Posts Tagged With: emotional

Amnesia Worth Remembering

Here’s the trouble with self induced amnesia: when you want to remember you are not even sure you can. Maybe you no longer have the permission. The knowing is lost for always.

When I try to remember the you I wanted to forget I am cursed with the insecurity of believing I’m no longer allowed. I am the one who said Done with You, my unfriend. Off with your head I cried! But. But! But, the curse upon hearing my words, instead decided upon your mind.
Every time I think of you the corners of my mind are crowded with uninvited ghosts. The self destruction. The frantic come-now-go behavior. The confusion and the breaking of hearts. I walked away to save my selfish self but in doing so I lost the right to ask you about you. Does that mean I lost the right to care?
I am now reduced to friends of friends texting. The sly begging for slivers of information. The trepidation of being shut out. The potential to be shunned because I’m the one who shut down. Or, was that you? Chronologically, you did it first. You’ll do it last, thanks to the danger that curls around your curls.
Do I deserve to ask? Do I deserve to know? No. I know I can’t know. I stumbled and staggered away because you pushed. Now I miss you without having the right to say the words outloud. I’m so nobody that there is no one who will think to think of me. Maybe Seriously should know is not a decision anyone deems significant enough to decide.

Confessional: I tapped a friend on the shoulder and whispered Should I know? behind your back. I think I only want permission to stay gone without guilt. If granted I shall sink back into the primordial unknowing and pretend I never heard. This girl can go back to faking amnesia with a callous air of disregard.
“…wishing she had never spoken your name; had never known your name.”

Categories: Confessional, life | Tags: , , , , | 1 Comment

So Many Sisters

The Just ‘Cause Walk hasn’t been over for 48  hours yet and already I am thinking about next year. It’s crazy! I have so many sisters! I am in awe of just how much I walk away with every year. For every sister I have gained I have at least ten stories. For every story I have at least a hundred laugh-out-loud moments. For every LOL I have at least a thousand heart-felt connections. 100,000,000 memories of a time well spent.

This isn’t isn’t a blog about the walk itself. I haven’t been able to process everything just yet. The events of May 18th – 20th, 2012 still have my head reeling. I need time to reflect. I need time to let the tangle of emotions untie themselves. Don’t worry, I will sift through the memories and write about the ones that resonated the loudest, touched me the deepest, moved me the most. There are many.

This blog is only to say I am home again and I have survived. Three small blisters (which I don’t even feel today) and lower back pain. The LBP is not a product of the walk. I had it for three days leading up to the walk, oddly enough. While it mysteriously went away for Friday, Saturday and Sunday it came back with a vengeance Monday morning. I could barely move. I hobbled like a Just ‘Cause first-timer! Today, thanks to Vitamin Advil I am feeling better. Science is good.

And a postscript ~ many, many thanks to Deb and Heather for their post-walk donations. Never will I find more true women. You do what you say and say what you mean and I love you for that. xoxox

 

Categories: Charity, Confessional, Just Cause, Walking | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

the Failure

This is the part two, the end to the story of the fury. It comes as failure.

Our trip down the mountain started early enough to be late at night. Still dark. The ride to Sacramento was punctured by off hand quips and comments from back seat to front. A sentence here and a reply there. The sunrise was slow and graceful. I could almost forget where we were going and enjoy the ride.
Before long, an hour later, the airport loomed into view and fear sat on my shoulder once again. I felt its weight but could no longer recognize its face. Was I not as terrified this time around? I asked myself and moi. No. No, we were not. True, mom was not with me. If the plane went down my sister would not be an orphan. I wasn’t asking Kisa about the sleeping habits of geese, the movements of terrorists, or the unhealthy habits of our pilots. I seemed to be oddly calm, oddly enough. Even the full body scan didn’t reveal fear in me. I was fine.

I was fine until I boarded the plane, that is. On our flight out to CA I was the last person to board. The very last person to buckle in. The last person to comply with the flight attendants and their rules. It would be that way again. Going home I had the very last seat in the very last row in a teeny, tiny, tin can plane. Doesn’t the tail always break off first? I hissed at Kisa. Isn’t this the most dangerous seat on the plane? To make matters worse we.weren’t.sitting.together. I think I scared Mr. Businessman enough so that when Kisa asked, he switched in a heartbeat. Sure, you can sit with the crazy doomsday lady he seemed to say. Sure, sure. Go right ahead.

For the rest of the flight I kept my head down, buried in the crazy I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell book (review coming on the LunaSea side). After the first five hours I really thought I was going to make it without the Fury. I really thought this would be a better flight. I was confident I could stay composed. Until Eve. Chatty, spunky, spiky redheaded Eve. Of course sitting in her jump seat she was right next to Kisa. Of course Ms. Chatterbox just had to strike up a conversation with Mr. Everybody’s Friend. Soon they were swapping stories about how cold Canada is. How crazy California is. Blah, blah, blah. Then she asked why we had been in California. The good times came to a screeching halt as Kisa killed the conversation with, “we were there for a funeral.” Out of the blue Eve starts telling us about losing her son. Car accident. As she dabbed her tear-drowned eyes her aquamarine eyeshadow slid down her cheeks making the perfect picture of pathetic. Kisa couldn’t stop there. He shared that we lost a cousin, same age as her son, as well. Before I knew it we had the entire back row silent and sullen and I’ve said to hell with composure and cried with a new broken heart.

I don’t remember the landing. We took a long time gathering our belongings. As we taxied to the gate I pretended to drop things under my seat, just so I could bend over and hide my eyes from the rest of the travelers. Mr. Businessman waited until I surfaced before leaving long enough say, “sorry for your loss.” Eve hugged me tight as I tried to escape up the aisle. The last person off. I choked on my grief and realized I no longer had Fury. With my composure gone I had failure.

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Necessary Words

Sometimes conversations are a leap of faith. Closing the eyes and jumping into a discussion that seemingly has no clear conclusion. This could end badly just by starting. And yet. Yet, we must have them.

My sister sighed and started the talk with the words “this is long overdue…” Her words were wise and strong and there was no hint of a weakness that can only come when your entire world falls apart (or, as she asked me, what the fukc happened to my life?!). I admire her strength to hit shame in the face, to knock it down and stomp on by. Who cares what theythink? They who come from twenty thousand Ivy Leagues under reality and introduce themselves by institution matriculation – Harvard. Princeton. Dartmouth. Good for her for looking reality in the eye and telling it like it really is.

My friend has yet to start his conversation. The one that begins with begging, “honey, do you really need that ninth drink?” I don’t envy him. The bottle has become the beacon his girl is drawn to every single day. She wakes to a drink. She drives with a drink. She goes to bed holding a drink. I am constantly reminded of one of my favorite DMB songs “Grace is Gone.” That one drink to remember, another to forget. That begging, excuse me please one more drink and I’ll move on…Only, it’s never one more drink.

Then. Then there’s my conversation. In my head I’ve started it a thousand and one times. A thousand and two if you count just now – just a second ago. How do I begin? Where do I begin? I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to kick you when you’re down. I’m embarrassed for me, myself and moi because somehow we’ve lost something. Something that use to mean something to you. Only, I don’t know what it was and and now it’s impossible to retrieve. Is it because I’m damaged goods? Has my shelf life expired? Is it because I’m fragile? Broken to the brittle bone? Are you scared of me? The lyrics to “My Skin” churn in my heart. How did we get here?

Necessary words. For all of us. Grant me the strength.

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When In Doubt

Last weekend I had another one of my classic “fits.” Randomly and completely without warning I will think of  my life as too cluttered, too hoardish. I get a strong desire to rent a dumpster and purge material waste. I go through these phases when I’m emotionally bogged down and all I want is sparse and room to spare in every aspect of my life. In this mindset I attacked a storage space I refer to as the “workout” closet. Out came ten years of Real Simple magazines, ankle weights (hey, I can use them in therapy), resistance bands from the first PT stint, exercises clipped from magazines, yoga blocks, hair ties with spent elastic, a plethora of water bottles in all shapes and sizes (I think someone is trying to tell me something), and. And! And, my running journal from 2005. More specifically, this was my training log for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s half marathon!

To those of you who don’t know me this is like finding a shoebox of old love letters. I was in love with running and this was the proof. It IS the proof. My hands trembled to realize I held day one in them. Back where it all began, it began with a simple desire to run. All this time I have been telling people I didn’t start running until Team in Training. That’s so not true.

When I told a friend I found the journal her reaction surprised me. She wanted to reread it with me. Sit on the floor and cry with me. Who knew that seven months of my life could move me so much? Impact someone else that much? There is no substitute for sharing in the moment at that moment, but maybe this is the next best thing (Black = original text; Green = my current day comments):

Day 1 (November 10th) Dare I Say?
Today is the first day I feel like a runner. I ran for 23 minutes straight. I have no clue how far that is, but in terms of my neighborhood it’s past Sojourner Truth, down liquor Hill, across from the grandparents, behind the high school and back around again (It’s 2.2 miles, mostly hills). In music terms it’s She Says through most of Please Let Me Be (Sirsy’s album Away From Here was my first choice for training music). By Monday I’ll get to You. I’ll pound it out to the drums, but sometimes the lyrics push me more. Uncomfortable has become my comfortable theme song. Anger to keep the legs moving (Uncomfortable is a song about sexual abuse – been there, dealt with that). I have my first Team Leukemia/Lymphoma meeting tonight. I’m nervous that I can’t stay for the whole thing because I also have to teach a class for English 101. Conflicting schedules. Not a good way to start. Ugh. Why do I feel like I’ve bitten the wrong end of the viper?”

My urge is to go back to the old haunts and run them again. Would I see Sojourner differently? Would liquor hill hurt me? What would I feel running by Grace? Would I run faster or slower? In pain or in love? When in doubt, just do it. Maybe this weekend.

Categories: Confessional, life, Old Blogs, running | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

Squeeze

When I said I wanted a little squeeze this contraption is definitely not what I had in mind! Today I am carrying around a blood pressure monitor. I can only imagine the kinds of numbers this thing is recording. After getting it strapped to me (more on that later) I couldn’t even begin to imagine spending an hour with it much less a full 24. Every 15 minutes it automatically takes a reading. A small beep warns me it’s about to begin and then for 30 seconds the experience is something akin to a boa constrictor tightening its length around its prey. Tighter and tighter. The sensation is something I can’t get used to, try as I might. I mean, my fingers turn blue!

So. Getting this thing on. We’ve all worn the bp cuff. We all know how it works. Silly moi didn’t think about this when me & myself got dressed this morning. Elastic banded sleeves and tight pull-over sweaters are not considered “easy access” wear for the squeeze machine. It was embarrassing to struggle with my clothing while the tech waited patiently. I imagined her foot tapping under the table. I could tell she wanted to help. All I wanted to do was get my damned sleeve pulled down and get the blood work done.

The next awkward moment was the urine sample. I’m strapped in to the BP cuff with the monitor slung over my arm like a purse. It sways, banging into the wall while I try to negotiate breathing peeing room in the tiny lady’s room stall. Never mind the fact that I’m still holding the key to the bathroom (and you should see the giant key ring attached. It’s the shape and size of a Disney wand, puke pink with a picture of some priceless, primping princess. She’s way too happy for this kind of humiliation.), the plastic bag the sample goes into, my purse, jacket and let’s not forget the pee cup and cover! Despite all that I have to say the human body amazes me. Despite fasting for 18 hours I still managed to produce a sample even if I wasn’t so graceful about going about it.

So. The blood has been given. From what I can tell they will be running  five specific tests from the samples they took. Either that or they really enjoy using vials of different colors!

Now I wait. What will they find? What will they won’t? Me and my BP cuff can’t wait to find out.

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No Worse

When I took this picture I wanted to focus mostly on Mr. Monkey Miserable – the one head-to tree trunk, looking pathetic. I said to my friend, “that’s how I feel. That’s me.” But, really it was how I had been feeling since last Wednesday almost a week before. When you can’t bang your head against the wall anymore you tend to lean against it in tired defeat. That was me, myself and moi. Leaning. Exhausted.
I am not good with shifting relationships. I tend to get away from them before they get to me. Every boyfriend I’ve ever had (save one) has been dumped by me, myself & moi in the most pitiful yet creative of ways. Even friendships have gone by the wayside when I can’t find a healthy way to keep them going. Whispering “mea culpa, mea culpa ” as I slowly back out the door, I leave them all. One way or another I find a way to leave.
I’m not used to the instability of hatred. The unfair rockiness of “it’s not you, yet…” That yet is what has me bitter and broken. Years of a relationship, a partnership and friendship are wiped away in the second it takes to state “I’m leaving.” In the blink of an eye and a blank stare the tables are turned and I’m on the wrong side of the dealing hand. People tell me I should be happy, but I hurt.

Oblivious to companionship, Mr. Monkey Miserable sits alone, head banged against his tree. Maybe he is praying. Maybe he is laughing. Maybe he is no worse than me.

Categories: Confessional, life, Old Blogs, photography | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

Freak Two

I am at a loss for words. I know that when I say something I will instantly become an open book, letting it all hang out. I’ve never been good at pretending when it comes to caring. So, this is completely and utterly from the heart when I say What. The. Fukc?!? Seriously!

You used to be awesome. Pure and simply amazing. I held you in the highest regard, thought the world of you; in the words of Natalie, you were all that I could see. I risked the reputation of daddy’s little girl to be your daring damsel. Skirting the edges of town, disappearing always. Too drunk on moonbeams to stay til morning. Never before and never since has there been a more succinct summer. Until this week I would have described you as smart, funny, good-looking, well-read, well-bred, well…everything. I’ve held onto the things you’ve given me; remembered the things you’ve taught me; cherished the person you’ve helped me become. Literature and language, words wrapped in rose petals. While most of those things have faded (or have been sent back to their rightful owner) I have kept small reminders of a larger time. Cat eyes and how it all began – with a note. Griffin & Sabine – more notes by other author no less passionate. Ending with the Darkest Hour. Beginning with Cottlestone Pie. Listening to WJYM. Particle Theory.

I’d like to think you dead. Like a closed casket loved one. I’ve dreamed you dead. Closed the door. I’d like to remember you as you were and not as you are now. You are much more beautiful that way. Less of a lie that way. We wouldn’t know each other now. The bloom is off the rose. You have lost your sophistication and sparkle only to become someone’s silliness. Someone’s punchline. Someone’s joke. It is too painful to watch, too difficult to swallow. My pride won’t let me admit I know you now. I don’t. I knew you when.

Categories: Confessional, life | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments

I Don’t Mean It

I have been telling people I won’t walk for Just ‘Cause come next year. The fund raising is stressful, the training walks – tiring. The emotional drain of it all leaves me empty and hollow.

Fund raising isn’t my bag. I hate asking people for money, no matter how great, or worthy, or important the cause. You can tell someone all about the logistics – where the money goes, how it is used, the good it does…but it does no good where the average larry is concerned. Friends and family, as well meaning as they are, say they will donate but somehow never get around to writing that all-important check. Here are the true donors; the people who “get it” as they say: they are the people who have shook hands with cancer and brushed elbows with death and lived to tell about it. They really get it. Next there are the people who have lost a loved one to the increasingly complicated condition of cancer. They are the people who shake their heads with tears in their eyes as they try to make sense of why their Mary or their Irene had to die at fifty-something or not-yet-seventy years young. They donate because of the memory of the one they lost is fresh with them 5 years, 10 years, or even a lifetime later. Look at me. I am haunted by the death of someone I have not met.

When I say the training walks are tiring what I mean is they are more weary on my psyche. Trying to plans the walks around life isn’t always easy. I want to do it all and find myself cutting corners when I can’t. Intentions are good but sooner or later they are ignored. The Do It Now gets neglected and  becomes the Do It Never. I am not proud of this. Not really.

Then there is the simple fact I’m not cut out for this anymore. My ankle, hip and now both knees need a break from the heartbreaking journeys I insist on taking them on. Just last week my right foot developed a weird pain running across where my toes connect with the top of my foot. It hurt to walk so even without the gruel of a training walk I was limping. It disappointed me to be in pain; especially one so unexplained.

I tell people I won’t walk next year as a way to say Donate Now! but really, I’m my own voice of reason. The wiser me is telling my sentimental self enough is enough.

Categories: Confessional, Fund Raising, Just Cause, life, Walking | Tags: , , , , | 3 Comments

Best Gift of All

Sometimes, when I get really, really tired my emotions rev and my whole game is thrown off. I hold things personally and get so rigid that when I’m bent out of shape I’m easily broken. Exhaustion makes me mean. I picked fights for the fun of it and find myself kicking up a foofaraw.

For reasons unknown to anyone but myself & moi I argued with Kisa about a Christmas tree. Or, more accurately, the fact that we don’t have one…not in the traditional sense. No prickly needles to pick up. No pungent perfume of pine. No sticky, sappy pitch to peel from fingers. For ten years I have been asking if we can get away from plastic boughs and plug-in ornaments. Store-bought, imitation, manufactured, mess. On the eleventh year of Christmas I didn’t ask. I used fighting words and failed to say what I really meant to say. It’s just not Christmas without a real tree.

Last night I had dinner with the voice of reason. We had a spirited conversation that left me thinking a bit more compromise. Fresh boughs on the mantle, because hey, we finally got one to put boughs on. Scented candles that almost smell like the real thing, a wee Charlie Brown tree out in the yard… we had options. We focussed on the tree (or lack there of) for just a few more seconds before launching into heavier subjects with loftier goals. When she said “It’s not about you” I burst out laughing, but I knew what she meant. Everything she said made sense. I leaned into her advice and let it support me. I let myself dream about using that advice and seeing success. Could I dare dream of calm in the eye of the storm? Could I actually see myself surviving the barbs and bad things? It was a haven for my heartache.

I don’t know if I can be that strong in the face of chaos, but I can certainly try. I know I don’t have the calm that my wise friend has, but her advice inspired me to give it a chance. In the grand scheme of things she gave me the best gift of all. Hope.

Categories: Confessional | Tags: , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

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