On the longest day of the year of 2013, our intrepid adventurer set forth on a cross country trek. Her Penske was packed with memories, regrets and 9 cats. Her heart, heavy; her soul, saddle sore. With a Solstice moon and a concerned mother to lead her, she spent 5 long days putting miles between her latest failure and her heart-sick self. Meaning that one year ago TODAY, she arrived in North Carolina to begin her "new life."
* * * *
I'd love to tell you that every day since then has been positive, that I'm healed and happy. But I like to keep this blog an actual representation of my life, not a flowery illusion of what I'd like my life to look like. And recovery takes time... three steps forward, two steps back. Behavioral tendencies that have lasted a lifetime don't get suddenly retrained in a month. Back-slides happen, patterns repeat. Auto-pilot is a dangerous way to drive through life, but it's damn easy to slip into.
Then again, I've always been my toughest critic... so let me take a moment to focus on the positive. I AM DOING IT. Every morning I get up, whether I write in a journal, take a long hike in the mountains, show up at my job, or pay off a little more debt, I am taking a step on this new path. Building a new foundation takes an irritatingly long time, especially when you start deeply in a hole (emotionally and financially) as I did. But the key is showing up, and I'm still doing that.
I'm learning to listen to and trust my intuition again. I'm still not great about taking action in accordance with the little voice in my head, but at least I've stopped dismissing it. My faith in my gods is shaken and distant, but I still have an altar. After weeks of feeling stuck, yesterday I took the time to change out all the candles and incense, switching from woodsy dusky scents to bright florals and fruits, and WHAM suddenly I could smell the arrival of Summer in my home. For a moment, my heat and passion were re-ignited along with candle wicks, and I went to bed with a sense of hope instead of with a body weary from dread and resignation.
Today, I'm working a half-day, so I have the morning to drink a hot cup of tea, snuggle with the kitties, center myself and reflect. I can hear the wind outside shaking the multitude of vibrant green leaves in my front yard. I will fold the clean laundry, and sort out which bills can be paid out of the paycheck that comes tomorrow. I will try to put together a list of the ways in which my life is better than it was a year ago.
I cry less. That's a start.
I'm surrounded by kindness. That's good too.
I can breathe in moist, clean air, juicy with the smells of raw nature. That always make me smile.
Los Angeles is like that friend we all have.... the one talks a little too loud, who takes a little too much energy. The one who always makes the conversation about her, but then leaves you to pick up the lunch tab. And yet, now that she is missing from my life, I find she has left a hole there is no filler for.
The High Country however, is a wall flower. Prettier than she realizes, she sits quietly along the sidelines of the gym dance and waits for you to initiate contact. She's hard to get to know, but if you can get her talking in a one-on-one conversation, you can watch her eyes light up, be seduced by her soft giggle, and realize there's a lot more there than seems at first glance.
Re-reading those descriptions, I realize that I'm a lot more LA than I ever will be North Carolina. I'm pretty sure this is only a temporary destination for me, a rest stop on the highway where I refuel and recover, but while I'm here, I'm striving to make friends with the shy girl, learn what I can from her secrets, heal the wounds I acquired living in the flashy big city. There's a gentleness here that allows time for recovery, and if I can just drop into that slow, Southern rhythm, I just might be able to be compassionate and patient with my own learning curve.
One year later, I'm not where I wanted to be. I'm not where I thought I would be. But I'm not dead... not even overwhelmed right now. Just moving slowly forward. It's a quiet anniversary, but it is not a sad one.
Showing posts with label navel gazing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label navel gazing. Show all posts
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Lesser than...
My competitive spirit can at times be a blessing. It pushes me past that first wall of "I can't" and tells me that many others can, so why don't I sack up and become one of those. It makes me want to excel at work and be the best in my job that I can. It makes me want to be the best daughter I can, so that I will continue to be the favorite, over the dog and cats (who have much easier jobs, lower expectations of performance and cost a lot less to feed than I do... And yes, I am so neurotic that I do have sibling rivalry with the parents' pets.)
But sometimes, that urge to compete just leaves me with the overwhelming feeling of having the wind knocked out of my sails. Sometimes, no matter what I do, I can't help feeling like I can never tow the line being set by those around me. Every "not good enough" button gets hit and I collapse, defeated.
That's where I am these days. Mired in "not enough".
I understand that "not enough" is the bane of most human existence, that we all battle those demons regularly. I comprehend that there are many "tools" to help fight those feelings. Writing, talk therapy, meditation have all been suggested as healing (although the last one is a mine-field for me. I suck so badly at meditation, stilling the monkey mind chatter. When I try to meditate, I fail so miserably that it only exacerbates the "not enough". I begin to focus on how completely inept I am at meditating, and it becomes an exercise in self-flagellation. ) So here I am, writing, in hopes of performing some exorcism and coming out the other side with a sense of self again.
Of course, I fear that these words will be used against me. That my ex will read these pages and use them as some bolster to his delusional "holier than thou" attitude of pity he has towards the fact that I'm still angry at him (and thus in his mind, a lesser person, incapable of healing and moving on.) I worry that people whose opinions I do care about will read this and thing "Jeez, that Teece is a pretty fucked-up little cookie. I had no idea she was so broken or neurotic. Seriously? Sibling rivalry with pets?" I am concerned that my mother will read this and try to put band-aids on gangrenous soul wounds by sending a sappy and well-meant text message about how much she and my father love me. (Seriously Mom, don't. I love you, thanks for the thought, but don't. Ok? Thanks)
So why am I writing here? In the blogosphere where everyone can read this? Who am I writing for? Me. Then why not just journal? I did... didn't help. Why put it out here? Because, I cannot hide. Writing words where only I can see them is tantamount to covering my feelings in a veil of shame, and it leaves me ... hollow. I am who I am and while I may not always love it, I sure as shit don't want to get in the habit of hiding it. Because demons, like mushrooms, grow big and bold when left covered in shit and hidden in the dark. And I am a fan of neither demons, nor mushrooms.
This is part seasonal-depression. I know that, on some cerebral level. It happens every February and has for decades now. Hell, all of January - May can be a fairly toxic time for me, but I've been working on it for years, and I've usually got it shortened down to just February, maybe March. It also doesn't help that work is becoming wretched and that I feel stalled out, if not completely thwarted, in pursuing my career. Add to that the fact that the extreme cold and precipitation have kept me from exercising outside as much as I would, and I'm now dealing with more (and nastier) migraines as well as an uncomfortable layer of wintery body fat. This is a perfect storm of feeling crappy and lesser than, and since I have the ability to see that, I should (in theory) be able to say "Fuck you emotional black hole, I will not fall into you." But that's not how black holes work, people... they have an intense amount of gravity sucking action and avoiding them is damn near impossible (unless you are on the USS Enterprise and Scotty is in the engine room, in which case, you have just the last minute burst of speed to be safe. Darn you Sci-Fi for building my unrealistic hopes of redemption.)
So what do I do to combat the "lesser than" of my everyday life? Well, when I finish writing this, I will take my ass outside where it is lovely and sunny and the hiking is incredible. I will try to fill my quiet moments with nourishing food and loving thoughts, or at least interesting books. I will look for new jobs and try not to be overwhelmed with the reasons why I probably can't have them. And I will just keep showing up, I guess. At the journal, at this blog, at the daily occurrences of my life. It is a damn slow and boring way to move forward, that has no magic, no instant gratification, no "great transformation." It leaves me feeling ordinary and unimpressively human, but it is the only tool I have right now, the only way forward I can see.
I don't know when I got so boring, so mundane. Somewhere over the last 7 years the powerhouse giggling magic girl disappeared, and I miss her so fucking much. If she were here, I think she would know what to do. So I guess, I'm just going to go outside looking for her. Wish me luck.
But sometimes, that urge to compete just leaves me with the overwhelming feeling of having the wind knocked out of my sails. Sometimes, no matter what I do, I can't help feeling like I can never tow the line being set by those around me. Every "not good enough" button gets hit and I collapse, defeated.
That's where I am these days. Mired in "not enough".
I understand that "not enough" is the bane of most human existence, that we all battle those demons regularly. I comprehend that there are many "tools" to help fight those feelings. Writing, talk therapy, meditation have all been suggested as healing (although the last one is a mine-field for me. I suck so badly at meditation, stilling the monkey mind chatter. When I try to meditate, I fail so miserably that it only exacerbates the "not enough". I begin to focus on how completely inept I am at meditating, and it becomes an exercise in self-flagellation. ) So here I am, writing, in hopes of performing some exorcism and coming out the other side with a sense of self again.
Of course, I fear that these words will be used against me. That my ex will read these pages and use them as some bolster to his delusional "holier than thou" attitude of pity he has towards the fact that I'm still angry at him (and thus in his mind, a lesser person, incapable of healing and moving on.) I worry that people whose opinions I do care about will read this and thing "Jeez, that Teece is a pretty fucked-up little cookie. I had no idea she was so broken or neurotic. Seriously? Sibling rivalry with pets?" I am concerned that my mother will read this and try to put band-aids on gangrenous soul wounds by sending a sappy and well-meant text message about how much she and my father love me. (Seriously Mom, don't. I love you, thanks for the thought, but don't. Ok? Thanks)
So why am I writing here? In the blogosphere where everyone can read this? Who am I writing for? Me. Then why not just journal? I did... didn't help. Why put it out here? Because, I cannot hide. Writing words where only I can see them is tantamount to covering my feelings in a veil of shame, and it leaves me ... hollow. I am who I am and while I may not always love it, I sure as shit don't want to get in the habit of hiding it. Because demons, like mushrooms, grow big and bold when left covered in shit and hidden in the dark. And I am a fan of neither demons, nor mushrooms.
This is part seasonal-depression. I know that, on some cerebral level. It happens every February and has for decades now. Hell, all of January - May can be a fairly toxic time for me, but I've been working on it for years, and I've usually got it shortened down to just February, maybe March. It also doesn't help that work is becoming wretched and that I feel stalled out, if not completely thwarted, in pursuing my career. Add to that the fact that the extreme cold and precipitation have kept me from exercising outside as much as I would, and I'm now dealing with more (and nastier) migraines as well as an uncomfortable layer of wintery body fat. This is a perfect storm of feeling crappy and lesser than, and since I have the ability to see that, I should (in theory) be able to say "Fuck you emotional black hole, I will not fall into you." But that's not how black holes work, people... they have an intense amount of gravity sucking action and avoiding them is damn near impossible (unless you are on the USS Enterprise and Scotty is in the engine room, in which case, you have just the last minute burst of speed to be safe. Darn you Sci-Fi for building my unrealistic hopes of redemption.)
So what do I do to combat the "lesser than" of my everyday life? Well, when I finish writing this, I will take my ass outside where it is lovely and sunny and the hiking is incredible. I will try to fill my quiet moments with nourishing food and loving thoughts, or at least interesting books. I will look for new jobs and try not to be overwhelmed with the reasons why I probably can't have them. And I will just keep showing up, I guess. At the journal, at this blog, at the daily occurrences of my life. It is a damn slow and boring way to move forward, that has no magic, no instant gratification, no "great transformation." It leaves me feeling ordinary and unimpressively human, but it is the only tool I have right now, the only way forward I can see.
I don't know when I got so boring, so mundane. Somewhere over the last 7 years the powerhouse giggling magic girl disappeared, and I miss her so fucking much. If she were here, I think she would know what to do. So I guess, I'm just going to go outside looking for her. Wish me luck.
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, 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?
Monday, November 26, 2012
Pondering Past Thoughts
So much has been happening in my life lately, and it caused me to reflect on a post I wrote back in 2005. So I went serching through a million locked down livejournal posts till I found it.
Heroines for the 21st Century
written March 8, 2005
Motivated by my own comment to mamaluna about the new breed of Amazons.... i sought some guidance/comfort in the wisdom of the tealeaves.
Reading No. 16
Every man's life is a fairy tale, written by God's fingers. ~ Hans Christian Anderson
You are the hero of your own life, not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived. It's not the agony of the quest, but the rapture of the revelation
My own hero..... my own true Amazon warrior (with 2 whole breasts). Can it be a call I answer happily? Rise to the occassion and embrace? I see all these wonderfully empowered women, each of us smart and savy. Able to look at what is going on around us and say "This works" or "This is unhealthy, and I don't want to play that game anymore." We are healing and moving forward at what soemtimes seems to be a lightening fast pace..... and while we have each other, we simply cannot find a "partner" that will move at that pace with us.
Perhpas it's not meant to be. I've theorized before that as the human race moves forward, we step further and further away from monogomy (a state i believe has been trained into us by society and is not genetically what we are designed to do). Perhaps as we leap and bound away from accepted roles of wife and mother, we continue evolution, returning to the warrior state.
You know, all i've read by the modern gurus & elevated minds, they talk about the higher self, being a being of love..... but they don't really focus on marriage, or even life long partnership. There is an element of Bhuddism that seems to be the enlightened but unattached state. Unattached to material things, unattached to wants and desires. And what is a life long relationship, if not built (on some level) by wants and desires.
which takes me back to my longing for a new Avalon, for convent life..... unattached to the material, embraced only by spirituality.... tending gardens for the goddess.... each silent day a testimony to balance and bliss.
can we be on the path, returning to the Temple Priestess.... sacred in body and mind. sexual, sensual, yet sacred? Unhampered by earthy drama. And if that's where this is headed, then I shouldn't be upset by it. I should embrace it. Dance with it. Rise above the daily bullshit and see that this is the path put in front of me, and walk it with dedication and joy.
Alone,
Unhampered
Unattached
Heroines for the 21st Century
written March 8, 2005
Motivated by my own comment to mamaluna about the new breed of Amazons.... i sought some guidance/comfort in the wisdom of the tealeaves.
Reading No. 16
Every man's life is a fairy tale, written by God's fingers. ~ Hans Christian Anderson
You are the hero of your own life, not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived. It's not the agony of the quest, but the rapture of the revelation
My own hero..... my own true Amazon warrior (with 2 whole breasts). Can it be a call I answer happily? Rise to the occassion and embrace? I see all these wonderfully empowered women, each of us smart and savy. Able to look at what is going on around us and say "This works" or "This is unhealthy, and I don't want to play that game anymore." We are healing and moving forward at what soemtimes seems to be a lightening fast pace..... and while we have each other, we simply cannot find a "partner" that will move at that pace with us.
Perhpas it's not meant to be. I've theorized before that as the human race moves forward, we step further and further away from monogomy (a state i believe has been trained into us by society and is not genetically what we are designed to do). Perhaps as we leap and bound away from accepted roles of wife and mother, we continue evolution, returning to the warrior state.
You know, all i've read by the modern gurus & elevated minds, they talk about the higher self, being a being of love..... but they don't really focus on marriage, or even life long partnership. There is an element of Bhuddism that seems to be the enlightened but unattached state. Unattached to material things, unattached to wants and desires. And what is a life long relationship, if not built (on some level) by wants and desires.
which takes me back to my longing for a new Avalon, for convent life..... unattached to the material, embraced only by spirituality.... tending gardens for the goddess.... each silent day a testimony to balance and bliss.
can we be on the path, returning to the Temple Priestess.... sacred in body and mind. sexual, sensual, yet sacred? Unhampered by earthy drama. And if that's where this is headed, then I shouldn't be upset by it. I should embrace it. Dance with it. Rise above the daily bullshit and see that this is the path put in front of me, and walk it with dedication and joy.
Alone,
Unhampered
Unattached
Monday, February 28, 2011
Trying to capture the new, in just a few words
Hello all. Don't know if anyone still reads this. Don't know that many people who did to begin with. For a while, I had a stride, writing well and often. But life has a way of changing and this blog no longer fits me.
I haven't worked with a feral cat community in quite some time, and I've been dating the same guy for... eek.. 5 years this May, so the "Catch Neuter & Release" moniker isn't really appropriate anymore.
I don't sit at a computer, so my writing time is limited but now special to me. I left the entertainment industry and dreams of becoming a star (or at least a working actress) far behind. Now, after several years in school and internships, I'm considered part of the animal welfare industry (I know... shocker for a cat lady such as me.) I'm different. I'm quieter. Some times I'm heart broken and resigned that I left the life long dream behind me. Other times, I'm still and smiling, believing that this new path I've chosen in is fact my soul's true work, and while I don't have a clear direction in front of me, my internal compass has me moving forward in the right way.
I'd like to start journaling again, start blogging. Putting thought and belief out there to the Universe. I've had that feeling for months. But I'm always stopped when I try to contemplate a new title. Something catchy perhaps, easy to remember (or at least, easy to google). Something fun, which in a few words, captures who I am, who I am becoming, and what I face on the path.
defining oneself is never easy work.
I haven't worked with a feral cat community in quite some time, and I've been dating the same guy for... eek.. 5 years this May, so the "Catch Neuter & Release" moniker isn't really appropriate anymore.
I don't sit at a computer, so my writing time is limited but now special to me. I left the entertainment industry and dreams of becoming a star (or at least a working actress) far behind. Now, after several years in school and internships, I'm considered part of the animal welfare industry (I know... shocker for a cat lady such as me.) I'm different. I'm quieter. Some times I'm heart broken and resigned that I left the life long dream behind me. Other times, I'm still and smiling, believing that this new path I've chosen in is fact my soul's true work, and while I don't have a clear direction in front of me, my internal compass has me moving forward in the right way.
I'd like to start journaling again, start blogging. Putting thought and belief out there to the Universe. I've had that feeling for months. But I'm always stopped when I try to contemplate a new title. Something catchy perhaps, easy to remember (or at least, easy to google). Something fun, which in a few words, captures who I am, who I am becoming, and what I face on the path.
defining oneself is never easy work.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
A Moment of Calm
Is it the cold? The damp? The holiday? Or just the odd free moment in my hectic zoo schedule? I don't know for sure, but I'm feeling sublime and nostalgic.
As I walk across this campus, hood up in a weak fabric attempt to keep myself dry against the light Autumn rain, I can't help but think back to my early college days. As I was pass the Music building, I remember a 17 year old me, listening at practice room doors for my roomie, playing her clarinet scales and cursing loudly at mistakes. I remember nestling into the covers of my tiny twin bed, with a warm cup of cocoa, overflowing with mini marshmallows, listening to the Florida rainfall compete with loud hissing and clunks coming from an antique radiator. I remember the wet stillness that falls across Murphry Green when all the students are hidden away in rooms, or gathering in hallways.
I remember feeling so young, still stunned to already be in college... and yet feeling so old, mature and jaded to be out of high school. Laughably, that same conflicted arrogance is what can vex me so in my younger classmates. There are moments where I cannot tolerate it, and others where I jealously remember being so blissfully self-involved.
Course... here I am, blathering on about my life and my memories in my blog... as if anyone in the world could really possibly care. LOL. Self-involved is apparently a stage I haven't quite grown out of, if anyone really can.
In the library today, there is a warm silence that smells lightly of moist mulch and growing things. The rainy season in Southern California is also the time of growth, and I enjoy watching plants bud, or grass turning vibrantly green. The media/learning lab area is alive with keyboard clicks and IM pings. Laughter behind me as young women mock Myspace fotos and post with friends. Whereas only moments ago, I felt as if I were back at FSU, these new noises now make me feel as if MUCH has changed since I was in college. It was another decade... hell, another century. Wow... I'm crazy old.
I came to the library to work on my final project for Wildlife Education, while staying dry and warm. B.E. Projects were turned in today, and Diversity finals start next week (well, the first of 3 will be on Tuesday.) However, despite those pending assignments and anxieties, I sit fairly calm and composed, reflecting on college and the rain. It is a good day.
When I do find these moments to post, I have half an urge to ramble on about school: its woes, its dramas, and of course, the animals. Big rubber dairy boots and a shovel full of poop seems to all fade into the background with a 300+lb lioness watching you work. Her amber eyes entrance me and all manual labor seems easier when she's nearby. The coyote seems to trust me more than most others, and although I cannot work with her yet, I think about her often. This week, my assigned area of cleaning is Parrot Gardens. I'm admittedly not much of a bird person, but when a kookaburra breaks out into that long exotic call, even jaded ancient me can be impressed.
In short, school is school.... with all the good and bad that every college experience brings with it. But on rainy days full of memories, it is pleasant and playful and lovely to enjoy.
Wishing you all a great grey Wednesday, and may your Thanksgiving, however you experience it, be full of good friends and good food.
As I walk across this campus, hood up in a weak fabric attempt to keep myself dry against the light Autumn rain, I can't help but think back to my early college days. As I was pass the Music building, I remember a 17 year old me, listening at practice room doors for my roomie, playing her clarinet scales and cursing loudly at mistakes. I remember nestling into the covers of my tiny twin bed, with a warm cup of cocoa, overflowing with mini marshmallows, listening to the Florida rainfall compete with loud hissing and clunks coming from an antique radiator. I remember the wet stillness that falls across Murphry Green when all the students are hidden away in rooms, or gathering in hallways.
I remember feeling so young, still stunned to already be in college... and yet feeling so old, mature and jaded to be out of high school. Laughably, that same conflicted arrogance is what can vex me so in my younger classmates. There are moments where I cannot tolerate it, and others where I jealously remember being so blissfully self-involved.
Course... here I am, blathering on about my life and my memories in my blog... as if anyone in the world could really possibly care. LOL. Self-involved is apparently a stage I haven't quite grown out of, if anyone really can.
In the library today, there is a warm silence that smells lightly of moist mulch and growing things. The rainy season in Southern California is also the time of growth, and I enjoy watching plants bud, or grass turning vibrantly green. The media/learning lab area is alive with keyboard clicks and IM pings. Laughter behind me as young women mock Myspace fotos and post with friends. Whereas only moments ago, I felt as if I were back at FSU, these new noises now make me feel as if MUCH has changed since I was in college. It was another decade... hell, another century. Wow... I'm crazy old.
I came to the library to work on my final project for Wildlife Education, while staying dry and warm. B.E. Projects were turned in today, and Diversity finals start next week (well, the first of 3 will be on Tuesday.) However, despite those pending assignments and anxieties, I sit fairly calm and composed, reflecting on college and the rain. It is a good day.
When I do find these moments to post, I have half an urge to ramble on about school: its woes, its dramas, and of course, the animals. Big rubber dairy boots and a shovel full of poop seems to all fade into the background with a 300+lb lioness watching you work. Her amber eyes entrance me and all manual labor seems easier when she's nearby. The coyote seems to trust me more than most others, and although I cannot work with her yet, I think about her often. This week, my assigned area of cleaning is Parrot Gardens. I'm admittedly not much of a bird person, but when a kookaburra breaks out into that long exotic call, even jaded ancient me can be impressed.
In short, school is school.... with all the good and bad that every college experience brings with it. But on rainy days full of memories, it is pleasant and playful and lovely to enjoy.
Wishing you all a great grey Wednesday, and may your Thanksgiving, however you experience it, be full of good friends and good food.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Standing in a New Place, looking Forward
I've never been one to participate in politics. I'm not the girl you find in line at most polling places. I have little faith in our legislative and judicial systems, as they are currently practiced. My experience of politics has been 101 promises, 99 of which are broken (and one is reworded to exploit a built-in loophole). Why would I need to vote when I could get that sort of abuse from any number of previous relationships? Deeply ingrained in Generation-X cynicism, I embraced apathy... for it was easier than expressing and channeling the fury that our world's current state aroused within me.
And so, when the pre-presidential flurry began to spin, I tried to ignore it. ALthough I live with a man who has been working to support Obama since it was a grassroots campaign in Chicago, I tried to ignore it. I fought being won because in the end, it all comes down to one vivid and sometimes toxic emotion... hope.
Hope comes with strings attached. Strings of expectation. Expectations leave gaps and opportunities for disappointment, when they remain unmet. And so many times, they do.
Yet somehow, in all the chanting for change, a tiny seed of hope crept in. Small as it was, I did my best to avoid it, and not let it run any major decisions. I did however, find myself willing to vote, for the first time in a long time. Not only for the presidency, but for many state propositions that are important to me. I cast my ballot by mail, as I wasn't in the county during any open polling hours. And once the envelope was sealed, I didn't give it much thought. In fact, inundated with animals and education, I actually forgot several times that today was election day.
But as I killed time between evening classes, dining with a friend and seeing the first peek at the numbers, I felt an overwhelming stirring in my gut. I recognized it at once. The aching butterflies in my tummy were the twinges of hope, gnawed at by the fear of unmet expectations. Momentarily paralized, I did my best to push the news report and the quivering tingles aside, and focus on class.
Time passes, events roll forward whether you pay attention or not, and by the time I was in my car for the long ride home, McCain's concession speech was being aired. Driving east on the 118, tears rolled down my face. Me... my face... the face of a woman who until now has never much cared for election results, who avoids political discussions, and despises the bickering two-party system. Face to face with the fact that I was emotionally invested, I turned off my radio and came to terms with my unexpected reaction.
Can we? Really? Can we Change? Human beings are creatures of habit and radical turns of events have never been well embraced by society as a whole. The best of intentions can still be stymied by fillabustering and stalling. Worse yet, promises may not be kept.... best intentions might not be brought to the table. What then?
Hope. It terrifies me. But I cannot help but fill tonight with it. To let it float like smoke in the air, resonate like the final chord of a piano concerto. It hovers tangibly, waiting for expectations to be not only met, but embraced and bettered.
Yes We Can..... I certainly hope so.
And so, when the pre-presidential flurry began to spin, I tried to ignore it. ALthough I live with a man who has been working to support Obama since it was a grassroots campaign in Chicago, I tried to ignore it. I fought being won because in the end, it all comes down to one vivid and sometimes toxic emotion... hope.
Hope comes with strings attached. Strings of expectation. Expectations leave gaps and opportunities for disappointment, when they remain unmet. And so many times, they do.
Yet somehow, in all the chanting for change, a tiny seed of hope crept in. Small as it was, I did my best to avoid it, and not let it run any major decisions. I did however, find myself willing to vote, for the first time in a long time. Not only for the presidency, but for many state propositions that are important to me. I cast my ballot by mail, as I wasn't in the county during any open polling hours. And once the envelope was sealed, I didn't give it much thought. In fact, inundated with animals and education, I actually forgot several times that today was election day.
But as I killed time between evening classes, dining with a friend and seeing the first peek at the numbers, I felt an overwhelming stirring in my gut. I recognized it at once. The aching butterflies in my tummy were the twinges of hope, gnawed at by the fear of unmet expectations. Momentarily paralized, I did my best to push the news report and the quivering tingles aside, and focus on class.
Time passes, events roll forward whether you pay attention or not, and by the time I was in my car for the long ride home, McCain's concession speech was being aired. Driving east on the 118, tears rolled down my face. Me... my face... the face of a woman who until now has never much cared for election results, who avoids political discussions, and despises the bickering two-party system. Face to face with the fact that I was emotionally invested, I turned off my radio and came to terms with my unexpected reaction.
Can we? Really? Can we Change? Human beings are creatures of habit and radical turns of events have never been well embraced by society as a whole. The best of intentions can still be stymied by fillabustering and stalling. Worse yet, promises may not be kept.... best intentions might not be brought to the table. What then?
Hope. It terrifies me. But I cannot help but fill tonight with it. To let it float like smoke in the air, resonate like the final chord of a piano concerto. It hovers tangibly, waiting for expectations to be not only met, but embraced and bettered.
Yes We Can..... I certainly hope so.
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
Friday, March 21, 2008
Revelations at 15,000 feet
Tag had a business trip this week (it is his busy season). However, time and location being in line with the stars, I was able to go along for a small vacation. Our jaunt took us up to Seattle, a city I had longed to visit. Raised in Florida, but living in a desert, I find myself chronically desiring a good rain. Seattle seems a likely candidate for providing such pleasures.
However, I find that the trip allotted me so much more than just precipitation. The flights themselves were fairly uneventful, often hovering over or barrelling through fluffy worlds of grey and white. Below me the land stretched out, a luscious green, rising and falling in large crinkly waves; emerald velvet discarded by some frivolous seamstress. Deep pools of black decorated the fabric of the landscape. Tract housing, with its circular patterns and identical roofs, reminded me of ringworm signs in flesh, and the irony of that was not lost on me. Urban sprawl is a parasite, leaching its way through virgin wildlife. Forehead pressed to the tiny window, I was simultaneously awed, inspired, saddened and disgusted. The more I study and work with conservation and rescue, the more I rage at the majority of American culture, with its need for instant gratification and its "Me First" attitude. And yet there I was, riding on a plane, for a recreational trip to another city, for no other reason than "Oooh, that would be cool."
Tag says that I worry too much. He's not the first to say something along those lines to me. But I can't stop my mind from spinning into a frenzy. I can't stop it long enough to sit still these days. My actual mental health scares me sometimes, as I feel that my long time depression is slowly transforming into something more bi-polar. I don't want to be sick, but the signs seem so inevitably obvious. Yet I don't want it to be true. I don't want to be on medication, not now... and certainly not forever.
I've read on various blogs the argument that if I had diabetes, I wouldn't hesitate to take insulin. Or if I had cancer, I wouldn't hesitate to treat it with radiation or chemo. But the simple fact is that I wouldn't want to. I would resist traditional therapies and would like to pursue other methods of healing. I don't care what the disease, I don't want to be on medication for the rest of my life. However, I fear that I am inherently lazy, and would not do all that needs to be done to treat the illness holistically. It is overwhelming to look down the barrel of that gun and feel so disempowered.
So runs the gamut of emotions that I experienced over the last three days. Awe at beauty, but fury at its demise. Impassioned about living, but despondent over where life is headed. Lucky, but unlucky. I am urged to take life by its proverbial horns and change the world, but discouraged by the feeling of being perpetually behind the 8-ball. Like the tiny ice crystals that form on plane windows, there are moments of small, unparalleled beauty, but they melt before your feet touch down.
Thinking never stops in my brain. I wake from dreams still pondering the questions that were asked of me during their neuron-dancing frenzy. And yet still, I wake without answers. Hanging in mid-air, the ground below is magical and enticing to the touch. I just need to find a way to bring that essence down, pluck it out of the wind like a butterfly or stray balloon, and let the floating freedom transform me. Because if I don't figure out how to manifest that transformation soon, I fear that I will remain this neurotic pill-popping people hater. And that is just one step closer to becoming part of the problem.
There is so much that needs transformation and healing. But tonight, I am overwhelmed and jet lagged, lost in thought that handicaps my desire for action. It is not the most comfortable seat on the plane.
However, I find that the trip allotted me so much more than just precipitation. The flights themselves were fairly uneventful, often hovering over or barrelling through fluffy worlds of grey and white. Below me the land stretched out, a luscious green, rising and falling in large crinkly waves; emerald velvet discarded by some frivolous seamstress. Deep pools of black decorated the fabric of the landscape. Tract housing, with its circular patterns and identical roofs, reminded me of ringworm signs in flesh, and the irony of that was not lost on me. Urban sprawl is a parasite, leaching its way through virgin wildlife. Forehead pressed to the tiny window, I was simultaneously awed, inspired, saddened and disgusted. The more I study and work with conservation and rescue, the more I rage at the majority of American culture, with its need for instant gratification and its "Me First" attitude. And yet there I was, riding on a plane, for a recreational trip to another city, for no other reason than "Oooh, that would be cool."
Tag says that I worry too much. He's not the first to say something along those lines to me. But I can't stop my mind from spinning into a frenzy. I can't stop it long enough to sit still these days. My actual mental health scares me sometimes, as I feel that my long time depression is slowly transforming into something more bi-polar. I don't want to be sick, but the signs seem so inevitably obvious. Yet I don't want it to be true. I don't want to be on medication, not now... and certainly not forever.
I've read on various blogs the argument that if I had diabetes, I wouldn't hesitate to take insulin. Or if I had cancer, I wouldn't hesitate to treat it with radiation or chemo. But the simple fact is that I wouldn't want to. I would resist traditional therapies and would like to pursue other methods of healing. I don't care what the disease, I don't want to be on medication for the rest of my life. However, I fear that I am inherently lazy, and would not do all that needs to be done to treat the illness holistically. It is overwhelming to look down the barrel of that gun and feel so disempowered.
So runs the gamut of emotions that I experienced over the last three days. Awe at beauty, but fury at its demise. Impassioned about living, but despondent over where life is headed. Lucky, but unlucky. I am urged to take life by its proverbial horns and change the world, but discouraged by the feeling of being perpetually behind the 8-ball. Like the tiny ice crystals that form on plane windows, there are moments of small, unparalleled beauty, but they melt before your feet touch down.
Thinking never stops in my brain. I wake from dreams still pondering the questions that were asked of me during their neuron-dancing frenzy. And yet still, I wake without answers. Hanging in mid-air, the ground below is magical and enticing to the touch. I just need to find a way to bring that essence down, pluck it out of the wind like a butterfly or stray balloon, and let the floating freedom transform me. Because if I don't figure out how to manifest that transformation soon, I fear that I will remain this neurotic pill-popping people hater. And that is just one step closer to becoming part of the problem.
There is so much that needs transformation and healing. But tonight, I am overwhelmed and jet lagged, lost in thought that handicaps my desire for action. It is not the most comfortable seat on the plane.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Choices
One's philosophy is not best expressed in words; it is expressed in the choices one makes. In the long run, we shape our lives and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And, the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility.-- Eleanor Roosevelt
The prospect of being unemployed is not one that fills me with a great deal of comfort. However, the actions of others around me (here at the office) have confirmed that my resignation was ABSOLUTELY the best choice for me to make. Alice in Wonderland once said, "I do not want to go amongst mad people," and believe me, I could not echo her sentiments more resolutely.
As the news of my departure leaks its way through the department, and then the company, many have approached to ask where my path is heading. I can give no answer other than, "I don't know... but sure as hell not here." An overwhelming abundance of choices are spread before me and I could pick any and do well.
However, some choices are not made with the mind, but with the heart, or the soul, or the very essence that drives you. I tell others that I don't know where I'm headed, but that's not entirely true. I know that my future must contain working with animals, and preferably working outside. Too long have I sat 10 - 12 hours at a time, in front of a computer, ignoring the fact that the sun rises and sets and I don't have a moment to get outdoors. Too long have I smiled and played "nice" within the snake pit of office politics. And for what? As Amandarin pointed out not long ago, "No one is ever going to reach their deathbed and find themselves wishing they'd spent more time at work." I'm pursing returning to school. I'm looking at nearby possibilities. And of course, I'm still reaching for my heart's mission.
One night, I was scouring the web, researching opportunities and I found myself weeping for all the lost years. I turned to Tag and said, "How did I get to be 36 without even KNOWING these jobs were out there?" To which he responded, "The good news is... you're only 36, and you know now."
Eleanor is right. This process takes an entire lifetime, and I'm not done yet. If I am truly in charge of shaping my life, then let me grab the sculptor's tools and create a reality I'm proud to call my own. Let me choose to be happy and fulfilled. Let me make the choices that make a difference.
The prospect of being unemployed is not one that fills me with a great deal of comfort. However, the actions of others around me (here at the office) have confirmed that my resignation was ABSOLUTELY the best choice for me to make. Alice in Wonderland once said, "I do not want to go amongst mad people," and believe me, I could not echo her sentiments more resolutely.
As the news of my departure leaks its way through the department, and then the company, many have approached to ask where my path is heading. I can give no answer other than, "I don't know... but sure as hell not here." An overwhelming abundance of choices are spread before me and I could pick any and do well.
However, some choices are not made with the mind, but with the heart, or the soul, or the very essence that drives you. I tell others that I don't know where I'm headed, but that's not entirely true. I know that my future must contain working with animals, and preferably working outside. Too long have I sat 10 - 12 hours at a time, in front of a computer, ignoring the fact that the sun rises and sets and I don't have a moment to get outdoors. Too long have I smiled and played "nice" within the snake pit of office politics. And for what? As Amandarin pointed out not long ago, "No one is ever going to reach their deathbed and find themselves wishing they'd spent more time at work." I'm pursing returning to school. I'm looking at nearby possibilities. And of course, I'm still reaching for my heart's mission.
One night, I was scouring the web, researching opportunities and I found myself weeping for all the lost years. I turned to Tag and said, "How did I get to be 36 without even KNOWING these jobs were out there?" To which he responded, "The good news is... you're only 36, and you know now."
Eleanor is right. This process takes an entire lifetime, and I'm not done yet. If I am truly in charge of shaping my life, then let me grab the sculptor's tools and create a reality I'm proud to call my own. Let me choose to be happy and fulfilled. Let me make the choices that make a difference.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Sunday Scribblings: Hi, My Name Is...
I stare in to the mirror and draw a blank. Before me, a woman drowing. I run so fast, I don't know where I am when standing still. Wear so many hats, I've lost touch of who is here hatless. Reality can't hit a moving target and denial makes a fantastic running partner.
Hi, my name is... Perpetual Motion.
The first day I sat in the office of my very first (and still my favorite) therapist, she said, "Tell me about yourself." Without thought or hestiation, I launched into a diatribe of attributes (physical and personality), giving the root foundation for each. "Mother's eyes, Father's nose.... Father's angry mumble and Mother's prediliction for clutter."
Years later, that shrink confided "I had never met anyone with so little sense of self." But they do affect us, don't they? The Nature and the Nurture. They all have their say. From gods to parents, from peers to societal norms- every level has a few more rules and guidelines. Everyone says "Don't." Everyone says "Shouldn't." Everyone defines "Appropriate" for you, until you come to this place: Jane Doe, living in AnyCity, USA... and those few simple definitions give you a whole rule book of "supposed to."
Hi, My Name is..... Boxed In
We each have fantasies and hopes. Dreams that we struggle to keep feeding, trapped in the shoebox, hidden in the closet. We sneak it bread crumbs and the brocolli we hid in our napkin. And for what? The having of a hope makes the keen edge of not realizing it even more painful to endure. Then again, what is the other option?
Hi, My Name is.... Despair?
Like a 13 year old, I sit glowering "if only you knew..."
- what I really want to do
- what I really CAN do- if only you'd let me. If only I'd let myself
Hoodies with skirts and knee-high fuzzy boots and BigDog comments "One of the many perks of having Teece in the office that you never know what you'll get with.... (*pause* searching for the word)
A co worker suggest, "her avant-guard style??"
BigDog continues, "... her adventurous take on fashion."
I smile. I shrug. I giggle. I search and hold tight to the compliment, trying to purge from my mind Mitzi, who defined my junior year with the wicked words, "You don't have money and you dress weird. Now go away, we don't need your opinon."
My other boss, she recently looked at my hair, now shades of lavender and said, "I like this one. It's.... (*pause* searching for the word) subtle." Something I have never been by nature. Again I smile. I thank her. I try not read the sneer on her lips.
Hi, My Name is... Unappreciated? Misunderstood? Weird.
Today, I have classes to teach. How can I tell those women to love their bodies, to embrace themselves just as they are if I can't leave these demons on the page? They say "We teach best what we most need to learn," but I haven't figured out how.
Bewildered
Frustrated
Angry, deep within.
I am a volcano ready to erupt
I am a villager, living the in fearful shadow of the volcano
I am the village dog, chained and unaware
Hi, My Name is... (*pause* searching for the word)
Hi, my name is... Perpetual Motion.
The first day I sat in the office of my very first (and still my favorite) therapist, she said, "Tell me about yourself." Without thought or hestiation, I launched into a diatribe of attributes (physical and personality), giving the root foundation for each. "Mother's eyes, Father's nose.... Father's angry mumble and Mother's prediliction for clutter."
Years later, that shrink confided "I had never met anyone with so little sense of self." But they do affect us, don't they? The Nature and the Nurture. They all have their say. From gods to parents, from peers to societal norms- every level has a few more rules and guidelines. Everyone says "Don't." Everyone says "Shouldn't." Everyone defines "Appropriate" for you, until you come to this place: Jane Doe, living in AnyCity, USA... and those few simple definitions give you a whole rule book of "supposed to."
Hi, My Name is..... Boxed In
We each have fantasies and hopes. Dreams that we struggle to keep feeding, trapped in the shoebox, hidden in the closet. We sneak it bread crumbs and the brocolli we hid in our napkin. And for what? The having of a hope makes the keen edge of not realizing it even more painful to endure. Then again, what is the other option?
Hi, My Name is.... Despair?
Like a 13 year old, I sit glowering "if only you knew..."
- what I really want to do
- what I really CAN do- if only you'd let me. If only I'd let myself
Hoodies with skirts and knee-high fuzzy boots and BigDog comments "One of the many perks of having Teece in the office that you never know what you'll get with.... (*pause* searching for the word)
A co worker suggest, "her avant-guard style??"
BigDog continues, "... her adventurous take on fashion."
I smile. I shrug. I giggle. I search and hold tight to the compliment, trying to purge from my mind Mitzi, who defined my junior year with the wicked words, "You don't have money and you dress weird. Now go away, we don't need your opinon."
My other boss, she recently looked at my hair, now shades of lavender and said, "I like this one. It's.... (*pause* searching for the word) subtle." Something I have never been by nature. Again I smile. I thank her. I try not read the sneer on her lips.
Hi, My Name is... Unappreciated? Misunderstood? Weird.
Today, I have classes to teach. How can I tell those women to love their bodies, to embrace themselves just as they are if I can't leave these demons on the page? They say "We teach best what we most need to learn," but I haven't figured out how.
Bewildered
Frustrated
Angry, deep within.
I am a volcano ready to erupt
I am a villager, living the in fearful shadow of the volcano
I am the village dog, chained and unaware
Hi, My Name is... (*pause* searching for the word)
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Intentional Drowning
"Your body is drowning."
"What?" I asked, somewhat startled.
The soft Asian face tilted up towards me, her look pensive as she sought for the words to explain. "Your body...it is... drowning. Too much fluid. Is holding.... um, retaining."
Oh, yes... that. I'm retaining water. I'm bloated. Twas a combo of PMS, stress, and bizarre temperatures. And apparently, unknown to me, a great deal of extra mucus in my lungs and sinuses. Through the miracles of acupuncture and herbal teas, I've been draining profusely ever since. Breathing is easier, but my nose is still recovering from the repeated blowings and tissue wipes.
But it is her words that still stay with me. Drowning. I am drowning. Never has a diagnosis felt so right on the money.
Working two jobs can be overwhelming. And the teaching, although it is wonderful to experience, is growing in hours and demanding on the voice and body. I often feel that my most fierce doggie-paddle just barely keeps my head above the surface.
More than that, as of late, dreams and signs are filled with underwater images and icons. My long time love for mermaids has grown into a nearly obsessive fascination. I hear the sirens call me towards the rocks anytime I see their images (and I'm currently reading a fascinating book on the subject as well.) Octopi (octopuses?) are everywhere. Painted graffiti on the street, Discovery shows that happen to be on when I turn on the TV, books and fliers that chance to come across my desk. Even my dearest love (& subject of my first 6th grade research paper) Nessie has returned to my consciousness, lurking in the corners of my mind and popping up in unrelated conversations.
Until lately, I'd complained about feeling frozen or numb. My coven sister speculates that this new drowning sensation is merely the effects of the ice thaw.
Could that be it? Could it be that I'm coming through the winter of this endlessly long transition? Something in me broke in 2005, and I've not felt whole since. The experience has been 2 years of highs and lows and general angst without resolution, and I'd love to think that phase is finally wrapping-up. But drowning is an odd sensation. Not one of relief, but neither is it one of suffocation or panic. We breathed and lived in liquid within the womb. Is it possible to find that skill again, amidst a sea of uncertainty?
Water is essential
Water is affected by thought & intention
Water is in all life, all things
Water is the connection
I am mostly water
My world is mostly water
Can I sink into that, and find the way to live?
"What?" I asked, somewhat startled.
The soft Asian face tilted up towards me, her look pensive as she sought for the words to explain. "Your body...it is... drowning. Too much fluid. Is holding.... um, retaining."
Oh, yes... that. I'm retaining water. I'm bloated. Twas a combo of PMS, stress, and bizarre temperatures. And apparently, unknown to me, a great deal of extra mucus in my lungs and sinuses. Through the miracles of acupuncture and herbal teas, I've been draining profusely ever since. Breathing is easier, but my nose is still recovering from the repeated blowings and tissue wipes.
But it is her words that still stay with me. Drowning. I am drowning. Never has a diagnosis felt so right on the money.
Working two jobs can be overwhelming. And the teaching, although it is wonderful to experience, is growing in hours and demanding on the voice and body. I often feel that my most fierce doggie-paddle just barely keeps my head above the surface.
More than that, as of late, dreams and signs are filled with underwater images and icons. My long time love for mermaids has grown into a nearly obsessive fascination. I hear the sirens call me towards the rocks anytime I see their images (and I'm currently reading a fascinating book on the subject as well.) Octopi (octopuses?) are everywhere. Painted graffiti on the street, Discovery shows that happen to be on when I turn on the TV, books and fliers that chance to come across my desk. Even my dearest love (& subject of my first 6th grade research paper) Nessie has returned to my consciousness, lurking in the corners of my mind and popping up in unrelated conversations.
Until lately, I'd complained about feeling frozen or numb. My coven sister speculates that this new drowning sensation is merely the effects of the ice thaw.
Could that be it? Could it be that I'm coming through the winter of this endlessly long transition? Something in me broke in 2005, and I've not felt whole since. The experience has been 2 years of highs and lows and general angst without resolution, and I'd love to think that phase is finally wrapping-up. But drowning is an odd sensation. Not one of relief, but neither is it one of suffocation or panic. We breathed and lived in liquid within the womb. Is it possible to find that skill again, amidst a sea of uncertainty?
Water is essential
Water is affected by thought & intention
Water is in all life, all things
Water is the connection
I am mostly water
My world is mostly water
Can I sink into that, and find the way to live?
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Confession
There are tons of photos from our time in Palm Springs, and I hope to post them soon. However, i just haven't really been able to sit down and write a good happy vacation post. My mind is rumbling with doubts and issues and frustrations, and I've avoided the written word becuase I'm in no mood to face the grouchies.
I should know better.
A grouchy mind left unexpressed leaks out in dreams and mood swings and after crying the car last night, I had a sleep full of angsty imaginings and disturbing visions. So I'm tossing aside some image of the eternally perky pink-haired girl and just hashing some shit out.
I'm not very happy with me right now.
When I was young, I dreamed of being something more. I loved theatre, and like many young girls, wanted to be that beautiful startlet splashed across movie screens. I loved the fierce and feisty heroines who battled the odds and fought the status quo. Dark and edgy, or just sarcastic and bitter, I laughed at their witty barbs and idolized their passionate fights. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would often say "Important."
I spent a few years trying to fit in and be "pretty", and when I realized that I didn't work well in that mold, I tried to create my own. I listened to dark, angry music and found release in the fury of dance floors. I felt alive when I was moving and lost when I had to "play along" with every day life. I chatted frequently with imaginary friends and invisible movie cameras that I felt documented my every move. I was always performing for an audience, and tried to make interesting choices.
I fought depression, and frequently lost. I sought out teachers and guides, and fell prey to manipulative and abusive imposters. I had tumultous and destructive love affairs, and although they hurt, I reminded myself that there was no gain without pain, and plunged somewhat melodramtically into the despair of the moment.
I'm sure I was quite tedious at times, but at least I felt original.
As time passed, I realized that life was not always a two-hour, well written saga that ended well as the credits ran. It's cliche, but "there's no one to save you except yourself," and once I embraced that (through years of therapy) I began to make better choices.... or at least I tried to.
I've done a lot of "inner work", and I believe that I am a much better person for it. However, as of late, I've begun to fear that "better" is not necessarily intersting. As of late, I find myself looking in the mirror, completely unimpressed with the person I've become. I wanted to be the femme-fatale, fierce and fiery. Instead, I see a chubby middle-aged woman, with an adequate job and an unremarkable life.
I find myself utterly ordinary... and that's really bothering me.
I should know better.
A grouchy mind left unexpressed leaks out in dreams and mood swings and after crying the car last night, I had a sleep full of angsty imaginings and disturbing visions. So I'm tossing aside some image of the eternally perky pink-haired girl and just hashing some shit out.
I'm not very happy with me right now.
When I was young, I dreamed of being something more. I loved theatre, and like many young girls, wanted to be that beautiful startlet splashed across movie screens. I loved the fierce and feisty heroines who battled the odds and fought the status quo. Dark and edgy, or just sarcastic and bitter, I laughed at their witty barbs and idolized their passionate fights. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would often say "Important."
I spent a few years trying to fit in and be "pretty", and when I realized that I didn't work well in that mold, I tried to create my own. I listened to dark, angry music and found release in the fury of dance floors. I felt alive when I was moving and lost when I had to "play along" with every day life. I chatted frequently with imaginary friends and invisible movie cameras that I felt documented my every move. I was always performing for an audience, and tried to make interesting choices.
I fought depression, and frequently lost. I sought out teachers and guides, and fell prey to manipulative and abusive imposters. I had tumultous and destructive love affairs, and although they hurt, I reminded myself that there was no gain without pain, and plunged somewhat melodramtically into the despair of the moment.
I'm sure I was quite tedious at times, but at least I felt original.
As time passed, I realized that life was not always a two-hour, well written saga that ended well as the credits ran. It's cliche, but "there's no one to save you except yourself," and once I embraced that (through years of therapy) I began to make better choices.... or at least I tried to.
I've done a lot of "inner work", and I believe that I am a much better person for it. However, as of late, I've begun to fear that "better" is not necessarily intersting. As of late, I find myself looking in the mirror, completely unimpressed with the person I've become. I wanted to be the femme-fatale, fierce and fiery. Instead, I see a chubby middle-aged woman, with an adequate job and an unremarkable life.
I find myself utterly ordinary... and that's really bothering me.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Ebb & Flow
Change comes rapidly, like a swift Autumn wind. Faster than the seasons can shift, faster than I can keep up. As John Lennon sang: “Life is what happens to you when while you're busy making other plans.”
*pause, to catch my breath*
Although co-habitation can be challenging, Tag and I grow ever closer. However, sometimes it is for unfortunate reasons. Just last weekend, we shared the heartbreak of losing a pet. Brave Neo, who traveled with Tag from Chicago, died inexplicably, leaving the bulk of our Saturday mired in impromptu services in the nearby park. This, added to the sadness of my Grandmother’s passing, has left me pondering the “dark time” and all its hidden gifts.
Traditionally, Samhain is the festival that marks the “End of Summer”, or the time of the Harvest. One tradition states that you could harvest until sundown on Hallows Eve, but not a moment longer. Whatever was not cut by that sunset, you left in the field as an offering to the spirits. From that moment, you could only look forward to the next harvest season; making productive use of what had been brought in, and sowing the seeds for the following year.
During this last season or so, friends have fallen away, life has run at speeds both hectic and humdrum, and of course, love has come to play.
For each birth there has been a death. For each Spring blossom that bloomed, an Autumn leaf fell to ground. Sadness and loss weigh heavy right now, as the days grow shorter and darker. I’ve been battling moments of anger and despair. Last night, in dance class, I found myself weeping, in a dimly lit room pulsating with music and life. I felt like I was a great black hole of energy, absorbing joy and transmuting it into nothingness.
My mood is lighter today, although not completely recovered. My thoughts are scattered and this post is challenging to write. However, underneath it all, I still feel a smidgeon of hope bubbling up through the goop-- the ever-present idea that it does once again get better, that wounds heal, and lessons get learned and at the end of the day, as long as one can surround themselves with friends and loved ones…. it’s gonna be ok.
*pause, to catch my breath*
Although co-habitation can be challenging, Tag and I grow ever closer. However, sometimes it is for unfortunate reasons. Just last weekend, we shared the heartbreak of losing a pet. Brave Neo, who traveled with Tag from Chicago, died inexplicably, leaving the bulk of our Saturday mired in impromptu services in the nearby park. This, added to the sadness of my Grandmother’s passing, has left me pondering the “dark time” and all its hidden gifts.
Traditionally, Samhain is the festival that marks the “End of Summer”, or the time of the Harvest. One tradition states that you could harvest until sundown on Hallows Eve, but not a moment longer. Whatever was not cut by that sunset, you left in the field as an offering to the spirits. From that moment, you could only look forward to the next harvest season; making productive use of what had been brought in, and sowing the seeds for the following year.
During this last season or so, friends have fallen away, life has run at speeds both hectic and humdrum, and of course, love has come to play.
For each birth there has been a death. For each Spring blossom that bloomed, an Autumn leaf fell to ground. Sadness and loss weigh heavy right now, as the days grow shorter and darker. I’ve been battling moments of anger and despair. Last night, in dance class, I found myself weeping, in a dimly lit room pulsating with music and life. I felt like I was a great black hole of energy, absorbing joy and transmuting it into nothingness.
My mood is lighter today, although not completely recovered. My thoughts are scattered and this post is challenging to write. However, underneath it all, I still feel a smidgeon of hope bubbling up through the goop-- the ever-present idea that it does once again get better, that wounds heal, and lessons get learned and at the end of the day, as long as one can surround themselves with friends and loved ones…. it’s gonna be ok.
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
Monday, December 12, 2005
Stumbling over nuggets
"Let us fall in love for the night
and red-faced, sort out the details in the morning."
*****************************************
Can I examine and expose myself
- honestly but not brutally
- without shame
- without pain
without exaggeration
(to make me seem cool)
without self-depreciation
(to make me seem contrite for my sins)
Just truth-
told without attachment....
can I be that honest for you?
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Pandora's Closet Storage Area
She spoke of going thru her journals from a decade ago, and enjoyed the stroll down memory lane.
I, on the other hand, lock my old journals away in boxes. Unmarked, and sealed with enough duct tape to hold a bumper on a CRX. I know where in the house they are. They are never very far from me, because i would never want them to fall into the wrong hands.
When I began journalling, as a teen, I thought about my "glamourous life", and how I would capture it all on paper. I imagined the publishing of my memoirs after my too young death, and the scandal they would cause.
I pictured people salivating over well-described steamy scenes of passion. I envisioned lovers weeping as they discovered the un-revealed depths of my feelings. I hoped for fury from those I "double crossed", knowing I'd had the last laugh from beyond the grave.
Instead, what I have amassed is boxes of smarm and unexpressed rage. Hopes for loves that never should have gotten my time. Fully described moments of bold stupidity, fueled by desparation and the desire to be 'enough'. Later, when I thought I had grown to an age that I swore I didn't need approval anymore, I find thru reading that I in fact just transferred that need onto whatever abusive emotionally-distant jackass I chose to fill my life with at that time.
I used to read my journals more often. As if by seeing where I had been, I would know better to not go down that road again. But it became more and more painful....
I don't begrudge that girl her elaborately planned suicide attempts, or her bone-achingly deep desire to be loved. She and all her misadventures have made me what I am today.
However, much as I do when I'm entranced in a tv show (I yell at the screen helpful tips, and get frustrated when they can't hear me), I find myself crying out from my soul, "NO... Don't... Please please stop." And yet she barrels away blindly, smacking face first into the pain.
And the reading... it seems to give life again to those feelings. As if by speaking aloud the words I wrote in blood all those years ago, I cast a spell that calls them into being today. I resurrect them from their forgotten hell and set them free, to wreak havoc upon the world, and upon my soul.
When I was a child, I read the myth of Pandora and her box of horrors. Something about the description made me picture those terrors as tiny headless bats, slightly bigger than a 50cent piece, dripping blood, smelling of death, and screeching unholy fury.
That same image asails me when I think of opening that box of journals. This Pandora has fought many demons, and I daresay will fight more. But I will not give life to past terrors, and let the old ghosts come out.
In this way, Duct Tape will save the world.
I, on the other hand, lock my old journals away in boxes. Unmarked, and sealed with enough duct tape to hold a bumper on a CRX. I know where in the house they are. They are never very far from me, because i would never want them to fall into the wrong hands.
When I began journalling, as a teen, I thought about my "glamourous life", and how I would capture it all on paper. I imagined the publishing of my memoirs after my too young death, and the scandal they would cause.
I pictured people salivating over well-described steamy scenes of passion. I envisioned lovers weeping as they discovered the un-revealed depths of my feelings. I hoped for fury from those I "double crossed", knowing I'd had the last laugh from beyond the grave.
Instead, what I have amassed is boxes of smarm and unexpressed rage. Hopes for loves that never should have gotten my time. Fully described moments of bold stupidity, fueled by desparation and the desire to be 'enough'. Later, when I thought I had grown to an age that I swore I didn't need approval anymore, I find thru reading that I in fact just transferred that need onto whatever abusive emotionally-distant jackass I chose to fill my life with at that time.
I used to read my journals more often. As if by seeing where I had been, I would know better to not go down that road again. But it became more and more painful....
I don't begrudge that girl her elaborately planned suicide attempts, or her bone-achingly deep desire to be loved. She and all her misadventures have made me what I am today.
However, much as I do when I'm entranced in a tv show (I yell at the screen helpful tips, and get frustrated when they can't hear me), I find myself crying out from my soul, "NO... Don't... Please please stop." And yet she barrels away blindly, smacking face first into the pain.
And the reading... it seems to give life again to those feelings. As if by speaking aloud the words I wrote in blood all those years ago, I cast a spell that calls them into being today. I resurrect them from their forgotten hell and set them free, to wreak havoc upon the world, and upon my soul.
When I was a child, I read the myth of Pandora and her box of horrors. Something about the description made me picture those terrors as tiny headless bats, slightly bigger than a 50cent piece, dripping blood, smelling of death, and screeching unholy fury.
That same image asails me when I think of opening that box of journals. This Pandora has fought many demons, and I daresay will fight more. But I will not give life to past terrors, and let the old ghosts come out.
In this way, Duct Tape will save the world.
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