So, there was this one time I was running around middle of nowhere Poland, right? Minding my own...doing the tourist thing, as we all do in the middle of nowhere Poland, and this dude flies by on the dirt road on his motorcycle as I'm trying to take pics of a delightful poppy field. I hastily glance over in disgust for him ruining my photographic zen but then quickly turn back to my subject, the most gorgeous red poppy bloom I'd ever laid eyes on.
And then, a minute later, wouldn't you know it, that same fucking engine comes revving up the dirt road again!
At this point, my inspiration is completely fucking lost. I mean, who can take a proper photo of a poppy flower while motorcycles are racing about, am I right!?
"You there!" he shouts in a very polish accent.
I stare back and give a little bit of a nod. I mean, I need to acknowledge him but I'm still very pissed about this whole situation.
"May I show you something?"
As a lady, I'm always quite skeptical of such a thing. So I glance here and there...pretend to inspect the state of my manicure before I respond with a shrug.
"I swear, you'll want to see..."
So, I find myself on the back of this motorcycle but, let's be honest, it's a bit more like a loud-ass moped, flying down this dirt road (as much as mopeds can fly). I'm so freaked out, my arms reluctantly find themselves clinging on to Jakub or whatever he said his name was. It's a good 30 minutes where I've prayed to everyone I know and whatever ghost I've never believed in up in the bright blue sky to have mercy on this terrible decision I've made.
Until we start to slow down and I notice buildings up ahead... it's a small town!
Three minutes later we pull up outside this pub like place sharing the property of a very old, and VERY run down farm.
"Wait here!" he shouts excitedly at me in his accent as he runs into the front door of the pub.
Really? Where the fuck else will I go...
He comes back out two minutes later with a grin as wide as the eye can see and gestures to me, "This way!"
And, I mean, I already made it this far, right? Might as well follow wherever this dude wants me to go even if it means I'll wind up in the bottom of a dried up well...
We walk for about 8 minutes in this overgrown field leading up to a dilapidated barn and then he stops and turns to me.
"Are you ready?" he asks with eyes that are shooting out of him so large they seem as if they are breaching the 8 foot gap between us and stabbing into my forehead.
"Uh, yea.." I stammer. "I think so..." I shrug
And then he opens the door to barn, frantically wipes the path free of cobwebs as we make our entry (quite the gentleman, apparently.) I'm looking down at my feet as old hay and other debris is gathering itself atop my boots.
"See!" He shouts excitedly.
I sniff in mild disgust at the sight of my feet and wave some cobweb away that still managed to attach to my nose before I look up.
And there...
Before me...
Is an old WWII tank....
Jakub climbs up the ladder...waves me to follow.
We climb inside.
He starts it up and it purrs like its 1941.
And then we ride off into the sunset into the Polish farmland...
Until I eventually stop the thing, shove him out the hatch, and carry on the rest of my journey across middle of nowhere Poland.
Thursday, August 23, 2018
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Showing Up is Progress
So, for the last few months I've been seeing a personal trainer at the gym. Only certain people know this already. Partly because others don't converse with me about fitness and partly because I feel like it sounds fancy. Like, "Look at me, I'm paying someone to show me how to workout. Next I'll go buy all the Prada!" I for some reason associate personal training with people who have personal chefs, maids, and chauffeurs. (Also, is Prada even still cool? I don't even fuckin' know. Heather?)
Whatever. We all know this bitch ain't THAT fancy. Many have seen the dog and cat hair tumbleweeds rolling around on the regular at my house. My feet haven't even seen a professional pedicure in at least a year.
Anyway, so, there is that.
When I first started, I had already been in a headspace full of delicious self love. I had already given myself compassion and permission to be who I am including the physical being I inhabit. As a form of expressing this love to myself, I wanted to invest in giving me the best chance to be the best me. Someone to give me the swift kick in the pants as well as have the professional know-how to help me do things like hone my squats, bust out deadlifts, and to tell me that yes, you can do your pushups on your knees and have them still be totally effective. And, I found her. Her name is McKenna and she's at the East Y and is exactly who I needed (in case there are any ladies in Nashville looking for one!) She's tough, overlooks my potty mouth, and has found the best ways to motivate me. And we assist each other in mean-muggin' some of the annoying peeps at the gym.
It's been a very enlightening process. I discovered I love strength training. There is something about pushing your muscles, the ones I thought had completely atrophied to nothing, as hard as you can and seeing them rise up to the challenge and take shape. It's also the reason I can now go on hikes and not opt for the shortest trail and, hell, glide out of my office chair with ease (one thing I didn't even realize before was a slight struggle.)
Since the beginning, I cut over 2 mins off my mile run time, I can deadlift up to 40lbs on regular days (50 when I'm pushing and using small rep counts), and a slew of other things that there was no WAY I could do that morning in December on my first meeting. (Seriously, my squats were the scariest things that day and literally thought I died on the treadmill.)
So much of this work has changed the way I carry myself in life and turned regular, everyday tasks into being just that.
And yet, I nearly cancelled today's appointment with McKenna. Earlier this week I was thinking, "Ugh, I haven't been as regular lately with my personal workouts, she's gonna know I've been slacking, and she'll have just as much shame about it as I feel right now. WHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT THE FUCK???????
Grant it, I've been battling a cough stemming from allergy issues over the weekend. That would have been an easy excuse. But what's really going on is ... (and I thank my friend Amber Arthur for helping me talk through and realize this..) I had lost focus on my true Why.
In the beginning it was simply to get moving and showing my body love. Then I started seeing progress and suddenly my Why shifted to something not genuinely my own. The scale isn't moving... the inches aren't shrinking (or growing in muscle areas)... and all kinds of other bullshit that had somehow leached into my brain. It no longer mattered that I was still making positive steps. I lead myself into this superficial realm of vanity. We all know that leads one down a spiraling rabbit hole full of shit.
How do we manage to do this to ourselves? Somehow just showing up is no longer enough. We have to go harder... be better... wear smaller pants... all while staring at our cheeks in the mirror wishing they weren't still so puffy.
NONE OF THIS SHIT MATTERS.
I'm SO lucky to be surrounded by friends I can say without a doubt love me as much as I love them as well as other amazing things in my life. And, my husband has never once eluded to feeling anything about my body but love as long as I was feeling good. And, my cats knead kitty biscuits way more on momma's belly than daddy's because it's way more fun and squishy. I'd be really sad if they stopped doing that.
I'm babbling this all out and sharing it with you in case my vulnerable phase can help you in any way.
Remember your Why.
Not their Why...not his Why.... YOUR Why.
And that some days, simply showing the fuck up IS the progress. (paraphrased from Amber Arthur <3)
Whatever. We all know this bitch ain't THAT fancy. Many have seen the dog and cat hair tumbleweeds rolling around on the regular at my house. My feet haven't even seen a professional pedicure in at least a year.
Anyway, so, there is that.
When I first started, I had already been in a headspace full of delicious self love. I had already given myself compassion and permission to be who I am including the physical being I inhabit. As a form of expressing this love to myself, I wanted to invest in giving me the best chance to be the best me. Someone to give me the swift kick in the pants as well as have the professional know-how to help me do things like hone my squats, bust out deadlifts, and to tell me that yes, you can do your pushups on your knees and have them still be totally effective. And, I found her. Her name is McKenna and she's at the East Y and is exactly who I needed (in case there are any ladies in Nashville looking for one!) She's tough, overlooks my potty mouth, and has found the best ways to motivate me. And we assist each other in mean-muggin' some of the annoying peeps at the gym.
It's been a very enlightening process. I discovered I love strength training. There is something about pushing your muscles, the ones I thought had completely atrophied to nothing, as hard as you can and seeing them rise up to the challenge and take shape. It's also the reason I can now go on hikes and not opt for the shortest trail and, hell, glide out of my office chair with ease (one thing I didn't even realize before was a slight struggle.)
Since the beginning, I cut over 2 mins off my mile run time, I can deadlift up to 40lbs on regular days (50 when I'm pushing and using small rep counts), and a slew of other things that there was no WAY I could do that morning in December on my first meeting. (Seriously, my squats were the scariest things that day and literally thought I died on the treadmill.)
So much of this work has changed the way I carry myself in life and turned regular, everyday tasks into being just that.
And yet, I nearly cancelled today's appointment with McKenna. Earlier this week I was thinking, "Ugh, I haven't been as regular lately with my personal workouts, she's gonna know I've been slacking, and she'll have just as much shame about it as I feel right now. WHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT THE FUCK???????
Grant it, I've been battling a cough stemming from allergy issues over the weekend. That would have been an easy excuse. But what's really going on is ... (and I thank my friend Amber Arthur for helping me talk through and realize this..) I had lost focus on my true Why.
In the beginning it was simply to get moving and showing my body love. Then I started seeing progress and suddenly my Why shifted to something not genuinely my own. The scale isn't moving... the inches aren't shrinking (or growing in muscle areas)... and all kinds of other bullshit that had somehow leached into my brain. It no longer mattered that I was still making positive steps. I lead myself into this superficial realm of vanity. We all know that leads one down a spiraling rabbit hole full of shit.
How do we manage to do this to ourselves? Somehow just showing up is no longer enough. We have to go harder... be better... wear smaller pants... all while staring at our cheeks in the mirror wishing they weren't still so puffy.
NONE OF THIS SHIT MATTERS.
I'm SO lucky to be surrounded by friends I can say without a doubt love me as much as I love them as well as other amazing things in my life. And, my husband has never once eluded to feeling anything about my body but love as long as I was feeling good. And, my cats knead kitty biscuits way more on momma's belly than daddy's because it's way more fun and squishy. I'd be really sad if they stopped doing that.
I'm babbling this all out and sharing it with you in case my vulnerable phase can help you in any way.
Remember your Why.
Not their Why...not his Why.... YOUR Why.
And that some days, simply showing the fuck up IS the progress. (paraphrased from Amber Arthur <3)
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
Creepy Dreamscape - ROUGH draft
I remember it all like it was yesterday. I had just gotten back to my shared rental house after a horrific afternoon of lecture hall after lecture hall and my roommate was carrying on about a murder down the street.
“It was awful! I can’t believe they left it so open to the public eye for anyone like me to walk by and see such a heinous scene. Literally, man, blood. Everywhere.”
“That’s crazy,” I say half-heartedly because I was well immersed in making my pot of ramen to shove into my grumbling belly. And, well, Roger is a bit of an exaggerative sort.
“Oh, look! It’s already on the news!” He shouts from the living room.
I look at the water in the pot calculating how many moments left before the boil and decided I could go take a peak.
To say I wasn’t even remotely prepared for the scene is a stark understatement. There on the screen was an entire front yard of a house not two blocks away covered with maimed bodies scattered everywhere. Blood spray was all over the white picket fence with a body slumped over into the row of rose bushes. And, is that an arm hanging out of the pot of geraniums? Good lord.
“What the hell are you idiots gawking at...whoa...dude...what the fuck!? Can they even show this shit on tv? Hey, isn’t that the house with the hot blonde that always sunbathes out in the driveway?”
“Yep,” I managed to gulp out barely registering he’d come in the front door.
The three of us just stare. I’m not even hearing anything the reporter is saying because I can’t take my eyes off the gory mess.
“Dude, is something burning?” Roger says off-handedly, his own eyes still fixated on the screen.
“Shit!” I shout and run into the kitchen. All the water boiled away in the pot while I was caught in my stupor leaving the noodles to sizzle burning at the bottom of the pot. I yank it from the heat and turn off the stove leaving the mess behind to go back to the living room. I’m not even remotely hungry anymore anyway.
****
Several hours pass and our house has transitioned away from the television opting to sip some cold beers out on the front steps. The afternoon sun is about an hour from setting and the breeze keeps kicking up a calming, spring warmth. We can still hear the commotion of the television crews and cops down over on the other block.
Roger had moved on to yammering about how shitty his calculous professor is when we hear footsteps coming up our walk. My eyes lazily glance over with my bottle raised to my lips and I’m startled by who it is.
“It’s the hot blonde,” Pete whispers under his breath. The three of us don’t even move a muscle as she continues approaching the porch.
“Hell of a fuckin’ day, boys. You got another one of those somewhere?” She calls brushing her loose hair from her eyes. We still stare for a moment before Pete jumps up.
“Uh, yea. Sure thing!” The porch door creaks and slams as he runs in.
“Here, have a seat,” Roger says standing up to slide over the rusty old chair we have sitting next to the stoop.
“Oh, thank you!” She sighs and plops down into it without a thought.
The silence that followed seemed to last a decade before the front porch door screeches back open and Pete shouts, “Here you go, little lady!” handing her an ice cold High Life.
She rips the bottle from his hand and slams half of it in three seconds. “Woo…” she says wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “This is EXACTLY what I needed.”
The rest of the afternoon and evening go obscenely normal despite what we all know has happened at her house. None of us has the nerve to bring it up and she doesn’t either as we blather on about classes, shitty food in the student union, and the asshole down the street who tears around in his massive loud-ass truck. We eventually order pizza and spread out in the living room to watch some mundane shows on the television and continue on about normal college banter.
*****
I startle awake at 2:13am after hearing...what was that… a shout? I pause for a moment longer staring at the clock. Deciding it was just my imagination, I turn over in my bed.
A few minutes later, I hear my bedroom door opening and my eyes fly open.
“Heyyyyy….”
It’s the blonde. I’m now realizing at this point I don’t even know her name. In all that conversation, not once did we all stop to exchange basic introductions.
I sit up and turn my bedside light on squinting over to the doorway.
“Hey,” my voice rasps back. “What’s up?” As I ask this, I start to take in the sight of her. Her long blonde hair is a fucking mess and her eyes are intensely focused and eerily dark. She begins to approach and I leap out of bed to head towards the doorway. I’m not sure what the fuck is happening but I need to get out of this tiny-ass space right now.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Her arm whips out to wrap around my ribs. Jesus, where the hell did that strength come from!? She’s starting to squeeze even harder on me and I’m starting to lose air.
“What the hell?” I shout hoping it would snap her out of whatever the fuck this is as well as alert a roommate.
“Just giving you a hug….can’t I hug you?” She attempts for it to come out as a sexy purr but it’s drenched with venom. I somehow muster the ability to slam my elbow into her own ribs which loosens a little of her grip. I then swing my fist up hard connecting square into her jaw. She jumps back long enough for me to sprint out of my room and down the hallway.
I slam to a hault when I see Roger on the couch. He looks almost as if he’s sleeping except his eyes are open to slight slits, his arm hangs uncomfortably down to the floor, and a trail of blood is dripping down his chin flowing all the way to the carpet.
“Jesus christ,” I gasp before realizing she’s right behind me. I quickly look around the room for some kind of weapon and spot Pete’s stratocaster on the stand in the corner. I leap for it and swing it wildly just in time to connect with her head bludgeoning her left side.
“Oh shit….I’m sorry…” I stammer as she doubles over. But then she swings back up again with those maniacal eyes and I’m left with no other option but to take another swing.
And,another.
And, another.
Until she’s dead.
I stare down at her body draped on the floor with her sexy legs flailed out wearing Pete’s Pink Floyd shirt and panties while trying to catch my breath. I can’t believe what the fuck just happened. I fling my head over to Roger and then back to her and find myself sprinting out the front door into the cool night air.
I hunch over with my hands on my knees and begin to hork into our overgrown holly bushes in the front garden. I heave four more times before my breath finally calms down and then I stand up straight. My eyes are darting around looking for anyone who could have remotely witnessed what just happened. Barefoot and only wearing my boxers and an old marathon tee, I make my way back inside.
I look down at the floor and she’s still there in a mass with blood from her head slowing seeping into the carpet. Roger is still clearly dead on the couch. Where is Pete in all of this?
Fearing what I will find, I slowly make my way down the hall to Pete’s room, push open the door and flick on the light. Just as I thought, Pete is there in his bed. Only he’s naked. His eyes are still wide open. Bruises have formed in his skin around his ribs and belly area where she must have given him the death grip. But, the most god fucking awful thing about it is his dick has been ripped off and tossed to the floor.
I run to the bathroom to heave again.
****
The sun is rising and I’m back out on the front porch smoking Roger’s cigarettes and drinking cup after cup of coffee trying to assess last night, life, and whether or not I’ll ever sleep again. The front door to the house is wide open because I can’t bring myself to close it thinking about all that’s festering in there right now.
I take a deep inhale, cough a little since I never fucking smoke, and hastily blow it out. There is a soft little mew from the bushes I just horked in and I turn to see the stray cat that is always wandering around.
The orange fur is matted and filthy as it comes to rub up against my shins.
“Hey there… I’m not sure you want to be here right now, friend…” as I reach down to stroke it’s head. The mangey thing starts to purr so I keep petting because I have no idea what the fuck else to do in life right now.
A car drives by and I quickly look up assuming for some reason it’s a cop coming to haul me in but it’s just a random Suburban and they keep on going.
I glance back down at the cat at my fingertips and its now looking up at me with pitch black globus things where its eyes once were. The ears are ever so slightly back. Is it? Holy shit… it’s giving me that same fucking look the hot blonde had.
And, then the thing lunges for my neck wrapping its body around it squeezing my windpipe shut. The cigarette falls from my hand and the mug of coffee is punted off the porch causing me to faintly register scolding hot liquid on my bare foot as I work my hands at the cat trying to rip off me.
I pry and pry but it’s not budging and I’m not breathing. My eyes peg a solar light sticking out of the ground at the bottom step of the porch. Lunging myself with all my might to the ground, I rip it out of the dirt and stab the pointed end into the body of the cat. It was just enough to cause it to go slack a bit allowing me to pull it off and throw it to the ground. The body is still wriggling and its nasty eyes find me and begins to prep itself for another leap up. So, I take the light and stab it right in the head causing one of the black eyes to pop out onto the ground.
Realizing the little beast is dead, I flop down into the grass once again trying to catch my breath. The sky is stretching to a beautiful pink now.
When my heart rate slows, I pull myself up out of the grass and start walking down the street. As I walk, I notice brilliant colors everywhere. Wow...when did the neighbor’s blue truck get soooo bluuuue. Am I high? Is this what murder does to people?
As I continue my stroll, I spot an old man collecting his paper from the end of the driveway. He sees me and, noticing my state, hesitantly gives me a wave. I wave back and feel myself beaming a smile while walking towards him.
The world grows more and more magnified as every blade of grass stands out waving hello at me. The old man’s chest begins to glow a brilliant red where his heart is. As the red deepens to a vibrant crimson, the path of his veins color in as well. I make my way to the old man, reach out, and squeeze.
And, squeeze.
Every.
Last.
Breath.
“It was awful! I can’t believe they left it so open to the public eye for anyone like me to walk by and see such a heinous scene. Literally, man, blood. Everywhere.”
“That’s crazy,” I say half-heartedly because I was well immersed in making my pot of ramen to shove into my grumbling belly. And, well, Roger is a bit of an exaggerative sort.
“Oh, look! It’s already on the news!” He shouts from the living room.
I look at the water in the pot calculating how many moments left before the boil and decided I could go take a peak.
To say I wasn’t even remotely prepared for the scene is a stark understatement. There on the screen was an entire front yard of a house not two blocks away covered with maimed bodies scattered everywhere. Blood spray was all over the white picket fence with a body slumped over into the row of rose bushes. And, is that an arm hanging out of the pot of geraniums? Good lord.
“What the hell are you idiots gawking at...whoa...dude...what the fuck!? Can they even show this shit on tv? Hey, isn’t that the house with the hot blonde that always sunbathes out in the driveway?”
“Yep,” I managed to gulp out barely registering he’d come in the front door.
The three of us just stare. I’m not even hearing anything the reporter is saying because I can’t take my eyes off the gory mess.
“Dude, is something burning?” Roger says off-handedly, his own eyes still fixated on the screen.
“Shit!” I shout and run into the kitchen. All the water boiled away in the pot while I was caught in my stupor leaving the noodles to sizzle burning at the bottom of the pot. I yank it from the heat and turn off the stove leaving the mess behind to go back to the living room. I’m not even remotely hungry anymore anyway.
****
Several hours pass and our house has transitioned away from the television opting to sip some cold beers out on the front steps. The afternoon sun is about an hour from setting and the breeze keeps kicking up a calming, spring warmth. We can still hear the commotion of the television crews and cops down over on the other block.
Roger had moved on to yammering about how shitty his calculous professor is when we hear footsteps coming up our walk. My eyes lazily glance over with my bottle raised to my lips and I’m startled by who it is.
“It’s the hot blonde,” Pete whispers under his breath. The three of us don’t even move a muscle as she continues approaching the porch.
“Hell of a fuckin’ day, boys. You got another one of those somewhere?” She calls brushing her loose hair from her eyes. We still stare for a moment before Pete jumps up.
“Uh, yea. Sure thing!” The porch door creaks and slams as he runs in.
“Here, have a seat,” Roger says standing up to slide over the rusty old chair we have sitting next to the stoop.
“Oh, thank you!” She sighs and plops down into it without a thought.
The silence that followed seemed to last a decade before the front porch door screeches back open and Pete shouts, “Here you go, little lady!” handing her an ice cold High Life.
She rips the bottle from his hand and slams half of it in three seconds. “Woo…” she says wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “This is EXACTLY what I needed.”
The rest of the afternoon and evening go obscenely normal despite what we all know has happened at her house. None of us has the nerve to bring it up and she doesn’t either as we blather on about classes, shitty food in the student union, and the asshole down the street who tears around in his massive loud-ass truck. We eventually order pizza and spread out in the living room to watch some mundane shows on the television and continue on about normal college banter.
*****
I startle awake at 2:13am after hearing...what was that… a shout? I pause for a moment longer staring at the clock. Deciding it was just my imagination, I turn over in my bed.
A few minutes later, I hear my bedroom door opening and my eyes fly open.
“Heyyyyy….”
It’s the blonde. I’m now realizing at this point I don’t even know her name. In all that conversation, not once did we all stop to exchange basic introductions.
I sit up and turn my bedside light on squinting over to the doorway.
“Hey,” my voice rasps back. “What’s up?” As I ask this, I start to take in the sight of her. Her long blonde hair is a fucking mess and her eyes are intensely focused and eerily dark. She begins to approach and I leap out of bed to head towards the doorway. I’m not sure what the fuck is happening but I need to get out of this tiny-ass space right now.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Her arm whips out to wrap around my ribs. Jesus, where the hell did that strength come from!? She’s starting to squeeze even harder on me and I’m starting to lose air.
“What the hell?” I shout hoping it would snap her out of whatever the fuck this is as well as alert a roommate.
“Just giving you a hug….can’t I hug you?” She attempts for it to come out as a sexy purr but it’s drenched with venom. I somehow muster the ability to slam my elbow into her own ribs which loosens a little of her grip. I then swing my fist up hard connecting square into her jaw. She jumps back long enough for me to sprint out of my room and down the hallway.
I slam to a hault when I see Roger on the couch. He looks almost as if he’s sleeping except his eyes are open to slight slits, his arm hangs uncomfortably down to the floor, and a trail of blood is dripping down his chin flowing all the way to the carpet.
“Jesus christ,” I gasp before realizing she’s right behind me. I quickly look around the room for some kind of weapon and spot Pete’s stratocaster on the stand in the corner. I leap for it and swing it wildly just in time to connect with her head bludgeoning her left side.
“Oh shit….I’m sorry…” I stammer as she doubles over. But then she swings back up again with those maniacal eyes and I’m left with no other option but to take another swing.
And,another.
And, another.
Until she’s dead.
I stare down at her body draped on the floor with her sexy legs flailed out wearing Pete’s Pink Floyd shirt and panties while trying to catch my breath. I can’t believe what the fuck just happened. I fling my head over to Roger and then back to her and find myself sprinting out the front door into the cool night air.
I hunch over with my hands on my knees and begin to hork into our overgrown holly bushes in the front garden. I heave four more times before my breath finally calms down and then I stand up straight. My eyes are darting around looking for anyone who could have remotely witnessed what just happened. Barefoot and only wearing my boxers and an old marathon tee, I make my way back inside.
I look down at the floor and she’s still there in a mass with blood from her head slowing seeping into the carpet. Roger is still clearly dead on the couch. Where is Pete in all of this?
Fearing what I will find, I slowly make my way down the hall to Pete’s room, push open the door and flick on the light. Just as I thought, Pete is there in his bed. Only he’s naked. His eyes are still wide open. Bruises have formed in his skin around his ribs and belly area where she must have given him the death grip. But, the most god fucking awful thing about it is his dick has been ripped off and tossed to the floor.
I run to the bathroom to heave again.
****
The sun is rising and I’m back out on the front porch smoking Roger’s cigarettes and drinking cup after cup of coffee trying to assess last night, life, and whether or not I’ll ever sleep again. The front door to the house is wide open because I can’t bring myself to close it thinking about all that’s festering in there right now.
I take a deep inhale, cough a little since I never fucking smoke, and hastily blow it out. There is a soft little mew from the bushes I just horked in and I turn to see the stray cat that is always wandering around.
The orange fur is matted and filthy as it comes to rub up against my shins.
“Hey there… I’m not sure you want to be here right now, friend…” as I reach down to stroke it’s head. The mangey thing starts to purr so I keep petting because I have no idea what the fuck else to do in life right now.
A car drives by and I quickly look up assuming for some reason it’s a cop coming to haul me in but it’s just a random Suburban and they keep on going.
I glance back down at the cat at my fingertips and its now looking up at me with pitch black globus things where its eyes once were. The ears are ever so slightly back. Is it? Holy shit… it’s giving me that same fucking look the hot blonde had.
And, then the thing lunges for my neck wrapping its body around it squeezing my windpipe shut. The cigarette falls from my hand and the mug of coffee is punted off the porch causing me to faintly register scolding hot liquid on my bare foot as I work my hands at the cat trying to rip off me.
I pry and pry but it’s not budging and I’m not breathing. My eyes peg a solar light sticking out of the ground at the bottom step of the porch. Lunging myself with all my might to the ground, I rip it out of the dirt and stab the pointed end into the body of the cat. It was just enough to cause it to go slack a bit allowing me to pull it off and throw it to the ground. The body is still wriggling and its nasty eyes find me and begins to prep itself for another leap up. So, I take the light and stab it right in the head causing one of the black eyes to pop out onto the ground.
Realizing the little beast is dead, I flop down into the grass once again trying to catch my breath. The sky is stretching to a beautiful pink now.
When my heart rate slows, I pull myself up out of the grass and start walking down the street. As I walk, I notice brilliant colors everywhere. Wow...when did the neighbor’s blue truck get soooo bluuuue. Am I high? Is this what murder does to people?
As I continue my stroll, I spot an old man collecting his paper from the end of the driveway. He sees me and, noticing my state, hesitantly gives me a wave. I wave back and feel myself beaming a smile while walking towards him.
The world grows more and more magnified as every blade of grass stands out waving hello at me. The old man’s chest begins to glow a brilliant red where his heart is. As the red deepens to a vibrant crimson, the path of his veins color in as well. I make my way to the old man, reach out, and squeeze.
And, squeeze.
Every.
Last.
Breath.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Excavating.
We've been Konmari'ing the hell out of the house.
For those who don't know what Konmari is, here is my version of it: I take the item and hold it up. Does this thing make me smile or feel good in any damn way at all? No? Get the fuck out of my house.
We've emptied an entire dresser. Hundreds of cds have been either filed away or boxed up for selling to a shop. I've purged so many books that if I really stop and think about it, my heart will tear a little more. And, let's not even talk about all those clothes that I no longer fit into because there is just a bit more of me to love right now. But, I found the delight of feeling like all the things have a place far outweighs hanging on to that one paperback beach read that will probably never be opened again or that dress I wore to that one party that really isn't THAT cute anyway.
To be honest, most of the house was a cinch. I found myself almost high off this practice and addicted to tidying all the spaces. However, I hit a massive, anger-filled wall when it came to the last room (you can ask Wes, there was a hideously grumpy display on my part the night we started tackling it.) It's the ol' guest bedroom meets office meets art studio meets library meets "401k statement and other paperwork for expensive shit" filing station. This is where most of purging of books took place. And, art supplies. Vacation memorabilia! (Because, you know, we needed to save all the coasters swiped from pubs across England featuring different beers consumed. Come to think of it, we did save those.) And, WHAT DO I DO WITH ALL THESE PHOTOGRAPHS!? No wonder no one prints the damn things anymore. The good news is I don't have to buy gift wrapping supplies for at least the next two years.
It was also in this room that I unearthed the numerous paintings I've done over the years. For anyone that knows me well, they know these things are only cranked out in two scenarios: 1) When I'm coerced into doing one of those "Let's get shitfaced on wine and paint the same painting!!!!!!" parties (to be fair, it doesn't take much coercing cuz that shit is kind of fun), or 2) when I'm fighting a soul-purging phase of depression. I'd always been hesitant to hang these things up around the house out of fear because people wouldn't get the frantic strokes of mostly dark colors (or, because my friends are clearly better drunk painters than me and you will see the same fucking scene detailing a higher level of depiction at their house.)
Today is the day I said, "Fuck it." There is now a massive piece hanging above the guest bed. The strokes are hasty and rough. It's one of those you'd see in the art museum and probably not get it. But, I look at it and I see a moment in my life where nothing else made sense but to make this piece. Because it's so big, I painted it from above while it was on the floor. There are literally my own tears mixed in with the paint because I was sobbing as I anxiously swiped away everything I was feeling. I didn't even sign it that evening because I thought for sure I'd need to come back to it. And, I never did nor have I painted anything since.
I've become friends with my depression after that. It teaches me so much when I'm really in the thick of it. I recently admitted this to a therapist and he tried to chuck drugs at me as he was of the opinion that you shouldn't get "sad" (since we all know that's really all depression is, right?) Fuck that and fuck that guy. Depression will squeeze a soul until it either fades away to nothing or explodes. I explode. It leads me to life exploration. It leads me to creation. It forces me to claw around through the mud, excavate all the gems, climb out of the hole, and wash those beauties off with a hose to put on a shelf.
So, today I honor this slightly dodgy painting as a symbol of honoring that side of me. And, I leave you with one of my favorite poems that I've posted a billion times on various social media.
Love and light, with a healthy dose of dark every now and then, to all of you!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Some People" - Charles Bukowski
some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
For those who don't know what Konmari is, here is my version of it: I take the item and hold it up. Does this thing make me smile or feel good in any damn way at all? No? Get the fuck out of my house.
We've emptied an entire dresser. Hundreds of cds have been either filed away or boxed up for selling to a shop. I've purged so many books that if I really stop and think about it, my heart will tear a little more. And, let's not even talk about all those clothes that I no longer fit into because there is just a bit more of me to love right now. But, I found the delight of feeling like all the things have a place far outweighs hanging on to that one paperback beach read that will probably never be opened again or that dress I wore to that one party that really isn't THAT cute anyway.
To be honest, most of the house was a cinch. I found myself almost high off this practice and addicted to tidying all the spaces. However, I hit a massive, anger-filled wall when it came to the last room (you can ask Wes, there was a hideously grumpy display on my part the night we started tackling it.) It's the ol' guest bedroom meets office meets art studio meets library meets "401k statement and other paperwork for expensive shit" filing station. This is where most of purging of books took place. And, art supplies. Vacation memorabilia! (Because, you know, we needed to save all the coasters swiped from pubs across England featuring different beers consumed. Come to think of it, we did save those.) And, WHAT DO I DO WITH ALL THESE PHOTOGRAPHS!? No wonder no one prints the damn things anymore. The good news is I don't have to buy gift wrapping supplies for at least the next two years.
It was also in this room that I unearthed the numerous paintings I've done over the years. For anyone that knows me well, they know these things are only cranked out in two scenarios: 1) When I'm coerced into doing one of those "Let's get shitfaced on wine and paint the same painting!!!!!!" parties (to be fair, it doesn't take much coercing cuz that shit is kind of fun), or 2) when I'm fighting a soul-purging phase of depression. I'd always been hesitant to hang these things up around the house out of fear because people wouldn't get the frantic strokes of mostly dark colors (or, because my friends are clearly better drunk painters than me and you will see the same fucking scene detailing a higher level of depiction at their house.)
Today is the day I said, "Fuck it." There is now a massive piece hanging above the guest bed. The strokes are hasty and rough. It's one of those you'd see in the art museum and probably not get it. But, I look at it and I see a moment in my life where nothing else made sense but to make this piece. Because it's so big, I painted it from above while it was on the floor. There are literally my own tears mixed in with the paint because I was sobbing as I anxiously swiped away everything I was feeling. I didn't even sign it that evening because I thought for sure I'd need to come back to it. And, I never did nor have I painted anything since.
I've become friends with my depression after that. It teaches me so much when I'm really in the thick of it. I recently admitted this to a therapist and he tried to chuck drugs at me as he was of the opinion that you shouldn't get "sad" (since we all know that's really all depression is, right?) Fuck that and fuck that guy. Depression will squeeze a soul until it either fades away to nothing or explodes. I explode. It leads me to life exploration. It leads me to creation. It forces me to claw around through the mud, excavate all the gems, climb out of the hole, and wash those beauties off with a hose to put on a shelf.
So, today I honor this slightly dodgy painting as a symbol of honoring that side of me. And, I leave you with one of my favorite poems that I've posted a billion times on various social media.
Love and light, with a healthy dose of dark every now and then, to all of you!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Some People" - Charles Bukowski
some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Untitled 5-3-16
And sometimes we are just floating
Like a feather in the wind
Swirling amongst the flowers
Past the willow trees
Through the beams of sunlight
Until settling softly on a cluster of grass blades
These blades
They hold us up
Strangers though we may be
Until the next strong wind sails us
Beyond the reach of certainty.
Monday, April 11, 2016
Rusty
And so a day will come
When I will be braver than what you see.
Washed away are yesterdays
And the times of a weaker me.
But do not see this as regret
Or a cry for your concern.
It takes these trials, these tribulations
For my stubborn self to learn.
I will look back through my years
And all the stories I've known
I will be proud to say that this one...
This one is my very own.
When I will be braver than what you see.
Washed away are yesterdays
And the times of a weaker me.
But do not see this as regret
Or a cry for your concern.
It takes these trials, these tribulations
For my stubborn self to learn.
I will look back through my years
And all the stories I've known
I will be proud to say that this one...
This one is my very own.
Monday, November 2, 2015
The Rescue
It was a hot, August afternoon in 2003. I was driving in my 1990 Acura Integra with broken A/C. I remember sweating profusely on my journey to the animal control to meet a photo-less listing on Petfinder.com. As I walked in the door, I noticed there was a large cage in the front room with the most beautiful, blue-eyed boy. We locked eyes as I bent down and he instantly sidled up eagerly trying to cram his nose through the square hole to touch my fingertips. I giggled as his feet sloshed about in his water bowl from his haste to try to get at me.
"This has to be him," I thought to myself.
The staff pulled him out and led us both to a private room with a floor littered in cloth mice and feathered toys that will quickly be ignored. He jumped into my lap immediately purring and frantically burying his face into my side as if to say, "You finally found me..."
$25 later, warranting the nickname I'd later give him of my "Bargain Kitty", he was coming home with me.
And, that was it. From then on, I had my best friend. I had only lived in Nashville for three months and was desperate for a sense of home. And, here he was needing the same thing.
Over the years, his hugs went from five seconds of simple obliging to him meowing at me in protest when I had to put him down after a few minutes. We would lay together eye-to-eye staring at each other for moments that seemed like eternity. Countless times his fur would wind up soaked with my tears on exceptionally bad days as he listened to my worries. That fur... I will miss the smell of his fur. A combination of stuffed animal and warmth and home. There is really no other way to describe it...
I will miss him racing from another room to try and climb in the fridge to nibble on six-pack rings on the bottom shelf...
I will miss finding him sitting in the window staring at birds...
I will miss him growling at the garbage trucks as if defending me while I napped...
I will miss him reprimanding Sparky for me with hisses and swats when he was a bad dog...
I will miss him waking me up every night sitting on my chest purring and nudging my face for some love...
I will miss him stretched out on my legs as the only male to watch romantic comedies time and time again without a single complaint...
I will miss him army crawling up my stomach to my chest to weasel his head under the bottom of my book and nudge it out of the way...
All this to say... I will miss every little thing about my fur boy.
Some people may think he was just a cat but I'm lucky to say he was one of my soulmates.
Until we meet again my sweet boy, I love you Oscar Fox.
"This has to be him," I thought to myself.
The staff pulled him out and led us both to a private room with a floor littered in cloth mice and feathered toys that will quickly be ignored. He jumped into my lap immediately purring and frantically burying his face into my side as if to say, "You finally found me..."
$25 later, warranting the nickname I'd later give him of my "Bargain Kitty", he was coming home with me.
And, that was it. From then on, I had my best friend. I had only lived in Nashville for three months and was desperate for a sense of home. And, here he was needing the same thing.
Over the years, his hugs went from five seconds of simple obliging to him meowing at me in protest when I had to put him down after a few minutes. We would lay together eye-to-eye staring at each other for moments that seemed like eternity. Countless times his fur would wind up soaked with my tears on exceptionally bad days as he listened to my worries. That fur... I will miss the smell of his fur. A combination of stuffed animal and warmth and home. There is really no other way to describe it...
I will miss him racing from another room to try and climb in the fridge to nibble on six-pack rings on the bottom shelf...
I will miss finding him sitting in the window staring at birds...
I will miss him growling at the garbage trucks as if defending me while I napped...
I will miss him reprimanding Sparky for me with hisses and swats when he was a bad dog...
I will miss him waking me up every night sitting on my chest purring and nudging my face for some love...
I will miss him stretched out on my legs as the only male to watch romantic comedies time and time again without a single complaint...
I will miss him army crawling up my stomach to my chest to weasel his head under the bottom of my book and nudge it out of the way...
All this to say... I will miss every little thing about my fur boy.
Some people may think he was just a cat but I'm lucky to say he was one of my soulmates.
Until we meet again my sweet boy, I love you Oscar Fox.
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
A Message from the Fallen
Mourn me if you must,
But do not forget I died for you.
You.
And, you.
For your freedom to love.
For your freedom to live.
For your freedom to breathe.
For your freedom to simply be.
Cherish these freedoms like newborn children fresh from the womb.
Feed them.
Hold them.
Wrap them in blankets to guard from harms way.
Fight for them.
And, for the love of all things,
Do not let them be ripped from your hands by the bastards shedding my blood.
But do not forget I died for you.
You.
And, you.
For your freedom to love.
For your freedom to live.
For your freedom to breathe.
For your freedom to simply be.
Cherish these freedoms like newborn children fresh from the womb.
Feed them.
Hold them.
Wrap them in blankets to guard from harms way.
Fight for them.
And, for the love of all things,
Do not let them be ripped from your hands by the bastards shedding my blood.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Home is Whenever I'm with You
The title of this blog, I'm very lucky to say, could relate to a few people in my life.
But, only one has a birthday this week and this is for her.
My sister.
She is home to me.
Mind you, we didn't always get along swimmingly. I was the little brat who would steal her makeup, clothes, etc. However, these actions were all in effort to be just like her. I've always wanted to be just like her.
About the time I started to become of age, she had moved back home for a short spell. It was this period of our lives where we became best friends forever. We would watch terrible television like Friends and 90210 together. The tradition later turned into Dawson's Creek as it carried forward into her first house and included copious amounts of Chinese food and Dr. Pepper. She was also my early "Ticket-to-Ride" to the mall as we'd shop for hours and eat Cinnabon. All the while, she would listen to me carry on about boys and general junior high and high school woes. I would watch her do all these amazing adult things like buying a house and having a baby. Still always wanting to be just like her.
Even to this day, I still want to be like her. Who wouldn't? She is among the most giving people I know. If the world is bringing you down, she is there to help figure out what needs to be done. Sometimes this happens over margaritas with lots of laughter and drunken renditions of "Sisters! Sisters!" (Song linked below....although our version is bastardized as we sing "We're sisters! We're sisters!")
Okay, I'm getting a bit off track here.
So, the original inspiration for this came from being asked "What kind of people's homes do you find yourself most comfortable in?" and the answer was, of course, my sister's. It's always so cozy and homey. Always. From the moment I pull into the driveway, her beautiful kids run out to greet me with insanely good hugs. I step in the door and instantly feel warm and relaxed. The TV is usually on with some sort of sport playing in the background, candles randomly lit throughout, snacks scattered on tables, the hum of laundry going in the other room, and my sister. The person with the exact same makeup as me, sometimes literally, but still her own, beautiful person.
When you really think about it, there are few places one can go for refuge to unapologetically be who they are and her house is one of them for me. It's because she is there. You can feel her everywhere in it from the smiles on the faces of my niece and nephew, the softness of the throw blankets on the couch... It's like she is giving you one big, warm hug. Regardless of the location, from Crystal Lake, IL to LaVergne, TN, it's always been my sanctuary.
Thank you, Jennie, for always being there for me...for being my sanctuary...and just being the amazing person that you are....I have no idea who I would be without you.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY WEEK!
I love you!!!
(PS - I would be lying if I said part of my inspiration for this wasn't payback for all the tear-jerking birthday cards you've given me in the past! Haha!)
Sisters, Sisters - White Christmas
But, only one has a birthday this week and this is for her.
My sister.
She is home to me.
Mind you, we didn't always get along swimmingly. I was the little brat who would steal her makeup, clothes, etc. However, these actions were all in effort to be just like her. I've always wanted to be just like her.
About the time I started to become of age, she had moved back home for a short spell. It was this period of our lives where we became best friends forever. We would watch terrible television like Friends and 90210 together. The tradition later turned into Dawson's Creek as it carried forward into her first house and included copious amounts of Chinese food and Dr. Pepper. She was also my early "Ticket-to-Ride" to the mall as we'd shop for hours and eat Cinnabon. All the while, she would listen to me carry on about boys and general junior high and high school woes. I would watch her do all these amazing adult things like buying a house and having a baby. Still always wanting to be just like her.
Even to this day, I still want to be like her. Who wouldn't? She is among the most giving people I know. If the world is bringing you down, she is there to help figure out what needs to be done. Sometimes this happens over margaritas with lots of laughter and drunken renditions of "Sisters! Sisters!" (Song linked below....although our version is bastardized as we sing "We're sisters! We're sisters!")
Okay, I'm getting a bit off track here.
So, the original inspiration for this came from being asked "What kind of people's homes do you find yourself most comfortable in?" and the answer was, of course, my sister's. It's always so cozy and homey. Always. From the moment I pull into the driveway, her beautiful kids run out to greet me with insanely good hugs. I step in the door and instantly feel warm and relaxed. The TV is usually on with some sort of sport playing in the background, candles randomly lit throughout, snacks scattered on tables, the hum of laundry going in the other room, and my sister. The person with the exact same makeup as me, sometimes literally, but still her own, beautiful person.
When you really think about it, there are few places one can go for refuge to unapologetically be who they are and her house is one of them for me. It's because she is there. You can feel her everywhere in it from the smiles on the faces of my niece and nephew, the softness of the throw blankets on the couch... It's like she is giving you one big, warm hug. Regardless of the location, from Crystal Lake, IL to LaVergne, TN, it's always been my sanctuary.
Thank you, Jennie, for always being there for me...for being my sanctuary...and just being the amazing person that you are....I have no idea who I would be without you.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY WEEK!
I love you!!!
(PS - I would be lying if I said part of my inspiration for this wasn't payback for all the tear-jerking birthday cards you've given me in the past! Haha!)
Sisters, Sisters - White Christmas
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Just a Walk
Alright kids...this is another writing prompt from my friend Seng. When you are done here, please take some time and check out his thoughts - www.sengseri.com
It's nice to have another writing friend challenging me to get words out onto the very scary, blank page!
*****************************************************************************************************
Bring someone back from the dead. Write about it.
I was just standing at your gravesite one Sunday afternoon. The sounds of Chicago interstate traffic whizzing by hums in the background as I bend down to brush off the leaves and grass clippings that have accumulated over the past year. Hesitation comes over me as I survey the ground below and then sit with my legs crossed. The trees still have some leaves clutching to their branches in brilliant, fall colors. I close my eyes for a moment meditating in my own thoughts trying to work up what it is I want to say this visit. The flask in the pocket of my zip-up, hooded sweatshirt thumps my hip as adjust my position. I had almost forgotten it was there. Reaching for it, I hear a rustling behind me. Quickly turning my head around as I feel the air changing around me but no one is there. As the new warmth begins to envelope me, I try to shrug off my senses and take a sip of the bourbon. It burns going down my throat.
“You want some?” I ask you offering it out to your nameplate with half of a smirk.
“I would if I could…”
Your voice startles me nearly out of my skin as I quickly try to jump off the ground but stumble down on to my knees. It’s you. It’s really you.
“Uh...hi?” I’ve dreamed my whole life of a moment like this and that’s the first thing that comes out!?
“I was wondering if you would be able to see me,” you say as a warm smile drifts across your mouth.
“But…um…”
“Look, kid, we don’t have time. Let’s take a trip.” You reach down to help me off the ground. My hand actually clasps yours. I stare down at them holding each other in awe before looking up at you. I can feel my eyes ready to pop out of my face as I hold your gaze while awkwardly coming to my feet.
Suddenly, we are strolling the streets of downtown Chicago. No flying like in the movies. We are just there. You are telling me random tidbits of your life. A few times, we stop so you can stare up at new highrises like the ridiculous Trump Hotel, the river, me. You study me a lot almost nearly as much as I study you.
“I see your mom in you,” you finally say.
“I see my mom in you, too!” I reply in an excited whisper and then quickly look around to see if anyone notices I'm talking to myself. You chuckle and we continue walking again. Strangely, there really is not that much conversation between us. We just are in the other’s company. We stop outside the ABC Studios and you look on for a few minutes. Your eyes make slow scans up and down the building and the sidewalks outside of it. Finally, you step up and place your hand on the wall for a few moments before turning to lead us back in the direction that we came.
Before I know it, we are back at your grave. We stop and turn to each other. You reach out your hand and place it on my cheek before pulling my forehead to your lips.
And, then, you are gone. I’m standing there without daring to let my eyes leave the space you were once just standing. I couldn’t say how much time passed before I blink and come back to acknowledging it really is just me again. The metal of the flask feels warm in my hand from being in pocket as I raise it to my lips, close my eyes, and take a long pull. I then hold it out and pour a shot’s worth into the grass in front of your name plate.
“Cheers, Grandpa Frank.”
I turn, pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, and head back to my car.
"La Valse D'Amelie" - Yann Tierson
It's nice to have another writing friend challenging me to get words out onto the very scary, blank page!
*****************************************************************************************************
Bring someone back from the dead. Write about it.
I was just standing at your gravesite one Sunday afternoon. The sounds of Chicago interstate traffic whizzing by hums in the background as I bend down to brush off the leaves and grass clippings that have accumulated over the past year. Hesitation comes over me as I survey the ground below and then sit with my legs crossed. The trees still have some leaves clutching to their branches in brilliant, fall colors. I close my eyes for a moment meditating in my own thoughts trying to work up what it is I want to say this visit. The flask in the pocket of my zip-up, hooded sweatshirt thumps my hip as adjust my position. I had almost forgotten it was there. Reaching for it, I hear a rustling behind me. Quickly turning my head around as I feel the air changing around me but no one is there. As the new warmth begins to envelope me, I try to shrug off my senses and take a sip of the bourbon. It burns going down my throat.
“You want some?” I ask you offering it out to your nameplate with half of a smirk.
“I would if I could…”
Your voice startles me nearly out of my skin as I quickly try to jump off the ground but stumble down on to my knees. It’s you. It’s really you.
“Uh...hi?” I’ve dreamed my whole life of a moment like this and that’s the first thing that comes out!?
“I was wondering if you would be able to see me,” you say as a warm smile drifts across your mouth.
“But…um…”
“Look, kid, we don’t have time. Let’s take a trip.” You reach down to help me off the ground. My hand actually clasps yours. I stare down at them holding each other in awe before looking up at you. I can feel my eyes ready to pop out of my face as I hold your gaze while awkwardly coming to my feet.
Suddenly, we are strolling the streets of downtown Chicago. No flying like in the movies. We are just there. You are telling me random tidbits of your life. A few times, we stop so you can stare up at new highrises like the ridiculous Trump Hotel, the river, me. You study me a lot almost nearly as much as I study you.
“I see your mom in you,” you finally say.
“I see my mom in you, too!” I reply in an excited whisper and then quickly look around to see if anyone notices I'm talking to myself. You chuckle and we continue walking again. Strangely, there really is not that much conversation between us. We just are in the other’s company. We stop outside the ABC Studios and you look on for a few minutes. Your eyes make slow scans up and down the building and the sidewalks outside of it. Finally, you step up and place your hand on the wall for a few moments before turning to lead us back in the direction that we came.
Before I know it, we are back at your grave. We stop and turn to each other. You reach out your hand and place it on my cheek before pulling my forehead to your lips.
And, then, you are gone. I’m standing there without daring to let my eyes leave the space you were once just standing. I couldn’t say how much time passed before I blink and come back to acknowledging it really is just me again. The metal of the flask feels warm in my hand from being in pocket as I raise it to my lips, close my eyes, and take a long pull. I then hold it out and pour a shot’s worth into the grass in front of your name plate.
“Cheers, Grandpa Frank.”
I turn, pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, and head back to my car.
"La Valse D'Amelie" - Yann Tierson
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Don't cry, Mom!
A friend of mine sent me the following and I thought I'd share it here:
"Write a short death scene for yourself, what would you say to the people around you? how did you die (accident/on purpose?)? What is the one thing you would want everyone to know?"
MY RESPONSE (Don't cry, mom!):
My death would never be on purpose. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve suffered from depression so severe at points where it has entered my mind but I know it would be selfish. I force myself to think back to the times when my parents scraped together money to help keep me fed, clothed, etc. that the image of their sacrifice alone is enough to never do it. Plus, I’ve come to be too much in love with my life, even during my episodes. I’ve become friends with my depression forcing myself to enjoy the days where I don’t want to leave my bed. It’s comfy hiding in my cocoons and being a hermit for a moment. It helps that I have people around me who understand now so I spend little to no time feeling ashamed of it anymore.
Anyways, so yes.. it would be accident or health. I would vote for accident so let’s go with that.
I was driving home one night on the interstate when a 16-year-old with a freshly minted license smashes me into a wall. The internal bleeding and broken spine leave me alive but just barely as I’m rushed to the hospital. My brain is intensely fuzzy from all the painkillers they plunge into my wrist. To tell you the truth, looking down with the needle sticking out of my arm is a bit creepy really. I hear whispers in the corner as the on-call doctor is talking to my husband. Even though I can’t hear them, I know what they are saying. Somehow all of this has left me coherent enough to understand what has happened and how my life is nearly over. There is nothing more they can do but keep me comfortable. My heart is breaking as he’s squeezing my hand sobbing by my bed. I allow him a few minutes of this before opening my eyes. He stops and stares down at me with his tear-filled eyes.
“You have to remember my plans of what I’ve always wanted. Green Day “Time of Your Life”… whiskey shots to gain entry into my funeral…the keg… all of it. You have to do this for me. And, know that you are truly one of the most amazing people that I could ever be so lucky to adore me the way you do and I’m happy some other girl would get to experience your brilliant love someday.”
The conversations with all of my nearest and dearest would go the same. I would beg them to never pick on themselves because that would be picking on my friends and my ghost would haunt their asses. I would try to list off the most beautiful thing about each of them urging to let it always shine for the world. And, my final request would be for them to not mourn but celebrate me as well as read out loud from time to time so they can read me the books I will no longer get to read. I would want them to continue on loving with all their hearts without fear or shame. Because, love is all we have. It’s one thing that no one can take away from you.
"Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" - Green Day
"Write a short death scene for yourself, what would you say to the people around you? how did you die (accident/on purpose?)? What is the one thing you would want everyone to know?"
MY RESPONSE (Don't cry, mom!):
My death would never be on purpose. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve suffered from depression so severe at points where it has entered my mind but I know it would be selfish. I force myself to think back to the times when my parents scraped together money to help keep me fed, clothed, etc. that the image of their sacrifice alone is enough to never do it. Plus, I’ve come to be too much in love with my life, even during my episodes. I’ve become friends with my depression forcing myself to enjoy the days where I don’t want to leave my bed. It’s comfy hiding in my cocoons and being a hermit for a moment. It helps that I have people around me who understand now so I spend little to no time feeling ashamed of it anymore.
Anyways, so yes.. it would be accident or health. I would vote for accident so let’s go with that.
I was driving home one night on the interstate when a 16-year-old with a freshly minted license smashes me into a wall. The internal bleeding and broken spine leave me alive but just barely as I’m rushed to the hospital. My brain is intensely fuzzy from all the painkillers they plunge into my wrist. To tell you the truth, looking down with the needle sticking out of my arm is a bit creepy really. I hear whispers in the corner as the on-call doctor is talking to my husband. Even though I can’t hear them, I know what they are saying. Somehow all of this has left me coherent enough to understand what has happened and how my life is nearly over. There is nothing more they can do but keep me comfortable. My heart is breaking as he’s squeezing my hand sobbing by my bed. I allow him a few minutes of this before opening my eyes. He stops and stares down at me with his tear-filled eyes.
“You have to remember my plans of what I’ve always wanted. Green Day “Time of Your Life”… whiskey shots to gain entry into my funeral…the keg… all of it. You have to do this for me. And, know that you are truly one of the most amazing people that I could ever be so lucky to adore me the way you do and I’m happy some other girl would get to experience your brilliant love someday.”
The conversations with all of my nearest and dearest would go the same. I would beg them to never pick on themselves because that would be picking on my friends and my ghost would haunt their asses. I would try to list off the most beautiful thing about each of them urging to let it always shine for the world. And, my final request would be for them to not mourn but celebrate me as well as read out loud from time to time so they can read me the books I will no longer get to read. I would want them to continue on loving with all their hearts without fear or shame. Because, love is all we have. It’s one thing that no one can take away from you.
"Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" - Green Day
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Today's Ramble: A Lesson from an Aging Smartphone
I’ve been eligible for an upgrade for 9 months with my mobile phone account. Every few days I am stalked with emails dangling the carrot of the beautiful new gadget I could have in my hands if I just gave in and upgraded already. There are some days I can almost feel them in my grasp. I envision how the screen would look. My palm senses the weight of its body and my fingertips dream of the surface textures. What apps I would keep using and download onto my new friend and which ones would be left on the old phone to rot? Once, I even went as far as pulling up Amazon to decide which case I would order. Or, would I take the very risky route, given how clumsy my hands are, and go case-less because THIS new phone would be treated far better than my old one. I would maybe even order it a tiara…
The thing is…my phone works. Does it get snagged sometimes when I’m switching too quickly from screens or apps? Yes.
But. It has 4G. It has Bluetooth. It accesses the internet relatively quickly. The screen isn’t cracked nor is the body of it. No visual pixelation noise or anything taking away from viewing quality. Navigation works as well as Google Maps will allow it.
It’s just not new.
The fact that this bothers me is one I find rather disturbing. Therefore,I’m denying myself the upgrade BECAUSE I want to so badly for no real reason other than newness. And, I know it’s not just me who has this happen to them. It’s what drives our economy. It’s why so many phones are constantly coming on the market because we always have to have the next best thing and so many are thrown away amassing with all the other e-waste. Why? It’s such a sickening element of those of us lucky enough to live in the First World. Why do we think that we would cherish the new thing anymore than we cherish the thing we have now?
You can see where my rambling is going with this.
My lesson from my aging smartphone is this:
Don’t just believe in living simply so others may simply live.
LIVE simply so others may simply live.
Do I think I'm going to change the world by not upgrading until I actually "need" to? No. But, it makes my soul feel better. If I can learn to be this way about something as petty as my smartphone, maybe it will trickle into other areas that I feel are "lacking"...
The thing is…my phone works. Does it get snagged sometimes when I’m switching too quickly from screens or apps? Yes.
But. It has 4G. It has Bluetooth. It accesses the internet relatively quickly. The screen isn’t cracked nor is the body of it. No visual pixelation noise or anything taking away from viewing quality. Navigation works as well as Google Maps will allow it.
It’s just not new.
The fact that this bothers me is one I find rather disturbing. Therefore,I’m denying myself the upgrade BECAUSE I want to so badly for no real reason other than newness. And, I know it’s not just me who has this happen to them. It’s what drives our economy. It’s why so many phones are constantly coming on the market because we always have to have the next best thing and so many are thrown away amassing with all the other e-waste. Why? It’s such a sickening element of those of us lucky enough to live in the First World. Why do we think that we would cherish the new thing anymore than we cherish the thing we have now?
You can see where my rambling is going with this.
My lesson from my aging smartphone is this:
Don’t just believe in living simply so others may simply live.
LIVE simply so others may simply live.
Do I think I'm going to change the world by not upgrading until I actually "need" to? No. But, it makes my soul feel better. If I can learn to be this way about something as petty as my smartphone, maybe it will trickle into other areas that I feel are "lacking"...
Monday, August 25, 2014
Everything Gets Gone
Exactly one year after my first symptoms showed their mean, little, inflammation faces...my rheumatologist gave me the green light to see what my life would be like if I were to go off my medicine completely. First, it was Prednisone in...err January, I think. Then, it was the arthritis medicine itself in April. Her suggestion may or may not have had something to do with the confession that I wasn't taking the full dosage anyways because the shit made me Space Cadette 5000. But, along with that, my markers indicated my inflammation was at Rock Star status.
So, why no post about this until now?
If I were to be truthful, which is the sole purpose of having this page.... I was scared to write about it here. To have something that had been front and center of my life for a year suddenly go back in hiding was difficult for me to believe. I thought it was too good to be true. I was almost certain that I'd be hobbling around on swollen, balloon feet again in a month begging for people to open my soda bottles because my sausage fingers couldn't bear it.
So far, this hasn't happened.
(What also hasn't happened? Losing the 25 pounds this ordeal has caused me to pack on but, hey, I give myself better, squishier hugs now! And, the other else that has happened??? The rad, trippy dreams my arthritis medicine made me have full of brilliant colors and insane story lines, sigh.)
Impermanence.
Impermanence is an element of life that is sometimes hard to grasp when one is digging down in the trenches dragging through whatever war has been thrown their way. Part of it, I think, is because once the pendulum swings back the other way, we're too blurry-eyed with our new, gleeful norm that we can't even remember what the hell all the fuss was about before.
I can assure you, though, that each day I step out of bed and don't feel the need to wince and curse from the pain in my body is a day that does not go unnoticed. It still seems crazy to me. My rings fit again. I can still make a fully-closed fist! (Watch out, all you haters!) Such simple things, but, my, how beautiful they are!
If I may be so trite, I'm fuckin' lucky.
Life has provided a glimpse of what may be in store for me throughout my future of however many seconds I'm given to breathe this time roaming around Earth ...it has given me the slap in the face necessary to count those I love, those who unconditionally love me back, and all the beauty in between.
I'll take it.
Recognize the sweetness all around and hug yourself for me.
Cheers.
"Like a tree by the river,
I'm holding on...
But, everything gets gone...
Everything gets gone."
- William Elliott Whitmore <----click that link and nod along to that smokey voice!
So, why no post about this until now?
If I were to be truthful, which is the sole purpose of having this page.... I was scared to write about it here. To have something that had been front and center of my life for a year suddenly go back in hiding was difficult for me to believe. I thought it was too good to be true. I was almost certain that I'd be hobbling around on swollen, balloon feet again in a month begging for people to open my soda bottles because my sausage fingers couldn't bear it.
So far, this hasn't happened.
(What also hasn't happened? Losing the 25 pounds this ordeal has caused me to pack on but, hey, I give myself better, squishier hugs now! And, the other else that has happened??? The rad, trippy dreams my arthritis medicine made me have full of brilliant colors and insane story lines, sigh.)
Impermanence.
Impermanence is an element of life that is sometimes hard to grasp when one is digging down in the trenches dragging through whatever war has been thrown their way. Part of it, I think, is because once the pendulum swings back the other way, we're too blurry-eyed with our new, gleeful norm that we can't even remember what the hell all the fuss was about before.
I can assure you, though, that each day I step out of bed and don't feel the need to wince and curse from the pain in my body is a day that does not go unnoticed. It still seems crazy to me. My rings fit again. I can still make a fully-closed fist! (Watch out, all you haters!) Such simple things, but, my, how beautiful they are!
If I may be so trite, I'm fuckin' lucky.
Life has provided a glimpse of what may be in store for me throughout my future of however many seconds I'm given to breathe this time roaming around Earth ...it has given me the slap in the face necessary to count those I love, those who unconditionally love me back, and all the beauty in between.
I'll take it.
Recognize the sweetness all around and hug yourself for me.
Cheers.
"Like a tree by the river,
I'm holding on...
But, everything gets gone...
Everything gets gone."
- William Elliott Whitmore <----click that link and nod along to that smokey voice!
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Baby wanna walk.
I can walk in a normal fashion.
I have western medicine to thank, but, it's something in the best direction!
Every morning I still wake up expecting to be in pain....expecting that something has changed and I'm back to the beginning.
But, I sit up. I put my feet on the floor. Stand. And, glide to the bathroom with ease.
I was able to walk around cities without thinking about anything else but anticipate the excitement of what was around the next corner.
I walked through airports with no concern except making sure I'm at my gate at boarding time.
I don't mean this to make other feels guilty but, seriously, take note each and every morning you put your feet on the floor without a grimace knowing that at least you have that going for you, despite other shit in your life (not discounting your shit, just trying to point out an easy blessing.) I'm speaking from experience as someone who overlooked it until my body said, "Yea, bitch...try and overlook THIS!" Never take all the simple things our bodies do for granted. Healthy livers that filter blood...lungs that breathe...shit, even a bladder that holds your pee without any real struggle. Truly. Our bodies do so much and we don't stop to recognize the effort of tissue and bone and how a simple upset could change our entire lives...until it does change our lives.
Whilst climbing the stairs at work today, I caught myself smiling as I could feel the muscles in my legs starting to slowly wake up and form again.
Maybe this was something I needed to make me wake up and realize that all the other shit I spent my days worrying about is just that... shit...
Regardless of how little or how much effort you put into these worries, at the end of the day, your physical being will eventually breakdown on you with little care about all that you find important at this moment.
Hug yourself.
Love your body regardless of size, color, shape, moles, hobbles...because it only goes downhill from here.
xoxo
I have western medicine to thank, but, it's something in the best direction!
Every morning I still wake up expecting to be in pain....expecting that something has changed and I'm back to the beginning.
But, I sit up. I put my feet on the floor. Stand. And, glide to the bathroom with ease.
I was able to walk around cities without thinking about anything else but anticipate the excitement of what was around the next corner.
I walked through airports with no concern except making sure I'm at my gate at boarding time.
I don't mean this to make other feels guilty but, seriously, take note each and every morning you put your feet on the floor without a grimace knowing that at least you have that going for you, despite other shit in your life (not discounting your shit, just trying to point out an easy blessing.) I'm speaking from experience as someone who overlooked it until my body said, "Yea, bitch...try and overlook THIS!" Never take all the simple things our bodies do for granted. Healthy livers that filter blood...lungs that breathe...shit, even a bladder that holds your pee without any real struggle. Truly. Our bodies do so much and we don't stop to recognize the effort of tissue and bone and how a simple upset could change our entire lives...until it does change our lives.
Whilst climbing the stairs at work today, I caught myself smiling as I could feel the muscles in my legs starting to slowly wake up and form again.
Maybe this was something I needed to make me wake up and realize that all the other shit I spent my days worrying about is just that... shit...
Regardless of how little or how much effort you put into these worries, at the end of the day, your physical being will eventually breakdown on you with little care about all that you find important at this moment.
Hug yourself.
Love your body regardless of size, color, shape, moles, hobbles...because it only goes downhill from here.
xoxo
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
A Godmother with a Horn
Okay, so, it's not really a horn though I do see the irony that what I'm about to discuss appeared the week I was to witness the baptism of my nephew.
A large, mysterious lump formed on right side of my upper forehead. Thankfully I had the thought to get bangs cut into my hair during my last visit to my stylist so I had something to cover the monstrosity for the last week. After keeping an eye on it whilst additional swelling moved into portions of my face, I finally went to the doctor today. Skin infection. Not believed to be contagious, just a random event.
I've decided this is my body this year. One big, random event. Or, as a dear friend referred to my latest "events": A study in the truly bizarre. I had to giggle at that because, well, I'm tired.
Whenever a new addition to my collection of medical events show up, my brain becomes preoccupied all over again with a myriad of unanswerable questions...
What the fuck?
Why?
What next?
When will I feel "normal"?
Is this simply my new sense of "normal"?
It distracts me from living in the moments because I'm so consumed. There is a mild fear that I will simply become full-blown narcissistic hypochondriac when this is all said and done...I won't be able to stop talking about myself and the worry that everything is wrong with me. This fear stems from the fact that I haven't posted here in a while combined with my habit of honesty to the "maybe they didn't need to know all that" level when casually asked, "How's it goin'?"
And, then there is my weight. It's hard for me to not draw attention to it by making my own comments. Sort of like, "Hey, look, I know I've put on a few these days..." (I don't know why really...it's like when we have company sometimes we go out of our way to point out every speck of dirt in our house. Why do we do this!?) But, if I were to be awkwardly honest...Every time I step on the scale I feel like it's reading more pounds towards hopelessness.
That sounds dramatic. I know it does and is. My brain is a bit of a drama queen these days. Deep down I know she will get over it. And, I will too. For now, I will hug myself and work on loving the extra cushion in between my arms until I'm off shitty Prednisone and more equipped to do something about it. (For someone who has never taken prednisone let me just say...imagine the first time you ate your favorite food in the world... and then imagine having that experience every time you eat anything. Yep...)
Alright, dearies, I don't have much to wrap this up with but this song. Love!
The Head and the Heart - "Lost in my Mind"
A large, mysterious lump formed on right side of my upper forehead. Thankfully I had the thought to get bangs cut into my hair during my last visit to my stylist so I had something to cover the monstrosity for the last week. After keeping an eye on it whilst additional swelling moved into portions of my face, I finally went to the doctor today. Skin infection. Not believed to be contagious, just a random event.
I've decided this is my body this year. One big, random event. Or, as a dear friend referred to my latest "events": A study in the truly bizarre. I had to giggle at that because, well, I'm tired.
Whenever a new addition to my collection of medical events show up, my brain becomes preoccupied all over again with a myriad of unanswerable questions...
What the fuck?
Why?
What next?
When will I feel "normal"?
Is this simply my new sense of "normal"?
It distracts me from living in the moments because I'm so consumed. There is a mild fear that I will simply become full-blown narcissistic hypochondriac when this is all said and done...I won't be able to stop talking about myself and the worry that everything is wrong with me. This fear stems from the fact that I haven't posted here in a while combined with my habit of honesty to the "maybe they didn't need to know all that" level when casually asked, "How's it goin'?"
And, then there is my weight. It's hard for me to not draw attention to it by making my own comments. Sort of like, "Hey, look, I know I've put on a few these days..." (I don't know why really...it's like when we have company sometimes we go out of our way to point out every speck of dirt in our house. Why do we do this!?) But, if I were to be awkwardly honest...Every time I step on the scale I feel like it's reading more pounds towards hopelessness.
That sounds dramatic. I know it does and is. My brain is a bit of a drama queen these days. Deep down I know she will get over it. And, I will too. For now, I will hug myself and work on loving the extra cushion in between my arms until I'm off shitty Prednisone and more equipped to do something about it. (For someone who has never taken prednisone let me just say...imagine the first time you ate your favorite food in the world... and then imagine having that experience every time you eat anything. Yep...)
Alright, dearies, I don't have much to wrap this up with but this song. Love!
The Head and the Heart - "Lost in my Mind"
Monday, October 7, 2013
My HLA-B27 be posi, y'all!
I had my follow up appointment with my rheumatologist to discuss my blood work.
First, let me tell you how I ran into her as I got on the elevator and sprang into my "I know I may have seemed like a bitch with my nasty email but really I was just pissed that you weren't calling me back" approach (that probably should have been hyphened instead of in quotes but, really, who has the time for that!?) I spoke to her. I think it threw her off as I'm sure most people in hospitals don't make friendly, elevator commentary with the doctors.
"Hey! I'm coming to see you in a few minutes!" She smiled and said some sort of pleasantry back. It was an awkward but necessary exchange.
Fast forward to the appointment. "Hello....... again..." she said.
That doctor. She's so witty. I purposely laughed too hard at that one. All the while I kept making jokes like "Prednisone makes me eat everything! I'm pretty sure I never tasted chocolate the way I tasted it while on that med *giggle giggle*..." and other Megan like bibble-babble to sort of go along with above strategy.
Anyways, enough of my INFJ-working-the-room discussion...
Parvo front: My immune system has kicked it's ass. I thought so for a long while now but it's good to see it on paper in a official manner... with the help of a doctor explaining it to me what all the coded crap on paper meant, of course.
Arthritis front (remember, rearing it's inflamed, ouchy, face thanks to Parvo): My HLA-B27 shit be posi, y'all! What does this mean? Well, the doctor was asking me if I was having an spinal/lower back issues. Other than the normal effects of sitting on my ass all day with a core currently at the level of non-existent, not really. To that, she said this same type of arthritis (I *think* she said ankylosing spondylitis but, seriously, I was just following along on the page knowing I'd google this shit later and it is later and that's what I think she said after googling) could also cause inflammation and pain in the hands and feet. Which I was all "mmm, yea? okay, that makes sense *nodding head, totally googling when I get home*..." Well, after googling (sorry...you're probably thinking "If she says any form of the word google one more time before getting to her effing point...!!!!") I found this same HLA-B27 bastard to be linked to.....*drum roll* psoriatic arthritis! Again, I'm not doctor...just found it curious...
Regardless, my shit is still inflamed and hurty.
My plan of attack is this... try out meds in hopes to feel better... get back to yoga and all things I love that are active and actually be nice to my body again... all the while looking for other things to help that are not in the form of a pill...with the ultimate goal being to be off meds again.
In the meantime, y'all need to help me get the word out to HLA-B27 that I'm good peoples. Silly, HLA-B27! Let's be friends and stop being an asshole to me!
War - "Why Can't We Be Friends"
First, let me tell you how I ran into her as I got on the elevator and sprang into my "I know I may have seemed like a bitch with my nasty email but really I was just pissed that you weren't calling me back" approach (that probably should have been hyphened instead of in quotes but, really, who has the time for that!?) I spoke to her. I think it threw her off as I'm sure most people in hospitals don't make friendly, elevator commentary with the doctors.
"Hey! I'm coming to see you in a few minutes!" She smiled and said some sort of pleasantry back. It was an awkward but necessary exchange.
Fast forward to the appointment. "Hello....... again..." she said.
That doctor. She's so witty. I purposely laughed too hard at that one. All the while I kept making jokes like "Prednisone makes me eat everything! I'm pretty sure I never tasted chocolate the way I tasted it while on that med *giggle giggle*..." and other Megan like bibble-babble to sort of go along with above strategy.
Anyways, enough of my INFJ-working-the-room discussion...
Parvo front: My immune system has kicked it's ass. I thought so for a long while now but it's good to see it on paper in a official manner... with the help of a doctor explaining it to me what all the coded crap on paper meant, of course.
Arthritis front (remember, rearing it's inflamed, ouchy, face thanks to Parvo): My HLA-B27 shit be posi, y'all! What does this mean? Well, the doctor was asking me if I was having an spinal/lower back issues. Other than the normal effects of sitting on my ass all day with a core currently at the level of non-existent, not really. To that, she said this same type of arthritis (I *think* she said ankylosing spondylitis but, seriously, I was just following along on the page knowing I'd google this shit later and it is later and that's what I think she said after googling) could also cause inflammation and pain in the hands and feet. Which I was all "mmm, yea? okay, that makes sense *nodding head, totally googling when I get home*..." Well, after googling (sorry...you're probably thinking "If she says any form of the word google one more time before getting to her effing point...!!!!") I found this same HLA-B27 bastard to be linked to.....*drum roll* psoriatic arthritis! Again, I'm not doctor...just found it curious...
Regardless, my shit is still inflamed and hurty.
My plan of attack is this... try out meds in hopes to feel better... get back to yoga and all things I love that are active and actually be nice to my body again... all the while looking for other things to help that are not in the form of a pill...with the ultimate goal being to be off meds again.
In the meantime, y'all need to help me get the word out to HLA-B27 that I'm good peoples. Silly, HLA-B27! Let's be friends and stop being an asshole to me!
War - "Why Can't We Be Friends"
Thursday, October 3, 2013
L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.
**Blogger's Note: If you are reading this and can't get through the long-windedness that is this post, please skip to the end because it's there just for you.**
Have I been working my ass off lately? Yes.
Have I been hobbling my ass off lately? Yes.
But, for the first time ever I can honestly say I would not trade my life for anything and I find this to be the most freeing feeling in the world. I never fully realized how much shit I was clinging on to and just how toxic it was for my soul until I felt it lift away.
Don't get me wrong. This wasn't an overnight thing. Those who know me well can vouch for it in all the times I've vented, cried on their shoulders, and apologized for my just-let-me-be-a-hermit-and-bury-my-head-until-further-notice phases. It's been years, a handful of therapists, this painful shit moving in on me, and finally, an amazing mindfulness retreat that seemed to click the cog into place ...flicking the switch on the light some of you out there were so desperate to help me turn on. After so many years of tiptoeing shyly up to the edge, peaking over, and readying myself to chuck over the bullshit, I feel, at least for now, that I've done it. I've let go. Do I realize that it might cling to the side, climb up, and lunge back onto my shoulders when I'm not looking? Of course. It's possible. It's some feisty bullshit and we've been friends for quite some time. But, I think I'm okay with that. And, I think being okay with it might help it stay down in the abyss and hang out with the other bullshits people have tossed away.
Why am I okay with it? Acceptance. It's one of the first things I started working on with the therapist I started seeing in the beginning of the year. Accept that some mornings I wake up with fury and rage causing me to whip cosmetics around the bathroom, or stomp my feet shouting, "I HATE my CLOTHES!" Accept that life isn't fair. Accept that people will be mean. Accept that I can, in regards to myself, be one of the very meanest of people. That act alone...when I really got the hang of it? I had already begun feeling the sense of freedom. It meant I didn't have to make excuses. "Hey, you are just bitchy today. Whatevs." It meant I didn't have to obsess with why someone was unkind, or why I'm stuck in the pattern we all hate that makes us have to stop at every. Damn. Traffic light. These situations simply were and I could accept them, or not. Accepting them at first made me feel like I was giving in. Then I realized, not accepting them, was really just a form of self-torture...the opposite of what I wanted in life. I accept the fact that depression may show itself again. But with each bout, I get stronger and shake my fist all the more at its scowl-y, ugly face.
This painful shit. The very reason this blog exists. I've expressed how much it sucks in a myriad of ways. I'm currently on the upswing of accepting it though (again, knowing it could go down hill just the same.) I think I've touched on it before that it's made me finally appreciate my body. Y'all...in case you haven't noticed? My hips and booty be banging! Is my belly bigger than I want it to be? Meh. My arms aren't as toned as I'd like. But you know what? They are mine. There are many just like them but these german babies are mine, gnarly heart tattoo and all. And my body does what it can, when it can. At least I have that. And, so do you. Be nice to you. Don't wait for some shitty illness that sounds like dog worms to remember just how beautiful your body really is and everything it does for you, despite how badly you pick on it or soak it with bourbon.
The mindfulness retreat. An introverts dream! An entire weekend of meditation (some guided, some not), nature, complete silence, zero eye contact, but complete sense of compassion and community. I learned pretty quickly that I didn't have to know a person's name to allow them space as we passed in the hallways, or, to eat at a table where we all practice chewing very, very slowly (look up "mindful eating.") I didn't have to know what they "did for a living" to be present in the same room with them breathing deeply and opening my heart to life while they too worked through their own inner bullshit. I could go on and on about this weekend because, really, I had a very, very powerful spiritual experience and believe that to be the final straw for me to ball up my bullshit and throw it with all my might into oblivion.
With all the above said, if it weren't for my friends and family, I'd still be in the dark somewhere letting my life flitter away. I hope I convey to each of you the profound love and appreciation I have for your patience, kindness, and, most importantly, steadfast, unconditional love. Truly. You are my rock. You are on the sidelines rooting even during the times I'm pushing you away shouting, "Fuck this game!" and stomping off the field. You are downing shots with me on my bad days, telling me terrible jokes to give me a cheap smile, making me amazing mixes full of beautiful music, letting me whine on the really painful days ...I don't know what I did in a past life to be surrounded by some of the best souls to walk this earth, but dammit I'm glad I did it.
I love you. Hug yourself.
"On my last night on earth,
I won't look to the sky,
Just breathe in the air,
And blink in the light.
On my last night on earth,
I'll pay a high price,
To have no regrets, and be done with my life..."
Noah And The Whale - "L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N."
Have I been working my ass off lately? Yes.
Have I been hobbling my ass off lately? Yes.
But, for the first time ever I can honestly say I would not trade my life for anything and I find this to be the most freeing feeling in the world. I never fully realized how much shit I was clinging on to and just how toxic it was for my soul until I felt it lift away.
Don't get me wrong. This wasn't an overnight thing. Those who know me well can vouch for it in all the times I've vented, cried on their shoulders, and apologized for my just-let-me-be-a-hermit-and-bury-my-head-until-further-notice phases. It's been years, a handful of therapists, this painful shit moving in on me, and finally, an amazing mindfulness retreat that seemed to click the cog into place ...flicking the switch on the light some of you out there were so desperate to help me turn on. After so many years of tiptoeing shyly up to the edge, peaking over, and readying myself to chuck over the bullshit, I feel, at least for now, that I've done it. I've let go. Do I realize that it might cling to the side, climb up, and lunge back onto my shoulders when I'm not looking? Of course. It's possible. It's some feisty bullshit and we've been friends for quite some time. But, I think I'm okay with that. And, I think being okay with it might help it stay down in the abyss and hang out with the other bullshits people have tossed away.
Why am I okay with it? Acceptance. It's one of the first things I started working on with the therapist I started seeing in the beginning of the year. Accept that some mornings I wake up with fury and rage causing me to whip cosmetics around the bathroom, or stomp my feet shouting, "I HATE my CLOTHES!" Accept that life isn't fair. Accept that people will be mean. Accept that I can, in regards to myself, be one of the very meanest of people. That act alone...when I really got the hang of it? I had already begun feeling the sense of freedom. It meant I didn't have to make excuses. "Hey, you are just bitchy today. Whatevs." It meant I didn't have to obsess with why someone was unkind, or why I'm stuck in the pattern we all hate that makes us have to stop at every. Damn. Traffic light. These situations simply were and I could accept them, or not. Accepting them at first made me feel like I was giving in. Then I realized, not accepting them, was really just a form of self-torture...the opposite of what I wanted in life. I accept the fact that depression may show itself again. But with each bout, I get stronger and shake my fist all the more at its scowl-y, ugly face.
This painful shit. The very reason this blog exists. I've expressed how much it sucks in a myriad of ways. I'm currently on the upswing of accepting it though (again, knowing it could go down hill just the same.) I think I've touched on it before that it's made me finally appreciate my body. Y'all...in case you haven't noticed? My hips and booty be banging! Is my belly bigger than I want it to be? Meh. My arms aren't as toned as I'd like. But you know what? They are mine. There are many just like them but these german babies are mine, gnarly heart tattoo and all. And my body does what it can, when it can. At least I have that. And, so do you. Be nice to you. Don't wait for some shitty illness that sounds like dog worms to remember just how beautiful your body really is and everything it does for you, despite how badly you pick on it or soak it with bourbon.
The mindfulness retreat. An introverts dream! An entire weekend of meditation (some guided, some not), nature, complete silence, zero eye contact, but complete sense of compassion and community. I learned pretty quickly that I didn't have to know a person's name to allow them space as we passed in the hallways, or, to eat at a table where we all practice chewing very, very slowly (look up "mindful eating.") I didn't have to know what they "did for a living" to be present in the same room with them breathing deeply and opening my heart to life while they too worked through their own inner bullshit. I could go on and on about this weekend because, really, I had a very, very powerful spiritual experience and believe that to be the final straw for me to ball up my bullshit and throw it with all my might into oblivion.
With all the above said, if it weren't for my friends and family, I'd still be in the dark somewhere letting my life flitter away. I hope I convey to each of you the profound love and appreciation I have for your patience, kindness, and, most importantly, steadfast, unconditional love. Truly. You are my rock. You are on the sidelines rooting even during the times I'm pushing you away shouting, "Fuck this game!" and stomping off the field. You are downing shots with me on my bad days, telling me terrible jokes to give me a cheap smile, making me amazing mixes full of beautiful music, letting me whine on the really painful days ...I don't know what I did in a past life to be surrounded by some of the best souls to walk this earth, but dammit I'm glad I did it.
I love you. Hug yourself.
"On my last night on earth,
I won't look to the sky,
Just breathe in the air,
And blink in the light.
On my last night on earth,
I'll pay a high price,
To have no regrets, and be done with my life..."
Noah And The Whale - "L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N."
Friday, September 27, 2013
"Give the Good News by Way of Fists"
I've been putting off posting again because what I'm about to say is very disappointing.
After waiting the standard week, dealing with the back and forth with my doctor's office (that required yours truly writing an eloquent "call me back or fuck off" message) for someone to give me the time of day, the following is all I have to report:
My vitamin D is low. Mmmmkay.
Oh, and, my blood shows signs of inflammation similar to that of, and probably is, arthritis.
...
..
.
..
...
.....are you fucking kidding?
"So, did you also find out that I have a belly button that is an "inny" and birthmark that looks like a third nipple?"
(Don't get distracted. That last statement is for another post at another time.)
This is a perfect depiction of why I was hesitant to get into this rheumatologist mess. I think nothing new will be learned. More drugs shoved in my face. Have a nice day.
Don't get me wrong. I tried to be optimistic, but I wasn't expecting a miracle worker. It is just pointing out a problem:
Doctors feel that their patients aren't satisfied unless they leave the office with a new prescription or referral to someone bigger/badder/more expensive-er. The blood tests ran by this "specialist" could have been run, and possibly had been already ran, by my regular doctor. Why the fuck was I sent to a specialist to tell me something I already knew?
No peace of mind was gained.
More distrust with western medicine was incurred.
The best part?
I just received my explanation of benefits from my insurance. Because I'm blessed with a job in a company with rather amazing benefits, my out-of-pocket expenses were minimal. However, if you added up all the "costs" before my negotiated "savings" this lovely little bullshit visit supposedly cha-chinged to a sum near $2,000.
Yes. Three zeros after that 2. Don't get me wrong, doctor with a shoddy medical staff that never calls anyone back, I'm sure you are very intelligent and highly trained in your field, but, seriously? That's how much it costs to tell me nothing? And, we wonder why people get significantly sick once and end up bankrupt in this country...
In other news, I've diagnosed myself. No, not in the hypochondriac, I'm-sick-with-everything way. I just have common sense and access to Google to go along with knowledge about my family history. I'm pretty sure all signs point to psoriatic arthritis showing it's ugly, painfully-inflamed presence because of the parvo. (Remember my post of why no one knows of the shitty that is human parvovirus? Because after six months, it leaves the "Oh, that's just a virus that will go away" phase and enters the "You now have a chronic condition (spawned by that measly little virus)known as XYZPainfulJointsHateYou condition.")
Good news: I've been pretty in love with my life despite all this mess these days. I'm hoping it's not all this prednisone I've been feeding myself. Ask me again this time next week when I take my last dose ;)
Until next time, loves....
The Streets - "Going Through Hell"
After waiting the standard week, dealing with the back and forth with my doctor's office (that required yours truly writing an eloquent "call me back or fuck off" message) for someone to give me the time of day, the following is all I have to report:
My vitamin D is low. Mmmmkay.
Oh, and, my blood shows signs of inflammation similar to that of, and probably is, arthritis.
...
..
.
..
...
.....are you fucking kidding?
"So, did you also find out that I have a belly button that is an "inny" and birthmark that looks like a third nipple?"
(Don't get distracted. That last statement is for another post at another time.)
This is a perfect depiction of why I was hesitant to get into this rheumatologist mess. I think nothing new will be learned. More drugs shoved in my face. Have a nice day.
Don't get me wrong. I tried to be optimistic, but I wasn't expecting a miracle worker. It is just pointing out a problem:
Doctors feel that their patients aren't satisfied unless they leave the office with a new prescription or referral to someone bigger/badder/more expensive-er. The blood tests ran by this "specialist" could have been run, and possibly had been already ran, by my regular doctor. Why the fuck was I sent to a specialist to tell me something I already knew?
No peace of mind was gained.
More distrust with western medicine was incurred.
The best part?
I just received my explanation of benefits from my insurance. Because I'm blessed with a job in a company with rather amazing benefits, my out-of-pocket expenses were minimal. However, if you added up all the "costs" before my negotiated "savings" this lovely little bullshit visit supposedly cha-chinged to a sum near $2,000.
Yes. Three zeros after that 2. Don't get me wrong, doctor with a shoddy medical staff that never calls anyone back, I'm sure you are very intelligent and highly trained in your field, but, seriously? That's how much it costs to tell me nothing? And, we wonder why people get significantly sick once and end up bankrupt in this country...
In other news, I've diagnosed myself. No, not in the hypochondriac, I'm-sick-with-everything way. I just have common sense and access to Google to go along with knowledge about my family history. I'm pretty sure all signs point to psoriatic arthritis showing it's ugly, painfully-inflamed presence because of the parvo. (Remember my post of why no one knows of the shitty that is human parvovirus? Because after six months, it leaves the "Oh, that's just a virus that will go away" phase and enters the "You now have a chronic condition (spawned by that measly little virus)known as XYZPainfulJointsHateYou condition.")
Good news: I've been pretty in love with my life despite all this mess these days. I'm hoping it's not all this prednisone I've been feeding myself. Ask me again this time next week when I take my last dose ;)
Until next time, loves....
The Streets - "Going Through Hell"
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Pissed
Let the record show that before all this process began, I was not a fan of dealing with doctors.
I think this is a fact for most people and a large percentage of the commonly known pie chart: "Why Dealing with my Health is Fucking Daunting!"
As per my last post, I had gone to the rheumatologist who conducted further blood work and prescribed steroids to help me, in the very literal sense, get back on my feet whilst we figure out the best course of action. The meds seem to be helping, by the way. A couple of days ago I was able to do a short, very easy hike and yesterday took the dog for a walk! For anyone who has actually seen my mobility firsthand, these two events are huge!
Cut scene back to why I'm pissed.
After waiting a week to hear back about my results, last Thursday (in efforts to save you from the math, that was 5 days ago from this post) I find myself sitting in a conference room minutes into the beginning of a seminar for work when I hear my phone vibrate in my bag. I knew in the pit of my stomach it was the call I had been waiting for yet figured I'd just call them back and find out what's going on.
Let me reiterate to the jury...That was last Thursday.
It is now Tuesday.
5.
Days.
Two return messages left from me (despite their plea for no duplicate messages to which I thought, "Um, fuck you. Call me back." Squeaky wheels and all that jazz, right?)
It's interesting to me really when the biggest critique regarding national healthcare is the fear of increasing waiting lists for care. Well, shit. I have fine damn insurance provided by a company that I work my ass off for yet I still receive no attention.
Oh, and apparently a prescription for vitamin D has been submitted and filled by Walgreens. How do I even know it's Vit. D? Because I had to actually call the pharmacy to find out what the fuck they had filled for which I was receiving phone calls that it was ready for pick-up.
Seriously, bro.... (Or, should it be "ho" given that my Dr is a female even though it's not common vernacular?)
What the fuck.
My doctor should know better than to piss me off right now given that she was the one prescribing the 'roids from which I'm raging.
Okay.
This is ranty.
And, very sweary.
It felt damn good, though. So, if you made it this far into the bitchfest, I thank you. Now, go scream some 4 Non Blondes from the top of your lungs...
4 Non Blondes - "What's Up"
I think this is a fact for most people and a large percentage of the commonly known pie chart: "Why Dealing with my Health is Fucking Daunting!"
As per my last post, I had gone to the rheumatologist who conducted further blood work and prescribed steroids to help me, in the very literal sense, get back on my feet whilst we figure out the best course of action. The meds seem to be helping, by the way. A couple of days ago I was able to do a short, very easy hike and yesterday took the dog for a walk! For anyone who has actually seen my mobility firsthand, these two events are huge!
Cut scene back to why I'm pissed.
After waiting a week to hear back about my results, last Thursday (in efforts to save you from the math, that was 5 days ago from this post) I find myself sitting in a conference room minutes into the beginning of a seminar for work when I hear my phone vibrate in my bag. I knew in the pit of my stomach it was the call I had been waiting for yet figured I'd just call them back and find out what's going on.
Let me reiterate to the jury...That was last Thursday.
It is now Tuesday.
5.
Days.
Two return messages left from me (despite their plea for no duplicate messages to which I thought, "Um, fuck you. Call me back." Squeaky wheels and all that jazz, right?)
It's interesting to me really when the biggest critique regarding national healthcare is the fear of increasing waiting lists for care. Well, shit. I have fine damn insurance provided by a company that I work my ass off for yet I still receive no attention.
Oh, and apparently a prescription for vitamin D has been submitted and filled by Walgreens. How do I even know it's Vit. D? Because I had to actually call the pharmacy to find out what the fuck they had filled for which I was receiving phone calls that it was ready for pick-up.
Seriously, bro.... (Or, should it be "ho" given that my Dr is a female even though it's not common vernacular?)
What the fuck.
My doctor should know better than to piss me off right now given that she was the one prescribing the 'roids from which I'm raging.
Okay.
This is ranty.
And, very sweary.
It felt damn good, though. So, if you made it this far into the bitchfest, I thank you. Now, go scream some 4 Non Blondes from the top of your lungs...
4 Non Blondes - "What's Up"
Friday, September 6, 2013
A positive.
I've been telling myself that despite how much frustration, anger, pain...whatever...I've been going through, I can't help but feel that all of this will have a positive spin. It's a weird feeling for me because normally I'm not so "Rain brings sunflowers and daisies, lah-dee-daaah! *skip away through my field of daffodils*"
Well, here is one positive.
I'm writing.
And, I can't stop.
I started mulling over an idea in my head a while back and suddenly I came home tonight and HAD to get going on it. I think it's due to my starting this blog and being reminded of how good it feels to have words flowing out of me crafted precisely how I'd like them to be. Never perfect but always me.
It's a bit of a high, really. It's the one thing in life I ALWAYS enjoy.
It's about damn time I had moments of output! The story may be a bit of cliche, but, so is life.
I'm off to pour a bit more wine and keep going.
The song I'm plugging for this is The National since they have been my soundtrack tonight in preparation for their concert on Sunday with a favorite lady, Amanda!
The National - "Apartment Story"
Well, here is one positive.
I'm writing.
And, I can't stop.
I started mulling over an idea in my head a while back and suddenly I came home tonight and HAD to get going on it. I think it's due to my starting this blog and being reminded of how good it feels to have words flowing out of me crafted precisely how I'd like them to be. Never perfect but always me.
It's a bit of a high, really. It's the one thing in life I ALWAYS enjoy.
It's about damn time I had moments of output! The story may be a bit of cliche, but, so is life.
I'm off to pour a bit more wine and keep going.
The song I'm plugging for this is The National since they have been my soundtrack tonight in preparation for their concert on Sunday with a favorite lady, Amanda!
The National - "Apartment Story"
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