Puzzle Pieces

“The Troll was well over seven feet tall, and smelled of body odour and Germolene.” – Andrew Barrett, A Splendid Salmagundi

You must pay the toll!

It looks like I’ve made a new friend. There was an anonymous comment left on this blog entry. I inadvertently deleted it. However, look what I found in my e-mail: “’He had our HR person handle the situation. I’m furious . . .’ you are not just furious, you are bat shit crazy. Of course he had HR deal with you. Nobody ever wins an argument with a crazy lady!”

In my attempt to respond to the comment, it was deleted. Then another comment was left. I’m flattered, really. Someone invested that much energy in leaving an anonymous comment and then going back to my blog to see what their handiwork had accomplished.  

That’s as much of a platform I’m willing to give. Anonymous comments have been disabled – so if someone wishes to tell me I’m awful it must be done publicly. I’m sorry.

Just kidding! I’m not. This is my space.

I have a busy month ahead of me. I’m officiating a wedding for a friend, hosting his rehearsal and also mc-ing for the groom and bride. I’m not sure how the bride is fairing, but I can say that I feel like pulling my hair out every now and then. I’m honored they’ve asked me to do this for them, which is why I want everything to go smoothly.

Guess who gets to go back to biking next week?! This gal. My knee is finally healed from my stupid crash. I’ve felt like running in circles a little bit because I haven’t had an outlet for stress due to my knee being busted. I’m looking forward to getting back out there – and also intend to try riding up the hill to work someday. I’ll flaunt my victory when it’s done (it’s a heavy bike!). The next time I see someone with their fancy bike and gear I’d love nothing more than to lean over and whisper I’m better than you.

For the record, I wouldn’t really do that; these are the kinds of thoughts that cross my mind.

I'd say this is a pretty adequate representation of me right now.

Because I wasn’t biking while my knee was healing, I rode a different bus route to work that gave me an extra 20 minutes before I had to leave. I met a man on the bus. I think he has mistaken my friendliness as flirtation and has sent me a couple of email messages (he works for the same organization as me – and it’s a huge place). I’m just not interested and sounded very much like a petulant teenager when I was telling someone about my interaction with this man and exclaimed, I don’t want to!

Any person with common sense would simply say no. I am one of those idiots who has a really hard time doing that – which is why I’m scattered in 8 different directions more often than not. For now, however, I’m just avoiding the issue altogether.

If I can't see you I can't hear you. 

The last few weeks have been fairly intense. I’m in my new position. I love it immensely and I’m scrambling to learn everything as quickly as possible. It’s been an interesting transition. I work with a great and highly organized group of people with a high standard. When they reached out to me about the opening in their division I took that as high praise. I’m a lucky lady.

In other news, the hound and I may be volunteering for a weekend this summer at a camp for children with arthritis. A patient told me about it. I was floored; I thought arthritis was something that only comes with age. I can’t imagine experiencing that kind of pain. The organizer of the events seems happy to have the hound and me onboard. Merlin is going to be thrilled. Basset hounds are social by nature. Merlin has that trait magnified 10 times over. That’s one of the things that makes him so wonderful.

The cuteness! It kills me. Merlin does enjoy a good belly rub. Disclaimer: This is not Merlin.

As anticipated, memories have surfaced as I’ve been working on my blogumentary. It’s unpleasant but not impossible. It’s frustrating, but not overbearing. I’ll speak frankly, because this is my space and there’s something to telling secrets rather than trying to bury them. Clarissa Pinkola Estes touches on this in Women Who Run With the Wolves, “The keeping of secrets cuts a woman off from those who would give her love, succor, and protection. It causes her to carry the burden of grief and fear all by herself, and sometimes for an entire group, whether family or culture. Further, as Jung said, keeping secrets cuts us off from the unconscious.”

Her words are a source of strength while I keep digging. 

I’ve been surrounding myself with childhood things to remember my past. A plethora of things I had buried so far down that I had forgotten about them resurfaced. I was 19 and recently back from Africa. I met a man who asked about volunteering for one of the groups I worked with. I gave him my number because I was trusting and naïve. His name was Rajinder. I simply referred to him as ‘Raja’. He helped distribute food baskets to families in need over the holidays. We grabbed dinner together and I remember him telling me that he was recently released from prison for kidnapping and wanted to be upfront and honest with me. I don’t remember how he diminished that charge with his explanation, only that I didn’t feel threatened by him. I was in his apartment one evening and he started tickling me. He then kissed my neck and said, “It’s either this or tickles.” I have no idea what took place after that because I don’t remember and I’m bothered by that. I do know that I never spoke to him again. I feel as if I left there unscathed. I’ll hold on to that feeling.

Recently, I reached out to someone on facebook because his daughter was struggling with depression and suicidal tendencies. We’ve never met in person, we just know each other from an online group we both belonged to at one point. In his response to me, he referred to me as ‘yummy’ (he was looking at my photos for some reason). I feel nauseous and angry at the same time – not just because I felt objectified by him, but also because he has a wife and a teenage daughter struggling with depression. He’s been blocked and I’ll probably never speak to him again. I feel anger for his words to me and also for what I feel is blatant disregard for the emotional wellbeing of his teenage daughter. That’s not okay in my book.

I, on the other hand, am not a cheeseburger. Don't refer to me as 'yummy', asshole!

Perhaps I overreacted because of the fuzzy memory that resurfaced from when I was 19. I don’t know the answer.

I do know that I'm still putting the pieces of my life puzzle together. I should have been doing this work a long time ago. I am now, I suppose that's what really matters. I'm digging up the secrets I've buried and telling the stories that I never told. 

Something’s gotta stop the flow.

If you don’t recognize that line, it’s from an amazing movie called Ink. If you haven’t seen it I suggest putting it on your list. I’ve always had a hard time explaining it. It’s just that good.

The pathfinder in what is arguably one of the most memorable scenes. 

Now that my knee is better I think I might take up running again. I really need to. I know Merlin would want to join me, but he needs to take it easy. I used to be filled with an immense amount of guilt whenever I left him alone because I leave him alone when I’m at work all day. I’ve just acknowledged recently that I need to take time for myself, too. I doubt Merlin will hold it against me. He’s a happy camper as long as he gets his slow, meandering walks in the morning and evening. 

"I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories . .  water them with your blood and tears and laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom."  - Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

Turning Demons Into Ghosts

“When a woman insists ‘I am a survivor’ over and over again once the time for its usefulness is past, the work ahead is clear. We must loosen the person’s clutch on the survivor archetype. Otherwise nothing else can grow. “-  Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

There were a couple of nights last week when I simply just didn’t feel like sitting around in my tiny apartment, so I hit the pub by my house instead. On one of these nights I brought a copy of Women Who Run With the Wolves. I was specifically looking for a passage I had in mind to bring encouragement to a former co-worker. As I was shifting through the pages, I kept finding words that felt as if they were meant for me. I imagine I brought a tad bit of attention to myself, appearing as a mad woman by the constant change of my facial expressions with joy from one epiphany after another mixed in with the scowling of defeat while flipping through pages and not finding what I originally sought . . . . and every so often sipping my Feckin Ale.

The passage from Pinkola Estes struck a chord with me. At some point I had come to despise the word ‘survivor’, because I began to associate it with ‘victim’ and I really have no desire for any label whatsoever. Then I wondered how long I had felt that way towards that mentality; I couldn’t remember. And then I wondered if the book had planted that idea in my head at some point. Well played Pinkola Estes. Well played.

Can we just agree that I'm awesome and badass in general?

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt at peace with myself and the life I’m living. I wonder if I ever have until now. I’m not the only one who’s noticed. I actually had my adopted brother tell me that this is the first time since he’s met me that I haven’t seemed scattered and emotionally overwhelmed. He’s known me since I was 15. A good friend I’ve known since my early high school years has made the same observation through our online conversations. Since we live so far apart, we write each other notes and give ourselves the space to be honest with each other about what we’re thinking and feeling in life.

A large portion of my sense of finally having control of my life can be attributed to the project I began after watching Dear Zachary. It was such a sad story and had my mind running in circles over so many different things. Then I remembered what the director of the film said early on: he wanted to document the memories of his dear friend before they were lost forever. I realized I had a treasure trove in my possession: a large package sent to me by a distance relative several years ago that contained old letters my father had written to his grandparents ranging from the age of 10 up until he was 24.

A letter my father wrote around age 10 on the heading of my great-grandfather's business paper. This is too precious for words. 

I had to do something with this.

I started scanning and uploading old photos, letters, and documents. They tell a story. In fact, they tell many stories. I’m still piecing it together. I started what I call a ‘blogumentary’ – a good friend of mine equated it to a time capsule and is fascinated by my project while coming up with brilliant ideas of different directions I can take with it. I think the most important aspect of this project was the letters. It brought a piece of someone dearly missed in my life back to me. I laughed, I cried and I remembered. I remembered so many happy times I have with him. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around how I remember my father so much more over anyone else. I don’t have an answer. Perhaps it has to do with attachment theories and how closely I was bonded to him – perhaps it’s because I was given a great gift. I’ve seen many dark times in my life, and those memories were literally the only thing that kept me going. Knowing that someone loved me so selflessly at least once in my life kept a candle burning in me somewhere.

Reading the letters validates how I remember him - someone genuinely lovely and one of a kind. Of course, he had his flaws as all of us do in some form. I'd like to ask him about certain times in his life. I wish I could sit down and chat with him about all of this and also laugh at him - because he looks ridiculous in the photo of him smoking at 15. He was obviously a late bloomer. 

HA!

Eventually I’ll talk about the others and probably how my life played out in very distinct chapters after their deaths. I’m trying to remember and I’m processing. The entry about my father was emotionally difficult. The difference this time was that I wasn’t drowning in emotion – merely experiencing the sadness of loss. It didn’t feel like a floodgate had opened, causing me to feel so many things at once that I was not only overwhelmed, but in despair. No. I wasn’t the emotion this time. It was merely a small part of me for a moment. As my therapist put it when she noticed such a stark change in my demeanor that I know she’s never seen before: I’m turning my demons into ghosts.

Of course, my blogumentary may not be the only thing that deserves credit for my new aura. I started working for my new division two weeks ago. The division manager and I had been talking about me onboarding with them about a month prior to that. I guess it helped that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. The interpersonal atmosphere of my previous job began to get the best of me and I was all but miserable. I knew I needed to get out and I suppose knowing that I wouldn’t didn’t cause me to feel helpless. I heeded the advice of a good friend and kept submitting applications and going to one interview after another. She told me that it would make me feel like I was doing something about it, even if I knew I was ultimately at the mercy of the interviewers. She was right. I felt like I was in control of the situation even though I knew I wasn’t really. The majority of us spend most of our time at work. I think it’s important to be with people that make us happy and give us a sense of value.

Stupidity and meanness in general. How is that kind of attitude ever acceptable? 

Additionally, reconnecting with an old and dear friend who has encouraged me through the tough times has been a blessing in my life as well. When I doubted myself she reminded me of who I was. She reminded me of who I was so long ago – a version of myself I had all but forgotten. She reminded me of who I was. My father, through his letters, the photos and the memories that I’ve held close to me throughout my life – he also reminded me of who I was. I reconnected with that part of myself somehow.

Perhaps everything aligned in the perfect order at the perfect time. I don’t know the answer, really. I just know that I’m grateful.

While emotional pain has been off the dockets, physical pain is something else entirely. I was up late Monday morning with Merlin at the pet hospital. I thought he might have cancer and I was preparing myself for the worst – telling myself that I’d make him as comfortable as possible and give myself, and those who knew him ample time to say goodbye. The end result was arthritis. Arthritis from old age and also from the genetic ailments of being a basset hound. Not the best news in the world, but certainly not the worst, either. He can’t do any more trail hikes, and for the time being we only walk a block or two at a time.

I felt badly about it for a few days because I realized that while I’ve simply thought that he’s just slowed down over the last several months he’s been in a considerable amount of pain. He limps a little still. I hate it because I know he’s hurting and I don’t want that for him. Admittedly, I am a little sad over it – but I knew this would come eventually. Merlin won’t out live me and someday he won’t be with me anymore. To date, he has been the only constant presence in my life throughout my journey of healing and self-discovery. He’s pretty special, and I’m not the only one who sees it.

Just look at him! He's so many levels of awesome in a short legged package. 

So, after being at the pet hospital for nearly 5 hours and getting home quite late – I decide to bike to work the next day. I distinctly remember having some form of a subliminal message telling me that, for that morning in particular, it wasn’t a good idea. I’m sure it was because I knew I was tired from the late night. It had been a very long day overall. The ride was fine until I got to the tram that transports us bottom dwellers to the top of the hill. It was then that I rode my bike just a tad bit farther in than usual before dismounting and walking the rest of the way. That tiny bit of extra distance was enough for me to get my front wheel caught in the street car tracks and flip over with my bike. I think the adrenaline prevented me from knowing the extent of my injuries until a couple of days later. OMG! It hurts!

Yeah . . . . that really happened. I'm never riding near those things again.

I’ve been limping around like an arthritic drunkard. I took a huge chunk of flesh out of my knee. It’s growing back and that process is unpleasant – it’s a sharp, stinging pain followed by a constant, dull aching. I impacted both of my wrists and somehow managed to jar one of my shoulders. I’m finally able to lift my right arm upwards to full extension, but not for long because the pain kicks in. Merlin and I are quite the pair these days. We both limp around the neighborhood on short walks.

This isn't my knee, but from the looks of it, a fairly similar grappling match with the concrete. 

Seeing that it was only the second week of me biking to and from work – I’m slightly disappointed. My landlord was kind enough to agree to look at my bike to make sure it’s safe to ride and even offered me the use of his mountain bike in the meantime. A kind offer, but I have a feeling my knee would split open and then I’d fall of the side of the road, land in a ditch somewhere and barely manage to crawl myself out only to be hit by oncoming traffic. I decided I wasn’t biking for at least the rest of the week. If my knee is still recovering, possibly not next week, either. I just want to throw a bandaid on the stupid thing and be done with it. I was proud of myself for biking that hilly road home using a heavy framed 3 speed bike when everyone else has fancy lightweight bikes with pedal assist. Biking made me feel efficiently tough for a few days and then I tipped over and realized I’m not. Fine.

That's a potentially real scenario. This photo proves it. Sort of. 

Two of my favorite people took me to dinner last night. Considering that this week has been draining in general, it was a treat to be around two folks who are so uplifting. I admitted that I thought that waiter was cute and could barely manage eye contact with him. It’s pathetic, really. Then again, I don’t care. Having a shyness about me doesn’t bother me a bit. I’m quite content with where I am. Granted, I have had some moments which cause me to stop and think to myself, What on earth has come over me? I don’t know how it works. Maybe I’ll learn to tap into that boldness energy as well.

Someday I won't cling to the wall avoiding what's in front of me nearly every single time. 

I realized I haven’t been dancing in over a year now. I’m okay with that. For some time I missed it a good deal. I have too many other things going on right now. I’ve gone back to writing and that’s an art form that genuinely makes me happy. I’m focusing on my new job. Also, I’m focusing on the hound. I don’t want him to leave this world and have regrets about time I could have spent with him and things I could have done for him and with him. I suppose there’s always room for more, but I give him as much as I can. For someone who has given so much to me and supported me through times when my mind got the best of me, he deserves every good thing I can give him. 

Merlin's smug look of self fulfillment after walking into my doctor's office and barking at him.

When walking with Merlin I'm now in the habit of automatically saying, "Excuse me! Will you let my dog say hello?" He's a love. A big, gigantic, wonderful love.