The sunlight streaming in makes the dust dance. Dust in the sunlight has fascinated me since I was a child; the way something so dirty can sparkle and become magical in the right light. I glance around my office, seeing the disarray and notice that my orchids are dying. The petals are wilting and the water has turned brown.
"No amount of sunlight can make that pretty" I sigh and pick up the vase to throw them away. The vase slips from my hands and lands, in pieces, on the floor.
"Shit!" I bend down to pick up the pieces and feel the sting as glass slices my hand. Blood pools and seeps onto the cuff of my white button-down. In that moment, it's all too much . . .
The dead orchids . . . .
The broken glass . . . .
The blood signaling another trip to the dry cleaner.
Just one more thing to add to an overflowing to do list.
"When did my life become so automatic?" I scream to nothing, feeling safe to lose it locked behind closed doors in a now empty office. I take a moment to wonder what my co-workers would think if they saw me lose it? Most likely they'd laugh and ask me if I penciled in a nervous break down on my calendar.
Just then the phone rings and I attempt to grab it while holding my now blood covered hand.
"We need to meet for coffee. It's been too long."
How is it, even after all these years, her voice can still calm me, bring me to some place close to level?
"I don't know. I'm so busy . . . . "
I let the words trail off, knowing from the tone of her voice she wasn't accepting no for an answer.
"Give me 20 minutes. I broke a vase, I have a mess to clean up."
I don't tell her that the mess is me.
"Twenty minutes. Don't be late."
I run to the bathroom, wash off my hand, thankful the bleeding has stopped, wrap it, and throw the shards of glass in the trash.
I walk into our favorite coffee shop, the one with the perfectly broken in leather chairs and she waves me over. She's ordered my coffee. I reflect for a moment how nice it is to have that one person who knows when you need someone to know how you like your coffee.
I plop into the chair, sigh, brush my hair out of my face and close my eyes.
"Bad day?"
"Aren't they all anymore?"
She sips her coffee and smiles. Her silence is reassuring.
It's also nice having someone who knows when to say nothing.
"My orchids were dead. I was going to throw them away, dropped the vase and cut my hand."
I realize I sound like a petulant child, but I can't help it. That's how I feel today. Cranky.
"Is that all?"
I blow on my coffee, take a sip and sit it down. I pull my legs under me, bending forward and putting my head in my hands.
"How is the family?" I don't want to talk about me, not today. I just want to listen.
"Great. That's why I called. We're moving."
I stare at her, no words to say, vaguely hearing references to promotions, across the country, three weeks.
"But you can't. I mean . . . what?"
"You know things have been rough around here with his company. The project he is working on is about to end. The offer is too good to pass up. I thought you'd be happy for us?"
"I am. I just . . . . "
I need you here.
I let the sentence remain unfinished even though I no longer feel like a petulant child but a toddler about to run head first into a temper tantrum. My inner child is screaming and kicking her little fists, but I reign her in and remain calm.
"Who will I have coffee with?"
She laughs at this and I want to be angry at her insensitivity. In fact, I am a little. But I realize how silly it sounds, wanting to hold her back so I don't have to drink coffee alone.
"Michelle, your co-workers, your neighbor, the people who are here, who have been coming here as long as we have. You're not near the loner you pretend to be."
But they don't get me like you do.
"Yeah, maybe. But my co-workers have lives of their own. Families, one just got married, another is on her way. I'm the one with no one to go home to. The one who stays late at the office. They probably think I sleep there."
"You've always done this, you know. Hide when you get hurt. Hibernate away. Then you get angry when people don't come to you. Have you ever thought maybe you need to go to them. What's the worst that can happen?"
"They say no."
"Is that all?"
I hate when she does that, minimizes something so large. I understand why she does it, but I still don't like it. Today, I just want to stew and she's not making that easy.
"Can't I just be pissy today?"
"Sure, if that's what you want. But is that how you want one of our last coffee dates to go?"
"I saw him yesterday, with his new girlfriend. Well, possibly fiance. She was wearing a pretty big ring. He was buying her orchids. Exactly like the ones he used to buy for me. He brushed the hair out of her eyes, just like he did with me. Almost everything was the same . . . except for the ring. I never got a ring. He never even asked me if I preferred gold or silver. But she got a ring. It's funny to me that I still buy myself orchids. Silly to buy a flower for the memories. Maybe I should buy a different kind of flower."
She smiles, "Tiger lilies are pretty."
I can't help it, I start laughing. realizing how ridiculous and spoiled I sound, mourning something, someone, that never actually was anything.
"I don't miss him; I miss what he did for me. And, I don't know, maybe I'm scared I'll never have that again."
I run my finger over the rim of the coffee cup, enjoying the silence; lost in my own thoughts. I've always appreciated how she lets me do that, disappear into myself, not pushing for words. I look up at her, tears in my eyes.
"You know you have to download Skype now. You're not getting out of our coffee dates that easy."
It's time to go . . . again. These times never last long enough even though I know two hours have passed.
She reaches out to grab my hand, a gentle squeeze.
"You're going to be okay. You are okay. You know that right?"
"Yeah, today is just a bad day. I'll be fine tomorrow."
We stand up and she hugs me. I squeeze a little harder this time, wishing for a way to keep her here, while also knowing I can't.
"Come by for dinner some night, please. I'll cook."
"You cooking? Oh definitely. Do you even know how to turn on the stove."
"Okay, I'll order in. But please, dinner."
"Definitely."
I look out the window, noticing the dust dancing in the sunlight again.
Even something so dirty can be beautiful in the right light.
I pull out my phone and send a quick text to my neighbor.
"Meet for coffee on Tuesday?"
I walk out into the sunlight and make a quick detour to the flower shop next door.
.
Ten minutes later, I walk out with a large bouquet of tiger lilies . . .
. . and one orchid.
75th Street Exit
I'm driving and trying to pay attention to the road while also focusing on my GPS so I don't miss my exit. I glance at the signs to see how close I am.
75th Street Exit.
Take a left, then a right past the McDonald's, 2 blocks down, another right, 3 blocks and a right. Second floor, door on the right.
Crazy how many right turns there are for something that was anything but.
But tonight, that wasn't my exit. Not anymore. So I drive a few more miles to new friends, new hangouts, new conversations. But he lingers there, in the back of my mind.
Through the door, his room is in the back. A Boy's Life, 311, hours of conversation, the first time we made love. Outside on the balcony, smoking a cigarette, his arms wrapped around me.
I never felt so safe.
"Can we freeze this moment, Michelle? This perfect moment?"
I guess I did.
I wish we had at least fought when it was over. The ending was too quiet, too calm. It was the complete opposite of our beginning. But I guess that's how it's supposed to be: opposite. A clear line now drawn between what was and what is no more.
I fell sleep in his arms and woke up hours later to him staring at me.
"You're so beautiful. You know that right?"
He brushes my hair away from my face and kisses my eyes . . . .
"Not just here"
He runs his hands over my cheeks.
"Or here"
He lays his hand on my chest, the pulse in his fingertips matching the beating of my heart.
"But here. Inside. You are so beautiful. Inside. And you love me. Someone as beautiful as you loves me"
I hold onto those memories now to remember that I was loved. Maybe that's not true, maybe he didn't. But in my memories, even for brief moments, I was loved exactly the way I needed to be.
The 75th Street Exit. Just another point on a destination. But for me, a heart full of memories of a time when I let myself free fall into one of the most beautiful times of my life.
In Plain Sight
Sometimes I feel I need to put a disclaimer on my posts: WARNING! Active therapy session ahead. Proceed with caution! You will either be enlightened or find yourself needing a therapist of your own!
I continue to write regardless. I honestly don't even know who reads this. For me, I feel as if every time I write, share a bit more of myself, I descend further down the high rise that is me. I'm still trying to figure out if that's a good thing: the knowing.
The Penthouse had quite a view, pretty, polished, not a single stain on those while walls. So perfectly fake, no one would ever guess how many times those walls have been repainted to keep the spots from seeping through . . . .
Floor 34 was a bit more disheveled. The types of messes typical to a place that is lived in casually. Books carelessly strewn about; the bed not always made; dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed. The bills tossed on the counter to be looked at another day. It was more of a storage room, though, than a home. The place where things were put to be handled later. If later every came . . . .
The 30th floor was a masterpiece. Running shoes by the door; gym clothes in a bag at the end of the hall; nearly completed homework on the counter. Music plays in the background: an upbeat tune that causes a person to move without realizing it. Books lie opened on the couch next to a basket of yarn and needles and an almost finish project. A glass of wine on the vanity, next to the crimson lipstick and darkest black eyeliner. A dress and heels in the closet waiting for the night. It's warm here, almost inviting. Almost, but not quite . . . .
Floors 19 to 29 are loud and messy. Toys litter the floors, bottles line the counter and a baby cries while toddlers beg for attention. Cartoons play in the background, but no one is really watching. Yesterday's laundry is waiting to be folded; it sits next to the laundry that is waiting to be done. Dinner cooks on the stove. A pen lays across freshly signed divorce papers . . . .
It's a peek inside of a life. Bits and pieces, sewn together into a haphazard story. Hiding . . . in plain sight. My motto has always been "Tell them enough to keep them interested; never tell them enough to let them in" Those missing pieces lie hidden in the basement, a lock keeping it all in place. Barely. The storage bin is overflowing and seeping out onto other spaces; onto Other's spaces. Spring cleaning seems a likelihood. It will most likely take until Fall. Possibly winter . . .
I hide in plain sight. Hoping to be seen, but never wanting to be noticed. I put on a show; my own One Act play. Starring me. Which character will I be today? The Achiever; The Party Girl; The Seductress; The Humanitarian; The Friend. Small bits revealed slowly. My mom always said I was the most genuine, real person she had ever known. Her words molded me into her greatest masterpiece and my own worst enemy . . .
I'd love to put this to rest with a happy ending. But that'd be another lie and I think I've told enough lies to last a lifetime . . . .
And honestly, the scariest part now is delving into the points in time that hurt so much and dissect the words that I've been told . . . .
. . . and learning to believe in myself even if no one else does.
I continue to write regardless. I honestly don't even know who reads this. For me, I feel as if every time I write, share a bit more of myself, I descend further down the high rise that is me. I'm still trying to figure out if that's a good thing: the knowing.
The Penthouse had quite a view, pretty, polished, not a single stain on those while walls. So perfectly fake, no one would ever guess how many times those walls have been repainted to keep the spots from seeping through . . . .
Floor 34 was a bit more disheveled. The types of messes typical to a place that is lived in casually. Books carelessly strewn about; the bed not always made; dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed. The bills tossed on the counter to be looked at another day. It was more of a storage room, though, than a home. The place where things were put to be handled later. If later every came . . . .
The 30th floor was a masterpiece. Running shoes by the door; gym clothes in a bag at the end of the hall; nearly completed homework on the counter. Music plays in the background: an upbeat tune that causes a person to move without realizing it. Books lie opened on the couch next to a basket of yarn and needles and an almost finish project. A glass of wine on the vanity, next to the crimson lipstick and darkest black eyeliner. A dress and heels in the closet waiting for the night. It's warm here, almost inviting. Almost, but not quite . . . .
Floors 19 to 29 are loud and messy. Toys litter the floors, bottles line the counter and a baby cries while toddlers beg for attention. Cartoons play in the background, but no one is really watching. Yesterday's laundry is waiting to be folded; it sits next to the laundry that is waiting to be done. Dinner cooks on the stove. A pen lays across freshly signed divorce papers . . . .
It's a peek inside of a life. Bits and pieces, sewn together into a haphazard story. Hiding . . . in plain sight. My motto has always been "Tell them enough to keep them interested; never tell them enough to let them in" Those missing pieces lie hidden in the basement, a lock keeping it all in place. Barely. The storage bin is overflowing and seeping out onto other spaces; onto Other's spaces. Spring cleaning seems a likelihood. It will most likely take until Fall. Possibly winter . . .
I hide in plain sight. Hoping to be seen, but never wanting to be noticed. I put on a show; my own One Act play. Starring me. Which character will I be today? The Achiever; The Party Girl; The Seductress; The Humanitarian; The Friend. Small bits revealed slowly. My mom always said I was the most genuine, real person she had ever known. Her words molded me into her greatest masterpiece and my own worst enemy . . .
I'd love to put this to rest with a happy ending. But that'd be another lie and I think I've told enough lies to last a lifetime . . . .
And honestly, the scariest part now is delving into the points in time that hurt so much and dissect the words that I've been told . . . .
. . . and learning to believe in myself even if no one else does.
Three More Semesters
I remember when I decided to start college. Erin was in preschool, the others in all day classes. My desire to be more was so strong. I had an Associates already, something done on a whim, with the idea that I should be a secretary, mom, and housewife and aim for nothing more.
But I couldn't.
I had to fight to enter school. And fight I did. I love that part of me: the fighter. The one who makes a way, even if it means busting through a wall after someone removed the ladder over it. But I digress. I handled all the details to keep everyone's life as untouched as possible by my desire to branch out, to grow, to follow my dreams.
And I walked onto campus, scared out of my closed little mind. I had defied the plans set out for me by everyone else and decided to forge my own path. Suddenly, Blue's Clues was replaced by studying, new authors, ideas, things that challenged me.
More changed over the next few semesters: I started to believe in myself. I held my head higher, didn't hide in the back of the class, hoping to be unnoticed. I was excelling and challenging myself. And it was amazing!
I had to take time off. This isn't the place for that story. All that matters on this page right now is that I am back.
Three Semesters Left.
And it scares me to death. Too soon, it's not going to be the safety of a classroom and papers to turn in and practice labs. It's going to be the Real World and seeing if I truly have what it takes to apply what I have learned.
This is when it's a bad thing that I am such a future thinker. I don't back to the past much, unless I need to understand if there is anything back there that is hindering my journey forward. And God knows, I rarely take the time to notice where I am now. My mind is almost always solidly focused ten steps ahead of where I am now.
This semester is different. I'm different. I'm no longer a naive housewife wanting to learn something new. I'm a grown woman now, fighting for my place in this world. And the sacrifices are many.
And I don't know why I am so nervous, so scared, right now. I know I know what I am doing. But I've signed up for my future with a Sharpie and there is no turning back. There is no other path to take. There is no Plan B. And it's all or nothing right now.
The letter of a acceptance has come in the mail, the classes have been signed up for, the books have been bought. I'm no longer just trying to this on for size, to see what I think. NO! I've bought the dress, had it altered and there is no returning it.
This is it.
No turning back.
I'm doing this.
And I'm aware of the sacrifices, what is required of me, the standards I have to live up to.
And I'm ready.
Scared shitless.
But ready nonetheless.
The cocoon is bursting open. I'm almost there.
And it's about time.
And sometimes, it's good to know that fear is not always a bad thing.
But I couldn't.
I had to fight to enter school. And fight I did. I love that part of me: the fighter. The one who makes a way, even if it means busting through a wall after someone removed the ladder over it. But I digress. I handled all the details to keep everyone's life as untouched as possible by my desire to branch out, to grow, to follow my dreams.
And I walked onto campus, scared out of my closed little mind. I had defied the plans set out for me by everyone else and decided to forge my own path. Suddenly, Blue's Clues was replaced by studying, new authors, ideas, things that challenged me.
More changed over the next few semesters: I started to believe in myself. I held my head higher, didn't hide in the back of the class, hoping to be unnoticed. I was excelling and challenging myself. And it was amazing!
I had to take time off. This isn't the place for that story. All that matters on this page right now is that I am back.
Three Semesters Left.
And it scares me to death. Too soon, it's not going to be the safety of a classroom and papers to turn in and practice labs. It's going to be the Real World and seeing if I truly have what it takes to apply what I have learned.
This is when it's a bad thing that I am such a future thinker. I don't back to the past much, unless I need to understand if there is anything back there that is hindering my journey forward. And God knows, I rarely take the time to notice where I am now. My mind is almost always solidly focused ten steps ahead of where I am now.
This semester is different. I'm different. I'm no longer a naive housewife wanting to learn something new. I'm a grown woman now, fighting for my place in this world. And the sacrifices are many.
And I don't know why I am so nervous, so scared, right now. I know I know what I am doing. But I've signed up for my future with a Sharpie and there is no turning back. There is no other path to take. There is no Plan B. And it's all or nothing right now.
The letter of a acceptance has come in the mail, the classes have been signed up for, the books have been bought. I'm no longer just trying to this on for size, to see what I think. NO! I've bought the dress, had it altered and there is no returning it.
This is it.
No turning back.
I'm doing this.
And I'm aware of the sacrifices, what is required of me, the standards I have to live up to.
And I'm ready.
Scared shitless.
But ready nonetheless.
The cocoon is bursting open. I'm almost there.
And it's about time.
And sometimes, it's good to know that fear is not always a bad thing.
Traditions
I realize I have times where I seem too sad on this blog. I don't use it as an accurate representation of how I am, overall, a happy person. I guess I use writing as my therapy too often. But why not? It works, it's free, it's my outlet.
So, I'll write today of traditions.
Today, once my girls get home from school, we are baking up a storm. Fudge, cookies, chocolate covered everything, sprinkles here and there. In the background will be Christmas music and once we are done and have the treats delivered, we will settle in for our traditional living room camp out with some hot chocolate with marshmallows and Elf.
And I can't wait. I almost wish they had a no-school day so we could start now. I sometimes think I enjoy these nights more than them. I only hope I create enough traditions to both give them something to pass on to their own children one day and to create memories of a happy childhood.
Once I had a family of my own, Christmas became the central focus for creating new traditions. A new ornament every year, writing letters to Santa, leaving cookies out the night before. On Christmas Eve, once the girls were old enough to understand, we'd bake a cake and sing Happy Birthday to Jesus.
So much has changed over the years . . . .
But I still work to create those traditions. Because, to me, that is where the family becomes a closer family: in the shared memories.
I want my girls to look back and remember living room camp-outs, monster S'mores, movie nights, Zombieland and Twinkies.
Being a single mom, full-time college student and part-time employee leaves little money to do things. But in a way, I'm grateful for that because it pushes me to be more creative in our time together. And that creativity has led to some amazing times together.
In a few hours, a new tradition, mixed with some old ones, will be started. And most likely, this will continue. And once the movie is over and we turn on the fake fireplace on Netflix, we'll each share our dreams for the new year.
And once we wake up on Saturday, they'll prepare to leave for their dad's and I'll do some cleaning and work. But I'll be a bit more full of love and memories with four young ladies I cherish more than anything.
I can't always give them the newest shoes or the most expensive nights out. But I give them love and memories and somehow, I hope that evens out.
So, I'll write today of traditions.
Today, once my girls get home from school, we are baking up a storm. Fudge, cookies, chocolate covered everything, sprinkles here and there. In the background will be Christmas music and once we are done and have the treats delivered, we will settle in for our traditional living room camp out with some hot chocolate with marshmallows and Elf.
And I can't wait. I almost wish they had a no-school day so we could start now. I sometimes think I enjoy these nights more than them. I only hope I create enough traditions to both give them something to pass on to their own children one day and to create memories of a happy childhood.
Once I had a family of my own, Christmas became the central focus for creating new traditions. A new ornament every year, writing letters to Santa, leaving cookies out the night before. On Christmas Eve, once the girls were old enough to understand, we'd bake a cake and sing Happy Birthday to Jesus.
So much has changed over the years . . . .
But I still work to create those traditions. Because, to me, that is where the family becomes a closer family: in the shared memories.
I want my girls to look back and remember living room camp-outs, monster S'mores, movie nights, Zombieland and Twinkies.
Being a single mom, full-time college student and part-time employee leaves little money to do things. But in a way, I'm grateful for that because it pushes me to be more creative in our time together. And that creativity has led to some amazing times together.
In a few hours, a new tradition, mixed with some old ones, will be started. And most likely, this will continue. And once the movie is over and we turn on the fake fireplace on Netflix, we'll each share our dreams for the new year.
And once we wake up on Saturday, they'll prepare to leave for their dad's and I'll do some cleaning and work. But I'll be a bit more full of love and memories with four young ladies I cherish more than anything.
I can't always give them the newest shoes or the most expensive nights out. But I give them love and memories and somehow, I hope that evens out.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
"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.
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