Analyzing

These last few weeks of school have been so busy. Projects, papers, tests, analysis. All good signs pointing to the fact that the semester is almost over and I almost. Three more semesters . . . .thank God.

For my last paper in my Dependency class, I am reading a memoir about a woman who survives a horrible childhood, marries, has a baby, becomes a drunk, gets sober, goes mad, gets sane and divorces and moves on. 386 pages from broken to about whole. I then analyze how it parallels my own life and why did I choose it. Isn't that obvious? Easy A.

So, since I almost always put off everything until the last minute, I have spent all day reading. And reading. And reading. And thinking. Ah!!! Thinking. Now that's never a good thing. But required for this. But now that I'm about done (Yes, I admit, I skipped some parts. She did add a lot of unnecessary details), I haven't been thinking as much as remembering.

Her mother set fire to stuffed animals, my mom had me climb onto the back of the car, hold on to the lip between the trunk and the window while she did doughnuts in the parking lot. NO reason, just because.

The ups and downs so extreme with my Mother, it's no surprise how much I hate roller coasters to this day. I spent enough time on one in my childhood. But in the book, about page 212 the author is speaking to her sister, "I'm just like Mother" "You are nothing like Mother" her sister tells her.

I've always feared I was just like my Mom. Slightly crazy, never quite there, always teetering between complete madness and slight craziness. I am even brave enough to admit I sought out a psychologist and had a whole panel of testing done. I was deemed okay, mentally healthy. I'm just quirky.

But it always lingers there, in the back of my mind, taunting me. "It's genetic" Except in our case, it's not. Her's was brought on by her life. My life has had some bad moments, but nothing compared to hers. Just as my daughter's life in no way resembles my childhood.

Each generation working to get healthier.

It's been a tough semester. Not academically, but emotionally. My professors warned us of this beforehand: We must purge what is in you that will keep you from helping others.

And I'm grateful for that. Even if it sucks sometimes. I'm grateful for the hollowing out and the refilling.

Today isn't the greatest day I've ever had. I'm actually quite grumpy, which I hate. But that's okay. It's normal to have these little bumps in the roads, the slight ups and downs. And as I have always told myself, if a nine year old girl can hold onto a small lip on a car between a trunk and a windshield while doing 360's and not fall off, why, she can accomplish anything.

Like Jesus

Years ago, when I was still married, my girls were in car seats and I was a Sunday school teacher, I went on a weekend getaway with some women from church. On the drive back, one woman decided we needed to do more bonding. She said we had to each go around and state one thing about each person. One woman got to me and said, "You remind me of Jesus"

Yeah, that gave me pause. Me? Like Jesus? Funny how little they know me. But for some reason, I never forgot that and over the years, it's becoming more obvious what she means.

I love the unlovable, the broken. the tossed aside, those who live on the fringe of society. They are my soul mates, they are the ones who have my heart. I connect with them.

Now, I am not in a state of delusion and declaring myself anything great. I'm so far from that. I am masterful with my imperfections. I have no strong religious connections and I don't believe I am going to be performing any miracles any time soon. At least not the type that result in food being multiplied or rising from the dead.

I see the hurting in the world and instead of wanting to run, I gravitate towards them and I want to know them, all of them. A person who has suffered, who has struggled, they have a determination, a grit about them that is, well, beautiful. It's as if you can see the strength they have acquired from making it through, or in some cases, being right in the middle of something so hard, it can make a person cave.

But they don't, not completely. They keep going. No matter how hard, how painful, how seemingly impossible it seems, they keep going. So maybe, reflecting back, I'm not drawn to their pain but their strength.

Because it's a strength I recognize. Kindred spirits, drawn to each other.

I have never desired a life of ease, wealth or success but a life of purpose. And I have fought to get there. To get here. Some days, I have screamed, sobbed, raged, ran away. However, I never gave up and I kept going. Because of this, I have been left with scars that will never heal and I don't want them to.

I'm making peace with how my life has unfolded. I'm making peace with the loss of, at one time, what I thought it should be.

I'm nothing like Jesus, not even close. Not from the stories I heard of him in my childhood. But I'm grateful for a soul so full, it is obvious to others around me. That my love shows through. Because, really, in the end, that is all I want to be: loving.

And if that is all I ever accomplish in my life, loving others, I will pass on to whatever is next with peace.

Reflecting

I've been in a reflective mood the past few days. I think it's healthy to go back to specific points in our lives to gain a better understanding of who we are now. It's healthy to reflect on how far we've come as well as how far we may need to go. It's a process, a journey and it's not linear. In the words of Doctor Who: It's not linear. It's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff.

For me, for my journey, I've had many times of having to go back to certain points where I started to get it right and then for one reason or another, veered off. So I return to that point and instead of going right, I take a left. Other times, I look towards the future to get a better view of where I'm going, hoping to catch a few hints of which direction I am to take. In the end, it all makes sense, really, in it's own way.

But this week, I'm been reflective. And I'm glad. I remembered moments from my past that molded me into who I am now. I thought about it, wrote some of it down and now, I feel better. I feel I've learned about myself a little bit more.

To Understand Our Present, We Must Understand Our Past 

But, and this is the step so many forget, even when we reflect on our past, mull it over, seriously allow it to be a part of our thoughts, we must not get stuck there. Going back to times in my childhood can hurt and it may be necessary to do to understand myself better now, but I cannot get stuck there. I cannot allow it to change me into someone who becomes a victim and says "Woe is me!"

Because my life now is anything but Woe is Me! Though there are aspects that suck right now, overall, my life is good. Damn Good! Really, really freaking good. I can't lose sight of that. I cannot get so stuck in what I have lacked or what's been taken from me that I completely lose touch with all I have gained and all I have fought for.

My childhood was so far from ideal but it helped me to become this resilient, strong woman I am now. But reflecting on it this week also showed me that I am vulnerable and sometimes, I do need others. And that's okay. I'm not going to do that part perfectly, but I'm more open to trying now. More than I was before.

My relationships haven't always been perfect. But it has taught me that I am capable of loving others, learning new things and surviving disappointment. It has also taught me to appreciate the good people in my life and to appreciate it during, not after, when they are gone.

The past 15 months of my life have been hellish. But I've learned that no matter how I may have wanted to give up, I have an inner core that is too strong to allow that. I also have learned that again, it's okay to be vulnerable and cry sometimes.

Today is a good day, for no reason except it is. And though I write so often about the painful times in my life, I need to start working to write about the good times as well.

I need you

I let go of her hand. The tears pouring down my face, I went into the hall to break the news to my sister.

"She's gone. It's over."

I walked outside, hands shaking, dialing your number.

"She's gone. I need you. I need you so badly."

"We decided to stay here a few more days. She's dead. What could I possibly do for you now? I'm heading out with friends. You're strong. You'll be fine."

Click . . . .

The dead silence on the other end of the line was too much. I dropped my phone, wrapped my arms around myself and sunk to the ground. Alone . . .

I looked up briefly. My sister's husband was holding her. My brother's wife was holding him. I was barely holding on to myself.

Typical . . . .

You barely held my hand at the funeral, told me I was making a scene with my show of emotions. I needed to pull it together and be strong for my children.

"Okay,  but who's going to be strong for me?"

You refused to stay with me at night. You said my outbursts were immature and embarrassing. I learned to hug the pillows tight enough to me to not feel completely alone as I spent the first two weeks crying myself to sleep after my Mom died.

Every rejection from you become fresh mortar for my walls.

I never wanted to be this woman: a woman too strong to need anyone. But what choice did I have? I learned a long time ago to only depend on myself. I wasn't raised to believe men were the heroes who rushed in to save a princess. That was the stuff of fairy tales. My reality was of men who left, men who broke promises and men who let the women they professed to love grieve alone.

I tried again, a few years later, to let someone in, to need them. My daughter was sick. Really sick. I wanted you with me at the hospital. You said you'd think about it. I held onto the hope that you'd come through. They wheeled her back into the room for the procedure, I walked outside, holding my phone. No missed calls from you, no texts, nothing. I called once, you never answered. I finished my cigarette and went back inside to wait for her.

I put my phone away. I had more important things to deal with. You texted hours later:

"Are you okay?"

"No, but I will be. I got this. I can handle it from here."

The final brick was set.

And I hate it being like this; hate being this person. But what choice do I have? Seriously, is there a second option?

Because what no one gets is that those of us that are the strongest, we are that way because of years of toughening up, years of callousing.

I hate doing it all on my own, never asking for help. But no one seems to understand the humiliation that comes when you do reach out and are left empty handed. It's soul crushing. So you learn to not place yourself there anymore. Even if "there" is the last place you want to be.

But in the end, if I allowed myself to be truly honest, what I hate the most is that I've never really figured out how to be completely hard, completely impenetrable, less, well, me.

Because I still wish for that person who will reach out and be there.

But men can't read minds . . . .

    . . . . and I no longer know how to ask . . . .
 
      . . . . so I stay here until I figure it out . . . .

         . . . . .even though I have no idea where to start.

I just ask one thing: stop judging a book you were never willing to read past the prologue.

So Strong . . . .

I ran in the house, threw my backpack on the ground and started to head to the kitchen.

 "Mom! MOM! Mo----"

 The half-packed boxes told me immediately that telling my Mom about getting a starring role in the school play was pointless. I wouldn't be there tomorrow for play practice.

"We're moving. Get your stuff together. We don't have much time." And just like that, I let go of another dream and settled into the role of the New Girl. I was the new girl so often, it became second nature. New classroom, new teacher, new students to befriend. Standing in front of the class, bag in my hands, head down, mumbling my name. Over and over and over again.

But this time, I wanted to stay put. I begged. I'd live with a friend. I threatened to run away. I didn't want to go. Not this time. This time, I had made friends. I felt popular. I was going to star in the Christmas play. I wanted to dress up and sing on stage. I wanted to dance and belong.

I had gotten to be in a play once. Edison Elementary. Like A Child. I was Cyndi Lauper. I had a solo. It was heaven and I felt like a star. I felt at home there. I had always felt home on the stage.

During times when my Mom slipped into depression, I was the comedic relief. She told the story of a bad Christmas up through my adulthood. We lived in another small, rundown apartment. There was no money for a tree; we only had a few meager presents: gifts donated by the school. But we had decorations and lights. And I had an idea. While my Mom slept, I decorated myself. Red Christmas balls dangled from my pierced ears, gold garland became my boa and lights wrapped around my body. I plugged myself in and woke her up by singing "Oh Christmas Tree" We had very little that year, had very little most years. But dammit! that year, we were going to laugh.

I will always cherish that memory and the memory of a Christmas years later when I worked extra shifts, borrowed the car and brought home a 7' tall Christmas tree for the house.It didn't matter that it was slightly crooked and had to be tied to one wall to keep from falling. It was the most beautiful tree I had ever seen; my gift to her. When I got married, my husband never quite understood why I took so long to pick out the right tree, had to decorate the house so perfectly and worked so hard to make Christmas so special.

I didn't understand either, until years later. I was trying to fill in the gaps left by my childhood. I was trying so hard to create normal, a version of a life I viewed as normal but it never felt right. Because it wasn't right. I was trying to be someone other than myself. I'm the performer, the comedian, the fixer. I worked so hard as a child to be funny in the hopes of keeping my Mom from slipping to that dark place that scared me so much. I was attempting to hold things together so no one knew how badly broken everything (I) was.

 I learned a while back to not speak of my childhood. Most people don't believe me; the others look at me with pity. I don't want either. Life was what it was. That simple. I got through it. And it's made me strong; really damn strong. At least for the most part. Some days, carrying the weight of my childhood is too much and my arms give out and I'm dropped to my knees. Only from that point can I truly see what a mess it was.

 And I feel guilty for hating it. For hating the lack. For hating the deprivation. For hating the knowledge of what hunger feels like. So I hide from it. Behind funny words. Achievement. Big words. Bigger goals. A determination to achieve at all costs. To do whatever I can to insulate myself from the fear of never fully escaping the pain that poverty brings.

So it hurts when my strength is seen as a flaw, something to run away from because it comes from a place of incredible weakness, vulnerability. It's my protection though not always something to be proud of. But sometimes, I will admit, I let a few tears escape the armor when I remember a cold Christmas, so many years ago, and a little girl desperate to save her Mom with some garland and a badly sung rendition of "Oh Christmas Tree".

And when lost in those memories, I'm not so ashamed of my childhood . . . . not completely.

Raining

I only remember the rain. It was pouring out as I ran after you.

"Stop!"

You turn around, stare at me, the rain hiding my tears. I clung to you, the scent of you as familiar to me as my own. A fresh woodsy scent, so strong.

So unlike you.

Sigh . . .

My friends knew you were coming, that I was going to see you. They warned me not to. They remember how it was . . . . before. When you broke that which I thought was unbreakable. When you caused me to fall to my knees, shaking, the grief too much. One girlfriend was the one who found me first as I hid in a bathroom, clutching the phone, head between my knees, rocking back and forth.

"I don't love you. I never did. It's over. It's over."

Once the initial shock wore off and I accepted that you were gone, I tried to get back to figuring out how to resume life without you in it. I found I couldn't, not as before. I changed too much because of you. Opened my mind too much; my heart; my soul. All too much.

I never played it safe with you, not from the first moment I saw you. It was a blind date, set up for Thanksgiving, neither of us having family to spend the holiday with. We made our plans and on that freezing cold November day, I heard a knock on a door and when I opened it, I fell in love.

Instantly.

We spent the whole  day together, driving around, talking and ended up at a bar. After a few beers, you played a song. 311. Whiskey and Wine.

And we danced with the glow of a fake fire behind us. Everything else disappeared in that moment. The laughter of the other bar patrons was silenced. It was just us, you and I.

It only took a few months for it to fall apart. A story too well known in my heart for me to retell again.

But you hurt me.

And regardless of that, or maybe because of it, I found myself holding onto you in the rain. I felt your hands in my hair, pulling me closer, saying you were sorry.

And I accepted.

And in spite of the wisdom of those looking on, I left with you.

You sat in the audience one last time to hear me tell jokes.

You kissed my forehead.

You held my hand.

Your eyes welled up when you said you loved me.

And I was right back where I was just a few months before.

You left the next morning and I heard nothing from you for months.

I grieved quieter the last time. I kept it deeper inside.

And you changed me. Completely.

I still haven't quite figured out how I feel about that.

I don't think of you as often anymore, only at certain times. When a random song plays on the radio or I drive nearby where you used to live. Or when someone else wants to get closer.

I found the book you bought me for Christmas the other day, next to the journal, also from you. I flipped the pages and allowed myself to feel sad. I read the journal and the words I wrote to you.

Did you ever know I was writing letters to you? One every single day? I still can't bear the thought of throwing them away. Not because I believe I'll ever see you again. I've grown too wise to ever allow that to happen. But because I do not want to forgot how completely I loved someone. I never want to forget that.

But right now, it's only because I want to make sure I never love someone that deeply. Not yet.

You didn't ruin me. Not completely anyway. I am happy now and more calm. I've let go of more of our memories, or at least the feelings attached to them. I've replaced romantic contemplation of who we were with stoic reflection based on the facts that most of what we were was based on lies.

Yet, you are still my greatest inspiration when I want to write. My muse. You are my sole focal point when I need to go inward and feel, deeply.

That is the one effect you had on me that I am the most grateful for: the way you opened me up, even if it caused me pain. I'll always be grateful for that.

And, honestly, I'd be a fool to regret having a season where I got to be a woman carefree, completely in love, with no holding back.

And I've already been a fool too much to allow it to happen again.

Busy

I haven't been writing a lot lately. This could be a good thing since it means I'm finally back among the living.

School is overwhelming right now but if I had to be honest, I'm not completely upset by this. I like feeling as if I belong to something good. I really need to work on my procrastination problem though. I have three assignments due this week and in typical Michelle fashion, I am putting them off. My goal for the weekend is to dig in and get them done. I keep telling my feeling of accomplishment will outweigh my odd desire to feel the rush of getting something done right before  deadline.

Two of the projects are group projects. I like them for the fact that the work is distributed. I dislike them for the fact that I am on other's timelines. I don't like that. I like my own timelines. But I'll accept it as a growth experience.

I had counseling the other day. Every time I go, I am more grateful that I allowed myself to accept help. In my last session, I discussed my weight gain. I feel so uncomfortable in my body. I told her how I need to get rid of the weight for more than vanity reasons (though, I won't lie, that is a big part). I also need to shed the weight because of what it represents.

Fifteen months ago, when my life was turned upside down and I was sitting on my couch, locked into my house, I remember saying to myself OUT LOUD "I will not let this change me. I will not lose myself or let myself go." I repeated that a lot over the passing weeks. But slowly, the undealt with emotions took over and I found myself not caring as much.

And now, fifteen months later, I no longer see someone strong and beautiful in the mirror, but someone out of shape, dull, and lifeless. And I recognize her too much; too much to really like her. The person I love, the person I really am underneath the extra weight, is still there, screaming for freedom, for a voice.

So I start this journey back. And I find it ironic that I find myself circling back to a place I was at before in an effort to move forward. However, that is what I need to do. Go back. Back to a time when I was not hindered by other's ideas, baggage or expectations. Back to a time where I got tired of being held down and broke free and ran away, literally and figuratively. Back to a time where I realized I cared about myself a whole damn lot and did whatever I could to prove it. Back to a time where I ignored the fact that no one else may love me, but by God, I'm going to love myself.

I was looking at old pictures on Facebook a few nights ago. I came across some from when I was thinner. I didn't only notice how thin I was, but how much I glowed. There is such a natural glow in someone who is taking care of themselves.

I have polluted my mind, body and spirit so much over the past 15 months. If I hurt, I ate or drank.  If I was sad, I mulled and ate or drank. If I was angry, I raged, ate and drank.

And now, I feel as if I have aged a century. And what's worse is that I recognize who I am now. It's who I was before, years ago. Years ago when I was trapped in a marriage that was causing me to shrink, years ago when I was bound to my Mom and her opinion of me, years ago when I was bound to myself with so much shame and pain. And I found my way out of that, so I can do it again.

I found an old note I wrote years ago and still remember one line: I found myself on the track, one mile at a time.

And it's time to go back to that old path, that's grown over with weeds and trample them down and find myself again.

I recognize who I am now and it's a stark reminder of why I worked so hard to forget her so many years ago.