Category: Confessional

Grace & Faith

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The past three months of my life have been more stressful than Dr. Death’s worst homework assignment and planning a wedding combined. While one hand looked for answers the other had to do the deeds, regardless of knowledge. Working my fingers to the bone, working slight of hand.
Then came the past. Waltzing in like it owned my future. It was hard to stare down the demons, both good and bad. It was hard to peel back the layers of my acceptance and feel the hurt for the someones else. Those someones mean more to me than the blood streaming through my veins. How easy is it to want to avoid the inevitable hurt? Although I want to stop I know that I can’t. We are at a place that cannot be denied or ignored any longer. We must keep the momentum of grace.
To top it all off, I want to go back to school. I know that right now my energy is tapped, my ambition low, my funds all but nonexistent, but I want to be Dr. Mucky-Muck. My horizon is tainted with shouldn’t, wouldn’t and especially, couldn’t. I have to keep faith.
But, for now I need to get back to good. Christmas is fast approaching and the holiday spirit moves me. I got my first card two days ago and that has motivated me to mail my own – starting with the west side of my life.
So, to Grace & Faith. Stay by my side. Don’t let me fly from the roof in an effort to be with my angels. Keep me grounded. Keep me safe. Life has been harder than this, more sorry than this. It’s time to reach for a better place to be.

Your Secret

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You said something striking today. You said “I’m scared how easy it is to hide my mental illness from my family” and that statement struck a chord with me. It was a simple statement yet it spoke volumes. You were more afraid of how little no one noticed you and less frightened of what ailed you. Why is that? I admired it just the same…although I don’t know why. It’s as if being unstable wasn’t that big of a deal to you, or maybe, that you were dealing with the no big deal just fine. What was truly scary was how no one noticed anything and everything else. You said this and somehow it comforted me. People can get away with things without even trying. Look at Dennis Rader and how far off everyone’s radar he really was. Got away with murder. Look at the double-life porn star. It can happen to the best of us without even trying. We don’t try, yet we do.
You said it scared you how easy it was to hide something. Maybe that’s because it’s more normal than you think.

Father Christmas Letters

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Father ChristmasTolkien, J.R.R. The Father Christmas Letters. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1976.

Pure magic. I loved every minute of this book! I have always loved J.R.R. Tolkien’s imagination. From The Hobbit to The Two Towers I have always enjoyed submerging myself in his work. This book is something special. I think Nancy Pearl sums it up best in Book Lust “Tolkien wrote these letters for his children, beginning in 1920 and ending in 1939. Whimsical pictures complement the descriptions of Father Christmas’s life at the North Pole” (p 56). But, what Pearl doesn’t tell you is that Tolkien is posing as Father Christmas, and each letter (one for each year) is a continuation a story (involving a polar bear, elves and ) from the year before. The illustrations that accompany the letters are as captivating as the storyline. I can truly imagine being a child, caught up in waiting for the letter from Father Christmas.
The sobering thing about this book is that it ends the same year that World War II starts. Tolkien even makes mention of it on the last page “Half the world seems in the wrong place.” It seems like everyone needed to put aside childhood in 1939.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust  in the chapter “Christmas Books For The Whole Family To Read” (p 55).

Knitting a Memory

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Here’s what I remember. She would be standing behind the counter, knitting with four needles. Knitting in a round. Wristers for the men, mittens for the women. Knitting, always knitting. The yarn was never one solid color. She would ring up grocery orders, peer at prices through grandma glasses. Tally balances in a fine, spidery hand. Smoking and gossiping with the fishermen. Back when smoking was something to do. Her raspy laugh echoing through the aisles. A fixture among the groceries. She was just a little thing but such a huge presence!
Christmas mittens. Those mittens knitted all year long would show up under the tree in December. Always with a dollar hidden in one. It was as much a tradition as Seacoast Mission. mom’s oranges and Jingle Bells before Santa. For some reason I always got shades of green. How she knew my growing hands from year to year I’ll never know. I’ve kept them still.
Sitting on top of wharf hill, watching the day trippers disembark from the boat. Always full of witty comments and guess who arrived today? She knew everyone’s story, everyone’s comings and goings. She saw it all and knew us all from the hill.
She died last month. I just got word today. Common sense says it was time. Nature has it’s unstoppable course. She was ancient when I was a kid. Nevertheless, I thought she would live forever. Whenever her mittens warm my hands her memory will always warm my heart. Thanks, Reet.

A Little Push

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pushI’ve started a fitness program called PushTv after researching trainer Bob Harper. I was interested in getting to a program that was a little different than joining a gym. I’ll admit, this is really different. The first dvd came a few weeks ago but today was the first day I actually “worked out” with it. I decided I needed this Push because common sense wasn’t getting through to me. Try as I might I couldn’t convince myself to get going – not even when I announced it here, in this blog, in front of witnesses (or people who might actually hold me to my promises).

Here’s what I think of Session One:
I think I might have spaced it but I don’t remember Bob telling me I would need certain equipment. I know when I signed up I told Push I had all sorts of paraphernalia available. Did I think they would actually make me use it? Apparently not because Bob would say, “okay, grab your…” and I’d have to run off to retrieve the item: resistance ball, towel, chair, step, free weights, resistance bands…Each time I had to pause the dvd, especially for the step that has been in the basement since Jane Fonda days. Speaking of the step, I have a complaint. The Push people never asked me if I could make my step recline. Hello! I have the pink, turquoise and grey number left over from the 80’s when step aerobics was the thing to do. I would have missed the incline sit up session if I have taken the time to figure out how to recline. But, the workout with Bob was really rewarding. He makes it fun. I can see why contestants on The Biggest Loser get so attached to this tattooed yoga boy.
The Cardio session is a little bothersome. I don’t care for the instructor (she’s no Bob), nor do I really have the room to mambo around the room. She says “move that chair if you need to.” The question is, exactly where do I move it to, lady? So. I skipped the dvd’s cardio session… for now.
The next sessions were concentrations on areas of the body I said I wanted to work on. My chosen area of focus is abs but I was also given a bonus workout called “Ultimate Ass”. I like the trainer well enough and the exercises are challenging. What I could do without are the graphics. I don’t really understand the stars, shadows, palm trees and speakers. All that flashiness (plus canned clapping) gave the program a cheap 70’s feel. What was even worse was the ass graphic. Off to the side is a row of asses. I kid you not. As you work out, the underwear on each ass “goes away” and at one point it looks as if one of them farts. Seriously. To make matters worse, words of encouragement are flashed across the screen – sayings like “great job! Give yourself a spanking!” Yikes. I found myself doing the exercises away from the screen, but still listening to the instructor. My only thought was “Bring back Bob!”
My last complaint is that when I logged into my Push profile (after the workout) I thought there would be a “chart your activity” screen. Something to tell the Push people how I’m doing. Not really. I could change my initial preferences (like a changed the cardio chick), but I couldn’t log much else.

Not Sleeping

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What is it about the question, “Did I wake you?” or “were you sleeping?” My knee-jerk reaction is to feel jerked back to childhood and to be accused of being lazy. Somehow, sleeping = sloth. So,  I am quick to retort “oh no! Nope. Not sleeping! Not me!” Never mind that a minute earlier I was so deep asleep it could have been compared to a coma. The funny thing is, even if I hadn’t been sleeping that tone of indignation still seeps in, “Who me? Sleeping? Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve been up for hours!” What follows is the barrage of proof, “I was just scrubbing the floor…with a toothbrush. I’m in the middle of doing laundry…by hand. I’m baking bread after just grinding the flour by hand…I discovered the way to achieve world peace.” Anything to make myself sound productive and as unlazy as possible on a Sunday morning.
In truth, it’s been a long time since I’ve slept in long enough to feel guilty about it. The hour hand of the clock has been at a reasonable angle when I get up. Reasonable for me, I should say. I have never been one to enjoy witnessing sunrises. Actually, I watch my sunrises on the Discovery channel to be honest. But, no matter what time I really wake up, get out of bed and officially start my day I still have this overwhelming urge to Do Something. Be productive. Even on a Sunday. Anybody got a toothbrush?

Happy Thanksgiving

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Happy Thanksgiving!This will be short and sweet because I’m supposed to be mashing sweet potatoes right now. My father-in-law’s special request.

This is the time to be thankful for everything you have in your life and this is my list:

  • I am thankful for my husband. Kisa is truly my Knight In Shining Armor
  • I am thankful for my health.
  • I am thankful for my family (but miss them terribly).
  • I am thankful for my job as stressful as it is right now. I truly have my dream job, right dad?
  • I am thankful for my friends. I think I surround myself with the best of the best.
  • I am thankful for the music that sustains me.
  • I am thankful for my angels. You know who you are.

So, give thanks for everything you have in your life. In this past week I have learned that life is hard. Life can be a tragedy. The trick is to stay strong. Lean on the people who love you. Love the life you live and live it like it’s your last because you never know.

Death in November

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They’re holding a memorial service for the man who jumped. Right on the spot where he died. What were his final thoughts during those last moments? Was he scared? Did he tremble? Or was he simply so backed in a corner he had nothing left to do but leap? Did he keep his eyes open to see the ground as it rushed up before him; his despair at its worst? Or did he shut his eyes tight in an effort to keep the hope in his head alive? Did his heart pound from fright or thrill, or was he calm knowing whatever pain he was in would soon be over? No matter how I try, I can’t put myself in his shoes. To be that jumper. Yet, I imagine I could have held his hand. I would not have been there to talk him down from the windy ledge. I could have held on to that hope, let it take me into flight. In the end, to be two crumpled mistakes, lying cold on the pavement.

Earlier in the week we lost a man to the elements. Right behind the bike path where I used to run. Dead to the elements. A homeless someone. It startled me, this report, because we hadn’t gotten a single snowflake yet. Was the frost really that killing? It seemed to be. It must have been. He was 42 years old and homeless and now dead. How did he die? Did he shiver to the point of exhaustion or slumber his existence away, drunk to the elements, those killing elements? Was there hopelessness to this homelessness?

Last night I drove past the unrecognizable remains of what used to be a person. Blood and gore smeared for yards. Clumps of something unimaginable, shiny red on the black pavement, our headlights glinting off the wetness of it all. At first I thought it was something spandex, plastic. Clumpy, red and wet. PoliceBlue lights flashed on the messy roadway as uniformed officers stepped from their vehicles, leaving doors flung wide open. Sobriety tests? I wondered. I had been hearing about them. A few more yards and I was passing a dog sized lump in the middle of the other lane. It looked exactly like roadkill. Roadkill wearing shreds of clothes, exposing bone, yet unrecognizable as anything definite.  No head. No arms or legs. Not male or female. Just a mangled mess. I stared in shock asking myself “Is this, was this, a human being?” Like nothing I had ever seen before and never want to see again. I drove the rest of the way to kisa in shock. Later, him being the newshound that he is, kisa sent me a video of the accident. A pedestrian tried to cross our paths and was struck 3, maybe 4 times. The damage done rendered this person as neither male nor female. Unrecognizable, irreclaimable. Who were you? What were you doing? Were you drunk? Disorientated? Just plain crazy? Where were you going and did you bet on Hell to get there?

Three deaths in less than a week. They haunt me still.

Song Saying

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Dear you,

BubbleGumI like crazy coincidences. I like it when something in my life matches something completely unexpected. BubbleGum has come through for me. He has a new song on his site (blog side) that matches exactly what I want to say. It’s the perfect song to pass onto certain people in my life. I have been struggling for words for weeks. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. I have spewed thousands of words while struggling for common sense. I’ve had more than plenty of words to say. Maybe, just maybe, too many to say. They just haven’t made sense. It was like I was speaking a foreign language, but it felt like I wasn’t being heard at all. I have been feeling talked out and tired from trying to explain too much. I am getting more and more stubborn and stupid. I want to just shut up; to stop talking totally. I practically pleaded for silence. It didn’t come. It won’t come. There is a difference between “silent treatment” and “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Silent to avoid lashing out, being virulent. Silent to avoid saying something stupid, something I don’t mean.
This weekend it was decided more needs to be said, only not by me. This time I’ll do more auscultation than saying. This time I’ll be on the hearing end, hopefully. So, as BG says on his site, “say what you need to say.”

www.johnmayer.com/blog

Love, me

I Won’t Fight

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I admit it. I hit rock bottom last night. After breaking down emotionally I lost all resolve, self respect and worst of all, the will to hold my ground. I’ll admit it. I told my husband I couldn’t take it anymore. I said I was tired from crying so much, exhausted from being so emotional and what’s more, that I didn’t want to be here. I actually said that. I don’t want to be here. Define “here” anyway you want. I knew what I meant and it wasn’t pretty. I once said desperation was an ugly word and an even uglier emotion. That was me, myself and moi last night. Ugly.
There is nowhere to go but up. From here, I can’t sink any lower or feel any worse. I’m backed into a corner and all I want to do is dissolve into a puddle of pitiful. Rock bottom. I am there. I am so there. That bottle I talk about? I tilted it back again and again, hating myself with each swallow. I danced like I knew what I was doing. An 80’s flashback and even a great drum solo couldn’t save me. I put on a face but ended up showing my true self. Ugly desperate. Drunk and done.

This Old Blog 11/18/05 9:31am

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The black cloud just paid a visit to my neighborhood. It’s not exactly over my head but it will be there soon enough. I just got word that B’s father lost the battle against brain cancer. Wait. Let me take that back. There was never a fight. There was never a fighting chance. Because of that B moved his wedding date in the hopes Mr. B would be able to attend, to see his only son get married. In the end he was too sick to be there despite the (very) moved up date.He was told he had X amount of time to live. So he did. Now he’s gone. Just like that. The emotions inside of me are like fireworks, each one a different color and size and intensity. I’m angry at the very word cancer. I’m hurting because I know what it’s like to lose a father before your life really gets started.
Another friend is dealing with a different kind of death. The kind that comes after a breakup. The person might as well be dead to him because of the way she is handling the goodbye. He calls it immature and I can see why. But, what he doesn’t realize is that it is hard to be mature when you feel you have been wronged on so many different levels. It’s difficult to think in terms on “just friends” when you want something more. In response she acts, rude, forgets her manners, all common decency goes out the door. Still, I hurt for my friend. The death of anything is never easy.

Thanksgiving Friends

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Dedicated to Patricia

Today marks the second anniversary of my announcement (to anyone who would listen) that I was running 13.1 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I can’t believe how incredibly brave I was to throw on the cape reserved for heroes and raise over $3,000 for LLS. It’s certainly not the most anyone has ever raised, but as the person who can’t even ask for understanding I impressed myself. Seriously.
Today I’ve imagined myself running for a cancer charity again. Simply because cancer is back in my life. To be honest, it never left. People around me have been announcing their struggles. Everyday it feels like there is another person dealing with it, coping with it, fighting the good fight against it, beating it. Winning. And losing. Yet, I don’t run because I’ve lost my cape, lost my courage. Lost my belief in that good fight.

Dump

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Old stuffed animals, dog-eared books, ugly clothes, ill-fitting shoes, broken clocks, cracked wine glasses, faded photos, ancient journals, moldy pillows, unfashionable scrunchies, crusty paint cans, tangled wedding decorations, 80’s cassettes, warped bed frames, paint-peeled doors, cantankerous poster frames, clunker phones, ripped wrapping paper, lost-love letters, dark forever floor lamps, wax coated candle holders, tacky knickknack things, mismatched earrings, unflattering sweaters, I could go on and on.

Kisa and I worked in the basement for the entire day. Stripping away six years of collected junk. Hauling it up the stairs, throwing it on the lawn. Opening unmarked boxes, relabeling bins, finding old treasures. For every one thing thrown away another thing was carefully repacked. Everything in its place, either out the door or saved for another time.

It felt much like cleaning out the heart. I have held on to things for too long, much too tightly. My grip killed the reasons for keeping. I’m glad I let go.

I May Know

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There are those commercials that talk about depression. You know, the ones that describe days when you don’t want to do anything? You don’t feel like eating, there’s nothing good on television, no one you want to talk to (text maybe), no desires except maybe to sleep for days on end. I wondered aloud to my husband if maybe, just maybe, that was my problem. Maybe I was depressed. Or maybe just indifferent to my here and now. If I had to chose I would prefer indifference.
I have decided to let go of previous struggles. They just aren’t important anymore. Like hanging on to something under water. It grows heavier and heavier until finally I lose my grip. But. But, letting go is such sweet sorrow! The burden slowly sinks away, growing further and further out of reach. Couldn’t change my mind if I wanted to. Opportunity lost without caring. I think of Natalie’s “I May Know The Word” and how it is a song of indifference. She may know the word but not say it. I’m like that, turning my head, oblivious to what was once important to me. What was once sacred no longer sustains me. Does this scare me? A little.
I’m not heartbroken to let something in me die. Maybe it was beyond saving all along? Maybe it was so dysfunctional that dying is such sweet relief? When I told my husband I thought something in me just shriveled up and died, guess what he did. He smiled. Not caring is the equivalent of not hurting and that is a good thing.

This Peace

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Something I wrote almost 16 years ago:

Early, early in the morning and late, late at night I find peace walking. I don’t know what it is that makes me feel so okay, but I’m glad it’s there. It’s quiet. 4:30am and 11:30pm. just me and the stars…and the moon. This is the time I try to think of good things, and better things, and maybe the best things. I wonder what will happen to me. What happened to dad? What is he doing now? Is he in heaven? Does heaven even exist? I don’t know. For some reason at that time of day, walking all alone, it doesn’t hurt to think about things like that.