I just don't know - nope I don't. You think you have stuff figured out, in the blink of an eye everything changes.
See Just like that - it is all different. My mind needs to shut down. Like the computer, sleep, hibernate, rest. Best I can do is keep busy with other things. I am worried about Zuko. His seizure last night was bad. He is still off his game this morning. I have a Dr's appointment so I have to leave him alone. I do not like to leave him alone anytime. Especially after a seizure. He has such anxiety. How did I raise a dog with such anxiety?
I believe the process has started. I cannot remain in this space. Stubborn as I am - retreat does not suit me. Moving forward is scaring me.
Last night, those things happen. Reckon they leave me a little groggy like Zuko from his seizures.
In reality none of us know know - we do the best with information we have we do the best we can. Right? This makes us human.
The whole Christmas in August thing does bother me. Christmas Magic was once real. Now it is beat the clock for the best deal. I won't let it be that. If in August I saw something I knew someone would love I would buy it and put it away for their Christmas present. Don't believe everyone needs the same number of gifts to open. A child does not need everything they want.
Sometimes less is more. And I am so awful when it comes to writing and mailing cards, gifts, anything. If only my intentions propelled to completion I would be an accomplished person.
Y'all know that right? How much I carry each of you in my heart? How much your words, prayers, thoughts, well - have sustained me.
Living in this gray space. Man I need to get out of my head. Too often I dive into a task not comprehending it's enormity. Then I feel compelled to complete. I am not a good finisher.
I have grand ideas, my follow through stinks. Nope I am not a good finisher. This apartment is half decorated, half organized. Don't really know where to go with it. Reckon that is as much a statement of my overall feelings.
I need ink for my printer so I can print some pictures to frame. Hang them up. I have this idea of turning some old wooden ski's (that is not possessive but looks awkward without the apostrophe. What is correct?) into a long picture frame ascending the stairs like a ski slope. In my head it is really cool.
I would like to make a quilt. Eileen just whips them out. She is far more disciplined than I. And sometimes I just do not feel good. Is there a proficient talk to text program for a laptop? Typing gets more difficult as my hands, elbows, shoulders lose their dexterity. I can type without looking but can't type without fine motor skills.
I know I am rambling. I feel I should write something. I want y'all to know I am OK. Opening boxes is difficult, I started it, and I don't want those images to be what you think of when you think about me. Please don't worry about me.
I am a survivor. In time it will be another eye blink that changes everything. I will hang on. I will move forward. Goodness please don't worry about me. I don't write, share, for that reason. I write and share because it helps me. I write and share hoping, just maybe, my experiences might help someone else get through tough times. I write I share so I know I am never alone - so you know you are never alone.
As Michelle stated so eloquently; "I am blessed to be on our common journey with you."
Be good to yourself. Tread lightly when crossing broken bridges. Leave a light on for the next person. And don't put sour milk in your coffee.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Sunday, November 17, 2013
20 Seconds
...20 seconds; that is how long you have to take a room's temperature and formulate a plan. 20 seconds to decide if you are safe or in danger. 20 seconds to escape unnoticed or get snagged. 20 seconds to get between the fight, flee the scene, or take what is coming. 20 seconds for your senses to dictate your actions. God help you if you are wrong!
If you are wrong you will not escape the plastic snap of an orange Hot Wheels track against your back. If you are wrong you will spend the night locked in the root cellar; hunched on the top step - listening to the critters scatter below you. Feel the cobwebs form around you.
20 seconds...count it out. It is not that much time. Yes, measure my life in love - my childhood...20 seconds.
It becomes a skills test. A test you really want to pass. As your skills are honed you learn. You learn that knowledge does not equal power. You learn love is painful. You figure out, in 20 seconds, how little meaning your life has.
Then, I reckon, when you are down to the end of your life you beg for 20 more seconds. That is irony.
All of it would be easier if 20 seconds only mattered at one place. It mattered everywhere. There was no time for sleeping. No time for resting. You had to remain vigilant! You had to keep track. How hard did the car door close? What color are his shoes? Whose hand is opening your bedroom door? Whose hand has you by the hair?
It is shorter than a television commercial. Not much longer than two sneezes and a God Bless You. Tick, tick, tick...listen with your ears, your eyes, your instincts. Be right!
When your wrong - keep counting. 20 seconds is 5 blows to the face. Do what you are told 20 seconds at a time. Hold your breath for 20 seconds. 20 seconds more. Keep focused on that bare light bulb just 20 seconds.
Nights can be long spent 20 seconds at a time. They could be longer if you lose count.
Watching the cursor flash 20 times. I cannot write what I see. No, the contents of this box - count 20 seconds. Keep counting. Write 20 letters. abcdefghijklmnopqrst - Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst woman. Blessed is the fruit of - not even one Hail Mary. Quicken your pace. You can say an entire Hail Mary in 20 seconds.
Can't do it. I see it. My skin crawls. muscles twitching eyes darting listen to Zuko breathe stay here stay here it is just an image from a box listen to Zuko he had another seizure he needs you here listen count stay here count each tear reach 20 then move on do not close your eyes listen to Zuko breathe stay here breathe in deep exhale slowly no there is no understanding you won't find anything it was not your fault or was it listen to Zuko breathe -
Can't do it. Can't do it. What I see no one should see. Nope 20 seconds is not a very long time...or it is a lifetime.
If you are wrong you will not escape the plastic snap of an orange Hot Wheels track against your back. If you are wrong you will spend the night locked in the root cellar; hunched on the top step - listening to the critters scatter below you. Feel the cobwebs form around you.
20 seconds...count it out. It is not that much time. Yes, measure my life in love - my childhood...20 seconds.
It becomes a skills test. A test you really want to pass. As your skills are honed you learn. You learn that knowledge does not equal power. You learn love is painful. You figure out, in 20 seconds, how little meaning your life has.
Then, I reckon, when you are down to the end of your life you beg for 20 more seconds. That is irony.
All of it would be easier if 20 seconds only mattered at one place. It mattered everywhere. There was no time for sleeping. No time for resting. You had to remain vigilant! You had to keep track. How hard did the car door close? What color are his shoes? Whose hand is opening your bedroom door? Whose hand has you by the hair?
It is shorter than a television commercial. Not much longer than two sneezes and a God Bless You. Tick, tick, tick...listen with your ears, your eyes, your instincts. Be right!
When your wrong - keep counting. 20 seconds is 5 blows to the face. Do what you are told 20 seconds at a time. Hold your breath for 20 seconds. 20 seconds more. Keep focused on that bare light bulb just 20 seconds.
Nights can be long spent 20 seconds at a time. They could be longer if you lose count.
Watching the cursor flash 20 times. I cannot write what I see. No, the contents of this box - count 20 seconds. Keep counting. Write 20 letters. abcdefghijklmnopqrst - Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst woman. Blessed is the fruit of - not even one Hail Mary. Quicken your pace. You can say an entire Hail Mary in 20 seconds.
Can't do it. I see it. My skin crawls. muscles twitching eyes darting listen to Zuko breathe stay here stay here it is just an image from a box listen to Zuko he had another seizure he needs you here listen count stay here count each tear reach 20 then move on do not close your eyes listen to Zuko breathe stay here breathe in deep exhale slowly no there is no understanding you won't find anything it was not your fault or was it listen to Zuko breathe -
Can't do it. Can't do it. What I see no one should see. Nope 20 seconds is not a very long time...or it is a lifetime.
Fact Finding
I need facts. My mind works that way. Gather data, analyze data, formulate a plan, execute the plan, access, adapt along the way. Keeping true North - or in this case "My place of Peace" as my point to reach.
So I did research on effects of mothers dying during or immediately after giving birth. Looking for long term psychological effects on the fetus. There is not a lot out there.
One doctoral thesis had a paragraph giving a hypothetical analysis of long term effects on the newborn. OK, it pretty much described me. Other than that I have not found much.
Over the past 10 years there is a bit more info. However most of it pertains to children who lose their mother after 6 months. There is more information on a mother's stress level during pregnancy and the effect on child.
Not surprising a mother who is under stress during pregnancy has an increase in adrenal and cortisol hormones which are transferred to the baby. Some research suggests a fetus at least 24 months along has enough immune system to reject the mother's hormones. Other studies say just the opposite.
I think we can all agree, smoking, drinking, stress will effect an embryo. As will playing music, talking with the fetus, massage, a healthy diet, proper neonatal nutrition.
It is interesting that only human animals separate mother and newborn during the first moments of life. All other primates gather their babies for skin to skin contact. There is an evaluative process taking shape deciding if placing a newborn against mother's skin immediately will change long term psychological make up. That research(all pun intended) is in infancy.
My aversion to research compounded because I have not found enough information to analyze.
I do not believe in evil. I have written about this before. Perhaps I should - my life certainly lends itself more to evils presence than absence. I won't give in to that.
People commit acts that are evil. People engage in evil behavior - People are not born evil. I was in HS the first time I wrote a paper on this subject. I remember writing that paper because I had to open some boxes in order to gain enough information to write a strong paper.
Goodness yes behavior of many people has and continues to shape my daily life.
Last night I was telling Eileen about the book, "Courage to Heal." For most of my 20's that book was my bible. I have read two editions. Today I am going to see if a new edition came out, if not I will order the last edition.
I believe it is the prologue from the second edition written by a woman who was in her 80's. A survivor of familial sexual abuse. This woman had been a nun her entire adult life. Travelled the world working with those who are so often forgotten. A nun - you cannot live a much more noble life. Priests get a lot more press than nuns.
Anywho, this woman wrote that no matter how long you live, no matter how you live, you never forget...throughout life a simple smell, sound, sight can send you right back to your darkest moments. What you can do is find the courage to heal, develop coping mechanisms, fill your tool box with items that will help you get back to present day. That is not a direct quote - It has always stuck with me. If a woman well into her 80's, served humanity in totality, speaks of those moments when fear strikes you like a baseball bat - well, reckon a girl's gotta figure out a plan of recovery and refocus.
In a conversation with a friend, also a survivor, she said the same thing - "You never get over it." Another friend said I should open all those boxes, let the light on them. My theory has pretty much been what I do remember is awful - what I don't remember must be really awful.
There are gaps in my childhood memories. I don't know if what is in those boxes will fill in the gaps. I fear I might open a box, its contents just too much and I will lose the me I am.
No perfection here - but I am not a bad person. Everyone of us has a story. We don't live 50 years without accumulating scars. No one does.
Let me share with you a beautiful memory. I do not like the whole Christmas beginning in August thing. Already carols in the stores - I do love Christmas.
Y'all know how much I adored the ground Mommie walked on. That is not to say I am blinded to her faults. She was a depressed alcoholic. She had a difficult time showing affection. She had a mean streak a mile long. She had a heart big as the moon. Mommie loved Christmas.
I believe because her childhood was so awful she wanted her children to have at least a day of magic. We were living on Franklin Street. Christmas morning. Yule log playing on Channel 11, fire in the fire place, Daddy Pat napping in his recliner, (Ya' Know he clapped three times before he awoke, every time) wrapping paper strewn from here to there, four young girls oohing and ahhing over their gifts. Mommie, with a cup of Irish coffee in her hand was leaning on the wall between the dining room and living room. Standing in her robe, no make up, no wig - her blacked rimmed glasses on the table. I remember looking up at her - her eyes were rimmed red; tears of joy. It was the sparkle I saw. It was my Mommie, in that present moment, feeling that for at least these few precious moments she had done something right. Her eyes were happy. They were beautiful. She was beautiful. The moment was fleeting. It is ingrained in my happy place. Her eyes, I wish I knew how to describe them so you could comprehend how radiant they were. And how, for that moment, none of us were flawed, broken, beaten - we were her vision of perfection. I am glad she had that moment. Even more thankful I was able to see it.
I look at the eyes. Everyone's eyes - on Mommie's last day on this Earth; when her speech was gone, her eyes still spoke. They were sad, begging me to leave her, begging me to help her leave. I held her hand and said she could leave but I was not leaving her. For that brief flash, it was there again - her eyes red rimmed, no make up, no wig, no glasses - that radiant flash when she was in her place of peace. Feeling, for all her failings and faults, in that present moment - right then - her hands in mine. Everything was as it should be. Her place of peace.
As it turned out I did not stay with Mommie that night. She died at 3:20 am. Though I will always regret I was not there - I know she did not want me there. I do know in her last hours on this Earth, she felt peace. Maybe she never forgave herself for her shortcomings - In her eyes, in that fleeting moment - she was in her place of peace. That image is also ingrained in my skin.
It is eyes. I look at people's eyes. Although I avert direct eye contact, when someone isn't looking, I search their eyes. This is why I do not believe in evil. I have seen eyes of darkness, empty eyes, eyes of hate...I have also seen eyes of love, eyes of peace, eyes of joy. Evil...maybe I wasn't looking when those eyes were right in front of me. More likely they just don't exist.
So I did research on effects of mothers dying during or immediately after giving birth. Looking for long term psychological effects on the fetus. There is not a lot out there.
One doctoral thesis had a paragraph giving a hypothetical analysis of long term effects on the newborn. OK, it pretty much described me. Other than that I have not found much.
Over the past 10 years there is a bit more info. However most of it pertains to children who lose their mother after 6 months. There is more information on a mother's stress level during pregnancy and the effect on child.
Not surprising a mother who is under stress during pregnancy has an increase in adrenal and cortisol hormones which are transferred to the baby. Some research suggests a fetus at least 24 months along has enough immune system to reject the mother's hormones. Other studies say just the opposite.
I think we can all agree, smoking, drinking, stress will effect an embryo. As will playing music, talking with the fetus, massage, a healthy diet, proper neonatal nutrition.
It is interesting that only human animals separate mother and newborn during the first moments of life. All other primates gather their babies for skin to skin contact. There is an evaluative process taking shape deciding if placing a newborn against mother's skin immediately will change long term psychological make up. That research(all pun intended) is in infancy.
My aversion to research compounded because I have not found enough information to analyze.
I do not believe in evil. I have written about this before. Perhaps I should - my life certainly lends itself more to evils presence than absence. I won't give in to that.
People commit acts that are evil. People engage in evil behavior - People are not born evil. I was in HS the first time I wrote a paper on this subject. I remember writing that paper because I had to open some boxes in order to gain enough information to write a strong paper.
Goodness yes behavior of many people has and continues to shape my daily life.
Last night I was telling Eileen about the book, "Courage to Heal." For most of my 20's that book was my bible. I have read two editions. Today I am going to see if a new edition came out, if not I will order the last edition.
I believe it is the prologue from the second edition written by a woman who was in her 80's. A survivor of familial sexual abuse. This woman had been a nun her entire adult life. Travelled the world working with those who are so often forgotten. A nun - you cannot live a much more noble life. Priests get a lot more press than nuns.
Anywho, this woman wrote that no matter how long you live, no matter how you live, you never forget...throughout life a simple smell, sound, sight can send you right back to your darkest moments. What you can do is find the courage to heal, develop coping mechanisms, fill your tool box with items that will help you get back to present day. That is not a direct quote - It has always stuck with me. If a woman well into her 80's, served humanity in totality, speaks of those moments when fear strikes you like a baseball bat - well, reckon a girl's gotta figure out a plan of recovery and refocus.
In a conversation with a friend, also a survivor, she said the same thing - "You never get over it." Another friend said I should open all those boxes, let the light on them. My theory has pretty much been what I do remember is awful - what I don't remember must be really awful.
There are gaps in my childhood memories. I don't know if what is in those boxes will fill in the gaps. I fear I might open a box, its contents just too much and I will lose the me I am.
No perfection here - but I am not a bad person. Everyone of us has a story. We don't live 50 years without accumulating scars. No one does.
Let me share with you a beautiful memory. I do not like the whole Christmas beginning in August thing. Already carols in the stores - I do love Christmas.
Y'all know how much I adored the ground Mommie walked on. That is not to say I am blinded to her faults. She was a depressed alcoholic. She had a difficult time showing affection. She had a mean streak a mile long. She had a heart big as the moon. Mommie loved Christmas.
I believe because her childhood was so awful she wanted her children to have at least a day of magic. We were living on Franklin Street. Christmas morning. Yule log playing on Channel 11, fire in the fire place, Daddy Pat napping in his recliner, (Ya' Know he clapped three times before he awoke, every time) wrapping paper strewn from here to there, four young girls oohing and ahhing over their gifts. Mommie, with a cup of Irish coffee in her hand was leaning on the wall between the dining room and living room. Standing in her robe, no make up, no wig - her blacked rimmed glasses on the table. I remember looking up at her - her eyes were rimmed red; tears of joy. It was the sparkle I saw. It was my Mommie, in that present moment, feeling that for at least these few precious moments she had done something right. Her eyes were happy. They were beautiful. She was beautiful. The moment was fleeting. It is ingrained in my happy place. Her eyes, I wish I knew how to describe them so you could comprehend how radiant they were. And how, for that moment, none of us were flawed, broken, beaten - we were her vision of perfection. I am glad she had that moment. Even more thankful I was able to see it.
I look at the eyes. Everyone's eyes - on Mommie's last day on this Earth; when her speech was gone, her eyes still spoke. They were sad, begging me to leave her, begging me to help her leave. I held her hand and said she could leave but I was not leaving her. For that brief flash, it was there again - her eyes red rimmed, no make up, no wig, no glasses - that radiant flash when she was in her place of peace. Feeling, for all her failings and faults, in that present moment - right then - her hands in mine. Everything was as it should be. Her place of peace.
As it turned out I did not stay with Mommie that night. She died at 3:20 am. Though I will always regret I was not there - I know she did not want me there. I do know in her last hours on this Earth, she felt peace. Maybe she never forgave herself for her shortcomings - In her eyes, in that fleeting moment - she was in her place of peace. That image is also ingrained in my skin.
It is eyes. I look at people's eyes. Although I avert direct eye contact, when someone isn't looking, I search their eyes. This is why I do not believe in evil. I have seen eyes of darkness, empty eyes, eyes of hate...I have also seen eyes of love, eyes of peace, eyes of joy. Evil...maybe I wasn't looking when those eyes were right in front of me. More likely they just don't exist.
Friday, November 15, 2013
While I was away.
This is pretty raw - you may not want to read.
I know I have been away a while...a lot of deep thinking and soul searching. In a town this small there are not a lot of options for professional assistance. I had to roll up my sleeves, put on my big girl pants, and get to work.
I still don't sleep much. An hour here an hour there. No off switch on this brain.
What I have begun to discover, I should have bought stock in a band aide company. I have put band aides over gaping wounds.
Can't do that anymore. Truth is I have spent the past 4 days finding reasons to not take my own life. Making promises I know I will keep as a means to keep me from hurting myself. I did cut a little.
An odd thing cutting. It really doesn't hurt. Or physical pain is more bearable than emotional pain. Used a few more band aides.
I mistook Mommie's bed side request about Aldona Mae. She was not asking me to take care of her - she was warning me. Aldona Mae is filled with a lifetime of anger, hate, vengefulness. Such a waste. When I cracked she was ready with the lead pipe to knock me on my ass and keep me there. I don't know what to do to help her heal. She must heal. Inside, I know there is a gentle soul and a kind heart - I know it.
Now I have to deal with all the "stuff" I kept in boxes on shelves in closets, under beds, in garages.
"It's a Wonderful Life" one of my favorite movies. I would like the opportunity Clarence gave George - see what the world would have been had he not been born.
50 years I have wondered that. Carried that guilt. Had Eva lived and I died - so many lives would have been better - or maybe not. That is how I feel. I wish I had died and Eva had lived. I wish I did not wear that stain.
You can't help but wonder. What events would have turned out differently. My existence turned a lot of lives into crap. And yes, I believe my existence turned a lot of lives into good.
What I wonder most - if from that day forward - if my father looked at me and could only see what he lost because I was born. I don't know how a man can look at his little girl with a blood stained night gown after being raped with the barrel of a gun and not want to kill the man who hurt his child. I don't know how he could eat his Cheez-Its, drink his beer while his little girl, with an eight inch gash in her hand, is forced to keep that hand in a bucket of Clorox because she didn't get the clothes off the line before it rained.
Those are hard things to understand. So I am going to ask my father to meet me. I am going to ask him; If when he looks at me he sees only loss and regret? I am going to ask him how come he chose everyone else? Why not me?
What do you think he will say? Nothing. He won't say anything - if he keeps to form. His mother, my Little Gram, an angel if ever there was one - she believed the sun rose and set on her son Larry. Always encouraged me to keep him in my life. She knew some, reckon when she went to heaven she knew all.
Use to be a song on the jukebox at the Tavern Arms Hotel. "Daddy Don't You Walk So Fast." My father with his long strides. Blue jacket, green or brown khakis and those damned green hush puppies - how many times did I feel those shoes kick me in the gut, in my back, in my face?
What exists in a man, a person, anyone - to commit such acts of pure evil. Hold a gun to your head, chop off the rabbits head, and the foot - keep the foot for good luck. I just killed the rabbit don't reckon his foot was going to be of much luck. A winter hare, pure white, beautiful brown eyes.
Oh hell I could tell you things that would keep you up at night. All these damned shoe boxes - I kept them closed and put away for a reason. It is too late now. I have to know. I have to touch it all, say it out loud, know someone else knows. My truth and I have to know his truth. Not because of his bitch of a wife or her bastard son! I have to know his truth. Who does he see when he looks at me? Ironic isn't it, my father looks like Little Gram, I look like my father. If you saw a picture of Little Gram at my age today, we are twins. Right down to that crooked front tooth.
I don't know when I will be back. I don't write this shit for shock value, sympathy, it is purging - this is just my shit. And as George Carlin always said; "You got to take care of your shit."
Please know I am trying. Self psycho-therapy through blogging is not traditional. That shrink said I wouldn't respond to traditional - I don't know what non-traditional means. So I am going this route.
You can pray for me. I will pray for you.
I know I have been away a while...a lot of deep thinking and soul searching. In a town this small there are not a lot of options for professional assistance. I had to roll up my sleeves, put on my big girl pants, and get to work.
I still don't sleep much. An hour here an hour there. No off switch on this brain.
What I have begun to discover, I should have bought stock in a band aide company. I have put band aides over gaping wounds.
Can't do that anymore. Truth is I have spent the past 4 days finding reasons to not take my own life. Making promises I know I will keep as a means to keep me from hurting myself. I did cut a little.
An odd thing cutting. It really doesn't hurt. Or physical pain is more bearable than emotional pain. Used a few more band aides.
I mistook Mommie's bed side request about Aldona Mae. She was not asking me to take care of her - she was warning me. Aldona Mae is filled with a lifetime of anger, hate, vengefulness. Such a waste. When I cracked she was ready with the lead pipe to knock me on my ass and keep me there. I don't know what to do to help her heal. She must heal. Inside, I know there is a gentle soul and a kind heart - I know it.
Now I have to deal with all the "stuff" I kept in boxes on shelves in closets, under beds, in garages.
"It's a Wonderful Life" one of my favorite movies. I would like the opportunity Clarence gave George - see what the world would have been had he not been born.
50 years I have wondered that. Carried that guilt. Had Eva lived and I died - so many lives would have been better - or maybe not. That is how I feel. I wish I had died and Eva had lived. I wish I did not wear that stain.
You can't help but wonder. What events would have turned out differently. My existence turned a lot of lives into crap. And yes, I believe my existence turned a lot of lives into good.
What I wonder most - if from that day forward - if my father looked at me and could only see what he lost because I was born. I don't know how a man can look at his little girl with a blood stained night gown after being raped with the barrel of a gun and not want to kill the man who hurt his child. I don't know how he could eat his Cheez-Its, drink his beer while his little girl, with an eight inch gash in her hand, is forced to keep that hand in a bucket of Clorox because she didn't get the clothes off the line before it rained.
Those are hard things to understand. So I am going to ask my father to meet me. I am going to ask him; If when he looks at me he sees only loss and regret? I am going to ask him how come he chose everyone else? Why not me?
What do you think he will say? Nothing. He won't say anything - if he keeps to form. His mother, my Little Gram, an angel if ever there was one - she believed the sun rose and set on her son Larry. Always encouraged me to keep him in my life. She knew some, reckon when she went to heaven she knew all.
Use to be a song on the jukebox at the Tavern Arms Hotel. "Daddy Don't You Walk So Fast." My father with his long strides. Blue jacket, green or brown khakis and those damned green hush puppies - how many times did I feel those shoes kick me in the gut, in my back, in my face?
What exists in a man, a person, anyone - to commit such acts of pure evil. Hold a gun to your head, chop off the rabbits head, and the foot - keep the foot for good luck. I just killed the rabbit don't reckon his foot was going to be of much luck. A winter hare, pure white, beautiful brown eyes.
Oh hell I could tell you things that would keep you up at night. All these damned shoe boxes - I kept them closed and put away for a reason. It is too late now. I have to know. I have to touch it all, say it out loud, know someone else knows. My truth and I have to know his truth. Not because of his bitch of a wife or her bastard son! I have to know his truth. Who does he see when he looks at me? Ironic isn't it, my father looks like Little Gram, I look like my father. If you saw a picture of Little Gram at my age today, we are twins. Right down to that crooked front tooth.
I don't know when I will be back. I don't write this shit for shock value, sympathy, it is purging - this is just my shit. And as George Carlin always said; "You got to take care of your shit."
Please know I am trying. Self psycho-therapy through blogging is not traditional. That shrink said I wouldn't respond to traditional - I don't know what non-traditional means. So I am going this route.
You can pray for me. I will pray for you.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Betrayal
I am not sure when I lost the understanding of all that I believed. I am not sure when I decomposed to such a point I was either disconnected or hopped up on pain meds. Looking back, there is a lot I don't remember.
Often I say;
"What I can't remember from my childhood must be horrific; because what I can remember is awful."
This process - reintegrating. It is a lot of hard, emotional work. It has to be done. I existed in my Place of Peace. This is what I call it. Knowing I cannot change the past nor control the future - I rest in my place of peace. It worked...until it didn't.
My mind meanders - that is no surprise. An old 8 mm film scratches, jumps, fades, and flickers. Images meld together. A picture forms. A memory becomes reality.
Why I could not get up - I don't know. I have always gotten up. My life is a testament to resiliency. Yes, I wish it were not so. I am not better for my scars. It was what it was.
Abusing pain meds as a form of escaping a reality I could not understand. That was not a solution. Crawling into a bottle, seeking to shut off my brain. And if by chance taking 15 Percocet and 5 Nucynta took me out - I was OK with that.
When I was 9 years old I tried to kill myself. It was the first time - not the only time. Sitting here 41 years later I can't help but think;
"I am not suppose to be alive."
Yet, I know I am suppose to be alive. God certainly has made that clear. Now if he would point me in a direction. I am a good soldier. Give me my orders and I will execute them flawlessly.
I have avoided this betrayal. Avoided the topic. It is an image growing more clear. It is a truth beyond tragedy. This betrayal is incomprehensible.
This process is not about assigning blame. It is my search for understanding. Though we cannot change the past we do have to accept it - sometimes accepting truth sets you free. Other times it just hurts like hell.
And thus, this betrayal I have avoided will not let me move forward. It is time to face this truth. This one hurts like hell.
Y'all know I made a deathbed promise to Mommie; I would always take care of Aldona Mae. From her childhood, teenage years, adulthood...I did my best. After Mommie passed, I did more.
Aldona Mae and I were so close - not really as it turns out. Just writing those words makes me cry. I was merely a puppet in her charade. She knew how to pull my strings.
Not a matter of keeping score. Aldona Mae did a lot for me, it just wasn't free. Love should be free. The price was too high - but I always paid. I promised I would. As I said, I am a good soldier.
When you are in the middle of a tornado don't reckon you can see what exists outside the wind and debris. Love should not be a tornado.
All I did, all she did - mutual love and respect - was I really that blinded? Yes. Many a times others told me I was blinded. I did not deny it. Thought we were both blinded - kindred spirits brought together by love to be there for one another through good and bad times. Unconditional acceptance and love.
Still I would believe that. It was not Aldona throwing me out. She did what she felt was right. She knew I wanted to die and she did not want to watch me kill myself. She did not want Jessica to see that. Aldona did the right thing. I should have left months before. I knew it. In my twisted reality I felt I needed to stay.
No, that was not her betrayal. This was - driving to Greenville we passed a Chick Fil'A. Thought about stopping to eat there. I said no. As a corporation Chick Fil'A spent millions of dollars opposing equality for gay and lesbian marriage. The CEO did not hide his hatred and bigotry. Standing on his bible and family value platform he denounced our existence. No, I was not eating at Chick Fil'A.
Jessica in the back seat kept with questions;
"But why would he hate people he doesn't know?"
Goodness the pure innocence of a child is often truth adults don't comprehend.
As I turned to Jessica, I wanted to explain to here in more detail. It would be no more fair for her to boycott Chick Fil'A because of my views than it was of Chick Fil'A to condone such bigotry.
Aldona Mae hushed me. Jessica doesn't need to know the details. What? You know gay, lesbian - she doesn't need to know all of that. I remember asking;
"Doesn't Jessica know I am a lesbian?"
"She doesn't need to know. She has to go to school down here. We live here." Aldona replied.
Wow! It was a body blow I never saw coming. As we discussed it further I learned Aldona did not feel my relationship, my marriage to Liz was equal to her marriage to Robert. Nor was my love of Emily, as my child, valid. I should love Jessica, just Jessica.
The hits kept coming. Then one day girl scouts were going to a play in Dallas. On the way they planned to stop at Chick Fil'A. As told to me by Aldona Mae - Jessica spoke up. She told the van full of bible thumping, conservative, bigoted, Christians - They could not eat at Chick Fil'A because the man in charge hated people he didn't know. Aunt Lee Lee said so.
I was so proud of my Jessica Rose. 9 years old she stood up to her peers and adults because she listened and learned and believed all people should be treated equally. Of course Aldona Mae hushed her. Told her it would be alright to eat there just this once. She didn't want Jessica to say anymore. The words she used;
"I was mortified, I thought she would say gay or lesbian."
This my friends is the betrayal I cannot comprehend. No, Jessica does not know her Aunt Lee Lee is a lesbian. She knows I am a teacher, an athlete, a writer, a friend, a sister, an Aunt who fills in as a Grandma when need arises. She knows when I am there Mommie and Daddy yell less. She knows she loves me - She knows I love her.
I have never led with my sexuality. No more than I have with my hair color. I was 9 when I knew I felt different. Glad I don't have to be 9 again.
My sweet Jessica Rose denied her voice. Denied knowledge - denied opportunity. And I, well, this betrayal erased 45 years of what I held as truth.
Long before I fell down, long before I took a pill, long before I lost myself - I was denied by my Aldona Mae. You might as well have shot me in the head. That would have hurt less. As I said; This one hurts like hell.
What do you do? Darned if I know. As shitty as I feel I worry about Jessica. She is a sensitive young girl. Kind, generous, insightful, she strives for perfection and lives to please adults - We know these symptoms. That is what they are, symptoms. The little girl who will do anything to gain approval, keep the peace, buries her voice - We know how this goes.
No, Aldona Mae kicking me out, that was justified. Everything else was betrayal. What do you do? What do I do?
If you happen to read this Aldona Mae...perhaps you will find an awakening. You don't have to let me go, turns out you never held me.
It is I who held you. Betrayal like this hurts like hell. It is not too late for Jessica - You know how it feels, spending your whole life striving for perfection, acceptance - You betrayed yourself. You betrayed me. Don't betray Jessica.
Yup, it does hurt like hell.
Often I say;
"What I can't remember from my childhood must be horrific; because what I can remember is awful."
This process - reintegrating. It is a lot of hard, emotional work. It has to be done. I existed in my Place of Peace. This is what I call it. Knowing I cannot change the past nor control the future - I rest in my place of peace. It worked...until it didn't.
My mind meanders - that is no surprise. An old 8 mm film scratches, jumps, fades, and flickers. Images meld together. A picture forms. A memory becomes reality.
Why I could not get up - I don't know. I have always gotten up. My life is a testament to resiliency. Yes, I wish it were not so. I am not better for my scars. It was what it was.
Abusing pain meds as a form of escaping a reality I could not understand. That was not a solution. Crawling into a bottle, seeking to shut off my brain. And if by chance taking 15 Percocet and 5 Nucynta took me out - I was OK with that.
When I was 9 years old I tried to kill myself. It was the first time - not the only time. Sitting here 41 years later I can't help but think;
"I am not suppose to be alive."
Yet, I know I am suppose to be alive. God certainly has made that clear. Now if he would point me in a direction. I am a good soldier. Give me my orders and I will execute them flawlessly.
I have avoided this betrayal. Avoided the topic. It is an image growing more clear. It is a truth beyond tragedy. This betrayal is incomprehensible.
This process is not about assigning blame. It is my search for understanding. Though we cannot change the past we do have to accept it - sometimes accepting truth sets you free. Other times it just hurts like hell.
And thus, this betrayal I have avoided will not let me move forward. It is time to face this truth. This one hurts like hell.
Y'all know I made a deathbed promise to Mommie; I would always take care of Aldona Mae. From her childhood, teenage years, adulthood...I did my best. After Mommie passed, I did more.
Aldona Mae and I were so close - not really as it turns out. Just writing those words makes me cry. I was merely a puppet in her charade. She knew how to pull my strings.
Not a matter of keeping score. Aldona Mae did a lot for me, it just wasn't free. Love should be free. The price was too high - but I always paid. I promised I would. As I said, I am a good soldier.
When you are in the middle of a tornado don't reckon you can see what exists outside the wind and debris. Love should not be a tornado.
All I did, all she did - mutual love and respect - was I really that blinded? Yes. Many a times others told me I was blinded. I did not deny it. Thought we were both blinded - kindred spirits brought together by love to be there for one another through good and bad times. Unconditional acceptance and love.
Still I would believe that. It was not Aldona throwing me out. She did what she felt was right. She knew I wanted to die and she did not want to watch me kill myself. She did not want Jessica to see that. Aldona did the right thing. I should have left months before. I knew it. In my twisted reality I felt I needed to stay.
No, that was not her betrayal. This was - driving to Greenville we passed a Chick Fil'A. Thought about stopping to eat there. I said no. As a corporation Chick Fil'A spent millions of dollars opposing equality for gay and lesbian marriage. The CEO did not hide his hatred and bigotry. Standing on his bible and family value platform he denounced our existence. No, I was not eating at Chick Fil'A.
Jessica in the back seat kept with questions;
"But why would he hate people he doesn't know?"
Goodness the pure innocence of a child is often truth adults don't comprehend.
As I turned to Jessica, I wanted to explain to here in more detail. It would be no more fair for her to boycott Chick Fil'A because of my views than it was of Chick Fil'A to condone such bigotry.
Aldona Mae hushed me. Jessica doesn't need to know the details. What? You know gay, lesbian - she doesn't need to know all of that. I remember asking;
"Doesn't Jessica know I am a lesbian?"
"She doesn't need to know. She has to go to school down here. We live here." Aldona replied.
Wow! It was a body blow I never saw coming. As we discussed it further I learned Aldona did not feel my relationship, my marriage to Liz was equal to her marriage to Robert. Nor was my love of Emily, as my child, valid. I should love Jessica, just Jessica.
The hits kept coming. Then one day girl scouts were going to a play in Dallas. On the way they planned to stop at Chick Fil'A. As told to me by Aldona Mae - Jessica spoke up. She told the van full of bible thumping, conservative, bigoted, Christians - They could not eat at Chick Fil'A because the man in charge hated people he didn't know. Aunt Lee Lee said so.
I was so proud of my Jessica Rose. 9 years old she stood up to her peers and adults because she listened and learned and believed all people should be treated equally. Of course Aldona Mae hushed her. Told her it would be alright to eat there just this once. She didn't want Jessica to say anymore. The words she used;
"I was mortified, I thought she would say gay or lesbian."
This my friends is the betrayal I cannot comprehend. No, Jessica does not know her Aunt Lee Lee is a lesbian. She knows I am a teacher, an athlete, a writer, a friend, a sister, an Aunt who fills in as a Grandma when need arises. She knows when I am there Mommie and Daddy yell less. She knows she loves me - She knows I love her.
I have never led with my sexuality. No more than I have with my hair color. I was 9 when I knew I felt different. Glad I don't have to be 9 again.
My sweet Jessica Rose denied her voice. Denied knowledge - denied opportunity. And I, well, this betrayal erased 45 years of what I held as truth.
Long before I fell down, long before I took a pill, long before I lost myself - I was denied by my Aldona Mae. You might as well have shot me in the head. That would have hurt less. As I said; This one hurts like hell.
What do you do? Darned if I know. As shitty as I feel I worry about Jessica. She is a sensitive young girl. Kind, generous, insightful, she strives for perfection and lives to please adults - We know these symptoms. That is what they are, symptoms. The little girl who will do anything to gain approval, keep the peace, buries her voice - We know how this goes.
No, Aldona Mae kicking me out, that was justified. Everything else was betrayal. What do you do? What do I do?
If you happen to read this Aldona Mae...perhaps you will find an awakening. You don't have to let me go, turns out you never held me.
It is I who held you. Betrayal like this hurts like hell. It is not too late for Jessica - You know how it feels, spending your whole life striving for perfection, acceptance - You betrayed yourself. You betrayed me. Don't betray Jessica.
Yup, it does hurt like hell.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
The Heart of The Matter
The first time Liz and I took Em out, she was 4 years old. We went to Century City. We watched a movie, window shopped, had some lunch. Before we left we got ice cream cones. As we were walking back to the car Em moved her ice cream from her right hand to her left. Then she reached up and took my hand. I looked down at this beautiful child - her pure innocent eyes. Chocolate ice cream rimmed her mouth - spotted her nose.
Em looked at me, squeezed my hand and said;
"This is the best day ever!"
That was the moment I felt a whole new depth of love. A place in my heart I did not know existed came to life. The tag line in an insurance commercial;
"The day I became yours, you became mine."
That was the day, the moment, Em's little hand in mine - I wiped chocolate ice cream from her nose. I squeezed her hand right back. I could not speak - It was this moment I understood when parents say the first time they hold their child forever changes them.
That warm December day changed me. I became a Mom. It is incredible. Everything else ceases to matter except your child. You want to protect, nurture, love - you want to do everything right; Most of the time you worry you are doing everything wrong.
And so it began. Watching Em grow it is amazing. She is so kind, intelligent, athletic. Em possess a keen awareness of equality and respect. She epitomizes a spirit unencumbered with preconceived notions.
One time we were walking through China Town. Liz holding one hand, I held Em's other hand. As we entered a crosswalk a big SUV blew the stop sign - you don't think, Both Liz and I bent to scoop up Em, place our bodies between that black SUV and Em. I slammed my fist on the car's hood. A man inside was yelling. I yelled louder. He did not exit his car. Smart of him. You endanger my child I will beat the day lights out of you.
This is how you feel all the time. I wanted to protect Em from everything. I wanted to give her everything. Picking her up from school, helping her with homework, making supper, bath and bed some of the most incredible moments I have experienced.
When we went camping Em and I would "gear up." Hats, gloves, whistles, belts for our canteens, walkie talkies, utility knives. Any camping accessory we could put on a belt we did. We loved it. Liz laughed at the two of us, looking like we were going on Dual Survivor.
This is our heart. Not the muscle beating in our chest. Our heart - it cannot be seen, you can't measure beats per minute - This is our heart. It is where love grows. Our heart where we hold hopes and dreams. Our heart where we garner strength to overcome. This is where we hold on and we let go. Doctors can't touch it. Can't stitch up a broken heart. You can't stop this heart - even in the darkest of hours, this heart beats measures of love. This heart sustains us.
Nothing changes love of your child. Em is my child. One day she took my hand, she became mine and I became hers. This my friends is The Heart of The Matter. Not being with her. Not talking with her. It is a raw pain. My heart, the one you can't see - this heart holds her even tighter, yearns a glimpse of her smile, urges me to protect her - wants to hug her, explain to her my failures and frailties - beg her forgiveness. You don't stop being a Mom - this heart beats in measures of love - absence makes it beat faster. Longing causes fissures. Failures become fractures.
This heart - it is not a muscle - it is our soul, our existence, our character, and our flaws. Reckon, this heart is the one which really matters. Being a Mom is more than giving birth - I know that. My Mom did not give birth to me. I did not give birth to my daughter. Our hearts know no difference. This love, unlike any other, remains strong - becomes stronger - it grows and grows.
Yup, this is the heart of the matter.
Em looked at me, squeezed my hand and said;
"This is the best day ever!"
That was the moment I felt a whole new depth of love. A place in my heart I did not know existed came to life. The tag line in an insurance commercial;
"The day I became yours, you became mine."
That was the day, the moment, Em's little hand in mine - I wiped chocolate ice cream from her nose. I squeezed her hand right back. I could not speak - It was this moment I understood when parents say the first time they hold their child forever changes them.
That warm December day changed me. I became a Mom. It is incredible. Everything else ceases to matter except your child. You want to protect, nurture, love - you want to do everything right; Most of the time you worry you are doing everything wrong.
And so it began. Watching Em grow it is amazing. She is so kind, intelligent, athletic. Em possess a keen awareness of equality and respect. She epitomizes a spirit unencumbered with preconceived notions.
One time we were walking through China Town. Liz holding one hand, I held Em's other hand. As we entered a crosswalk a big SUV blew the stop sign - you don't think, Both Liz and I bent to scoop up Em, place our bodies between that black SUV and Em. I slammed my fist on the car's hood. A man inside was yelling. I yelled louder. He did not exit his car. Smart of him. You endanger my child I will beat the day lights out of you.
This is how you feel all the time. I wanted to protect Em from everything. I wanted to give her everything. Picking her up from school, helping her with homework, making supper, bath and bed some of the most incredible moments I have experienced.
When we went camping Em and I would "gear up." Hats, gloves, whistles, belts for our canteens, walkie talkies, utility knives. Any camping accessory we could put on a belt we did. We loved it. Liz laughed at the two of us, looking like we were going on Dual Survivor.
This is our heart. Not the muscle beating in our chest. Our heart - it cannot be seen, you can't measure beats per minute - This is our heart. It is where love grows. Our heart where we hold hopes and dreams. Our heart where we garner strength to overcome. This is where we hold on and we let go. Doctors can't touch it. Can't stitch up a broken heart. You can't stop this heart - even in the darkest of hours, this heart beats measures of love. This heart sustains us.
Nothing changes love of your child. Em is my child. One day she took my hand, she became mine and I became hers. This my friends is The Heart of The Matter. Not being with her. Not talking with her. It is a raw pain. My heart, the one you can't see - this heart holds her even tighter, yearns a glimpse of her smile, urges me to protect her - wants to hug her, explain to her my failures and frailties - beg her forgiveness. You don't stop being a Mom - this heart beats in measures of love - absence makes it beat faster. Longing causes fissures. Failures become fractures.
This heart - it is not a muscle - it is our soul, our existence, our character, and our flaws. Reckon, this heart is the one which really matters. Being a Mom is more than giving birth - I know that. My Mom did not give birth to me. I did not give birth to my daughter. Our hearts know no difference. This love, unlike any other, remains strong - becomes stronger - it grows and grows.
Yup, this is the heart of the matter.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
The Geese
The geese honk 24 hours a day. I can say so with certainty. I sleep as little as they do. They spend nights at the rec park. Honking and squawking. "Get ready! We leave at first light." Sure enough, as the suns stretches and yawns so do snow geese.
"Come on now. It is fall. It is time to move."
My feet twitch. My palms itch. Indeed it is time to move - to sing, to dance. It is fall.
"Go without me." I whisper. Don't reckon they hear me.
It is difficult this staying put. My mind looks for challenges. Or perhaps distractions. Yes, it is distractions. Challenging is going to Wal-Mart. (Really, what is with the lighting in that store? It is some artificial light compelling me to spend at least $110.00 on stuff I don't need)
Everything is different, except me. I am still the same. Still a teacher, still a poet, still a heart too big, and hope even bigger. Still holding on, seeking a touch of wisdom. (they don't sell that at Wal-Mart)
Ya' know I have consistently refused the concept that depression caused my physical maladies. I understand the research. It is compelling. I also understand the numbers - People, men and women, from this area are 7 times greater than the national average for autoimmune diagnosis.
So, if my autoimmune issues are due solely to depression, we going to need a bigger "crazy" boat!
I am still funny, right?
Of course I know, I know, I know. A lot of trauma during those dang forming years. Sucks, yada yada yada! I get it. Yes, I know darkness. But gosh golly I know light.
As hard and as dark as times could get; I saw light. Even if meant twisting myself into a pretzel to see it, I looked for light.
Being a revisionist historian is not a bad thing. Forgetting struggles and remembering celebrations; what is wrong with that? Really, who does that hurt? No, don't say me. It does not hurt me. I am not complete because of what is missing. I am complete because of what I have!
Do not tell me that my life is a fraud because I am so damaged. WRONG! I could have damage, yup. Find me someone who doesn't. Find me someone who has roamed this Earth for 50 years who does not have cuts, scrapes, bumps and bruises.
My faith in humanity, it is shaken. That is alright. This time of chosen solitude. These nights to come; dark, long, cold. They will pass. Those snow geese I hear as I write; they will come back. Spring will follow winter.
My resistance, for all these years, against going to a therapist is this - you cannot change the past. What is the point of rehashing things? Let them go already.
What happened when I was a child is not why I fell down and could not get up. If you could explain to me that! That would be helpful. I don't fail. I get up! I move on! I don't survive...I thrive.
It is foolish I know. It is the poet in me. Having felt depths of pain unlike anything Stephen King could dream of - I got up!
Now, though, see now - goodness they made me doubt myself. Then I remember...I remember why I resisted therapy and psychiatrist. Why I would not cast a net of blame. I remember! Nope, where I am now. Living large in Malone's finest housing projects. The property manager believes if one tenant is scum we are all scum. Her letters are rude, over the top mean spirited, disrespectful - she is something.
"Dogs must be on a leash at all times. At all times. All the time."
Heard you the first time. I am disabled but not due to deafness.
Here, no don't reckon this was such a good idea. In theory it is the right decision. On paper, as they say...that is why we play the games.
Wish it were but a game. It isn't. I am not a child. But yes, there are too many triggers here in Malone. In the summer when leaves are blooming, flowers flowering, sky rich blue as far as you can see. Then it is easy to keep your eyes averted. So much beauty to inhale. Ah, but it is this fall season. Tricky little thing old fall is. Last week we had the nicest day since I've been back. Next night it was spitting snow. Look out your window this morning. WOW! Sun is bright, sky blue, geese sending a shout out to all their peeps on the street. Put your hand on the window. Oh shucks, it is cold. It will warm up and it is going to be a lovely fall day. Lots of sun, temps in the 60's. Nice day. Mr. Sunshine only works part time in fall and winter. He must have a great union. Have not been through winter in a long time. I might be a little worried. Nothing to worry about. I am lucky. I don't have to go out. Winter is hard when you have to get up, shovel, clean off the car, start the car, let it warm up, shovel again and then you can leave for work. Shoot, just getting to work is a job. I know I am lucky. I have a room with a view and no place I have to go.
Makes me feel guilty. I do. Nope, I did not ask for this. Not on my to do list...fall down, don't get up so you can go on disability move back to Malone, spending winter laughing as everyone else your age goes to work.
Giving me too much credit. My mind does not bend spoons. Nor does it alter the path of an unseen student hurling into my leg. This time I could not stay up.
That is all I am searching for. Why was it that this incident, I have been through worse, so why couldn't I get up and stay up? I had everything to lose.
Keeping an open mind. Now with nothing so I have nothing to lose I went to talk therapy lady. She can't help me. Why? Because I am "just a drug seeker" whose learned coping skills stack the odds against me 9-1. If it were easy it wouldn't be me. Right!??
Sure I can still go every week to sit in her office for 45 minutes. She will "encourage" me and there will be "no judgement." Yeah, I think if you say "no judgement" you might have already made up your mind.
But angry - Ooh Talk Lady did get angry when I said this is not how my life should be.
Snapped her chair around, rolled it closer to me, and gave me a discourse of "What should be." Turns out my Talk Lady (who I genuinely like)she was hob knobbing with rich and famous folk down there in NYC - Broadway was her canvas. Impressive! Something happened. She was hurt badly, (3 surgeries and a plate in her neck), I don't know how she incurred these injuries. Must have been awful. From Broadway's warm glow to stark white in Peru, NY. She wins!
I didn't get up. My inability to get up cost me my family, my career, my athletics, my home, my state, and yes, some sanity. But seriously she wins.
OK, Talk Lady is not going to help. Psychiatrist is not going to help. Mental Health? Isn't that about helping people...No, see and this is what I forgot but now remember - Mental Health is about judging, labeling, blaming. I don't do judging - we all do the best we can with the tools we have. Who am I to judge anyone? Exactly! Labeling; No can do. Spent over 20 years erasing labels other people slapped on children. Confining them to low expectations and giving them excuses to fail instead of reasons to succeed. Nope, labels are not my thing. Blaming, sorry I do not play the blame game. Yes, I am hard on myself. I have high expectations. And why is that a bad thing? I don't get that either. Why is setting goals, having dreams - then working to achieve your goals and dreams, Ya know; never giving up or giving in. Never losing HOPE! This is a bad means of coping - because why? I understand, I am hard on myself. Somebody had to be. It would have been much easier to give up a long time ago. No one would have blamed me.
"Poor child" they would say.
"Poor child look at what she has endured, no wonder she can't walk."
No, it sucks yup! Yup, triggers suck! It happens. Breathe through it, do something else, go for a walk, keep busy, write...I know.
I only want to understand why I could not get up this time. Not a lifetime, just this time.
Alas, no. There are no answers. So symbolically and literally - they both did. Turn their chairs around, their backs to me;
"Your just a drug-seeker." and
"I will encourage you, no judgement." I must add these to my all time favorite dis's. No not dishes, Ya' know from our days back in hood - Dis's. I have been dis'ed!
How silly of me, thinking mental health professionals might offer me a path to a truth I have not found on my own. Or given me a little guidance of how I might get there. Gosh Lisa, you really are quite simple minded. Silly girl.
Yes well, Mommie always said I had too much faith in the goodness of others, it was my greatest quality and my eternal curse. And you know me; If Mommie said it, it is right!
Don't give up on me. With or without the assistance of mental health professionals, I will keep digging, and writing - sharing with you my deepest fears, wants, needs along with my inch by inch crawl as I learn to walk again. Not yet, don't give up on me...not yet. I have not given up on you. Why I keep writing. Even when what I am writing is difficult subject material.
Should I put a warning in the title box: WARNING: The Following Material May Be Too Disturbing For All READERS. Proceed With Caution!What do you think?
Thanks for listening.
"Come on now. It is fall. It is time to move."
My feet twitch. My palms itch. Indeed it is time to move - to sing, to dance. It is fall.
"Go without me." I whisper. Don't reckon they hear me.
It is difficult this staying put. My mind looks for challenges. Or perhaps distractions. Yes, it is distractions. Challenging is going to Wal-Mart. (Really, what is with the lighting in that store? It is some artificial light compelling me to spend at least $110.00 on stuff I don't need)
Everything is different, except me. I am still the same. Still a teacher, still a poet, still a heart too big, and hope even bigger. Still holding on, seeking a touch of wisdom. (they don't sell that at Wal-Mart)
Ya' know I have consistently refused the concept that depression caused my physical maladies. I understand the research. It is compelling. I also understand the numbers - People, men and women, from this area are 7 times greater than the national average for autoimmune diagnosis.
So, if my autoimmune issues are due solely to depression, we going to need a bigger "crazy" boat!
I am still funny, right?
Of course I know, I know, I know. A lot of trauma during those dang forming years. Sucks, yada yada yada! I get it. Yes, I know darkness. But gosh golly I know light.
As hard and as dark as times could get; I saw light. Even if meant twisting myself into a pretzel to see it, I looked for light.
Being a revisionist historian is not a bad thing. Forgetting struggles and remembering celebrations; what is wrong with that? Really, who does that hurt? No, don't say me. It does not hurt me. I am not complete because of what is missing. I am complete because of what I have!
Do not tell me that my life is a fraud because I am so damaged. WRONG! I could have damage, yup. Find me someone who doesn't. Find me someone who has roamed this Earth for 50 years who does not have cuts, scrapes, bumps and bruises.
My faith in humanity, it is shaken. That is alright. This time of chosen solitude. These nights to come; dark, long, cold. They will pass. Those snow geese I hear as I write; they will come back. Spring will follow winter.
My resistance, for all these years, against going to a therapist is this - you cannot change the past. What is the point of rehashing things? Let them go already.
What happened when I was a child is not why I fell down and could not get up. If you could explain to me that! That would be helpful. I don't fail. I get up! I move on! I don't survive...I thrive.
It is foolish I know. It is the poet in me. Having felt depths of pain unlike anything Stephen King could dream of - I got up!
Now, though, see now - goodness they made me doubt myself. Then I remember...I remember why I resisted therapy and psychiatrist. Why I would not cast a net of blame. I remember! Nope, where I am now. Living large in Malone's finest housing projects. The property manager believes if one tenant is scum we are all scum. Her letters are rude, over the top mean spirited, disrespectful - she is something.
"Dogs must be on a leash at all times. At all times. All the time."
Heard you the first time. I am disabled but not due to deafness.
Here, no don't reckon this was such a good idea. In theory it is the right decision. On paper, as they say...that is why we play the games.
Wish it were but a game. It isn't. I am not a child. But yes, there are too many triggers here in Malone. In the summer when leaves are blooming, flowers flowering, sky rich blue as far as you can see. Then it is easy to keep your eyes averted. So much beauty to inhale. Ah, but it is this fall season. Tricky little thing old fall is. Last week we had the nicest day since I've been back. Next night it was spitting snow. Look out your window this morning. WOW! Sun is bright, sky blue, geese sending a shout out to all their peeps on the street. Put your hand on the window. Oh shucks, it is cold. It will warm up and it is going to be a lovely fall day. Lots of sun, temps in the 60's. Nice day. Mr. Sunshine only works part time in fall and winter. He must have a great union. Have not been through winter in a long time. I might be a little worried. Nothing to worry about. I am lucky. I don't have to go out. Winter is hard when you have to get up, shovel, clean off the car, start the car, let it warm up, shovel again and then you can leave for work. Shoot, just getting to work is a job. I know I am lucky. I have a room with a view and no place I have to go.
Makes me feel guilty. I do. Nope, I did not ask for this. Not on my to do list...fall down, don't get up so you can go on disability move back to Malone, spending winter laughing as everyone else your age goes to work.
Giving me too much credit. My mind does not bend spoons. Nor does it alter the path of an unseen student hurling into my leg. This time I could not stay up.
That is all I am searching for. Why was it that this incident, I have been through worse, so why couldn't I get up and stay up? I had everything to lose.
Keeping an open mind. Now with nothing so I have nothing to lose I went to talk therapy lady. She can't help me. Why? Because I am "just a drug seeker" whose learned coping skills stack the odds against me 9-1. If it were easy it wouldn't be me. Right!??
Sure I can still go every week to sit in her office for 45 minutes. She will "encourage" me and there will be "no judgement." Yeah, I think if you say "no judgement" you might have already made up your mind.
But angry - Ooh Talk Lady did get angry when I said this is not how my life should be.
Snapped her chair around, rolled it closer to me, and gave me a discourse of "What should be." Turns out my Talk Lady (who I genuinely like)she was hob knobbing with rich and famous folk down there in NYC - Broadway was her canvas. Impressive! Something happened. She was hurt badly, (3 surgeries and a plate in her neck), I don't know how she incurred these injuries. Must have been awful. From Broadway's warm glow to stark white in Peru, NY. She wins!
I didn't get up. My inability to get up cost me my family, my career, my athletics, my home, my state, and yes, some sanity. But seriously she wins.
OK, Talk Lady is not going to help. Psychiatrist is not going to help. Mental Health? Isn't that about helping people...No, see and this is what I forgot but now remember - Mental Health is about judging, labeling, blaming. I don't do judging - we all do the best we can with the tools we have. Who am I to judge anyone? Exactly! Labeling; No can do. Spent over 20 years erasing labels other people slapped on children. Confining them to low expectations and giving them excuses to fail instead of reasons to succeed. Nope, labels are not my thing. Blaming, sorry I do not play the blame game. Yes, I am hard on myself. I have high expectations. And why is that a bad thing? I don't get that either. Why is setting goals, having dreams - then working to achieve your goals and dreams, Ya know; never giving up or giving in. Never losing HOPE! This is a bad means of coping - because why? I understand, I am hard on myself. Somebody had to be. It would have been much easier to give up a long time ago. No one would have blamed me.
"Poor child" they would say.
"Poor child look at what she has endured, no wonder she can't walk."
No, it sucks yup! Yup, triggers suck! It happens. Breathe through it, do something else, go for a walk, keep busy, write...I know.
I only want to understand why I could not get up this time. Not a lifetime, just this time.
Alas, no. There are no answers. So symbolically and literally - they both did. Turn their chairs around, their backs to me;
"Your just a drug-seeker." and
"I will encourage you, no judgement." I must add these to my all time favorite dis's. No not dishes, Ya' know from our days back in hood - Dis's. I have been dis'ed!
How silly of me, thinking mental health professionals might offer me a path to a truth I have not found on my own. Or given me a little guidance of how I might get there. Gosh Lisa, you really are quite simple minded. Silly girl.
Yes well, Mommie always said I had too much faith in the goodness of others, it was my greatest quality and my eternal curse. And you know me; If Mommie said it, it is right!
Don't give up on me. With or without the assistance of mental health professionals, I will keep digging, and writing - sharing with you my deepest fears, wants, needs along with my inch by inch crawl as I learn to walk again. Not yet, don't give up on me...not yet. I have not given up on you. Why I keep writing. Even when what I am writing is difficult subject material.
Should I put a warning in the title box: WARNING: The Following Material May Be Too Disturbing For All READERS. Proceed With Caution!What do you think?
Thanks for listening.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Learning to Walk
That is what I am doing...literally and figuratively. I am learning to walk without a limp. The left side of my body is breaking apart. Having carried the load for five years, it is toast. I have to concentrate - push past pain - learn to walk, head up, stomach in, straight back; one foot in front of the other.
Emotionally I am attempting the same feat. Learning to walk without crutches. I am not sure exactly what that means. Back and forth I go. Goodness I long for the tightly wound Lisa who controlled her life - this version of me sucks. Feeling I have so little control. Then a burst of hope - then reality. I am so far from where I expected. Ours is not to question why; all we can do is try try try! (that little dude in Star Wars, "There is no try, there is do or do not." OK, Yoshi, or whatever your name is)
What can I bring from "in-control" Lisa with us as we search for "Lisa - version 5.0?" At my core I know I am still me. My belief system, my faith, my humanity - though shaken, I still believe there is a reason for all this. Oh, yes, I yell sometimes at my God. Begging for a morsel of insight.
My personality has not changed. I am intelligent, funny, shy at first(which is a good thing-if I unleashed my sarcastic martini dry sarcasm before people knew me somewhat-well it might not be pretty.) I am a dichotomous human being. Aren't we all? Who amongst can say I am always the same. I always feel the same way. No one who is honest. We all crash and burn. We all soar amongst cotton soft clouds. This is what makes us human - essentially, makes us us.
What is the old adage? Judge a person when the chips are down, not when they are on a winning streak.
When an animal is hunted its instinct for survival clicks in. Suffering a wound it may fall, it does get up, falls again. I got up, just could not stay up.
Dr. Solsky, who treated me for 19 years, knows me pretty well I think. Well she believes I lost my
"over-achieving coping strategies" thus, standing naked in front of the classroom, I withered under white hot burn of constant pain.
I ask though, can a person over-achieve? If you achieve something was it out of reach? It is an oxymoron, is that the word? Like "jumbo-shrimp"?
What a person achieves cannot be deemed over-achieving. Reckon it fits with that darn chicken or egg analogy she gave me, or the Monday morning quarterback - she knows me.
Accepting myself, learning to walk, develop new patterns of thought - NO NO NO! It is just not suppose to be this way. 50 years of life have brought me to Malone's finest housing projects. NO NO NO!
Every muscle in my body tells me to move. My feet stain my calves for want of motion. It is getting colder. Leaves are turning. It is fall. It is time for me to move to warmth. Head West to hot sun and cool nights. I can't run anymore. I am just learning to walk.
Ya' know I am sorry for worrying y'all. My faithful 6 readers, and whomever else happens upon my nervous breakdown. It so helps me when I write. Knowing there are 6 of you who will probably read this sooner or later, I do try to consider your reaction. Goodness knows I am not attempting to worry you - don't be worried.
Writing is how I set that darn brain hamster free. Thoughts, once on this screen, and published leave me. A new set of thoughts will not take long to fill the void. Until I write something down, I just masticate (a word actually in a scripted reading program I had to teach HS aged boys, fun), yup, that is what I do. Chew and chew and chew until I can't swallow. Better to release than choke.
It is a roller coaster isn't it? I don't know, truly don't know. As Eileen says; "Your here now." So I am, so I am.
Do you remember the last time you laughed so hard you cried, rolled on the floor, got the hiccups - laughed so hard your stomach hurt, couldn't breathe? Masticate on that. Until next time with all love and respect - me.
Emotionally I am attempting the same feat. Learning to walk without crutches. I am not sure exactly what that means. Back and forth I go. Goodness I long for the tightly wound Lisa who controlled her life - this version of me sucks. Feeling I have so little control. Then a burst of hope - then reality. I am so far from where I expected. Ours is not to question why; all we can do is try try try! (that little dude in Star Wars, "There is no try, there is do or do not." OK, Yoshi, or whatever your name is)
What can I bring from "in-control" Lisa with us as we search for "Lisa - version 5.0?" At my core I know I am still me. My belief system, my faith, my humanity - though shaken, I still believe there is a reason for all this. Oh, yes, I yell sometimes at my God. Begging for a morsel of insight.
My personality has not changed. I am intelligent, funny, shy at first(which is a good thing-if I unleashed my sarcastic martini dry sarcasm before people knew me somewhat-well it might not be pretty.) I am a dichotomous human being. Aren't we all? Who amongst can say I am always the same. I always feel the same way. No one who is honest. We all crash and burn. We all soar amongst cotton soft clouds. This is what makes us human - essentially, makes us us.
What is the old adage? Judge a person when the chips are down, not when they are on a winning streak.
When an animal is hunted its instinct for survival clicks in. Suffering a wound it may fall, it does get up, falls again. I got up, just could not stay up.
Dr. Solsky, who treated me for 19 years, knows me pretty well I think. Well she believes I lost my
"over-achieving coping strategies" thus, standing naked in front of the classroom, I withered under white hot burn of constant pain.
I ask though, can a person over-achieve? If you achieve something was it out of reach? It is an oxymoron, is that the word? Like "jumbo-shrimp"?
What a person achieves cannot be deemed over-achieving. Reckon it fits with that darn chicken or egg analogy she gave me, or the Monday morning quarterback - she knows me.
Accepting myself, learning to walk, develop new patterns of thought - NO NO NO! It is just not suppose to be this way. 50 years of life have brought me to Malone's finest housing projects. NO NO NO!
Every muscle in my body tells me to move. My feet stain my calves for want of motion. It is getting colder. Leaves are turning. It is fall. It is time for me to move to warmth. Head West to hot sun and cool nights. I can't run anymore. I am just learning to walk.
Ya' know I am sorry for worrying y'all. My faithful 6 readers, and whomever else happens upon my nervous breakdown. It so helps me when I write. Knowing there are 6 of you who will probably read this sooner or later, I do try to consider your reaction. Goodness knows I am not attempting to worry you - don't be worried.
Writing is how I set that darn brain hamster free. Thoughts, once on this screen, and published leave me. A new set of thoughts will not take long to fill the void. Until I write something down, I just masticate (a word actually in a scripted reading program I had to teach HS aged boys, fun), yup, that is what I do. Chew and chew and chew until I can't swallow. Better to release than choke.
It is a roller coaster isn't it? I don't know, truly don't know. As Eileen says; "Your here now." So I am, so I am.
Do you remember the last time you laughed so hard you cried, rolled on the floor, got the hiccups - laughed so hard your stomach hurt, couldn't breathe? Masticate on that. Until next time with all love and respect - me.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
OLTL
Have you ever seen the paint commercial; it starts with a gigantic white wall. The camera then pans to a man, paint cans all around him, with his brush he begins one stroke, one color - then another brush another color. His pace quickens. Now the brush is a weapon. He dips it in red, orange, green, purple - hurling paint onto this canvas. The music beats faster. You are inhaled by the drops of paint. The man climbs a ladder. He hurls the entire bucket onto the wall! There is texture now! Your hands ache for want of touch-on and on - buckets of paint everywhere. The rivers of paint make the wall appear alive. You can see it breathing. Holding your own breath; anticipating the next color. Willing him to move faster! What will it be? Covered in paint, moving without thought, an amazing spectacle. So drawn are you to this now, living, breathing, palpable painting you feel a turning of your stomach.
Oh, for the release. The cathartic metamorphosis from white, from flat, from sameness, you are extraordinary, this is what you seek - tiny fires burning up and down your arms, deep into your skin. Oblivious to all else. Can after can until every can is empty...
He falls to the ground, spent from fury, passion - this is his life's work. There on his knees, awash with color, he looks into his painting - into his soul - burned into his eyes images of passion, possibility, madness, joy, hunger! By comparison, the Sistine Chapel is mere child's play.
The camera then shows his face, his breathing labored, sweat and paint mix together over his skin. And you look at this man, directly into his eyes - his passion. His acute want, no need, his acute need for more color, more cans of paint - fade to black.
It is an amazing commercial. Truly moves you. Makes you want to do that. You know just dance without thinking. Jump without looking. Believe without fear. You might feel both glorious release and tender taking in. Possibility appears abundant.
You could almost stay there. At such a heightened awareness. Awash in color and light. It is glorious! Falling in love feels that way.
Ah, but such promises to keep. Promises are like kites; depending on which way the wind blows they may take flight or they may remain grounded.
And with your tethered soul lusting for want of release, with a bag of stones - safely build a wall. Odd isn't it how we seek solitude just when we most need others. OH, for such a price - would you paint that wall again? Could you?
What would be a fair asking price for a second chance? Sure you would pay any price. This is what we learned. Always give hope a chance. We are greater for the letting in.
Maybe I will get another tattoo. This one with colors. Be safe. Be well. Be happy. Amen!
Oh, for the release. The cathartic metamorphosis from white, from flat, from sameness, you are extraordinary, this is what you seek - tiny fires burning up and down your arms, deep into your skin. Oblivious to all else. Can after can until every can is empty...
He falls to the ground, spent from fury, passion - this is his life's work. There on his knees, awash with color, he looks into his painting - into his soul - burned into his eyes images of passion, possibility, madness, joy, hunger! By comparison, the Sistine Chapel is mere child's play.
The camera then shows his face, his breathing labored, sweat and paint mix together over his skin. And you look at this man, directly into his eyes - his passion. His acute want, no need, his acute need for more color, more cans of paint - fade to black.
It is an amazing commercial. Truly moves you. Makes you want to do that. You know just dance without thinking. Jump without looking. Believe without fear. You might feel both glorious release and tender taking in. Possibility appears abundant.
You could almost stay there. At such a heightened awareness. Awash in color and light. It is glorious! Falling in love feels that way.
Ah, but such promises to keep. Promises are like kites; depending on which way the wind blows they may take flight or they may remain grounded.
And with your tethered soul lusting for want of release, with a bag of stones - safely build a wall. Odd isn't it how we seek solitude just when we most need others. OH, for such a price - would you paint that wall again? Could you?
What would be a fair asking price for a second chance? Sure you would pay any price. This is what we learned. Always give hope a chance. We are greater for the letting in.
Maybe I will get another tattoo. This one with colors. Be safe. Be well. Be happy. Amen!
Monday, September 16, 2013
I just need to talk -
In the last seven days I have slept maybe 20 hours. It is driving Zuko crazy. I am not doing anything, well I am doing something, I am thinking. Thinking and looking - examining and dissecting trying to find how I lost everything. Haven't spent seven days like this before. I live minute by minute. Constant in my mind; just kill yourself and get it over with or you can't kill yourself it is a sin. It is a real active battle.
I cannot figure out what happened. How I went from an intelligent, successful, outgoing person to this thing I am now. I am not even human. I am insane, clinically insane. I don't know why? Was I always insane? Was the insanity lying dormant until a fuse was lit? How could I have done so much being so crazy?
I took a months worth of Percocet in 2 weeks. That is like 10 pills a day. I don't remember doing it. I remember one day I took three - I think about and think about it and I can't remember anytime I took more than 2, except that one day I took three.
I lose time. Do something and have no memory of doing it. I cook in the middle of the night and I am not aware of it. I am off balance again. Fell in Price Chopper, Then that day I was pulled over by the police. I am afraid to drive. I am afraid to answer the phone. I am afraid to leave my house.
How did this happen? Seriously, I am typing and it appears I am logical and articulate - so there are some things not broken. Yet, so much of who I was is gone. Where did I go? Where is the funny class clown? I have done some reading on nervous breakdowns and such. Psychiatric disorders lying dormant until an event triggers them. But seriously - this is me. I am strong, resilient, ever hopeful, I revise history so it is all about what was good and fun. People depended on me. People came to talk to me. Text message is about all I can do now.
Aldona Mae and I have not spoken since father's day. Nothing, not a word. She sent me a beautiful card, a gift - she sent some things to Eileen to give me. If anyone told me day would come when Aldona Mae and I would not talk to one another I would have said you were crazy - turns out I am crazy.
This is no way to live. A few nights ago I sat in the kitchen, smoked two packs of cigarettes, drank a 6 pack of Mt. Dew, watched the sun rise. I do not know why - I do not know what is wrong with me or how it became so wrong.
I sure took the wrong turn somewhere. I search, look, think - I examine, contemplate, meditate, pray - Spent 400 dollars in Walmart. Drove home, brought the stuff inside - and at some point later on looked at all the Walmart bags and wondered how they got in the house.
What is wrong with me? What is this craziness? I am confused, scared, holding on by a thin thread - one minute at a time. One day your holding life by the tail. The next day you don't even know what day it is. Sometimes I go to the bathroom at night and I walk real quiet so I don't wake up Liz and Em. One day I looked at the clock it was 7:20, Liz and Em were not up yet, I ran upstairs to wake them up - then stood there trying to figure out where I was.
When I do go out I see people who look like people from CA. I consciously have to tell myself I am in Malone, NY. When I do sleep, waking up I have to look around, I have to think about where I am - literally think about it because I have no idea. I don't know. I am seeing a head shrinker. Meds haven't worked obviously! I go to the talk lady - No one can tell me what is wrong. PTSD, social anxiety, agoraphobia - What does this mean? Is this it? Is this the rest of my life? All the physical ailments I have can't one of them do their thing and kill me? They were suppose to. I wasn't suppose to live to see 50.
Gotta tell ya' boys and girls I am a little bit scared. The unknown is always scary. Doing things you don't remember doing - that is scary. I have had my share of bruises, nothing like this. Even after Mommie died and I sat without speaking for a few days - I got up, moved back to CA - that was 23 years ago. For me nothing could be worse than taking care of your Mom as she is dying before your eyes. Seeing her fade away just a little at a time. Knowing the look in her eyes telling me she was going - and I look at those three years as the best in my life. Being able to give back to a woman who loved me like her own, gave me a home, a family - what would have happened if Mommie and Daddy Pat hadn't taken us - It was awful. It is the best thing I have ever done in my life.
Well at least my craziness matches my crazy cat lady hair. I finally grew into this untamed mess. See I am still here -
Thanks for listening. Sometimes if I write down all the hamster thoughts it gets them out of my head and I can rest maybe even sleep. Night.
I cannot figure out what happened. How I went from an intelligent, successful, outgoing person to this thing I am now. I am not even human. I am insane, clinically insane. I don't know why? Was I always insane? Was the insanity lying dormant until a fuse was lit? How could I have done so much being so crazy?
I took a months worth of Percocet in 2 weeks. That is like 10 pills a day. I don't remember doing it. I remember one day I took three - I think about and think about it and I can't remember anytime I took more than 2, except that one day I took three.
I lose time. Do something and have no memory of doing it. I cook in the middle of the night and I am not aware of it. I am off balance again. Fell in Price Chopper, Then that day I was pulled over by the police. I am afraid to drive. I am afraid to answer the phone. I am afraid to leave my house.
How did this happen? Seriously, I am typing and it appears I am logical and articulate - so there are some things not broken. Yet, so much of who I was is gone. Where did I go? Where is the funny class clown? I have done some reading on nervous breakdowns and such. Psychiatric disorders lying dormant until an event triggers them. But seriously - this is me. I am strong, resilient, ever hopeful, I revise history so it is all about what was good and fun. People depended on me. People came to talk to me. Text message is about all I can do now.
Aldona Mae and I have not spoken since father's day. Nothing, not a word. She sent me a beautiful card, a gift - she sent some things to Eileen to give me. If anyone told me day would come when Aldona Mae and I would not talk to one another I would have said you were crazy - turns out I am crazy.
This is no way to live. A few nights ago I sat in the kitchen, smoked two packs of cigarettes, drank a 6 pack of Mt. Dew, watched the sun rise. I do not know why - I do not know what is wrong with me or how it became so wrong.
I sure took the wrong turn somewhere. I search, look, think - I examine, contemplate, meditate, pray - Spent 400 dollars in Walmart. Drove home, brought the stuff inside - and at some point later on looked at all the Walmart bags and wondered how they got in the house.
What is wrong with me? What is this craziness? I am confused, scared, holding on by a thin thread - one minute at a time. One day your holding life by the tail. The next day you don't even know what day it is. Sometimes I go to the bathroom at night and I walk real quiet so I don't wake up Liz and Em. One day I looked at the clock it was 7:20, Liz and Em were not up yet, I ran upstairs to wake them up - then stood there trying to figure out where I was.
When I do go out I see people who look like people from CA. I consciously have to tell myself I am in Malone, NY. When I do sleep, waking up I have to look around, I have to think about where I am - literally think about it because I have no idea. I don't know. I am seeing a head shrinker. Meds haven't worked obviously! I go to the talk lady - No one can tell me what is wrong. PTSD, social anxiety, agoraphobia - What does this mean? Is this it? Is this the rest of my life? All the physical ailments I have can't one of them do their thing and kill me? They were suppose to. I wasn't suppose to live to see 50.
Gotta tell ya' boys and girls I am a little bit scared. The unknown is always scary. Doing things you don't remember doing - that is scary. I have had my share of bruises, nothing like this. Even after Mommie died and I sat without speaking for a few days - I got up, moved back to CA - that was 23 years ago. For me nothing could be worse than taking care of your Mom as she is dying before your eyes. Seeing her fade away just a little at a time. Knowing the look in her eyes telling me she was going - and I look at those three years as the best in my life. Being able to give back to a woman who loved me like her own, gave me a home, a family - what would have happened if Mommie and Daddy Pat hadn't taken us - It was awful. It is the best thing I have ever done in my life.
Well at least my craziness matches my crazy cat lady hair. I finally grew into this untamed mess. See I am still here -
Thanks for listening. Sometimes if I write down all the hamster thoughts it gets them out of my head and I can rest maybe even sleep. Night.
E
Running on Empty, Running Blind, Don't Know What To Do, I Am Running Behind - Jackson Browne...Those were the days.
In a world of complete chaos a little girl learned how to remain completely in control. Children are amazing. With her painted on face, crooked tooth smile, and her eyes - now blue, or gray, or green - twinkling as if she knew a secret no one else knew. In mere seconds she could take a room's temperature -- adjust, adapt. She wore whatever hat was needed. In her go bag she kept a first aid kit, a fire extinguisher, a pair of strong shoulders, a quick wit, an abundance of love.
Where did she learn to do so many things? Where did she learn to hope? Where did she learn to love? I miss her.
Flexible, my goodness she could be any shape you needed. Any size you wanted. Any color you desired. If you sought quiet she gave you that. How did she learn so much at such a young age?
It is a question society often asks - how two people exposed to the same environment develop opposing coping skills? Darwinism? Survival of the fittest. God - giving each skills to get through.
You can lay no blame for what any of us do to survive or to grieve. There is no right or wrong here. We do the best with what skills we have. We use tools from our toolbox.
That little girl with dirty Blondie hair, fair chubby cheeks, and a heart so large - inside she felt dirty, rotten, broken. She did not let it show. Covering cracks with cracks of humor. Look at her tapestry - so many rips, tears, missed stitches yet so deep and rich in hue, torn but not torn apart. It gives you a sense of hope. Oh, can you see it? The torn parts, the missing parts if you don't look at them, if you look at its entirety you can see a butterfly. It is beautiful. I miss her. I admire her.
Fast as that river was running she was faster. Come on you had to love her - the her she let you see. So young yet so capable. Kept hidden the dirty, rotten girl inside.
Today I write to you from an empty place. Over the past 12 days I have purged, cleaned, touched, scoured, examined - without sleep or peace I have looked at it all. This is not a bad thing. I believe I could sleep for a few days.
I know who loves me for my character, my heart and those who loved me only for my service to them. I learned who judged my behavior, not my intentions. I learned we are all broken in some way. On our common journey we have all taken our share of bumps and bruises, stumbled, been fallible.
I have apologized. Now I must learn to forgive myself. Cleaned, ironed and folded - still incomplete - my young woman tapestry is put away. Yes, set aside before completion - I have to adapt and adjust. Certainly it makes me sad. I hoped it would be more grand. There it is with its tears, missed stitches, smaller than it should be. Yet the colors, depth, richness - they are also visible. Look at what is there not what is missing. You will see a little girl with her painted on face, an impish grin, twinkle in her eyes, heart open wide. Sleep well my child. I miss you.
Oh, goodness we cannot be sad. This is life. It cannot always be perfect or pretty. Muscles only develop when they are used. Your brain, your heart they are muscles - they need use.
I begin my third, and final tapestry. I don't know, when finished, what we will have. I am hopeful it will be full of color, diversity, stitched closely and tightly, big as the moon!
I do pray, when the day comes, as it is ironed and put away - when you look at it - you will see an impish grin, twinkling eyes, and a heart open wide.
In a world of complete chaos a little girl learned how to remain completely in control. Children are amazing. With her painted on face, crooked tooth smile, and her eyes - now blue, or gray, or green - twinkling as if she knew a secret no one else knew. In mere seconds she could take a room's temperature -- adjust, adapt. She wore whatever hat was needed. In her go bag she kept a first aid kit, a fire extinguisher, a pair of strong shoulders, a quick wit, an abundance of love.
Where did she learn to do so many things? Where did she learn to hope? Where did she learn to love? I miss her.
Flexible, my goodness she could be any shape you needed. Any size you wanted. Any color you desired. If you sought quiet she gave you that. How did she learn so much at such a young age?
It is a question society often asks - how two people exposed to the same environment develop opposing coping skills? Darwinism? Survival of the fittest. God - giving each skills to get through.
You can lay no blame for what any of us do to survive or to grieve. There is no right or wrong here. We do the best with what skills we have. We use tools from our toolbox.
That little girl with dirty Blondie hair, fair chubby cheeks, and a heart so large - inside she felt dirty, rotten, broken. She did not let it show. Covering cracks with cracks of humor. Look at her tapestry - so many rips, tears, missed stitches yet so deep and rich in hue, torn but not torn apart. It gives you a sense of hope. Oh, can you see it? The torn parts, the missing parts if you don't look at them, if you look at its entirety you can see a butterfly. It is beautiful. I miss her. I admire her.
Fast as that river was running she was faster. Come on you had to love her - the her she let you see. So young yet so capable. Kept hidden the dirty, rotten girl inside.
Today I write to you from an empty place. Over the past 12 days I have purged, cleaned, touched, scoured, examined - without sleep or peace I have looked at it all. This is not a bad thing. I believe I could sleep for a few days.
I know who loves me for my character, my heart and those who loved me only for my service to them. I learned who judged my behavior, not my intentions. I learned we are all broken in some way. On our common journey we have all taken our share of bumps and bruises, stumbled, been fallible.
I have apologized. Now I must learn to forgive myself. Cleaned, ironed and folded - still incomplete - my young woman tapestry is put away. Yes, set aside before completion - I have to adapt and adjust. Certainly it makes me sad. I hoped it would be more grand. There it is with its tears, missed stitches, smaller than it should be. Yet the colors, depth, richness - they are also visible. Look at what is there not what is missing. You will see a little girl with her painted on face, an impish grin, twinkle in her eyes, heart open wide. Sleep well my child. I miss you.
Oh, goodness we cannot be sad. This is life. It cannot always be perfect or pretty. Muscles only develop when they are used. Your brain, your heart they are muscles - they need use.
I begin my third, and final tapestry. I don't know, when finished, what we will have. I am hopeful it will be full of color, diversity, stitched closely and tightly, big as the moon!
I do pray, when the day comes, as it is ironed and put away - when you look at it - you will see an impish grin, twinkling eyes, and a heart open wide.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Our Common Journey
I wish I had uttered this phrase - the credit goes to Michelle - I have been thinking on it for a whole day; digging away, attempting to find truth.
The phrase itself conjures up a picture of moving sidewalks. Stand to the right. Walk to the left. All of humanity is on the moving sidewalks. The millionaire and the teacher. The police and the criminal. The fulfilled and the searching. There are forks in the sidewalk, ups and downs - you choose which way you go - however we ultimately end the same way.
From our birth until our death, all of humanity is on this common journey. No matter what you do with your time here, day will come when your time here ends. It is just a fact. Not a sad fact or a dramatic fact, just a fact.
Lord knows I think too much. I would give anything to shut my mind off. Reckon going on disability, moving to Malone, living with constant fuxxing pain. It can wear a girl out. The dramatic poetess in me writes boring diatribes. They are all just words. Writing them helps get the hamster to slow down.
Yes, in the past couple of weeks I have examined ending my journey. As I said, I scream at God; "What more do you want from me." I promise I would not take my life.
I believe in heaven. When God calls me home I get to be with Mommie and Little Gram again. That idea is what keeps me here. For I know that ending my life would end my chances of seeing Mommmie and Little Gram again.
Most folks believe in something bigger than moving sidewalks. We believe when the time comes and we go out that heavy plastic door there is something, or maybe not. Maybe the end is just the end. We don't know. Nobody knows. Scholars can write books. College students can have grand debates. Children can go to religious schools - No one knows.
This makes our journey all the more common. Everyone of us are on the moving sidewalk. Closer and Closer to the heavy plastic end. Yet, not one of us knows what is behind those heavy plastic dividers. Not one of us gets to peek. Yeah, folks talk of seeing the light - I myself hovered over myself - We have human experiences. We have no idea what the end is. This fact makes us all the same. We are all the same. No matter what we believe waits for us; we are all going to pass through those sheets of plastic - and that is that.
Eileen and I both agree we would rather believe in heaven, do what we need to so we can get there - than to be wrong when the end comes.
Think of it though - the man living under the 101 freeway is exactly the same as the man living in a 50 room mansion. The quilt of humanity has many different pieces of fabric but they are all the same - they are all pieces of fabric. From the moment we are born until we die - we share Our Common Journey. After that who knows.
Yes, I am struggling right now. I don't even know the person inhabiting my body. I don't know where Lisa is. I know I am loved. I know I am respected. I know I am needed. I know I don't have to be alone - I know I need to get myself back. I am trying. I just don't know where I have gone. There may be yet another level on this moving sidewalk. Perhaps the next fork will bring me back.
I won't quit. I won't give up. Though my eyes appear dead, remember they are not Lisa's eyes. Lisa's eyes are twinkling with laughter. I am trying best I can. I live minute by minute. This, this existence is excruciatingly painful. No longer can I tell where one piece starts and another ends. I won't stop working and searching and praying until I find me. The person who exits through that heavy plastic "end", will be called home by God. I believe in heaven.
The phrase itself conjures up a picture of moving sidewalks. Stand to the right. Walk to the left. All of humanity is on the moving sidewalks. The millionaire and the teacher. The police and the criminal. The fulfilled and the searching. There are forks in the sidewalk, ups and downs - you choose which way you go - however we ultimately end the same way.
From our birth until our death, all of humanity is on this common journey. No matter what you do with your time here, day will come when your time here ends. It is just a fact. Not a sad fact or a dramatic fact, just a fact.
Lord knows I think too much. I would give anything to shut my mind off. Reckon going on disability, moving to Malone, living with constant fuxxing pain. It can wear a girl out. The dramatic poetess in me writes boring diatribes. They are all just words. Writing them helps get the hamster to slow down.
Yes, in the past couple of weeks I have examined ending my journey. As I said, I scream at God; "What more do you want from me." I promise I would not take my life.
I believe in heaven. When God calls me home I get to be with Mommie and Little Gram again. That idea is what keeps me here. For I know that ending my life would end my chances of seeing Mommmie and Little Gram again.
Most folks believe in something bigger than moving sidewalks. We believe when the time comes and we go out that heavy plastic door there is something, or maybe not. Maybe the end is just the end. We don't know. Nobody knows. Scholars can write books. College students can have grand debates. Children can go to religious schools - No one knows.
This makes our journey all the more common. Everyone of us are on the moving sidewalk. Closer and Closer to the heavy plastic end. Yet, not one of us knows what is behind those heavy plastic dividers. Not one of us gets to peek. Yeah, folks talk of seeing the light - I myself hovered over myself - We have human experiences. We have no idea what the end is. This fact makes us all the same. We are all the same. No matter what we believe waits for us; we are all going to pass through those sheets of plastic - and that is that.
Eileen and I both agree we would rather believe in heaven, do what we need to so we can get there - than to be wrong when the end comes.
Think of it though - the man living under the 101 freeway is exactly the same as the man living in a 50 room mansion. The quilt of humanity has many different pieces of fabric but they are all the same - they are all pieces of fabric. From the moment we are born until we die - we share Our Common Journey. After that who knows.
Yes, I am struggling right now. I don't even know the person inhabiting my body. I don't know where Lisa is. I know I am loved. I know I am respected. I know I am needed. I know I don't have to be alone - I know I need to get myself back. I am trying. I just don't know where I have gone. There may be yet another level on this moving sidewalk. Perhaps the next fork will bring me back.
I won't quit. I won't give up. Though my eyes appear dead, remember they are not Lisa's eyes. Lisa's eyes are twinkling with laughter. I am trying best I can. I live minute by minute. This, this existence is excruciatingly painful. No longer can I tell where one piece starts and another ends. I won't stop working and searching and praying until I find me. The person who exits through that heavy plastic "end", will be called home by God. I believe in heaven.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Never Gave Up
Though my life has led me down many a rocky road I never gave up. Though I know all to intimately death and loss, I never gave up. When times were tough - I became stronger. I am proud of that. There are many whose suffering is far worse than mine. I pray for them. My vocation, teaching special education; they once referred to them as the throw away children - I am proud of what I did. I have been a good daughter, sister, friend, citizen - My resume will show as many failures as success', I am proud of that. I never gave up. When my health began to fail I fought. 20 years I taught, played, laughed, loved, lived - in spite of the pain. There is nothing extraordinary about me or my life. I can honestly say I did my best and I don't have big regrets - a few little ones.
Don't linger in the past. My revisionist history is filled with happy memories, all those who have loved me, cared for me, been with me - for a girl who lost her mother at birth I have many mothers. A girl whose biological sister hasn't spoken to her in 25 years or so - I have many sisters. The guidance counselor, Sister Grace, she told me to get a job at McDonald's because I would never make it through college. A bit late, but yo' sista, I have a Masters Degree!
Today I sit here with you - putting the raw truth of my life right out there - I have cried almost non stop for a week. Smile for the camera though! I pray God to take me home. I beg him. I scream at him - "What more do you want from me?" Faith, spirituality, my duct tape. Believing always there was a right and a wrong. Knowing the difference and making a choice. Believing, one day, God would take me from this Earth and I would sit with those who are waiting there for me.
I have tried to kill myself. Though in comparison I now see those attempts as attention seeking; needing something and not knowing how to ask.
At 8:03 am, on September 17, 2008 I died. An industrial accident took me away from everything I believed. While I was finally where I knew God would lead me - In love, being a mother, great school, beautiful colleagues - The place I was at 8:02 am, on that day...that was the place my years of faith, hope and prayer led me. The place I knew I could get to if I kept trying. It was my belief in God's kindness, in his goodness, in his power - I was living proof a person can overcome if they hang on to hope. If you keep trying, if you keep your heart open - I was evidence of the power of love.
After 8:03 drop by drop I bled. Paper pushers, and uncaring number crunchers, people just too damn lazy to do their jobs - drop by drop - piece of broken glass one after another. I have held on a long time. My hands are raw. Piece by piece, drop by drop - I sit here this morning regretting that I woke up. Having prayed God would have mercy and take me home.
There is a reason for this - I have to believe that. God has not forsaken me - I must believe that. I would end my life - but I don't want to hurt anyone more than I already have. People would mourn. Some folks would lament they should have done this or done that - suicide has nothing to do with anyone else. It really is between an individual and whomever their higher being is. There truly is nothing anyone can do -
I am so tired. I smiled through my tears. I stood up every time life knocked me down. Now, 50 years old. My body ravaged with physical pain - my mind so worn - my soul so sad. I know I am loved. I know I could call any of 100 people and they would do anything they could to help me. I am so tired! I did the "right" thing my whole life - I am an addict, alcoholic - I am also a teacher, friend, daughter, sister, human - And I am lost.
What do we do now? With the 20 0r 30 years left? What are you suppose to do? I wasn't suppose to live this long. "You'll be lucky to see 50." I lived just to prove arrogant doctors wrong!
My legs are weary from climbing so many mountains. I still scream; "What else do you want from me?"
I love Shel Silverstein - The Giving Tree, Where The Side Walk ends, Trina Paulus Hope For The Butterflies. I believed, and I did the work, I did not miss any of the workouts - I want to do the right thing. Even now, crying my stupid eyes out like a fool - My body hurts, my mind hurts, it is physical, it is emotional - It is a thousand pounds of feathers - one by itself seems like nothing, it is just a feather - brush it aside. If it were only one?
Piece by piece, drop by drop - I never gave up, I guess until I do. I am trying. I am sorry. Who this person I have become - who is she? How did this happen? Piece by piece, drop by drop.
Don't linger in the past. My revisionist history is filled with happy memories, all those who have loved me, cared for me, been with me - for a girl who lost her mother at birth I have many mothers. A girl whose biological sister hasn't spoken to her in 25 years or so - I have many sisters. The guidance counselor, Sister Grace, she told me to get a job at McDonald's because I would never make it through college. A bit late, but yo' sista, I have a Masters Degree!
Today I sit here with you - putting the raw truth of my life right out there - I have cried almost non stop for a week. Smile for the camera though! I pray God to take me home. I beg him. I scream at him - "What more do you want from me?" Faith, spirituality, my duct tape. Believing always there was a right and a wrong. Knowing the difference and making a choice. Believing, one day, God would take me from this Earth and I would sit with those who are waiting there for me.
I have tried to kill myself. Though in comparison I now see those attempts as attention seeking; needing something and not knowing how to ask.
At 8:03 am, on September 17, 2008 I died. An industrial accident took me away from everything I believed. While I was finally where I knew God would lead me - In love, being a mother, great school, beautiful colleagues - The place I was at 8:02 am, on that day...that was the place my years of faith, hope and prayer led me. The place I knew I could get to if I kept trying. It was my belief in God's kindness, in his goodness, in his power - I was living proof a person can overcome if they hang on to hope. If you keep trying, if you keep your heart open - I was evidence of the power of love.
After 8:03 drop by drop I bled. Paper pushers, and uncaring number crunchers, people just too damn lazy to do their jobs - drop by drop - piece of broken glass one after another. I have held on a long time. My hands are raw. Piece by piece, drop by drop - I sit here this morning regretting that I woke up. Having prayed God would have mercy and take me home.
There is a reason for this - I have to believe that. God has not forsaken me - I must believe that. I would end my life - but I don't want to hurt anyone more than I already have. People would mourn. Some folks would lament they should have done this or done that - suicide has nothing to do with anyone else. It really is between an individual and whomever their higher being is. There truly is nothing anyone can do -
I am so tired. I smiled through my tears. I stood up every time life knocked me down. Now, 50 years old. My body ravaged with physical pain - my mind so worn - my soul so sad. I know I am loved. I know I could call any of 100 people and they would do anything they could to help me. I am so tired! I did the "right" thing my whole life - I am an addict, alcoholic - I am also a teacher, friend, daughter, sister, human - And I am lost.
What do we do now? With the 20 0r 30 years left? What are you suppose to do? I wasn't suppose to live this long. "You'll be lucky to see 50." I lived just to prove arrogant doctors wrong!
My legs are weary from climbing so many mountains. I still scream; "What else do you want from me?"
I love Shel Silverstein - The Giving Tree, Where The Side Walk ends, Trina Paulus Hope For The Butterflies. I believed, and I did the work, I did not miss any of the workouts - I want to do the right thing. Even now, crying my stupid eyes out like a fool - My body hurts, my mind hurts, it is physical, it is emotional - It is a thousand pounds of feathers - one by itself seems like nothing, it is just a feather - brush it aside. If it were only one?
Piece by piece, drop by drop - I never gave up, I guess until I do. I am trying. I am sorry. Who this person I have become - who is she? How did this happen? Piece by piece, drop by drop.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Emotions on the side!
If we set aside our emotions, analyze our lives in the same manner we would when doing a behavior modification assessment, things would be much easier. Easier, not easiest, just easier. An individual, such as myself would find it just that much easier to regain our place of peace.
Suicide is painless. I cannot endorse that statement. Having attempted suicide myself or been a witness to suicide attempts - I cannot say it is painless - the theme song to M*A*S*H - Suicide is painless; this statement does not ring true. Suicide may begin as a small pebble; given time without intervention it becomes a huge boulder. A pea sized pebble grows into a car sized boulder time. In a short amount of time a tiny pebble becomes a huge boulder. We look back trying to carry that boulder - the other side of the road appears miles away.
God does send us hints and clues-we are so busy searching for answers we are likely to miss our clues. The process goes round and round. No wonder we feel dizzy all the time.
We are taught, when we see only one set of footprints, we are taught this is when Jesus is carrying us. That is if we believe. If we do not believe -those blurred, scratched, and dirty footbrints exist because Jesus is carrying us. When "life"is just to heavy and we are so weak - faith courses through our veins. Doesn't feel so much like that though does it? How many times do we have to dig deeper? Does the day ever come, when we have an Oprah "AHA" moment?
What about the days when we have to close the door on thinking and feeling? Even brave, strong, intelligent, compassionate people just simply fall apart - it is not a sign of failure - reality - it is just reality, moments when we are humbled and grateful for friends, faith, and family.
With so much scandal running through our congregations, we still gather there, we still lean on one another there, we need each other.
Perhaps we start, with only a small grand of sand - but it is a start. We have a beginning. We have HOPE!
Suicide is painless. I cannot endorse that statement. Having attempted suicide myself or been a witness to suicide attempts - I cannot say it is painless - the theme song to M*A*S*H - Suicide is painless; this statement does not ring true. Suicide may begin as a small pebble; given time without intervention it becomes a huge boulder. A pea sized pebble grows into a car sized boulder time. In a short amount of time a tiny pebble becomes a huge boulder. We look back trying to carry that boulder - the other side of the road appears miles away.
God does send us hints and clues-we are so busy searching for answers we are likely to miss our clues. The process goes round and round. No wonder we feel dizzy all the time.
We are taught, when we see only one set of footprints, we are taught this is when Jesus is carrying us. That is if we believe. If we do not believe -those blurred, scratched, and dirty footbrints exist because Jesus is carrying us. When "life"is just to heavy and we are so weak - faith courses through our veins. Doesn't feel so much like that though does it? How many times do we have to dig deeper? Does the day ever come, when we have an Oprah "AHA" moment?
What about the days when we have to close the door on thinking and feeling? Even brave, strong, intelligent, compassionate people just simply fall apart - it is not a sign of failure - reality - it is just reality, moments when we are humbled and grateful for friends, faith, and family.
With so much scandal running through our congregations, we still gather there, we still lean on one another there, we need each other.
Perhaps we start, with only a small grand of sand - but it is a start. We have a beginning. We have HOPE!
Saturday, August 24, 2013
The Problem Is...
The issue I am having is finding a comfortable place to write. As of yet I have not found a comfortagle place to sit and write. That may seem silly, however, it is not. The outlets in this apartment are in odd places. The cable and telephone modem must be where they are - messes up my feng shui(sp). It does not help any having Zippity Do Dah helping me. He is not a good speller. All great dilemmas in my simple life.
That is comical isn't it? Wrestling with Zuko's kitten hinders my opportunity to write. We all should have it that good.
I see people...not dead people, people from my past. I will catch a glimpse of someome who resembles a CA person and just for a split second I have to do a reality check. The talk lady has a word for it. Positive thought directing. Look in the mirror. I remain me. It is other people who send me in the way back machine. It has been long enough. The "way back" moments should be farther apart.. By now I should be over it - why can't I move forward ? Why am I stuck in this limbo?
With a calm rational head I see clearly this "new life." It doesn't fit. You know when you buy new sneakers; how those first few days they are so uncomfortable. Then slip on the old pair and your feet do a happy dance. Wish I could slip on my old life. If it stayed down, the food, it the food would stay down I would be a happier camper. 'I have theses blisters in my mouth, on my scalp, in my nose, in the "down there" places. They hurt. This also stinks.
The talk lady says I need to count my blessings. Live in the present rather than lamenting my past. Well ya' know I have been counting my blessings my entire life. I have had pity party, table or 1 days. They were just that days. One here and there. Now I have panic attacks which last for hours. The latest medicine prescribed to help me through a panic attack gives me the "heebie geebies" Have you experienced Heebie Geebies? Imagine thousands of bees under your skin. The noise itself would be annoying. The sensation of the furry underbelly of a young yellow jacket woud be ecough. The continual "sting" of this bee or that bee - enough already. My ears are inundated with the buzz. (not the good kind of buzz one could achieve with a bit of pharmeutical assistance)
The talk lady questions my commitment to our time together. If she only knew how much effort it takes me to drag my sorry backside over there. Mentally I begin preperations the day before - the day of the appointment, though only 45 minutes long requires 45 hours of before and after time. Makes me question her commitment - listening to me whine about what I have lost, how my physical pain and my emotional pain morph into one giant monster pain- Teahing reality 101 SHOW UP! Showing up is an important part, no, it is a vital part of teaching. A me at 50% is better than a stranger at 150%. Questioning my commitment leads me to wonder if she is committed to treating me. Now,I have the great debate should I continue.
Reality is - I am tired! I am tired of a constant battle keeping this vessel of my life afloat. Each disease involves one group of healthy cells eating another group of healthy cells. My life is a clear reflction of this. I am my own worst enemy. I am in a position to relax - Finally able to rest when I need to - not having to push past the "malady" of the day lunch special. It does make an enormous difference. I am blessed because I can receive disability retirement. This is one battle I do not have to fight. There are so many folks praying for me. I talk to God. I ask him what he needs of me? I ask him what work he needs me to complete. I pray for inner peace. I pray for friends and family I pray and I pray and I pray. The summer rush must be especially busy.
I do not want people worrying about me. I do not want people to view me as a pitiful sad sack. I am not - I am a butterfly wrapped in my chrysills. In time I shall emerge. My wings still wet from mu mother's womb, my wings too heavy to fly - yet. Then in an instant, in a moment - stretching my wings I will fly. Forever searching, listening, pausing, waiting to hear his plan for me. Onward we go dannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
That is comical isn't it? Wrestling with Zuko's kitten hinders my opportunity to write. We all should have it that good.
I see people...not dead people, people from my past. I will catch a glimpse of someome who resembles a CA person and just for a split second I have to do a reality check. The talk lady has a word for it. Positive thought directing. Look in the mirror. I remain me. It is other people who send me in the way back machine. It has been long enough. The "way back" moments should be farther apart.. By now I should be over it - why can't I move forward ? Why am I stuck in this limbo?
With a calm rational head I see clearly this "new life." It doesn't fit. You know when you buy new sneakers; how those first few days they are so uncomfortable. Then slip on the old pair and your feet do a happy dance. Wish I could slip on my old life. If it stayed down, the food, it the food would stay down I would be a happier camper. 'I have theses blisters in my mouth, on my scalp, in my nose, in the "down there" places. They hurt. This also stinks.
The talk lady says I need to count my blessings. Live in the present rather than lamenting my past. Well ya' know I have been counting my blessings my entire life. I have had pity party, table or 1 days. They were just that days. One here and there. Now I have panic attacks which last for hours. The latest medicine prescribed to help me through a panic attack gives me the "heebie geebies" Have you experienced Heebie Geebies? Imagine thousands of bees under your skin. The noise itself would be annoying. The sensation of the furry underbelly of a young yellow jacket woud be ecough. The continual "sting" of this bee or that bee - enough already. My ears are inundated with the buzz. (not the good kind of buzz one could achieve with a bit of pharmeutical assistance)
The talk lady questions my commitment to our time together. If she only knew how much effort it takes me to drag my sorry backside over there. Mentally I begin preperations the day before - the day of the appointment, though only 45 minutes long requires 45 hours of before and after time. Makes me question her commitment - listening to me whine about what I have lost, how my physical pain and my emotional pain morph into one giant monster pain- Teahing reality 101 SHOW UP! Showing up is an important part, no, it is a vital part of teaching. A me at 50% is better than a stranger at 150%. Questioning my commitment leads me to wonder if she is committed to treating me. Now,I have the great debate should I continue.
Reality is - I am tired! I am tired of a constant battle keeping this vessel of my life afloat. Each disease involves one group of healthy cells eating another group of healthy cells. My life is a clear reflction of this. I am my own worst enemy. I am in a position to relax - Finally able to rest when I need to - not having to push past the "malady" of the day lunch special. It does make an enormous difference. I am blessed because I can receive disability retirement. This is one battle I do not have to fight. There are so many folks praying for me. I talk to God. I ask him what he needs of me? I ask him what work he needs me to complete. I pray for inner peace. I pray for friends and family I pray and I pray and I pray. The summer rush must be especially busy.
I do not want people worrying about me. I do not want people to view me as a pitiful sad sack. I am not - I am a butterfly wrapped in my chrysills. In time I shall emerge. My wings still wet from mu mother's womb, my wings too heavy to fly - yet. Then in an instant, in a moment - stretching my wings I will fly. Forever searching, listening, pausing, waiting to hear his plan for me. Onward we go dannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Evil - yes or no?
Yesterday Amy and I were having a conversation about "evil." More precisely, are some people born evil? During my years of teaching we would sometimes refer to a student as having "empty eyes." A student with empty eyes would engage in behaviors that were evil. He/she would search for another's weakness, then "play" on that weakness as often as possible. Such a student would often "start fires" between others then sit back and watch them burn.
Ultimately the conversation would become about whether this student was evil.
Having spent my elementary school days at a Catholic School "evil" was often discussed. The nuns or laypeople would describe evil as people with black, or empty eyes. Sin was evil. Since we all committed sins we were all evil. Probably from the first grade on I have wrestled with "evil." Is it an adjective or a verb? Does evil describe a person or a person's behavior?
I firmly believe, within each of us the ability to commit evil acts exists. For me, evil is a behavior. It is an action verb. A person can commit behaviors we would say are evil. Does that make the person evil? These evil behaviors are not inherent in personality. Rather they are choices people make. The Catholic faith puts a lot on your shoulders - a lot of blame, a lot of responsibility, a lot of choices - Catholicism has us born already a sinner. The faith lets you know, right away, that you are born with sin and in need of forgiveness. 5 minutes old you must receive absolution for sins you were born with. That is not right. I cannot believe such a thing. In my case, my mother dying minutes after I was born - well gosh darn it, what is a girl to do.
A man kills 14 people. He is tried and sentenced to death - (by the way, we are all sentenced to death." This man goes to prison where he "finds Jesus." Then he works to gain forgiveness and peace - He does not want to burn to death. Makes me wonder if such a man is truly remorsefully? Or is he just looking for something to occupy his time? Is he a "ghost" just trying to make his time? The recidism (sp) rate for prisoners is rather high. A prisoner learns what he must do or say the "right things" if he wants hope for parole. Or maybe he really has hit bottom and Found God sitting there waiting for him.
It is a difficult question. There is no correct answer. We (Catholics) are born with sins already committed. To me that concept is incorrect. Jesus's execution we are told saves us from original sin.
If I believed in evil the world would be sad, rotten, hard concrete. The world is not sad, rotten, concrete prison cell. A newborn child is joy, wonder, miraculous - not evil. I just can't buy into evil, lying dormant until a person is old enough to find ways to act on his/her evil behaviors. We can see love. We can see hate. With evil though, we see behavior.
What is the phrase; God hangs then waits to see if you choose evil behaviors or kind behaviors. (remembering quotes, this is a flaw within me)
If evil exists then floods, bomb blasts, flying planes into buildings, all of these acts are planned. They are well thought out, planned, and executed by human beings. The action of victims, responders, committers, makes the behavior a sin. Tsunamis are payback for the sins of many - many who are not effected by tsunamis. See that doesn't make any sense. That tornado which went through a school of children - which one should be arrested? Which sinner at that school brought upon such devastation?
Each person has the choice of good or bad. Freewill, God speaks of it often. The gift of freewill used to commit acts of evil behavior. Still the question remains; are there people born or bred to become "evil?" I think if I believed evil exists in a person's DNA; Well we might as well pack our bags go see the world.
Religion and politics, 2 things you should not discuss with friends; Philosophically speaking it is an interesting topic. It can be come a boring load of BS. Rhetoric and flashes, quite contemplation. Ya' do have to pre-think this one. Not too long though. Are people born evil or has life made them engage in behaviors that are evil.
If forgiveness and absolution of sin takes ten minutes on a Saturday after noon, then why not go buck wild the rest of the week? Take your weekly confession. Your good to go. Confession a topic for another time.
No, I do not believe evil is an adjective you can use to describe people. It is an adverb you can use to describe behavior. All of us running in this human race may engage in "evil" behaviors. Head to confession on Saturday. Say their ten Hail Mary's', commit an act of kindness; then they are free to go on with their evil selves and do whatever they choose. Upon the time of their death a priest can forgive the dead person making the gates of heaven within reach? Really?
Behaviors are evil. A person can commit evil behaviors, People though, all of us in this marathon of life - there is more good than bad, more acts of kindness than bullying - There has to be. I have seen it. I have been blessed many times. I choose to think these thoughts. I choose to look for kindness. I choose to act in kindness. In fact I believe if we all looked for "goodness" then all we would find is God's children sharing the swings on life's playground. What do you think?
Ultimately the conversation would become about whether this student was evil.
Having spent my elementary school days at a Catholic School "evil" was often discussed. The nuns or laypeople would describe evil as people with black, or empty eyes. Sin was evil. Since we all committed sins we were all evil. Probably from the first grade on I have wrestled with "evil." Is it an adjective or a verb? Does evil describe a person or a person's behavior?
I firmly believe, within each of us the ability to commit evil acts exists. For me, evil is a behavior. It is an action verb. A person can commit behaviors we would say are evil. Does that make the person evil? These evil behaviors are not inherent in personality. Rather they are choices people make. The Catholic faith puts a lot on your shoulders - a lot of blame, a lot of responsibility, a lot of choices - Catholicism has us born already a sinner. The faith lets you know, right away, that you are born with sin and in need of forgiveness. 5 minutes old you must receive absolution for sins you were born with. That is not right. I cannot believe such a thing. In my case, my mother dying minutes after I was born - well gosh darn it, what is a girl to do.
A man kills 14 people. He is tried and sentenced to death - (by the way, we are all sentenced to death." This man goes to prison where he "finds Jesus." Then he works to gain forgiveness and peace - He does not want to burn to death. Makes me wonder if such a man is truly remorsefully? Or is he just looking for something to occupy his time? Is he a "ghost" just trying to make his time? The recidism (sp) rate for prisoners is rather high. A prisoner learns what he must do or say the "right things" if he wants hope for parole. Or maybe he really has hit bottom and Found God sitting there waiting for him.
It is a difficult question. There is no correct answer. We (Catholics) are born with sins already committed. To me that concept is incorrect. Jesus's execution we are told saves us from original sin.
If I believed in evil the world would be sad, rotten, hard concrete. The world is not sad, rotten, concrete prison cell. A newborn child is joy, wonder, miraculous - not evil. I just can't buy into evil, lying dormant until a person is old enough to find ways to act on his/her evil behaviors. We can see love. We can see hate. With evil though, we see behavior.
What is the phrase; God hangs then waits to see if you choose evil behaviors or kind behaviors. (remembering quotes, this is a flaw within me)
If evil exists then floods, bomb blasts, flying planes into buildings, all of these acts are planned. They are well thought out, planned, and executed by human beings. The action of victims, responders, committers, makes the behavior a sin. Tsunamis are payback for the sins of many - many who are not effected by tsunamis. See that doesn't make any sense. That tornado which went through a school of children - which one should be arrested? Which sinner at that school brought upon such devastation?
Each person has the choice of good or bad. Freewill, God speaks of it often. The gift of freewill used to commit acts of evil behavior. Still the question remains; are there people born or bred to become "evil?" I think if I believed evil exists in a person's DNA; Well we might as well pack our bags go see the world.
Religion and politics, 2 things you should not discuss with friends; Philosophically speaking it is an interesting topic. It can be come a boring load of BS. Rhetoric and flashes, quite contemplation. Ya' do have to pre-think this one. Not too long though. Are people born evil or has life made them engage in behaviors that are evil.
If forgiveness and absolution of sin takes ten minutes on a Saturday after noon, then why not go buck wild the rest of the week? Take your weekly confession. Your good to go. Confession a topic for another time.
No, I do not believe evil is an adjective you can use to describe people. It is an adverb you can use to describe behavior. All of us running in this human race may engage in "evil" behaviors. Head to confession on Saturday. Say their ten Hail Mary's', commit an act of kindness; then they are free to go on with their evil selves and do whatever they choose. Upon the time of their death a priest can forgive the dead person making the gates of heaven within reach? Really?
Behaviors are evil. A person can commit evil behaviors, People though, all of us in this marathon of life - there is more good than bad, more acts of kindness than bullying - There has to be. I have seen it. I have been blessed many times. I choose to think these thoughts. I choose to look for kindness. I choose to act in kindness. In fact I believe if we all looked for "goodness" then all we would find is God's children sharing the swings on life's playground. What do you think?
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