It's been a long time since I really gave myself some time to think ... probably because I knew I wouldn't like what I'd find. Now is probably as good a time as any, stuck on a plane ... alone ... for a trip I don't want to be going on. (Thank God for the empty row of seats next to me ... crying in public places is so much easier when you don't have to share an arm rest with a stranger).
I'm not happy.
I am worried. Quite persistently ...
I feel as though I have driven my professional life in entirely the wrong direction (not to mention into the ground) and I am worried that I cannot fix it. Not because I lack the skills to do so, but because I was so sure that this was the right direction when I chose this particular path and even still I was so flatly wrong. I am without a map or any whim to follow. At this point, I'm not sure I even have career aspirations (which brings up a whole different level of guilt and self-loathing).
I'm young ... starting over would be easy. But how do you start over when the only part of planning a new path you can manage is the part where you abandon the last one? I've always believed that you should jump to, not from ... so when will I be ready to jump? And in this job market, what are the chances of that window opening?
My personal life is just as bad. I am so overwhelmed by stress that I am missing the greatest joys. I am so deeply worried that I will regret the way we choose to get married that I am losing the joy of being engaged.
I know, deep down I know ... there are few things in life that are genuinely un-fix-able so there is no point in worrying. But I worry.
I want nothing more than to be a beautiful bride ... to have a suburbanite home with the garage, maybe some stone or brick ... to love my kitchen more than any other room in the house and find my peace in sharing food with others. But is all feels so imaginary and un-me.
I find myself so moved toward indecision, motivated by fear and apathy, that I am dead in the water.
I worry that the wind I need to fill my sails will never come and the next chapter of my life will begin the same way that this one has dragged on.
It's (only) been four months, but finally he's comin back home :-)
It is raining today. I have the windows open and the tv on mute.
I love the sound of rain.
It has a light tap, tap, tap to remind you to listen and a collective shhhh of a calming, comforting hug.
Rain is my renewal - it makes me sleepy; it helps me slow down; it washes away my tension
Rain reminds me to breathe
Rain is my center
I am once again in massive cleaning mode ... I've shredded three trash bags full of things and probably come up with about half as much straight trash. And I'm not done yet.
I keep coming across a diary of sorts that I kept during a relationship long since dead and gone. Actually (unfortunately), it is less of a diary and more of a self-therapy notebook. It is full of times when I ran away to cry, he lied to me, I needed a way to verbalize my frustrations with the failing partnership, etc. Truthfully, its a pretty painful memory of how stupid I was. I have no idea if that guy ever found it, read it, or even knows that it exists. I suppose it doesn't really matter though. In any event, I have come across it each time I've gone through one of these phases and I've never thrown it away.
Here's my question dear readers:
Is this one of those keep because you'll want to reflect on your life when you're 85 kind of things or one of those, good riddance to bad rubbish kind of things? Is it a helpful reminder of what it felt like to be that stupid and what not to ever accept in my life again?
What exactly does it say about me that I found myself so identifying with the web excerpt of Tori Spelling's new book, "sTORI TELLING," that I not only want to read it immediately but I want to buy another copy and throw it at my dad's head? (it is hardcover...)
I didn't grow up in a 10,000 sq ft house, or have artificial snow in my Los Angeles back yard, or have personal visits from Santa ... but I did grow up in a house where my dad - one that operates as if money = love - most definitely dominated. I'm not so sure that he dominated out of force or if it was for the reason that my mom was just more meek back then. It didn't really dawn on me as a child that objects and material items were the expressions of love that I received. I had that realization many years later.
In fact, that realization was the epicenter of the emotional melt down I had with my father less than two years ago. Unfortunately, he still doesn't get it. I cried on the phone, I sobbed in person, and begged for him to have an emotional relationship with me instead of being a bank. He didn't get it. Every time I try to explain how uncomfortable it is to be around my father for long periods of time and how painful it is to hear the words "I love you" from my father, I cry all over again. (Imagine how quickly that works as a buzzkill at happy hour ...)
Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the monetary assistance. But how good does it feel to live in a house your dad made happen when you know that at the end of a bad day, you don't have a friend to talk to in your dad? And how much worse does that feel when he comes to your house and has rarely a positive thing to say about the way you've chosen to furnish and decorate it?
I'm thinking a swift hardcover to the head might make a new kind of impact ...
Because I rarely have anything positive to say on this stupid blog (withthe exception of telling you to read Jen Lancaster's books ... cuz everyone really should worship her funny) ...
It dawned on me during a discussion last weekend that I am currently without passion. I do not have a goal, a driving force, or light in the oh so distant future of this shall we call tunnel I suddenly realize that I am in.
The question posed was: if I could have any job in the world, what would I do?
*blink* *blink*
Does professional lazy ass count as a real job?
Truthfully, I'd never be happy with that job. It is so not rewarding. In undergrad, the goal was to graduate and make a difference in the world. In grad school, the goal was to graduate and be part of the larger machine that just might make a difference in the world. Now? Meh. I'm too tired to make a difference in the world. How am I going to counteract that much stupidity and arrogance?
Yeah, yeah ... I know ... one day at a time ... one piece at a time ... eating an elephant one bite at a time and all that ...
And I have become a bit of a self-loather in my discouraged state. I hate people like me that have a seat instead of going on. Welcome to my vicious cycle. But I digress...
I cannot think of something that I am qualified to redirect my attention toward that doesn't already have people far more meaningful attacking it in ways that would make my effort pitiful and sad.
...I think I'm moving but I go nowhere...
When I looked out today
And saw that the sky was gray
I thought about the way
You loved days like this
And driving in to town
It really started coming down
Bringing me back around
To all that I miss
It feels like it's rainin' you
It feels like it's rainin' you
I didn't even run inside
Or worry about staying dry
Besides theres nowhere I can hide
From these feelings now
Running down my face
Takes me to another place
I can't think of a better way to drown
It feels like it's rainin' you
I can't explain it
But I am baptized anew
It feels like it's rainin' you
If I had my way
It would do this every day
I would never see the sun
Because the closest I get
To holding you again
Is every time that sky opens up
It feels like it's rainin' you
I can't explain it
But I am baptized anew
It feels like it's rainin' you
It feels like it's rainin' you
Random update... (and thank you, to those that are still checking in on me these days)
When it's too late to apologize. Now what?
I haven't really learned how to interact with and share experiences with people that I have lost a fundamental level of respect for ... not just in the particular situation, but as people. That kind of respect that everyone deserves, just because they are another human being. The kind that goes away when other people decide it isn't worth giving to anyone else.
What do you do when these people are part of your life that you cannot change?
For example:
I have already made it clear that should I ever get married, my dad's wife is strictly prohibited from attending any and all associated functions as well as the wedding itself. I have made a promise that I will have her arrested before I let her take part in something like my wedding.
I can't take that stance with every family member that I think deserves to be buried alive by the very filth they spend their lives producing. But I don't want to go around putting on the nice face while I try not to dry heave from the sheer disgust I feel.
Call me judgey if you will ...
But I also cannot forgive what doesn't seek to be forgiven.
And it's too late to apologize ...
I guess you have no choice but to grow up when you finally land a "career" ... but I sure as hell don't have to like it. Those painful, "this is what its like to suck it up, drive on, and be an adult" moments are leaving me with a lot of bitterness that I can't quite seem to spit out.
But no one ever promised doing what was best for you in the long run would be pleasant in the moments it takes to get there. (wait, isn't this the same rationale that landed me in DC in the first place?)
My inner clarity is becoming crisper through it all, so maybe it isn't all bad. There are purposes to the things we experience, right?
I will simply have to find a way to block out that knowledge right now. It is so not my style to ignore my heart but what choice do I really have? If I can throw a towel over the clock on the treadmill to get through my workout, I can throw a towel over this too ...
Just when you think you've met the bravest person in the world that you wish you had the courage to be, someone else comes along and shows you that there is a whole new level of strength that you didn't even know a person could have.
I opened my email this morning and there sat a request for help. A girl I've known since high school has decided to write a book - her life story. She has suffered with a "problem" that science has labeled an impulse-disorder ever since I've known her. She's tried medication and therapy, but science doesn't have an answer to help her.
She wants our perspective - the friends, the family, the ex-boyfriends, the co-workers - to tell the world what it is like to have this disorder. She said:
"I've always felt I was given this disorder to make a difference and I think by telling my story, I can educate the world on this secret disorder. Even if I never conquer this disorder, I hope others can learn by communicating my experiences."
A year ago I never dreamed that I would have the journey ahead of me that I have spent 365 days facing.
I went to bed one night with the worst of my problems being a resume that wasn't quite right, a few papers to write, some emotional baggage, and a bit of distance among friends over who I chose to date. Really, not great, but none of it felt insurmountable. I thought that my life was fairly on track.
I had no idea that when I went to sleep that night that I would wake up in an entirely different world ... or that the phone would ring and you would be gone.
I couldn't know how cheated I would wake up to feel ... and for so long.
So many things I thought you would see me do and achieve and be proud for ...
All the questions that didn't have the right moments to ask ...
The lessons I didn't make the time to learn ...
The moments I wish would have gone differently, the ones that I thought would fade into the past with new opportunities turned out to be our last
I have found within myself things that I did not know were there and some that I wish I did not know. I am learning and facing life at a break neck rate, a painful frozen standstill, and frustrating groundhog day pace. I am more distant now than ever before with the ones I have grown closest to. I am the picture of strength hiding a shattered heart. I am ashamed that I have not lived up to your example in the face of all that is unfair.
I remember when it rained ... it poured ... I wasn't ready
I have visited but the stone still isn't real. It's still not your name they wrote there. I still think I might wake up and none of this pain will have been real ... I won't have watched a family shred or the evidence of your daily habits become a museum.
"Tears of hope run down my skin.
Tears for you that will not dry."
I grew up daddy’s little girl – no question about it. I didn’t have to say a word when I’d had a bad day at school, he knew. He knew and we went for a drive to talk until I felt better. When we moved and I thought my life was over, he cried at causing me so much pain. When I went away to college, he walked me to my dorm room like it was the first day of kindergarten.
But things didn’t stay that way…
I remember back in the summer when things had reached a major breaking point with dad. We had reached the first time that he didn’t always take my calls and we found ourselves at the impasse of near constant tension with a dash of argument for good measure. Friends thought I was being dramatic, “it’s just temporary,” they said.
But I knew they were wrong.
My heart doesn't lie.
I cried. I sat on the bed in disbelief.
Our arguments hit me like a ton of bricks.
I sobbed. I stared at the walls and felt lost.
I saw that I was finally losing my dad.
The seeds of disagreement have been there for years. I mean, there’s a reason I have no idea what the multiple remodeling projects at his house look like – I haven’t been there in at least three years, not even a drive by while in town. Hell, it could be longer … I lost count. But back then, the disagreements were small – I started taking the steps to protect myself from his decisions and he quietly let me go, step by step – rarely did it get heated or angry.
Now, I’m lucky to get a screaming match, hang ups, and threats.
I have to say I just don’t understand.
When he decided to marry his current wife, I was absolutely against it – she is a cold, mean, spiteful, selfish, unemployed gold digger that has consistently spent as much of my dad’s money as she could, while sucking the life and happiness out of him – but I was there. More than that, I was IN the wedding. He asked me stand next to him as he married her and as much as it killed me inside to do it, I did it. He said it was important to him, so I did it. Standing in a wedding, as painful as it was, was worth keeping my father.
It wasn’t until Grammy died that the seeds of disagreement really took root, broke ground, and really began to flourish in all their poisonous glory.
But still, he strongly suggested we start looking at houses in May when he was in town for graduation (although my brother promptly inserted himself in the middle of that idea). At that point, I thought I was humoring his fantasy. I didn’t trust him enough to believe it was real.
Obviously it was real … and now I have a house.
In February, I tolerated his wife stepping in front of my mom at the viewing, introducing herself and making sure people knew who she was. I hated every minute I had to spend in the same room with her, but I kept my mouth shut.
In November and January, when I asked for her to be absent from court proceedings so that I could spend time with my immediate family grieving this horrible loss, my dad stood on principle that he “would not tell someone else what to do,” “that if she says she wants to be there, I cannot stop her.” Fight after fight, he now expresses the worst opinions of me that I have ever heard in my life from anyone.
A broken hearted, grieving daughter asks for a reprieve from the interloper and instead, she loses her dad. And in the process, her brother. How … how in the name of everything sacred is that even possible?
So between then and now, I lost the man that bought the house I live in. I lost faith in who he was. I lost the ability to trust him. I lost my respect for him.
How do you reconcile living in a house paid for by someone that you don't even have a cordial relationship with? How do you look yourself in the mirror and accept a gift like that from someone that you can’t look in the eye? How do you get comfortable with the fear that you may be asked to leave on a whim?
Following 2006, I am against making resolutions. It was perhaps the most disheartening, disillusioning, disappointing year I have lived thus far. I am content with the fact that I survived and I am still moving forward. I was not crushed by what could have destroyed me.
The pain of murder, trial, death after death, and the torn fabric of my family is obvious but 2006 was less than stellar in many other ways ...
Graduating from grad school was quite anticlimactic and a seemingly useless waste of way too much time and money. I uprooted my life for this?
Probably the most disappointing aspect of the year was watching people show their true colors that I had hoped would be a different shade. Some betrayed their potential, some were deceptive, some gave into what was easy when they knew it was wrong, some spoke out of both sides of their mouth and hoped no one would notice, some were self-absorbed, some accidentally lifted the veil over their personality and could not go back, some had affairs and cheated on their spouses, some took advantage of their "friends," some took credit for what wasn't theirs to have, some were maliciously petty, and others were just plain mean.
I gained meaning in some friendships and family that was previously lacking, so I can't say the year was all bad ... but man it sure felt like it most days.
I am not resolving to lose weight or eat better or exercise more or watch less tv or any of those things that people say they are going to do because the calendar changed. I will do those things when I am ready to do them ... when my heart is ready, when my soul is committed, and my head can focus on those goals. When I am ready, I will succeed in those avenues. Until then, I am moving forward ... toward each new day for the opportunity that it is ...
I've got an email sitting in my inbox right now from Dad that I just can't bring myself to deal with, no matter how important I know that it is. The case officer doing the pre-sentencing investigation wants to hear what the family has to say.
How do you put in to verbal form the heart-wrenching pain you feel when someone robs you of a loved one and leaves your family torn apart, vandalized and damaged in ways that may never heal?
How do you balance eloquent, articulate, descriptive speech with the emotional dribble that has been swimming around for 10 months?
How do you communicate the anger you rightfully feel without sounding like an unreasonable lunatic?
I feel like an idealistic teenager today...
I just sat and listened to my voicemails that have built up over the last week. Only four this time. I guess it is odd that I avoid listening to voicemail but I don't avoid the phone when I hear it ring. I don't know what that is about really ...
I had saved messages the system wanted to delete, so I had to listen to them too. Then there were the messages that I had somehow skipped instead of saved or deleted. I guess I probably listened to 12 messages total.
It was ridiculously depressing.
Messages are the wake up call from the dull haze that something went wrong ...
I sat there and felt sorry for myself in the same moment that I hated myself. In one fraction of a second, it feels ok to still be upset ... to really not be back to normal ... to think about them and what I wish had been different. In one more fraction, I have such disdain for those feelings ... a hatred that I could be so consumed with something that pales in comparison to what so many others are going through.
I keep telling myself should feel touched that people are calling to see how I am doing and that I have made it home safely ... but that isn't the first feeling I get. I feel tired and heavy, aimless and misdirected, but most of all wasted. Everything I could be contributing to the world is going to waste. The energy I could be putting into my own life is trapped somewhere that I can't seem to find most days.
I want to be me again. I want to be the me that my friends love.
I don't know how to be this person ... but I can't get her to go away.
Having had this whole "death in the family" dealt with four different ways this year, I have come to learn what helps me say my goodbyes and be okay, what certainly does not, and what leaves me just flat weirded out.
There was a viewing for Grandma and a short little speech at a shelter in the cemetery, but I did not see her buried. We were told there could not be a graveside service. I cried over her odd looking body, sharing stories and meeting people that knew her in ways I had never known about. I remember how awful it felt to ride in the limo the next morning as my mom squeezed my hand - all I could think of was how surreal the whole thing was and how proud I was of Leavenworth for the respect they showed our procession. Regular people on the street stopped what they were doing, some cars pulled over, and the Post did a very professional job. But I am still angry that she did not get the funeral a Lt Col's wife deserves.
Aunt J had a memorial I could not attend and a service at the cemetery. I fought tears through the reading and laid flowers on her coffin before they lowered it into the ground. Friends and family gathered at a house and shared stories over a meal more than once. We looked at pictures and books about her life. We celebrated her life and what Aunt J brought into our own.
I couldn't attend anything that was done for Uncle W. I don't know who was there, but I wish I had been one of them. He will forever be gone and there was no goodbye. I will probably always kick myself for not stopping in to see him when I was in town last year ... if I had, I'm sure I would have known he was sick before his time expired. I would have known that "someday" needed to be sooner than I ever made room for it to be.
Aunt F didn't have a service of any kind. No viewing, no memorial, no nothing. No one really even talked about her. The family sat around looking at each other for the weekend. We had sandwiches for most of the weekend as we told stories about our own lives. It was like she just happened to be out of town while we were coming through. She had just poofed away, her clothes packed up, and not a word spoken to cope with it ... like it wasn't an awful thing. It was something weirder than I can even convey.
I've heard relatives say through this that they want what Aunt F had ... nothing. They want to forgo the services and any fuss people would put up for them - 'cremate me and be done with it' is the general attitude. It is making me sick to sit there quietly and listen to it. This past weekend was creepy enough to make my skin crawl at the end of the day.
In my head I have spent the last year screaming. I hate this notion of a 'humble' exit and a lack of 'trouble' or 'attention' brought to the deceased. Funerals aren't for the dead! You have to respect what they wanted but services and burials aren't to make them happy - they are to give people like me a chance to say goodbye in a way that leaves MY heart at ease.
So I've decided a few things about my own exit - I don't want immediate services. I want a reasonable period of time to go by so that my friends as well as my family can be notified and make arrangements to travel if they want to. As awful as people look at their viewing, I want one. I want a memorial service for people to mourn if they need to. I haven't decided how I feel about the burial vs cremation yet ... but I'm leaning toward a burial. When I poof off the planet for whatever reason is mine, I want it to be about the people left behind.
Services, company, food, and stories.
I want an Aunt J goodbye for everyone.
I don't even want to listen to voicemails or read emails anymore. When they are from parents, out of the blue, they just can't ever be good. In fact, I'm not really sure what kind of cosmic fucking joke is going on this year, but I stopped laughing several months ago. Seriously. Not Funny.
Per my mom's most recent message - My aunt is lying in bed, basically catatonic. Won't eat, won't drink, won't respond. She is in the final stages of Alzheimer’s. Hospice has called her time short.
Is this all to teach me that death is nothing to cry over? Because I always will ... no matter how 'used to it' or 'routine' or 'normal' it becomes ... I will always cry. I will always feel like my legs were kicked out from under me. I will always feel cheated. I will always feel like I am crumbling inside as I walk forward to be the rock for someone else.
They ... whoever they really are ... always say, life will never give you more than you can handle. Well, I'm starting to wonder who thought I needed to be given this much at one time. What on earth is it meant to prove? I already felt fairly confident in my strength of character and my ability to carry on in the face of adversity.
At this point, I am just angry. I have turned the other cheek when I have been crossed. I have held my retribution to thoughts, not acts. I have tried to 'pay it forward' in life. What about my life means I deserve to be tested ... and with such maleficence?
I know, I am looking at this through a 'me-me' lens and not a 'they are better off now' mindset ... but at the end of the day when it is me in this house and I am my shoulder to cry on, sometimes it is a valid lens to look through.
Does facing death make healing trust issues easier? No.
Does dealing with multiple losses help soothe abandonment issues? No.
Does a funeral make it simpler to be close to family? No.
I am trying to heal my many past wounds and be a put together adult here ... whoever is running this fucked up little game, you're just not helping worth a damn. I hope you find it funny cuz I sure don't, you evil prick.
That was the best advice I heard all day ... some random country boy ... quoting some random country song ... but the right words nonetheless ...
I had a rough day. That's all I can say about it.
There are more on the horizon before a break will come ...
Haven't I already been told eight times over that I'm under too much stress?
::: heaving a mug of herbal tea :::
What doesn't kill me, makes me stronger
What makes me stronger, helps me heal
What helps me heal, brings back my smile
What brings back my smile, helps heal others
So in the end, it's all for a good cause ... right?
Hi Grammy,
You would have been 85 today. I probably would have forgotten to send anything but an e-card this morning. I always say I'm going to do better and remember in time to at least mail a card, but I always forget. Dad would have sent you yellow roses like he does every year and put all our names on the card - he knows those are your favorite.
The trial starts next week. I still have to write my victim impact statement and send it to the prosecutor, but I just don't know how to explain to the world what losing you has felt like.
I wish there was more that I could still say to you and I wish I had said I love you more. I wish that so much had been different.
But I love you, Grammy.
Being at the Freedom Walk was probably the most perfect place for me tonight.
Before I left, I felt good about going. I was enthusiastic about being a pair of feet on the pavement to prove we have not forgotten - that I have not forgotten.
As I left, I felt tired and heavy. I had just learned about another death in the family. He died of cancer ... and I didn't even know he was sick.
Before I walked, I felt blessed. I had friends to keep me smiling and my mind on bigger and happier things. I live in a city where I can show my support in big ways for those I will never meet.
As I walked, I remembered the family and friends that this walk would mean something to. I thought of the people who are gone, that gave us a reason to walk.
Before going home, I sat in the Pentagon parking lot, listening to an operetic rendition of a song about America ... but I honestly cannot tell you which song it was ... and I thought of my now missing uncle.
He didn't die in an attack on America but, when he died, a little bit of real American history died with him. He came from nothing and made something of himself. He lived in a town formerly named for our lineage where he became the largest landowner the town had ever seen. He farmed. He farmed and he farmed and he farmed. He was Old MacDonald if I ever saw him.
He passed his trade along to his son, with whom he shared a name. I only met Junior the one time and his kids a bit younger than me, but he came from good stock and he seemed to carry on the traditions of his pa.
My uncle was good people. But they seem to be going fast.
I have only their essence to think of now ... the lessons they taught to those they knew ... their spirit that lives on through the family ... and the hope that generations will mimic what came before them to continue the America that we all came from.
I know I said part of me was relieved yesterday, but I only said part of me. There is another part of me that is wound tighter than lonely Marines headed to the strip club on pay day.
I have had trouble sleeping the past couple of nights, but not for a lack of wear. The emotional drain of being the strong, rational one and watching my mom go through what she would never admit she is feeling is enough to make me want to sleep. On top of that, I have myself another frustrating head cold sucking the life out of me.
I find myself lying in bed just unable to relax. Once I get the body to begin to release a little tension, the mind starts churning. Once the mind calms down, the body aches and stiffness start bothering me again.
I woke up yesterday morning from a fearful dream, running from an unknown person. I was never physically running from anyone in particular but I was living in fear, locking doors, questioning everything ... I knew that someone wanted me dead. I didn't know who it was or who they had put up to doing the deed, but I knew someone definitely wanted me dead. I woke up so afraid that I wasn't even sure I could trust those close to me in real life. I remember saying, "even if you are in on it, you wouldn't tell me..."
I have been watching too much TV
I am on edge about family and death. I am scared of the phone calls I know are coming. My aunt with Parkinsons and Alzheimers is under 100 pounds now. We believe my uncle had a heart attack but went unseen due to caring for his precious wife. He will not last without her. She is his entire world and has been ever since I can remember. He has neglected himself to worry over her.
The curse of threes is threatening to begin its cycle again...
Part of me is relieved today. The curse of threes is complete.
My kitty was put to sleep last night as my mom held him. He lived to be almost a full 18 years old ... and from an alley cat beginning too, literally.
My mom found him in the alley behind her office one day. The staff had gone to treat a medical emergency in the alley and she noticed him afterward. The doctor that lived across the alley said he had been hanging around lately. She took him and put him on the doctor's porch out of harms way. The little kitten was still sitting right where she left him when she went to go home.
I still remember naming him when I was only a girl. My mom brought home the tiny tabby in a cardboard box. I had just seen The Land Before Time and wanted to name him after the lost little dinosaur with no family, Little Foot. The name did always feel right for him. He was an adventurer, a survivor, curious, and full of love. He was never a stereotypical snob cat. He didn't like to be held, but he would rub on you and nuzzle with you for hours.
Always the cat that wanted to try to run outside, to find something new and interesting, he got himself and the others in a bit of trouble from time to time. They never had his spirit though - too scared to really venture out and too timid to know what to do in their new surroundings when they did.
Before the divorce, he had our German Shepard to count on when he managed to get out without us noticing. They'd be curled up sleeping together in the morning, her keeping him warm in the cold desert night. Later, he had to fend for himself when he got out. Gone missing for an entire week, he managed to do just that. No claws, in coyote country, vulnerable to birds of prey, and still he managed to come back in one piece without a scratch.
The doctors told us he should have been dead two years ago, that he would never make it once he left the hospital, but he went on living his laid back, sweet ways and proved them wrong. He had his ups and downs since then, but he had a good run of it.
I will never forget the way he would squeek to meow or the way he would reach his paw out as far as he could and tap your leg to remind you that he was there. Now I will have a plaster mold of his paw print to always remind me instead.
A strong woman turned into a quivering voice on the other end of the phone, “He is too weak to move.â€
Focused sirens intent on their task disrupted my quiet neighborhood.
She didn’t know what to do, “I always said when he lost his dignity …â€
Three stretch limos rolled by.
Mom called this morning with the strength to talk about my cat, at first. Somewhere about half way through the conversation the woman in pain, the woman losing her only companion since being walked out on 8 years ago, came through. Her heart was breaking and she could not hide it any longer.
My cat will die this week. I have no choice. He will die. She will never be sure she did the right thing, no matter how he dies. The ache of self-doubt will haunt her with every piece of his life she puts away to stop the reminders of what will not be. The silence of her empty house will be enough to make her ears bleed.
I have been prepared for two years to say goodbye to him, but I am not ready for this to be his week. My mom is not ready for this to be his week. She is not ready to lose the last piece of the family she built, the family she still dreams about and will never have.
The passengers in motorcade that drove by must be feeling something of the same things. Three stretch limos and no less than five other vehicles with their hazards on followed the ominous black hearse as it drove by. Did they get to say goodbye? Did their loved one have a good life? Do they doubt themselves and what they could have done? How will they fill the hole that is left? Will they be able to mend their broken hearts?
Desperate tears seeking guidance are falling across the world today.
In moments like these, I can’t help but be convinced that empaths are real. I am covered in a heavy cloud of thoughts and emotions that are not my own. I am crying the tears my mother has put away so that she can go to work. I am aching to hug the people that drove by and tell them that I understand. I am praying for rain. I am praying for a long, heavy, downpour of rain – the kind of rain that you cannot feel until you have been soaked to the bone and a still peace has been brought to your core.
Dear God, please let the rain find those hearts that so badly need a rest. Please, let them find their peace. Please … just rain …
I hate being aware
I hate being able to "read"
I hate being able to see the psychology behind actions
There is nothing I can do to change the situations. No matter how much I scream inside, no matter how much I calmly explain what is going on, the outcome is the same. Vicious cycles of self-destruct and pain go on, unhindered ... waiting to spiral out of control.
People don't want to know they are being read. People want to believe that they are above basic behavioral psychology and complicated enough to be unexplainable.
They usually aren't.
Sometimes there are extenuating circumstances to explain behavior that are not outwardly visible, but for the most part ... people are people. They are motivated by generally similar and basic things, they make decisions in fairly simple and repeatable ways. Unfortunately, the drive for certain needs yields a retardation of the normal processes and people develop "issues" they again don't want to admit exist.
I want so desperately to put people behind my eyes, to save them from themselves, to hold their hand in a new direction ... but I can't.
Despite my own shortcomings and flaws, there are some things you just know you are right about. This is mine.
I want a new thing to be right about. This superpower sucks!
The screen as gotten a pretty blurry today. I've reached some kind of threshold, I guess ... the tears just won't stop falling on this subject. I have a good job at a very people friendly company with good bosses practically being handed to me ... the catch? A commute of 2 hours, minimum ... each way. For the normal person, 30 minutes. So it is probably time to "confess" ...
As strong and accomplished as I may be ... as confident and capable as I have proven myself ... I am paralyzed in life. I have been for about a decade now. I try my best to keep it a secret from people for as long as I possibly can, but what was once fear has become a phobia.
I will not drive. I have never had a driver's license.
I have watched it take away my youthful adventures in high school, limit my college experiences, ruin relationships, hinder friendships, complicate family gatherings, destroy job opportunities, remove all hope of real independence, and leave me fairly isolated in the world.
But still, I will not drive.
People tell me that when it is inconvenient enough, the need to drive will supersede the fear causing me to avoid it. Or others say, when I am ready, it will happen. Talk like that just makes the pain worse. It is terribly inconvenient and how helpless am I to become before I am "ready" ??
But crying doesn't earn a license.
I have taken driving lessons, driven a neon, a jeep, a mini-van, a truck, and an SUV ... sometimes illegally without anyone else in the vehicle. I can physically perform the task - so long as the panic doesn't take hold.
And yet, I will not drive.
I can look myself in the mirror and know it is irrational. There is no cause, there is no reason ... My fears took hold long before I was in an accident or I lost my grandmother to the drunk driver. But even when I wasn't the driver and no one was seriously hurt, I was crying enough and my heart was racing so badly after the one accident that they had to put me on a monitor in the ambulance. I felt so stupid.
I end up feeling too crazy to drive.
When people find out I don't drive, I am embarrassed. When special arrangements have to be made on my behalf, I am humiliated. When people ask about it, I try to make the answer as brief as possible and change the subject; if I don't, I break down in tears.
I only avoid driving more.
It may not seem like it has the ability to control my life, but it does ... in every aspect, even the most basic ones. I cannot buy soda at the grocery store alone if I plan to buy much of anything else - I have to carry it home. I cannot go to multiple stores at a time because I do not have a vehicle to put my purchases in as I go along. I cannot buy ingredients my local store doesn't carry, unless someone else wants to take me. It limits where I can live, where I can work, places I can go, events I can attend, travel plans, etc.
I see the restrictions. I feel the pain. I wear the shame.
But how do you conquer a phobia that has gained such a firm grasp?
RSM got me to thinking about that pain that comes from within - those ones we all try our best to overcome, kick dirt on, or ignore - you know the ones ... self-doubt, insecurity, fear of not finding a place to belong ...
There are periods in my life where I feel like I'll never stop facing them. And there are points in my life where I let them dampen my experiences. But then there are also moments where I realize how I have held myself back with these pains and I try to be more aware.
Since moving out East, I've gotten a lot of the "you're not from here, are you?" from locals and transplants from long ago. Sometimes it makes me just a tad bit paranoid, thinking everyone thinks I don't belong.
On my bad days, I get down about it ... I let myself think I am the problem. I sit and wonder if I am just a freak that can't connect.
On my good days, I think to myself Hell no, I'm not from here. Thank God! But the place might not be half bad if people with manners and the ability to care lived here instead of people like you. And then to calm the bitterness, I think of someone else saying to me, "My, you are so beautifully out of place."
I don't think the pains will ever go away, for anyone. Somehow, I think they are the evil check on an out of control ego and arrogance run wild. The pains are normal. I think it is the ones that don't feel the pain that are the ones with the problem. Maybe they are naive, or emotionally insincere, or just plain stupid ... but they just aren't normal in my book.
But when it is an especially doubt-filled day where the pain seems to be the only thing you can feel, don't forget to sing to yourself these wonderful words:
I had a hard time sleeping last night. I kept having dreams about people being mad at me. I woke up feeling like I wanted to cry.
Then I found out that my last childhood pet went blind over the weekend. My poor kitty is finally finding his end after two years with kidney problems. He will be at the vet this afternoon, but I don't think it will be long before my mom puts him down.
It just seems like death after disappointment after death after disappointment after death after disappointment these days.
So I'm stuck sitting here today torn between feeling sorry for myself that so much saddness could be dumped on one family in such a short period of time and being grateful for having my saddness group itself in waves instead of having to face it time and time again.
Some days just call for a drink
I was doing laundry most of the afternoon and trying to mentally prepare for my trip, procrastinating on the packing thing because I hate doing it oh so much.
I'm discovering how sketched about seeing this criminal for the first time in person I really am ... almost six months to the day after he commited what I will always consider murder.
My family has seen him before, but I was unable to fly when the previous court dates were held. I have seen a picture of him, so I know what to expect ... a total white trash loser ... but that in person thing is just so much more powerful than a photo.
I couldn't hardly get out of bed this morning and I broke into tears tonight just thinking about how guarded I will have to be over the next several days.
I guess the stress of questioning the competency of the prosecution, anticipating the face-to-face I know I need to have, and psyching myself for this kind of family time is finally building up ...
I was reminded recently ... against my will, in fact ... about what perception really means and how powerful it can be.
... it is a personal truth ...
... it is an intimate reality ...
... it is the thin veil of belief under which we grow to live our daily lives that keeps us generally happy and content ...
but things can change and that veil can be lifted
and we don't always like what we see
yet, there remains another veil through which the light of the world is filtered
and enters a new perspective that we must learn to find comfort in
... but is truth ever really revealed?
... if its not, does it really matter?