are ok, as is our domicile. However, we were far closer that I ever want to be to another raging inferno. My breath caught in my throat as I stood on our street corner, watching an endless stream of cars of the evacuated citizens who lived a mere 2 -3 blocks north of us. The skies were never dark that night. They glowed deep red, or bright orange, depending on the fire's intensity. We slept to the overpowering sound of constant helicopters as news crews kept watch all night. And we awoke at 4am coughing, finding our bedroom filled with smoke. (We have no air conditioning, and so we have open windows and fans. Not great for breathing when 800 acres are burning less than a mile away). Thanks to a diligent and tireless firefighting force, the Zoo and several other landmarks were saved. Sadly there was still a great loss of wilderness and wildlife. The cause is still not officially released, but a "badly burned person of interest" was being treated for burns on his chest and arms. According to his story, he fell asleep while smoking. I'm working on tempering my outrage towards him, so instead of beating him about his burned torso, I'm just going to post today's PSA image:
*image courtesy of The Fireman. He so rocks!
- Lastly, this link was sent to me earlier today. That's right ladies... a shoe sale whose proceeds go to charity. Now you can dress those tootsies in your favorite designers GUILT-FREE!
That's it for today my dears.... Tag is here, and so I'm headed out the door and off to our evening events.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Sunday Scribblings: Ocean
When I was young, I had many dreams that occurred like memories of another life. They had no action to them, and they repeated themselves over time. It's like hoving over a snapshot.... only I could feel the emotions of the moment. This writing comes from one of those dreams.
She stood on the weathered dock like a ghost, pale grey and lifeless. Her long skirts hung with the weight of multiple layers of wool and petticoats, sodden with unrelenting rain. Only the crisp blue of her eyes seemed alive, constantly scanning the endless horizon of swirling water.
Some called her “The Watcher”, others “The Widow,” though never the latter when she was nearby. Even the slightest inference that he wouldn’t return was met with glaring blue steel from those vivid eyes. Death was not an option in her world. Just endless waiting for the proper conclusion.
Wild winds whipped stray pieces of hair about her face, lashing her skin with cold, wet wisps that had escaped her untidy bun. Around her shoulders was a tattered crocheted shawl that provided no protection or solace from the storm. And yet, she seemed unaware of the squall around her. She just stood, stone still against a large wooden post, and stared out to sea.
The Nor’easters had come early this year. Late enough in the season that wise and wealthy crews had finished their haul and come in… but early enough to catch small fishing boats who had stayed too long. Unlucky were those working class men whose livelihood depended on their haul. Some had returned. But a few remained asea, above and below the waves.
One long pale hand, cold and wet, reached up as if with a life of its own, to the locket she wore. Old beaten metal full of hope, she clutched it whenever her thoughts were darkest. Day after day now, she’d watched ships larger and stronger than his, come limping home, battered from the gale. She was dockside when the dawn broke, and still at her post when it slipped below the horizon again, but still no word had come. No sign. No affirmation. Just raging waters and bleak barren skies.
Her petite lips moved, whispering prayers to any who would listen. To God, that he might protect him. To Poseidon, that he might return him. To Davy Jones, that he might reject him from a water grave and send him back to the surface. And in her blackest moments, though she would admit it to no one, she would pray to the Sirens, that they might recognize a good man, and care for him if they could not send him back.
Time became meaningless. Aging, pointless. The universe had frozen in this moment….. eternally waiting, praying, searching. And bit by bit, she is eroding, like the shores and pier pilings, her hopes dashed on the rocks in endless waves.
She stood on the weathered dock like a ghost, pale grey and lifeless. Her long skirts hung with the weight of multiple layers of wool and petticoats, sodden with unrelenting rain. Only the crisp blue of her eyes seemed alive, constantly scanning the endless horizon of swirling water.Some called her “The Watcher”, others “The Widow,” though never the latter when she was nearby. Even the slightest inference that he wouldn’t return was met with glaring blue steel from those vivid eyes. Death was not an option in her world. Just endless waiting for the proper conclusion.
Wild winds whipped stray pieces of hair about her face, lashing her skin with cold, wet wisps that had escaped her untidy bun. Around her shoulders was a tattered crocheted shawl that provided no protection or solace from the storm. And yet, she seemed unaware of the squall around her. She just stood, stone still against a large wooden post, and stared out to sea.
The Nor’easters had come early this year. Late enough in the season that wise and wealthy crews had finished their haul and come in… but early enough to catch small fishing boats who had stayed too long. Unlucky were those working class men whose livelihood depended on their haul. Some had returned. But a few remained asea, above and below the waves.
One long pale hand, cold and wet, reached up as if with a life of its own, to the locket she wore. Old beaten metal full of hope, she clutched it whenever her thoughts were darkest. Day after day now, she’d watched ships larger and stronger than his, come limping home, battered from the gale. She was dockside when the dawn broke, and still at her post when it slipped below the horizon again, but still no word had come. No sign. No affirmation. Just raging waters and bleak barren skies.
Her petite lips moved, whispering prayers to any who would listen. To God, that he might protect him. To Poseidon, that he might return him. To Davy Jones, that he might reject him from a water grave and send him back to the surface. And in her blackest moments, though she would admit it to no one, she would pray to the Sirens, that they might recognize a good man, and care for him if they could not send him back.
Time became meaningless. Aging, pointless. The universe had frozen in this moment….. eternally waiting, praying, searching. And bit by bit, she is eroding, like the shores and pier pilings, her hopes dashed on the rocks in endless waves.
*picture from this website
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Sunday Scribblings: In the last hour
In the last hour of the night, before sleep overtook her active mind and dragged her beneath, she made a list of all the things yet undone. She wrote from her heart, pouring out beliefs and goals, evacuating the small crevices where hope still festered in a largely bitter existence. She dredged up the very crispy bits at the bottom of the cauldron of her being, and she penned each half-burned dream onto cream paper, in a flowery round script aided by the easy flow of her purple gel uni-ball with the chewed up cap.
The last one stood out most harshly, mocking her with its incompleteness: "Fall in love"
In that last hour of dark dim lighting and deep heart stirrings, she mourned her many abortive attempts to lose herself in connection with another. To allow her walls to sink completely and leave herself, not defenseless...but open, to the experience of sharing. Instead of a history full of Hallmarkian tenderness, she looked back on a catalogue of grossly co-dependant relationships, thick with abuse and irony. The 'been there, done that" list of her heart's attacks read like a baby name book, only one where "David" didn't mean "beloved", but more "raving jackass" and "Tony*" was less "priceless" and more "psycho."*
A throaty humorless laugh escaped as she admitted defeat in all games important to her. Her family, broken as it was had left her behind long ago, and her friends had disappeared into a sea of unfortunate excuses. The only element of her life with harmony and humor had passed one week ago today, at an unforgettably sad moment in the vet's office, and now she sat in a lifeless room, in the silence of a falling night, wishing to blot out any memory of her existence at all.
She took the pages where she'd written all her failures and carried them to the bathroom, setting fire to them with a thin yellow plastic lighter someone had left on her desk at work. The low flames blacked the edges of the paper as they consumed their way across the written words, leaving ash and embers in their place. She discarded the remnants into the open toilet and chuckled once again as she realized how quickly and easily it could all be flushed away.
Turning to the counter, she saw collected there a bevy of medicinal remedies for a hundred imagined ailments, and like mixed jellybellys, popped any variety of color and shape into her mouth. Lowering her head to the spout of the rusty faucet, she drank only as much water as she needed to swallow the caplets and tablets that held escape in their grainy pharmaceutical hands. And then she returned to her room, and her bed.
In the last hour of her life, she rested her head on her pillow and wept until the pain faded away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* it's a work of fiction. No offense meant to any Davids or Tonys. Well, ok, no offense meant to any Davids, and to 99.9% of Tonys. That .1% knows who he is.
The last one stood out most harshly, mocking her with its incompleteness: "Fall in love"
In that last hour of dark dim lighting and deep heart stirrings, she mourned her many abortive attempts to lose herself in connection with another. To allow her walls to sink completely and leave herself, not defenseless...but open, to the experience of sharing. Instead of a history full of Hallmarkian tenderness, she looked back on a catalogue of grossly co-dependant relationships, thick with abuse and irony. The 'been there, done that" list of her heart's attacks read like a baby name book, only one where "David" didn't mean "beloved", but more "raving jackass" and "Tony*" was less "priceless" and more "psycho."*
A throaty humorless laugh escaped as she admitted defeat in all games important to her. Her family, broken as it was had left her behind long ago, and her friends had disappeared into a sea of unfortunate excuses. The only element of her life with harmony and humor had passed one week ago today, at an unforgettably sad moment in the vet's office, and now she sat in a lifeless room, in the silence of a falling night, wishing to blot out any memory of her existence at all.
She took the pages where she'd written all her failures and carried them to the bathroom, setting fire to them with a thin yellow plastic lighter someone had left on her desk at work. The low flames blacked the edges of the paper as they consumed their way across the written words, leaving ash and embers in their place. She discarded the remnants into the open toilet and chuckled once again as she realized how quickly and easily it could all be flushed away.
Turning to the counter, she saw collected there a bevy of medicinal remedies for a hundred imagined ailments, and like mixed jellybellys, popped any variety of color and shape into her mouth. Lowering her head to the spout of the rusty faucet, she drank only as much water as she needed to swallow the caplets and tablets that held escape in their grainy pharmaceutical hands. And then she returned to her room, and her bed.
In the last hour of her life, she rested her head on her pillow and wept until the pain faded away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* it's a work of fiction. No offense meant to any Davids or Tonys. Well, ok, no offense meant to any Davids, and to 99.9% of Tonys. That .1% knows who he is.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The Fringe of Danger
A friend of mine, Ms. Scarlett, just came to me, trembling and crying and on the edge of a meltdown.
It seems that last Friday, she was held up at gunpoint, at an ATM less than a mile from where we work. The shock is just starting to wear off, and her conversation with the detective, in regards to identifying suspects in a line up, and the possible impending trial, pushed her over that cliff of emotion. I held her while she cried, and then sent her home ill. She was in no space to manage calendars or answer phones or in any way pretend that the world was fine and normal.
When I relayed the story to Amandarin she remarked that this was the second mugging she'd heard of this week.
Additionally, I just sent flowers to one co-worker for her sister's passing while another colleague is waiting by a phone at home, hoping for some good news regarding her grandmother's recent heart problems.
Laughably smaller, my radiator blew up two week's ago, and I'm just finishing a round of poison oak that I contracted around Halloween (during our pet funeral services).
So my question is... Hey Universe, what the hell is going on!?? October was a month full of deaths (for myself and others), and now November seems to be badly wired, waiting to short out and start a fire.
Is it too much to ask that we gently glide into a warm and uneventful Thanksgiving? I can't speak for the rest of the world, but we Angelinos could use a break!
It seems that last Friday, she was held up at gunpoint, at an ATM less than a mile from where we work. The shock is just starting to wear off, and her conversation with the detective, in regards to identifying suspects in a line up, and the possible impending trial, pushed her over that cliff of emotion. I held her while she cried, and then sent her home ill. She was in no space to manage calendars or answer phones or in any way pretend that the world was fine and normal.
When I relayed the story to Amandarin she remarked that this was the second mugging she'd heard of this week.
Additionally, I just sent flowers to one co-worker for her sister's passing while another colleague is waiting by a phone at home, hoping for some good news regarding her grandmother's recent heart problems.
Laughably smaller, my radiator blew up two week's ago, and I'm just finishing a round of poison oak that I contracted around Halloween (during our pet funeral services).
So my question is... Hey Universe, what the hell is going on!?? October was a month full of deaths (for myself and others), and now November seems to be badly wired, waiting to short out and start a fire.
Is it too much to ask that we gently glide into a warm and uneventful Thanksgiving? I can't speak for the rest of the world, but we Angelinos could use a break!
Monday, October 16, 2006
Cycling
The title and time of year would lead one to think that this will be a post full of reverie for color-changing leaves and the cool breezes that mark the end of another Southern California summer.
I might wax poetic about the onset of Autumn, and how Fall always stirs my blood, invigorates my dreams, and truly excites me.
OR I could, of course, elaborate on how my new life with my love is blossoming and morphing into a reality unlike any I've ever experienced before.
But that is not the point and purpose of this post...
I will instead take this moment to remember My Grandmother.
-the one who played mini-golf with me, the summer I stayed a week in Winston-Salem.
-the one who chuckled at my too tight Jordache jeans, which made it impossible for me to bend over enough to retrieve my golf ball.
-the one who fixed large bowls of ice cream for us both, so that we might sit and bond over the daily episode of "She-Ra: Princess of Power".
It's been a very VERY long time since those memories were an acutality, and since that long ago day, much water has passed under the bridge that pointed to our differences, and not our connection. She is an older Southern woman, with husband and children, ensconsed safely in her house in North Carolina. I am a single female, scattered about various Los Angeles locations, living life friviously, with (until recently) only cats to keep me company. She holds to tradition and security. I look forward towards opportunities, and don't wish to settle for less than I want. I don't think I fully qualify as "the black sheep" of the family... but I'm certainly the one who is "not like the others."
Still, that all seems small and inconsequential today, for as my life blooms with chance and bubbles with opportunity, my grandmother's is coming to a close. She's fought cancer for 24 years, and doctors said that a 5th round of chemo is just not an option. The last MRI showed a tumor in the front lobes of her brain that is as inoperable as it is deadly. She sleeps, most likely to never wake again, in a hospital bed on the other side of the country. And my father, bless him, sits at her side, watching her through the night.
At this time, as we draw closer to the cross-quarter and the veil grows thinner, I will light my candle and wish her spirit safe travels. I honor her strength, and I cherish the woman who vacuumed religiously and worshiped sun-tanning, whose blue eyes danced when she chuckled, and whose laughter will always have a place in my heart.
I might wax poetic about the onset of Autumn, and how Fall always stirs my blood, invigorates my dreams, and truly excites me.
OR I could, of course, elaborate on how my new life with my love is blossoming and morphing into a reality unlike any I've ever experienced before.
But that is not the point and purpose of this post...
I will instead take this moment to remember My Grandmother.
-the one who played mini-golf with me, the summer I stayed a week in Winston-Salem.
-the one who chuckled at my too tight Jordache jeans, which made it impossible for me to bend over enough to retrieve my golf ball.
-the one who fixed large bowls of ice cream for us both, so that we might sit and bond over the daily episode of "She-Ra: Princess of Power".
It's been a very VERY long time since those memories were an acutality, and since that long ago day, much water has passed under the bridge that pointed to our differences, and not our connection. She is an older Southern woman, with husband and children, ensconsed safely in her house in North Carolina. I am a single female, scattered about various Los Angeles locations, living life friviously, with (until recently) only cats to keep me company. She holds to tradition and security. I look forward towards opportunities, and don't wish to settle for less than I want. I don't think I fully qualify as "the black sheep" of the family... but I'm certainly the one who is "not like the others."
Still, that all seems small and inconsequential today, for as my life blooms with chance and bubbles with opportunity, my grandmother's is coming to a close. She's fought cancer for 24 years, and doctors said that a 5th round of chemo is just not an option. The last MRI showed a tumor in the front lobes of her brain that is as inoperable as it is deadly. She sleeps, most likely to never wake again, in a hospital bed on the other side of the country. And my father, bless him, sits at her side, watching her through the night.
At this time, as we draw closer to the cross-quarter and the veil grows thinner, I will light my candle and wish her spirit safe travels. I honor her strength, and I cherish the woman who vacuumed religiously and worshiped sun-tanning, whose blue eyes danced when she chuckled, and whose laughter will always have a place in my heart.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Loss, in black & white
I find an odd poignancy in this story.
Ya Ya tried her best to keep her cubs safe, and in doing so, wore herself out, not properly eating or sleeping. This exhaustion caused her to drop the smaller baby, mid-feeding, and collapse onto the fallen body, crushing the tiny offspring beneath her.
She is “inconsolable, wailing and looking for her baby after its body was taken away from her.”
Although the baby was one of a set of twins, and the elder cub remains alive and in good health, Ya Ya continues to mourn.
How many times have I done exactly that? In the pursuit of something cherished, I have held the goal so close, that in the end, when it all fell apart, there was no one to blame but myself. Road to a personal hell, paved with the best of intentions.
*sigh* I wish her peace.
Ya Ya tried her best to keep her cubs safe, and in doing so, wore herself out, not properly eating or sleeping. This exhaustion caused her to drop the smaller baby, mid-feeding, and collapse onto the fallen body, crushing the tiny offspring beneath her.
She is “inconsolable, wailing and looking for her baby after its body was taken away from her.”
Although the baby was one of a set of twins, and the elder cub remains alive and in good health, Ya Ya continues to mourn.
How many times have I done exactly that? In the pursuit of something cherished, I have held the goal so close, that in the end, when it all fell apart, there was no one to blame but myself. Road to a personal hell, paved with the best of intentions.
*sigh* I wish her peace.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Like so many others......
I am deeply saddened by the loss of Steve Irwin. What a great man, dedicated to wildlife conservation.
I somehow always thought that in the world of working with wildlife, I would eventually run into him. Now that possibility is gone, and the world seems smaller... darker.
I hope they have crocodiles in your afterworld, Steve. If nothing else, I know you're there with your best mate, Suey. Happy Trails to you both.
I somehow always thought that in the world of working with wildlife, I would eventually run into him. Now that possibility is gone, and the world seems smaller... darker.
I hope they have crocodiles in your afterworld, Steve. If nothing else, I know you're there with your best mate, Suey. Happy Trails to you both.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
The Falling of the Axe
So remember how I've referenced those anger issues? Specifically how there is one particular person in my life that I'm angry at, but had not yet figured out how to properly express it? Well, damn if that little problem hasn't been solved for me.
Sent at 2:39am today, is one of the most scathing hate-mails I have ever received in my life. Nearly unreadable in its rambling (not to mention large number of typos, lack of punctuation, capitalization or even an ATTEMPT at grammar), it accuses me of being ragingly immature and petty in my jealousies. It uses statements (told to him in confidence) as weapons, aimed back at me. It dredges up issues from last year that haven't been on the table since then, and tells me that clearly I am not over them yet. In short, it batters me with abusive language, slanders our friendship and then drops the executioner's blade without allowing me a moment's say in the decision.
Considering that I had already been tentatively contemplating ending the friendship due to the disrespect and mistreatment.... one might call this a moment of Ferocious Serendipity
All day I have vacillated between responding kindly ("I understand that you are going through a difficult time. I will be your friend should you wish to resume that at some point"), responding cruelly ("Clearly your observations of human nature are as vacuous as your grasp on literacy") and not responding at all. To return the serve is to swing my racket at yet another time-bomb, and I'm wounded already.
My anger stands in an awkward place, torn between defending my right to be treated well, and my compassion to reach out to some one so obviously in pain. However, the lesson that seems to be reoccurring at this time in my life is about caring and nurturing myself first and foremost. And as challenging as that is right now, it is what I have decided to do.
Good Bye Pup. I wish you healing on your journey. But I can't go another step along that path. No.... not "I can't".... I won't. I have healthier things to do with my time, my intentions and my affections.
Sent at 2:39am today, is one of the most scathing hate-mails I have ever received in my life. Nearly unreadable in its rambling (not to mention large number of typos, lack of punctuation, capitalization or even an ATTEMPT at grammar), it accuses me of being ragingly immature and petty in my jealousies. It uses statements (told to him in confidence) as weapons, aimed back at me. It dredges up issues from last year that haven't been on the table since then, and tells me that clearly I am not over them yet. In short, it batters me with abusive language, slanders our friendship and then drops the executioner's blade without allowing me a moment's say in the decision.
Considering that I had already been tentatively contemplating ending the friendship due to the disrespect and mistreatment.... one might call this a moment of Ferocious Serendipity
All day I have vacillated between responding kindly ("I understand that you are going through a difficult time. I will be your friend should you wish to resume that at some point"), responding cruelly ("Clearly your observations of human nature are as vacuous as your grasp on literacy") and not responding at all. To return the serve is to swing my racket at yet another time-bomb, and I'm wounded already.
My anger stands in an awkward place, torn between defending my right to be treated well, and my compassion to reach out to some one so obviously in pain. However, the lesson that seems to be reoccurring at this time in my life is about caring and nurturing myself first and foremost. And as challenging as that is right now, it is what I have decided to do.
Good Bye Pup. I wish you healing on your journey. But I can't go another step along that path. No.... not "I can't".... I won't. I have healthier things to do with my time, my intentions and my affections.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Two weeks pass
...and I feel there is nothing to show for it. A flurry of activity, always moving in this seemingly endless swirl. Like a dust cloud, all stirred up, but only shuffling around the discarded bits of trash and worry.
Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. *sigh*
There's a lot of unresolved issues and angers floating around. Bubbling under the surface, not close enough to break like a wave, but certainly causing an undertow that is deceptively strong, pulling me under,when I thought I was having a lovely swim.
Meeting people's expectations. Having my own remain unmet (or sometimes worse, undefined). Even the articulation of a blog entry is just beyond my grasp.
And thus... you get left with a poem, cause that's all I have to give today.
Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. *sigh*
There's a lot of unresolved issues and angers floating around. Bubbling under the surface, not close enough to break like a wave, but certainly causing an undertow that is deceptively strong, pulling me under,when I thought I was having a lovely swim.
Meeting people's expectations. Having my own remain unmet (or sometimes worse, undefined). Even the articulation of a blog entry is just beyond my grasp.
And thus... you get left with a poem, cause that's all I have to give today.
Our love is like a dead squirrel
fallen too young from its nest
decaying beneath the tree that was once home.
There is no one to bury him
But as the seasons come,
the leaves will gently fall,
obscuring his corpse from sight.
Grandmother Oak, laying him to rest
Tree Dryads giving him a 21 acorn salute.
Through the turning of the wheel,
he will breakdown, feed bugs, disappear
under a foliage drop cloth.
Come spring, perhaps
some haphazard garderner
will rake clear the spot,
showing that he is gone.
Consumed by his Earthly Mother,
leaving a memory for no one,
and a fertile spot for something new to grow.
copyright yummyteece 02/19/06
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