Beauty In Imperfections

“If I know what love is, it is because of you.” – Herman Hesse

When we were so much younger.

I’ve been spending a significant amount of time with The One. There have been so many moments with him where I’d think to myself, ‘This is perfect’ that I stopped counting. Simple things like lounging on the couch with our dogs, talking about our future and hopes in life, and sometimes just curled up next to one another in silence. I couldn’t think of a thing in this world that would bring me more happiness than life as it is now.

I never thought I’d be one to believe in things like Fate or Soul Mates or even that a single person could bring so much fulfillment to the life of another. I believe it now.

I’ve been working on something for The One. As I’ve been going back on our old memories – I saw nothing but love and kindness in the photos and words we exchanged. This project has actually been a little difficult, because I frequently find myself on the verge of tears.

 I met The One when I had just moved to Portland and felt like my life was unravelling before my eyes. I moved to this city with a fiancé. We moved in with my relatives. Shortly after arriving I was diagnosed with PTSD. I had no idea what was going on, only that I was not well. My relationship began to fall apart. My fiancé couldn’t understand and my family blamed me for the relationship failing. There were so many elements to that part of my life that were very wrong. I was alone, trying to get help and needed a friend more than anything.

The One was the first person who asked me if I was okay. He was the first person to see that I was very sad underneath the facade of happiness I showed the rest of the world. I was entirely alone in what I was facing emotionally. He was the only one in my corner; he was the only one who cared about my emotional wellbeing. The One was also the first person I opened up to regarding the dynamics of my family and my relationship.

Fast forward several months later, the fiancé broke things off. He finally moved out of the home I shared with my relatives. In his wake, he left a string of lies that painted me in the worst light possible. My relationship with my family has never recovered – if there was ever a relationship to begin with.

The One was still my only friend – and bless the guy for sticking by me when I had nothing but awful relatives to deal with. He accepted me as I was – and that was a form of acceptance I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. We dated and we fell in love.

Before anything else, he showed me compassion.

We were young and had a lot to learn about life, each other, and ourselves. After about 2 years we broke up. We got back together again, and broke up. We’re back for round 3. I think we’re ready this time. At least I can say that I am this time.

The One told me that it feels different this time around; he doesn’t feel any resistance from me this time. He’s right. It’s not that I never wanted to be open with him – it’s just that I didn’t know how to love a person in that way. That was something I had to learn on my own by forcing myself to look inward and begin to deal with the past that I had shoved down as far as I could for too long. I had to face that ugliness myself. It was difficult. It was lonely. There was times I thought it wasn’t worth it – but in hindsight I know it’s made me better for it.

I learned to be vulnerable in front of another person. I learned to communicate. There was a night when I was out with The One. I was triggered by someone. I then had to lean over to The One and explain to him what was taking place, because I had no idea how it would manifest itself. As we were walking to the car, I explained the thought process that takes place in my mind: a grappling with fear, anger towards the person who caused me fear even though it was no fault of his, and a multitude of other thoughts that cause me to question my own character. Mostly, I felt fragile and broken.

There was something about the way The One touched me that night that reclaimed that cracked part of my psyche. He drifted off to sleep and I sobbed tears of gratitude knowing that my journey of fear and self-doubt is nearing an end. He holds up a mirror and encourages me to see myself as I really am – and he has a pretty high opinion of me.

Over the last year or so I think I nearly gave up on having the life I had hoped for. I didn’t think I’d have children, I didn’t think I’d have someone with whom to share life – yet now that we’re giving it another shot, I know these are things I wouldn’t want to do with anyone else.

Over the last year or so I’d not only given up, but told myself that happiness wasn’t in the cards for me because I was too broken and flawed. A good friend shared some profound words of kindness I’d like to share, “You are far from broken, you are the strongest gal I know. I look at you like the Japanese people look at a broken ceramic bowl. Rather than trying to hide the flaws in the broken ceramics, they would highlight them in gold, baring the cracks and scars and adopting them as part of the ceramic . . . To me, you are far from broken; it’s the broken part of you that I see strength. There is perfection and imperfection. And that, my friend, is why in a depressing work that was pain and hurt there was you.”

I've actually never seen one of these before I read her words . . .. It's beautiful. Thank you for that image, Friend.

I’ve always thought that scars are intriguing. I have to remind myself that my own scars are just as fascinating. And when I forget, I have friends who offer kind words and The One who tells me things like, ‘You’re not awful. You’re honest.’And it's not through his words, but his essence as a human being that makes me want to be a better person.

I feel small and meek at times. He shows me that I'm fierce and strong. 

I’m really looking forward to the New Year.

“Love takes off makes that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.” – James Baldwin

Begginings, Endings, and Retold Stories

“Travel far enough, you meet yourself.” – David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

If I had more sense, I would take the advice of friends as if it were the word of God, Holy Grail, or something of equal eminence. I have a few in particular who are brutally honest and consistently call me out on my bullshit.  Admittedly, I need people in my life to do just that. Admittedly, I have tried to scrape by in life settling for what I have thought I deserve in life, which isn’t much – because I thought nothing good or whole was warranted and happiness just wasn’t in store for me. Of course, I wouldn’t even admit to myself that these were the beliefs at work on some level of consciousness, forming what took place in my waking life. 

On Friday I was out with a friend from England. She loves to meet with me to catch up on life – particularly mine – because from an outsider’s perspective it’s blatantly ridiculous and unnecessarily chaotic. She kept prying about this older man from California who obviously wanted to reestablish some form of a relationship with me. Her response to every answer I provided was this: It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself of something.

She asked me about my visit with Mr. California. I told her about the stress of that week, of the wedding officiating, of the time with the older man and how we had conversations we needed to have a long time ago, but were only having now. I told her that he reminded me of just how heartbroken I was at a young age – he recalled a memory of me being slumped over the steering wheel of my car, balling my eyes out and inconsolable. I was barely 19. The hurt that I had forgotten suddenly felt very real and raw at that present moment. I told her of his reasons for doing it: another woman (it sounded like it could have been a few) who threw herself into his life. He didn’t think I could understand such things at such a young age, so he told me nothing at the time. 

 Apparently the concept was far too advanced for my young, tiny brain.

My friend asked where I stood with Mr. California. He and I were still talking. He was planning another visit. One thing that struck me as odd during his visit was that he asked me about a guy several times over the span of a week. I’m not sure what to call him at the moment, but said guy in question and I had tried a relationship not just once, but twice. I didn’t think I was in it for the right reasons the second time, and I told him as much. He was more understanding that any guy would be; and, as I knew it now, happy in a long term relationship. This is the account I gave Mr. California several times. Mr. California’s comment was that he thought said guy was ‘The One’.

As I’m giving my friend these events shaping in my life, wondering why Mr. California would ask me so much about one person in particular, she stops me in the middle of my fragmented melodramatic tale and asks me point blank how I feel about Mr. California. I pause for a moment. I don’t have an answer. She tells me it’s simple: I either do or I don’t – and the fact that I don’t know is yet another tactic I’m using to convince myself. She asks me to tell her about The One. I tell her how Mr. California’s questioning caused me to think of The One so much that the idea of him was in my head and wouldn’t leave. I tell her that I reached out to him because my dreams were flooded with his presence and he was my first thought every morning. I told her how happy I was that he and I were talking because I’d missed him so much. She looks me straight in the eye. That is a real emotion, was her reply. 

 Shit's about to get real

Indeed, it was a real emotion. I soon learned that The One wasn’t in a happy relationship like I had thought. I hate to admit I did a small victory dance we he told me they were no longer together. I didn’t want to admit how much I envied her for having someone so wonderful in her life. I didn’t want to admit that I had missed him as badly as I did . . .  I didn’t want to admit that life wasn’t the same without him and I knew life would never be the same without his presence to some capacity.

“ . .  We cross, crisscross, and recross our old tracks like figure skaters.” David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

 We've done this dance - this routine before. It's not unfamiliar.

So he and I started talking. I’m not sure he and I could possibly stay away from one another even if we wanted to. Not everyone gets a second chance in life, let alone a third.  I am counting this as one of the most precious blessings life has given me and I wonder how I even survived without him. Recounting the last few years, it’s obvious that he is one of the few people that understands me and one of even the lesser few that keep me grounded. Every moment without him was mostly empty and meaningless.

Mr. California was planning another visit to see me over the weekend. Last night I told him I didn’t want him to come. I should mention that I tried to back out of that, using the excuse that I’d left a voicemail and will follow up with an online message. The One was with me to give support . . .  and also to make sure I handled things like a grown adult. What I really wanted to do was to throw my phone off of a bridge; or underneath a moving semi so that it was crushed into a thousand pieces. I wanted to change my number, move to a new zip code, and live my life under an assumed alias. I did what I needed to do – because I had The One’s support and he knew I had it in me. 

 I sometimes wonder if we truly had a choice in the matter . . .  has the story already been written for us?

I recently wondered aloud to him if the time apart was necessary. From my end, it was brutal, but probably needed. We both needed to grow separately. We needed to overcome insecurities, egos, and other unnecessary traits. I can’t speak for him, but I’m certain this is it for me. There are, nor could there ever be, anyone else in my life. His voice is one of my favorite sounds. He knows me at my core and accepts it; I’ve never had to be anything other than my true self when I’m with him . . .  and what exists between us is something I have yet to find words for. 

That would explain why, as he said, 'We've been at this for 6 years and we're in our 30's now'. It certainly hasn't been a linear path. I'm grateful for each opportunity we had.

“Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.” - David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

Secrets

“I thought about how there are two types of secrets: the kind you want to keep in, and the kind you don’t dare to let out.” – Alley Carter, Don’t Judge a Girl by Her Cover

There other day my therapist looked at me in astonishment. She said, “I’ve been working with you for 6 years and I’m still learning new things about you.” I suddenly realized I’ve lived a very colorful life – and colorful within all shades of the spectrum.

A fascinating colorful life, actually.

I’ve had secrets that have weighed me down to depths I thought unreachable. I’ve had secrets that are so dark I thought I’d never speak of them . . . . and I’ve also had secrets that were filled with happiness that I kept to myself to shine light through the darker moments of life. These amazing ups and downs of my life are becoming more apparent to me as I continue writing about them and realizing just how much I survived.

This is a story of another man in my life. I first met him when I was 17 and working at UC Merced. I had recently graduated from high school, and didn’t have plans to stay at the university long because I had plans to do missionary work somewhere overseas. I wound up in Namibia, Africa. The experience changed my life and gave me a very different outlook of the followers of the religion I knew and their intolerance to other people and cultures. In many ways, Namibia was when my life began.

Beautiful Namibia . . . . I miss you.

When I returned to the states I again went back to work at UC Merced. I was nearly 19 then. I hadn’t paid much attention to him before, but when I returned back to the states I suddenly saw him entirely differently . . . .  and I found him to be quite attractive. I remember the day he walked in with blue jeans and a white t-shirt. My jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

I genuinely don't know what it was about his look that day . . . but he really caught my eye. 

I should mention that there was a considerable age difference between us. I acknowledge this has been a recurring thing in my life. I was not quite 19 and he was 40. Some say it’s my preference. Some say I have ‘daddy issues’. To anyone who ever thinks I have daddy issues: F*ck you. Seriously. It’s not your place to judge my decisions.

I can’t quite remember how it started. We went on a few outings and due to the fact that I was living with my aunt who also happened to be his boss, we kept it a secret. I think the secrecy added another level of excitement to the whole thing. We exchanged stolen glances at work, smiling because the secret remained between us.

This story is perhaps one of my best kept secrets . . . until now. 

We became an item shortly after he bought his house. I was with him at his house warming party and our night after everyone had left was nothing short of mind blowing . . . all of the pent up energy from hours being within at arm’s length of one another and not being able to do anything about it – we didn’t even look at each other long for fear of being discovered.

We had many of those moments: secret, fun, gentle and loving. For many things in my life, he was my first.

I have a confession of my own. That's me to the left in the green bikini. Even during times it's been too small for me, I have never been able to part with it. Now that I've given it some thought, I think it's because it reminded me of him. That's what I wore to his housewarming party.

The issues started when he became increasingly uncomfortable with our age difference. I never gave it a second thought. I think everything started to fall apart when he was with me at a Starbucks. A young man walked up to us and asked him if he was my father. Considering that Mr. UC Merced and I look nothing alike, the question was ridiculous. I could tell he was troubled by it and he started to push me away.

I began to feel that he was ashamed of me and wanted to keep me as some dirty little secret; no one should ever know about me. I felt him pushing me away. Eventually I walked away. He broke my young heart. Considering the age difference between us, it wasn’t a fair fight and it wasn’t a level playing field.

He might as well have taken a hammer to me. 

He still wanted to be involved in my life. It took some time, and gradually over the years we began talking as if nothing had ever happened. In his own way, he showed me that I truly was special to him. He had old letters I’d written to him while I was in Montana, before I went to Namibia and he and I were anything more than co-workers and friends. He kept a card I’d signed for his housewarming party. It’s been over a decade and he’s still held onto these things. 

We didn’t have a song. We had an entire album: Nora Jones’ Come Away with Me. I stopped listening to her music altogether because it only reminded me of the man who’d made me the happiest and saddest at the same time.

He’s checked in on me over the years. He’s moved on for UC Merced and is now onto bigger and better things. His gestures of kindness seemed to always come at the right time. He knew I was struggling after I made a frenzied move to the other side of the city and that I had estranged myself from my family because I could no longer bring myself to keep up the charade. He also knew that I was hiding out at Christmas just so I didn’t have to see them. He asked for my address to send me one of his photos. He’s quite talented. What I received in the mail was a Christmas card containing $60 and a note that said someone was thinking about me.

I had a fridge issue and was struggling to get my landlord to fix it. I was at my wit’s end. That damn mini fridge that came with the apartment had ruined a good deal of my food because it kept freezing and defrosting things. I don’t even want to think about the money wasted on that fiasco. Eventually I win the battle with my landlord. I went grocery shopping and Mr. UC Merced asked if I needed any help. The honest truth is that I could, but I declined. A gal’s got to at least try to stand on her own sometimes. It’s just comforting to know that someone thinks about your small struggles in life and is willing to help.

Lately we’ve been talking a lot. He’s thinking about coming to visit. And, if I haven’t misinterpreted, hinted at me moving back to California. My immediate thought was that there was absolutely nothing for me in California. What was I going to do? Let Mr. UC Merced support me? I think not!

I've leveled with him about how he made me feel so long ago. He's tried to talk to me about it before; I was either unwilling to listen or not ready to hear his words. In our recent conversation, he said he never regretted loving me, he only regrets how he handled things. For anyone who's ever been broken up about unrequited love, I think those are the exact words we want/need to hear. 

I was telling this tale of secrets, love and loss to my therapist. When I got to the part about how much Lindsay dislikes this man because she doesn’t agree with the age difference my therapist nearly died of laughter . . . .  because if I were to actually leave and move back to California for this guy, it would be a double whammy. I’d be out of a city that drives me mad sometimes and would royally piss Lindsay off.

Mostly irate, though.

The thought is amusing and would be a great ending to what has been a very colorful life thus far. However, feeding into my spiteful ego to have the last laugh in regards to my adopted mother is a piss poor reason to be in a relationship. While I’m tempted to dismiss the idea of a life with him at all, I’ve been told to not jump to conclusions, wait it out and see where things go. Perhaps there are more pages yet to be written between us.

 . . . or perhaps a cautionary tale of epic stupidity. 

"I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone." - Rainer Maria Rilke 

Burning Bridges

“It don’t matter which way you go

When you’re callin’ the highway your home

When every old town’s just the past burning down

It don’t matter which way you go.”

Waylon Jennigs, Reno and Me

This is a story. A story of burning bridges, allowing time to pass – settling it aflame and watching it burn again.

Something happened in my life recently that caused me to look back to my more recent past. I’ve felt miserable since it happened – miserable since he tried to walk back into my life. I knew it wasn’t a good time for me to be alone, so I picked up my journal and walked to the pub near my house.

While I waited for my order, I opened my journal. I intended to get back into the habit of expressing gratitude. Instead I found myself flipping through the pages, wondering what had happened to the gal that had written those words just over two years ago. I was stressed, but I was hopeful. I was happy. I was in l in love and I expressed love to so many. I had my heart broken and saw it mended again. I don’t recognize her, the person that penned those words of love, hope and happiness, but I want to be her. She radiates a life perspective that I miss very much.

She felt connected to everything. She heard the heartbeat of the Universe. I'll find you again, Cherished Version of Myself.

I had to ask myself how I got to where I am now. I have been accused of not being entirely transparent (notably by anonymous strangers), of painting myself in the best possible light while throwing someone else under the bus. I see that as an untrue accusation. I’m about to tell the story of what is arguably my greatest shame in life.

Several years ago I met a man. He was mysterious and intriguing. He was intelligent and witty. He brought a sense of excitement to my life on many levels. We had an intense attraction to one another. It boiled down to the most savage sense of carnality; we existed in our own orbit, drawn to each other in a very visceral sense. On another level, we connected intellectually.

I’ve only called him Spaniard. That’s right, Fucking Spaniard. He had a knack for picking up the pieces in my life when I could not.

Then I learned about Her. Not just Her, but others as well. I was oblivious. I had even been in his house and didn’t think for once that there was another woman in his life. I blindly believed what he told me and easily explained away things that should have been regarded with suspicion. The words regarding his own personal life were often few, and that should have sent me packing. I know better now, but I didn’t then. He wasn’t married to Her, but I’m sure he was a key figure in Her life and I’m certain She didn’t know about me.

When I knew his secret I cut him out of my life. 

Fate must have cursed me when our paths crossed again. I found myself a willing participant in older patterns of behavior. Our connection had only intensified by the time we spent apart.

We immersed ourselves in our formed religion of acts of worship for the other.

So, there I was, carrying on with a man that I knew was spoken for. We carried on for a couple of months. I was acting against my own moral compass, causing a growing dissonance between what was at the center of my core and what I was doing. It was literally tearing me apart from the inside out. 

I turned to a poor coping mechanism I relied on after I found myself in the wake of an assault. I'm not sure if it was coping or self harm, but I tried to drink myself into oblivion once again.

The war I was waging on myself escalated. It came to a peak when I woke up one night in a detox center. I had no idea how I’d gotten there. I was afraid. I was shamed. A woman next to me was coming down from her cocaine high. I don’t belong here. All I could think about was Merlin and that I needed to be home with him. He needed me to be there. An officer pulled me aside to talk to me. He told me to be comforted by the fact that I hadn’t hurt anyone and I was unlike the ‘regulars’ he saw come in and out of there. He said this was my wakeup call. I’d made a bad decision.

I had to take a time out. I had to force myself to look inward and face my actions. I was knowingly causing potential harm to a person I didn’t even know. I was the other woman. I was the one destroying someone else’s life solely for my own selfish wants and desires. Spaniard had to go.

I'm not proud of the role I played in this.

I eventually realized he was a danger to me. I don’t say a danger to everyone, because I can’t speak for them. I can speak for his personality type and mine. He has an ability to compartmentalize his life and it scares me. He had me, he had Her, he had others. These were separate lives to him. Perhaps it scares me because I’ve never met anyone with that ability. Maybe it scares me for good reason. I don’t know the answer right now.

Working as a trainer for FBI hostage negotiators, Spaniard has some very potent psychological tools. For his line of work, that’s an asset. For me, that’s toxic. I fail to compartmentalize my own life and I have no basis in tactics of manipulation or psychological warfare. My involvement with him would only lead to my own self destruction – possibly slitting my wrists and bleeding out. He told me that we were linked and would not be severed. For my own survival, he and I could not coexist.

It would only lead to destruction - and it would be mine. Possibly Hers, too.

I pray that She would never now about me. I pray She never knows about the others because I imagine that would be devastating. I don’t know if I could live with myself if She knew that I didn’t consider how my actions would affect Her because I didn’t care. I was only after what made me feel happy.

Then I sent an e-mail to Spaniard. I knew a face to face conversation with him would result in his continued presence in my life to some capacity. I typed out as compassionately as I could that he could simply not be a part of my life – and this was for my own emotional wellbeing. I tried to explain that we simply couldn’t be. His response was that until I could accept unconditional love I was to never contact him again.

Done.

Time passed. I moved to another part of the city. I never contacted him again. It had been a little over a year when he sent me an e-mail. I blocked his e-mail. A month later he sent me a text. I changed my number. Yesterday, he called me at work. At. Work. I listened in shocked silence. I asked him how he found my number. He told me he simply called and asked for me. I told him I couldn’t talk. I was working. He asked if I still had his number. I lied and said I did. He told me to use it sometime and then I hung up the phone.

This is one representation of part of the internal commotion taking place in my psyche.

I’ve thought for some time that if he wanted to find me he would. I hope my assumption is wrong. After Spaniard sent the e-mail, I thought I saw him at the pub near my house when I was out with my brother. I must have looked terrified. My brother noticed me watching the man across the room, visibly worried. I couldn’t see his face, he had his back turned to me, but he had the same physique, he wore similar clothes, his voice sounded familiar. I had to explain. I had to tell my brother about my actions of selfish stupidity. There have been no Spaniard sightings since then.

So, he found me at work. I’d never give him that number. Hell, I’d even moved on to another department since I last saw Spaniard. The bastard called me from a blocked number. I felt myself hit with a wave of emotions I’m still struggling to identify. Offhand, I’d say I feel fear, anger, and shame. The only thing I’m certain of is that he can’t be in my life. He just can’t.

I did the only thing I could think of, which was to call our safety department at work. I explained my situation. The woman who listened was understanding and empathetic. She recommended that I remove all traces of myself online, starting with LinkedIn. I invested my time in that wretched profile so potential employers would hire me. I’m not ready to give it up yet.

My employer has flagged me in our system. No one can look me up in our online database. While administration has my information, an alert pops up to not give any of my information. It’s as if I don’t exist where I work. I’ve turned his name over to our safety department. If Spaniard tries to use his ties with law enforcement he won’t get anywhere.

And that’s my story of burning bridges. That’s my story of paying for my sins on Earth. During my lowest point, when I woke up in a detox center next to people coming down off of some pretty hardcore stuff – I feel as if a part of me died that night and I’ve failed to resurrect it.

I have no secrets now. I’ll work on finding the person I lost during my lowest point in my recent adult life. Maybe I’ll dance in the ashes after I’ve watched it all burn down. 

An Empath's Perspective: TLDR

“Your perspective on life comes from the cage you were held captive in.” – Shannon L. Alder

I’ve been struggling a lot lately. My guess is a potent concoction of several factors that landed me in another deep, depressed state. My own frustration compounded what I was already feeling – I just feel like giving up sometimes. I wondered how many false hopes I’d stumble across that would make me think I had somehow found something that would take away PTSD entirely.

I have to accept that PTSD never goes away and it’s simply my lot in life to live with it. I imagine the sooner I accept that I will never truly feel whole again the better off I’ll be. I’d like to think the journey will get easier from there once I can accept that there is no cure and no amount of my failed attempts to bring closure to and make sense of my own past will make a difference, either. It’s a harsh truth, yet I think it’s an honest one.

Even though others don't like what you're saying - sometimes I have very dark thoughts. I'm not ashamed of that.

I know people hate to hear me say things along those lines because I make it seem hopeless. I don’t see it as a form of hopelessness, merely looking at the situation objectively and accepting an unpleasant truth.

My mind went to some very dark places for a while and I struggled to find motivation to do even the simplest of things. I was down for too long in my dark apartment with a nasty virus. It seems that what was trudged up during that downtime has affected me even though I struggle against it. I’m thinking the worst of it was when I called Donna, my grandmothers’ best friend and my childhood babysitter. I felt like I was on a ledge and I couldn’t think of anyone else who would understand the pain I was feeling. Donna lost the same people I lost, the only difference being she was an adult and I was a child.

These two women have a special place in my heart. My grandmother on the left and Donna on the right.

When I was a little girl, I often came home from school crying. I was teased for many things, mostly for being chubby. Donna would stroke my hair and tell me not to worry about what the other children were telling me because I was well on my way to being a Marilyn Monroe look alike. Fast forward to my adult years, I called Donna crying and asked her how she got through it. Her response was this: Sometimes I drink, sometimes I accept it, and sometimes I pray. I suppose that’s all we can do.

In the end, I guess what really matters is that I'm moving forward.

My conversation with her lifted my spirits. She told me about how my grandmother loved to dress me up when I was younger and that if she had a daughter she’d want her to be just like me. Having felt worthless and low for several weeks, her words were just what I needed to hear.

Our conversation resulted in a new project: I must find her a laptop. She was amazed that I could call her from the internet. Donna is low income and in her 60’s. Not too long ago she damaged her back so badly that she is unable to work. If I can repay her for her comfort and kindness, it’s in my new mission of laptop hunting.

Struggling as much as I have over the last several weeks made me think of the Death with Dignity Act – I think this should apply to mental illnesses as well. Before you balk at my words, Dear Reader, please hear me out. I’m not talking about a temporary bout of depression or anxiety because one has just gone through a divorce or is under a severe amount of stress. I’m talking about the chronic conditions such as schizophrenia and PTSD. I view them in the same light as I see cancer. No amount of love, medical care or money can prevent these things, particularly when it’s terminal.

I think this should extend to everyone.

I feel that there are vast mountains to be climbed for the societal acceptance of how severe these conditions are. From my conversations with others, I have found that the people who genuinely understand where I’m coming from have either experienced it themselves or have experienced mental illness with a loved one, watching helplessly as that person withered away from their own self destruction or ultimately took their own life.

When someone dies from suicide, it’s seen as weakness. Unlike death due to a physical illness, there is anger directed at the person. How could she?! I think people view these types of death far too personally. We wouldn’t be angry at someone who died of cancer, and what most fail to see is that suicide is a last resort. Suicide comes when the person just wants to escape the pain.

I have the answer: absolutely nowhere. It's a harsh truth. We just have to ride it out. That's really our only option.

Provided that a person has made an effort, if the mental illness is terminal the Death with Dignity Act should apply. Take me as an example: I’ve been in therapy for at least 5 years now. There is no cure for me.

I’m not saying I want to die, I’m only saying I should have the option – and I should have the option of a dignified death, not one that results in suicide and further compounds the stigma that’s already been attached to my life. Additionally, those who suffer from more severe forms of mental illness often turn their frustration and anger towards themselves. We have a tendency to be self-destructive and self-medicate. The self-medicating results in substance abuse and this is often so severe that it leads to death as a result from overdose or massive organ failure.

For most of the mentally ill, this is what happens in the end - or we commit suicide. 

So I wondered about the more compassionate option. Knowing the destructive nature of mental illness, why force a person to live with it and give them only suicide as a way out? Using myself as an example again, I think I should have the choice to choose death when I can’t stand the fight anymore. I’m an organ donor and those parts of me could go to someone who will live a happy life. As things stand with our current laws and statistics on mental illness, I’d be more likely to develop an addiction, die from it, and my organs wouldn’t be viable because the substance abuse would ruin them. Or, I’d commit suicide in a manner that didn’t preserve the organs and no one would benefit from my death. I just don’t see the logic in the way things are with this now. I try to see all things as objectively as possible. Perhaps I’m dead wrong on this subject, but I’m finding the more I talk about it, the more I find people who are in accordance with my own views on this matter. I think we all deserve a dignified death.

I'd wager that if we were given the choice, we'd be able to save lives with our organs by relinquishing our own life.

Maybe I’ll change my mind. Either way, I refuse to join the masses who refuse to see mental illness as a very real thing. This is something that we should talk about more, not only to understand how it impacts those who suffer from it, but also the blatantly wrong stereotypes applied to those who have a mental illness.

I’m making more effort to not only understand myself, but to protect myself as well. I’m a naturally empathetic person – and I imagine why this is the main reason I so easily connect with others. The part of being an empath that wrecks me sometimes is absorbing other people’s pain, often making it my own. Not only their pain, but their issues. I’m trying to retrain myself so that I learn to observe rather than absorb. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been sponge-like towards other’s emotional states. Seriously! There have been a few occasions, where I’ve made someone laugh because their sadness was overwhelming me.

I'm thinking this personality trait may also explain at least some of the peaks and valley in my life.

With that in mind, I nixed some people from my life. Not because they were bad people, simply because I felt they were bad for me. I can only absorb so much negativity in any given day. Because I am dealing with so many scared, anxious, and sometimes angry people in my life of work, I simply don’t have anything left over when the day is done. My goal is to have something left over, particularly for me because I’m tired of feeling so drained all of the time. When I can learn to observe instead of absorb I can work on reestablishing connections with others who consistently tap into my empathetic energy. My heart needs to be closed off for a while. I find that difficult to do because it goes against my nature.

From reflection, I’ve learned that there are personality types that are just downright dangerous to me. I’ve nixed people with these personality types, too. I’m sure they don’t intentionally mean me harm, but they can’t fight their true nature and that’s just the way of it. If I can quit blaming myself for what’s going wrong in everyone else’s life because my purpose in life isn’t to fix anyone. That’s their choice, not mine.

Truth be told, feeling any emotion to the depths that I experience them feels rather lonely. 

I just keep going in circles, don’t I? I’m thinking of a friend’s words said to me several years ago: I will pass the same face of the mountain on my way to the top. I hope I’m at least evolving and moving upward. I doubt myself sometimes. I’m also self-doubting and have no sense of direction. These are also truths. I imagine I’ve been on the most indirect path up this wretched mountain: one with no foot trails and entirely uncharted. 

Don't even ask me for directions. I will undoubtedly get you lost. That's also a harsh truth. 

They're Only Memories

“Courage doesn’t always roar, sometimes it’s the quiet voice at the end of the day whispering, ‘I will try again tomorrow’.” ~ May Anne Radmacher

My memoriam to the people that gave me the will to keep going is still in the works. I’ve uncovered a minefield recently as a result of constantly peering into the past. This is a section of my life I realized has been a secret I’ve carried most of my life. I never spoke a word of it to anyone. So, I’m facing these things. It’s emotionally draining and feels like a heavy anchor pulling me down a sinkhole. There are times I’ve wanted to walk away from it entirely – but I hear a small voice in my mind that tells me to keep going and finish what I started. I have to remind myself why I began in the first place because I’ve felt like giving up more than once.

This has been a very lonely process, too. I don't think I've ever felt more isolated than I do right now.

I have to remind myself that this is the only way I’ll get better. Yes, it hurts. It hurts a lot. Sometimes the emotion that broke your heart in the first place is the one that heals it. I also have to remind myself that I’m not a vulnerable child not in control of her own life anymore. They can’t touch me now – they are only memories. They are only memories. They are only memories.

Eventually I'll stop running. I'll stop fighting. I'll stop hiding. I'll learn to embrace the things I'm working so hard to only make eye contact with right now.

When I first stumbled upon it, my minefield certainly didn’t feel like distant memories. More so because I was sick and had nothing to do but lie in bed. During my conscious moments I remembered and in my dreams the memories haunted me. That week, in particular was a little rough. I just tell myself to keep going, keep writing, and keep sharing the secrets I have to share. What it all boils down to in the end is that I’m simply afraid of emotional suffering. That’s what I dread most.

Guess who still puts on her happy face anyway?

You know what else is a little rough? Getting back on my bike after being down for the count for about two weeks. I feel like I’m starting all over because the bastard virus attacked my respiratory system. For this situation in life, I’m telling myself that I’ll be Iron Man eventually.

Just kidding! That is not an appealing ambition for me. I’ve actually returned to listening to music again just so I don’t have to hear my own suffering of major breath exertion while going uphill. It’s a psychological thing. I feel like it’s not quite so hard when I don’t have to hear how hard I’m working.

One thing I have to start making more of an effort to practice is dancing. Friends keep pointing out that it was something that made me happy. It did. I just have to start moving. I know that’s all it will take. I happen to have a nicely sized patio which I’ve been cleaning little by little. I think I’ll start belly dance again. I’m not entirely sure I want to go back to tango. I think about it from time to time . . . and I’m just not sure. Either way, dancing is something I enjoy and I should get back to it – particularly in times like this when I’m staring my demons in the face and unsure that I can handle anything in my present life.

Maybe someone just needs to give me a kick in the arse.

I feel as though my creative energy has been entirely tapped out. I can’t pinpoint the reason, if one exists at all. I’ve made every effort to cut unnecessary people out of my life who gladly take my warmth, but offer none in return. Despite my efforts to focus more on me, I feel like something major is missing and it’s affecting my capacity to creative, worship, dance, etc.

So, while I invest some time into regaining my physical and spiritual energy, I’ll be reflecting . . .  I’m always reflecting these days as a result of my therapeutic project. Sometimes I wonder if it’s really therapeutic or just plain torture. There have been a few times since I’ve started that I’ve wished my very existence would evaporate entirely. When I’m feeling that down I tell myself there would be no one left to talk about my father, grandmother, and others. Thinking along those lines and comparing the outcomes, I feel it would be far worse to let their memories be forgotten. That’s the main reason I’m still keeping at it even though it hurts.

“Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second’s encounter with God and with eternity.” – Paul Coelho, Alchemist

You're Doing Well For Yourself

“But I saw the pain and sadness in everything, and swirled it round my mouth like a fine wine.” – Emma Forrest, Your Voice in My Head

I have been most exhausted lately – desperately wanting to get my thoughts out of my head and found myself brain dead by the end of the week. So I’m making an attempt now. I miss the days of my youth when I could simply drop everything I was doing and write to my heart’s content in complete solitude.

Such a magically soothing thing . . . . yet I rarely hand write anymore. Blast!

I visited Jefe a couple of weeks ago. I stumbled upon him moving rocks in his landscaped pond. I let Merlin run loose and helped him for a while. We chatted about what was taking place in our individual lives. I mentioned the suggestion of a friend to purchase patio furniture and scoffed at the idea because I know I won’t be able to buy something like that for a very long time. Jefe told me I’ve done very well for myself. Inwardly I scoffed at the thought because I don't think I'm doing particularly well at anything. That was the first of many recurring instances regarding my own inner voice. I’ll come back to that later.

When all rocks and boulders had been placed aside, I packed up and readied myself to leave. It was then that my brother drove up the driveway with the She Devil.

The She Devil leaves destruction and disarray in her wake. 

I stopped and chatted for a while. She Devil asked about my blogumentary project. I told her about my most recent entry that was about my sister and how badly I felt for this person I haven’t seen in so long because she never really stood a chance at life. Unlike my dearest sister, Jenny, I had the privilege of a solid foundation during the early years of my life.

She Devil immediately responded with this, People need to just get over it. That’s when I stabbed her with my scissors.

Of course, there was no stabbing, but I’m still left in disbelief over such a calloused response regarding someone who has experienced some very dark things in life. At the time, I was enraged . .  . and these are the moments I really should speak my true feelings. She Devil knows absolutely nothing of Jenny. She Devil needs to get over herself.

I’ve come to the conclusion that She Devil hides behind her defined success in life (she has lots of money). For whatever reason, she thinks it’s okay to say hurtful things, cast judgement and even insults just because she has money. I suppose it’s fine to be an awful person provided that one can buy his or her way through life and donate to charity to ease their conscious if he or she even has one to begin with.

Her attitude towards others, her self-centeredness and blatant lack of empathy are appalling in my eyes. I sometimes wonder if she even has a soul.

The week that followed seemed like the perfect storm. I was sad, things kept doing wrong, one of my co-workers kinda blew up at me and was being particularly beastly for that week and I felt the weight of guilt. I felt guilt that I had something so precious – and Jenny never experienced unconditional love, particularly from a parent.

I had a couple of days in which I simply couldn’t stop crying.

I went out with a friend for wine at the end of that week. I was exhausted and overly emotional due to the thoughts on my mind. My amazing friend always has sound advice for me and she and her husband have looked out for me since the day I met them. I feel blessed to know them.

Actually . . . . she's practically my therapist. 

My dear friend listened as I explained the events of the week. She offered perspective and validation on some of the things in life that make me just plain angry. When talking about my interaction with my co-worker I said in exasperation, She bullies like Lindsay. My dear friend gave me a knowing look – one that told me I had now found the key to unlock the secrets of the Universe itself.

I hate to mention names, but I had to point out that there have been a several like Lindsay throughout my entire life and most of them have a name that start with an ‘L’: Laura, Lenora, Wendy, and, of course, Lindsay.

It struck me that their voice has become my own. Their words which criticized and caused self-doubt have become my words as well. The thoughts I think towards and about myself tend to be awful. I’ve allowed my inner voice to become a cancerous entity running rampant in my psyche.  This voice tells me I’m not good enough, I’m not pretty enough, I don’t try hard enough. This voice tells me I am not enough and my existence on this earth is questionable. This voice tells me I am underserving of anything good, and every single bad event in my life was the result of some form of karma because I truly am an awful person.

I imagine my inner voice probably looks something like this. 

I’m often told to be kinder to myself. The truth is, I just don’t know how to be nicer to me. I don’t know how to turn off the voice, either. I can only hope that by acknowledging that this voice exists that I can begin to ignore it and perhaps it will fade out over time.

I have been doing so much better with life in general now that I've started cutting people out of it who don't deserve my time or energy. There are still a few remaining. She Devil is most certainly one of them. I haven't figured out how to break that off. I don't know if there's a graceful way to just walk away and still be able to maintain contact with Jefe and my brother. What I do know is that her presence in my life is not a good one and I have to change that or continue to allow myself to be damaged by it. 

“Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand and hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”

-          W.B. Yeats