I Surrender

"Success is not measured by what you accomplish, but by the opposition you have encountered, and the courage with which you have maintained the struggle against overwhelming odds." - Orison Swett Marden

This doesn't have much to do with anything.  LOOK AT THOSE LITTLE FLUFFS!! *LOOK AT THEM*

I’ve missed this. I’ve missed this a heck of a lot. Unfortunately, my schedule hasn’t permitted much room for creativity. I’ve been working 2 jobs since July. I work on the weekends at the airport. I thought I’d help us get ahead financially. What happened with that is just one thing after another that demands the extra money. So, I tell myself to calm down, pick up another debt tackling book (I hear Dave Ramsey’s methods have done wonders for people), and try again when I can now that I’m finally starting to find some form of a ‘groove’ in my life.

It’s not the 2 jobs so much as it is a lot of other things in life that manages to drain my soul dry. My commute is long and frustrating. I’m looking at a minimum of 1 hour no matter which method I choose to use traveling to and from work and home. I’ve been sticking to my bike as much as possible because that at least gives me a good amount of exercise during the week and serves as a stress outlet for my work environment. I think the main issue I have with that commute is that it just makes for a really long day. Now that I’m working 4 10’s instead of 8 hour M-F, my days feel even longer. The plus side is that I now have a day off, and I’ve been working 7 straight for months on end.

And I’m tired. So very tired. There’s a lot of factors that contribute to my lethargy. My work stress, my work load, my family, and also the fact that I feel as if I’ve never really had time to process just the events of the beginning of the year. I lost a baby; and I was elated beyond words at the thought of that baby. I moved in with The One, Micheal. Just a couple of months after that Micheal’s son, Kolby, came to stay with us for 9 weeks. And in the middle of that I was planning one killer surprise birthday party bash for Micheal.

Get it?! It was pun themed and karaoke. Two of his favorite things. 

On a side note, I have to give myself bragging rights. I spent months planning that party, putting together favor bags for guests to take home, coming up with ideas, etc. While he has considerably more time at home than me, I still managed to get it all together without him knowing. I am awesome. .  . or he’s just really good at pretending to be surprised. Touché, Sir. Touché.

With Kolby there for the summer, I had my first shot at being a step mom to a tween boy. He’s recently turned 12 and caught in that space between childlike and paving on into adult hood. I found I really suck at it. I’ve done youth support groups, but all of my work with children and teens has been with females. What on earth was I going to do with a boy?! Also, I was certainly the Debbie Downer. Father’s stance: Sure! You can watch tv and play video games while I’m at work. When I’m home, we can play them together until 12 AM in the morning. My Stance: Heck no! What have you done to better yourself or contribute to the greater good?! Go outside and learn something!!!

 I just wish I could have been around to provide some form of mentor or companionship. Heck, I wish I could have afforded to send him to a really cool learning camp during the day. But I can’t; so I was the voice of reason most of the time: well balanced meals, do some chores, I don’t care if you don’t like the look of that vegetable you’ll try it anyway, etc.

And I feel for that kid. His situation sucks. It sucks for everyone, really. I try not to think about it too much because there isn’t anything I can do about it. I can only hope something gives and that I’m doing what’s best for him. I felt like I was far more neurotic with him with us. I had to take far more care to what I wore around the apartment, locking doors while in bedroom, shower, etc. He’s at an age where I need to be cautious with those things. Not that I’m complaining, it’s just that it felt like an impossible adjustment while I was trying to process my loss.

Loss wasn’t my only experience. The other was abandonment. My adopted family decided to sell most of their possessions and buy a house in Hawaii. Of course, the biological son moved with them (the one who hasn’t had a job in decades or paid his way through life) and there wasn’t even a mention of ‘Sorry we’re moving so far’ – like no remorse whatsoever. I suppose I should have expected that, but I was also holding onto some shred of hope that my entire situation with them wasn’t the sham that I thought it was.

Abandonment: that awful feeling of being unloved, unwanted, not good enough. 

They would call me every so often after their move. I was working 7 days a week and they’d make me feel guilty for not reaching me right away and tell me about tiling their backyard. I was riding my bike home one evening, thinking about how I was going to find time to take my car into DEQ and register because I was overdue. I was worried about getting a ticket. I started to take note of the things around me: the smells, the shops, the types of buildings. I realized this was something that wasn’t seen in an affluent neighborhood. My adopted family wouldn’t allow anything like that to be anywhere near where they lived. None of the residents of an affluent neighborhood would. And I realized that tickets are really only given to the poor and I wouldn’t have to worry about my registration being overdue if I had still lived in the same neighborhood as my adopted family. That was when I realized this family wasn’t even on the same planet as me and I needed some space.

So I backed off. I changed my cell phone number and didn’t give it to adopted mother or brother. They kept calling Micheal’s phone. Then their calls increased to where they were calling several times a day. I wound up writing them an email asking them to stop and saying that I needed space to sort out how my relationships will be defined going forward. I give them credit for honoring my request. Yesterday, I received a Christmas card in the mail from adopted mother that was all about family. I had no reaction to it, really.

And there was a span of time where I questioned if I’m doing the right thing. My therapist has been telling me to get out of that situation for years and reiterated that I absolutely am doing the right thing. Before I establish regular contact again, I’m told it’s important for me to determine every single reason I’m angry with adopted mom. And that’s something I’ll need to process on my own, because that family isn’t the type to ever admit error. I have to put myself first here, so it will be a while before I’m ready for a full relationship with them again.

"Some of us think holding on makes us strong, but sometimes it is letting go" - Hermann Hesse

In the work front, I’m trying to get in with a clinic that’s an extension of the large hospital. This clinic is closer to my home and caters to underserved populations. Everything about it aligns with my own moral compass. It just seems like a win/win to me, so I keep trying to get them to take me on. I’ve interviewed several times for different positions. I’m not selected in the end, but they do keep having me back. In the beginning, I asked for honest feedback.  I half joked with them last time that I’d have to resort to subliminal messaging to get them to hire me. I think they thought I was literally joking. No. I wasn’t. I spammed them several times within a week. Part of it was following through with my words and the other part was my own frustration and disappointment that I’d been passed up again. The email itself is fairly amusing. I might post it here.

I was contacted by the clinic again last week. They’ll be having me back for another interview. I’m giving them to next week for word before I commence with spamming once again. The emails consist of some random photo of me and what that says about my character. I figure before this is all over, they will give me a job. Or a restraining order. Either way, I will feel as if my work has paid off.

Back to major life events: moving in with Micheal earlier this year. It was an adjustment to come home to someone else every day. He’s always the calm one while I flitter about worrying of some impending apocalyptic doom that’s entirely made up in my head. We learned some ground rules early on. And between my needing space to process and him wanting my presence when I get home, we’ve found an equilibrium. We’ve found a common ground on most things.  There was a day when I felt hungry before I jumped on my bike. As I neared the end of my 15 mile trek home from work I thought I could devour an entire village. We had pizza the night before, so I knew it was waiting for me.

1 slice. There was one damn slice of pizza.

That’s when Micheal learned that I require 2 slices or none at all. Of course, had I not been so hungry I don’t think I would have cared at all. And I laugh about it every time I tell that story because I was still hormonal due to HCG taking a million years to leave my system, under slept and dressed out.

I think what’s important is that we can laugh at ourselves at the end. There are days when I’m temperamental and there are days when he is. We can always come back to one another. That’s a habit we haven’t had to put much work into, and I think that’s because we both wasted too long not being together. There are times when I look at him still and think I’m dreaming; somehow this isn’t my reality. Just last night I thought to myself, “This must be what surrender feels like: perfect and genuine trust.” And when I had that thought, I realized I haven’t genuinely trusted a single person in a very long time. I guess that has to do with my own guards: waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the other person to turn on me, trying to outdraw someone and shoot first. Micheal sees the best in everyone and I see some of his behavior has rubbed off on me. And he deals with the aging and grump basset hound like a pro. He has my heart. I surrender.

There have been so many ups and downs this year that I can’t recall now because I’m too far removed. The gist of most of that is that my work environment is fairly toxic and I’ve found beauty in the smallest of things. Those are the things that help me push forward to another day to face the madness again.

The biggest event of this year was our engagement. I confess, he caught me by surprise and I didn’t see it coming. I had actually set this outing in motion. It just so happened that no one else could come with us with the exception of David and Mary (Micheal’s brother and brother’s fiancé). I’ve always loved the festive lights this time of year. That was probably my favorite part about Christmas when I was a little girl. Several years ago Micheal took me to Peacock Lane. This year he took me to Festival of Lights at The Grotto. It was raining, so he bought me an umbrella on the way. I had wanted to go for some time. In hindsight, he looked at me differently. As I went on and on about the lights, the music, how lovely it all was, he looked on at me and smiled.

Before leaving the lights, we were to stop for a picture together. He asked me to pick a spot. I chose the Christmas tree, which I thought would be perfect for holiday cards. We smiled for the camera while his brother and brother’s fiancé took photos. He then turned to me and said ‘that’s not all’ as he pulled out a small box. True to my character, I was overcome with emotion. I didn’t say yes or no right away. Instead I said, “Are you going to make me vomit?! I’m going to vomit” dozens of times. Of course, the answer was a big fat yes.

Look at that expression! It's genuine joy. As a friend said, "I can't tell if he's just proposed or given you a puppy". 

Since he had planned this out, we were fortunate to have photos. We went through them when we got home. In the first photo taken of us, he’s holding the ring behind my back. I was still clueless when that photo was taken. Everything about that night was perfect, right down to him calming me before we left when I got home right after work because I thought I’d make everyone have to wait on us. The ring is a testament to how much this guy understands me, because I know no one else could have possibly picked out something I love this much.

Just a week or two prior to this, I had finally finished a gift I’d been working on for Micheal. It took me the course of several months. Whether or not he remembers, he gave me the idea. It’s  a soundtrack of our love story, complete with break up songs since this is our third time at this. I picked out songs that told our story from my perspective, tweaking it until I had everything arranged to have the right blow. It wasn’t just the song or the lyrics, but also which version I thought was best. And then I fought with the dang thing even more when I couldn’t figure out how to actually get it onto CD because of some dumb error message I kept getting from the computer I was using. I gave him the files, he burned them onto discs, and then I made them pretty with things I had purchased on Amazon specifically for this gift. We joke that if we have a wedding we’ll make everyone listen to our soundtrack.

As the year comes to an end, I can look back with nothing but gratitude. Gratitude for the blessings and the hardships that resulted in my own growth. Gratitude for the tough decisions I had to make and the learning I still have yet to do. Gratitude for this wonderful human being that has come back into my life for good, one who has shown a patience and tenderness that has not been granted to me for many years. As he’s told me over and over again, he’s got me; he has my back. Indeed you do, Sir. I surrender. 

The Grotto was originally simply a refuge of peace to me. Now it has taken on another meaning. 

“I didn’t fall in love with you. I walked into love with you, with my eyes wide open, choosing to take every step along the way. I do believe in fate and destiny, but I also believe we are only fated to do the things we’d choose anyway. And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.” – Kiersten White, The Chaos of Stars

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. 

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. 

Rejection

“Life is a succession of lessons, which must be lived to be understood.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’ve been crying myself to sleep for weeks now and have only just begun to question why. In fact, I was only able to admit yesterday that I’m sad. Now that I’ve been reflecting on it, it’s not surprising because I’ve invested so little in my own emotional well-being; and I’m not the only one that knows that, my closest friends recognize my tendency to always put others first. I had to ask myself a multitude of questions yesterday, each one almost always leading to another before I found the root of the issue: rejection.

One of the definitions for rejection is ‘to discard as useless or unsatisfactory’. That has always been my personal view of self when I experience rejection. Reflecting over this last year, I’ve experienced a good deal of rejection; and now it makes sense to me that I could only sum up this past year as difficult and am happy to see it go.

I have an on and off again rejective relationship with my adoptive mother – one who is constantly pushing and pulling. I’m fine with the pushing, not so much the pulling; because I know that her current state of kindness towards me is flippant and fleeting and I know it’s only a matter of time before she tries to wound me again. Also the rejection I feel over her blatant favoritism.

I felt consistently rejected during my stint with online dating and generally frustrated when I continually met awful people. Of the handful of dates that did go well (or at least I thought they did), I either never heard from them again, or there would be several more dates followed by him distancing himself from me.  The rejection hurt and the frustration of someone unwilling to tell me they’re no longer interested rather than forcing me to ask instead of wondering what went wrong made me want to hurl things at times. For the record, I never threw anything – but it probably would have been very cathartic . . . .  Perhaps I should start throwing things.

Pillows in my apartment and rocks in nature beware! Your days are numbered.

I felt rejected recently when the position I was gunning for went to the other candidate. Once again I felt useless and unsatisfactory. A person in another division suggested I apply and I put so much effort into doing my research on the higher ups in the division and mentally preparing myself for interviews. The processed involved several and I nailed every single one. What it boiled down to in the end is that the other person had more experience than me.

There is a consistent feeling of rejection when the manager plays favorites in the office. The latter form of rejection just angers me, so I’m struggling to ignore it entirely. My guess is that I’m only struggling with ignoring it because it’s consistently shoved in my face. Every. Single. Workday.

This seems oddly fitting: Turn away green fish with your different social background, ideals and outlook!

My most recent rejection hurt the most. I’m still processing the emotions, and there are many. I spent too much time with a friend and had far too many communicative interactions when he wasn’t physically with me. I began to love him and knew it just wouldn’t be. Unfortunately, there’s just no ‘off’ button for these sorts of things, at least as far as I know. I knew he was emotionally vulnerable and dealing with his own form of pain and I never took advantage of his trust or that situation. I never made a move and didn’t reveal my feelings until he badgered me into speaking the words that had been on my heart. I didn't expect him to love me back and I knew he wouldn't. Of course I was rejected and I knew I would be which is why I never wanted him to know. I felt both cornered and vulnerable during our discussion; I loathe those feelings.

Now I don’t want anything to do with him. I don’t know if that’s the hurt of rejection speaking right now or that deep down I know any connection with him will only lead to major damage to my own emotional well-being. It could even be that I don't want him to see because I may very well burst into tears the moment I see his face or that it's highly likely things will never just go back to the way they were. All I know now is that I feel hurt in a very visceral way. It’s been pulsing through my veins ever since we had that conversation. It is very unpleasant and I do not like it. Granted, I was hurting long before that, but was in major denial and this experience has amplified the painful feelings.

I kept my feelings to myself because I didn't want to lose the friendship. That now seems like a pointless endeavor.

“I know love is a fading thing just as fickle as a feather in a stream. See, honey, I saw love. You see it came to me. It put its face up to my face so I could see. Yeah then I saw love disfigure me into something I am not recognizing.” – Phosphorescent, Song for Zula

It is a rare person in this world that can get me to open up to them entirely and it is even rarer for me to genuinely love another romantically. I didn’t know what hit me when I felt it for the first time at the age of 28. Everything up until then was suddenly child’s play. Reflecting on those two encounters with a deep form of love in my life, it’s fairly obvious to me that I’m attracted to the broken. I don’t know if it starts out by my desire to help someone through a tough time in life due to my compassionate nature or if there’s something psychologically deeper than what I see on the surface of which I need to find the root cause and work through it.

My mantra for the new year: I will not love broken things. Unless it's the hound; he deserves all the love in the world.

For me, experiencing any emotion on a deep level is usually comparable to stirring a pot of stew where the ingredients surface that were previously hidden below. My past experiences come to surface and the emotions attached to those experiences come to surface as well. I feel the rejection of abandonment by a caregiver’s words and deeds, or those taken by death. I feel the emotional rejection that I experienced by many caregivers growing up. I know deep down there’s a little girl in there somewhere who wants nothing more than to be loved and accepted. For a period of time in my life I was so desperate for those things that I didn’t care what my source was – even if the person was abusive, even if I only used some form of self-medicating just so I didn’t have to feel the emptiness.

There is no quick fix. In the words of Rumi (paraphrased): Experience the pain to find the remedy

Once again I’m crossing the face of the mountain I’m climbing in my attempt to work through these issues. For the last few days, I’ve been letting myself feel, regardless of how unpleasant those feelings are. Consequently, I’m crying much more when I’m alone.  I have become so accustomed to shoving my emotions down and showing the world at least a calm face if not a smile that I just don’t know how to stop. I keep trying, yet I keep finding myself pushing those feelings as far down as I can because I don’t want anyone to know how badly they’ve wounded me, how disappointed I am, or how much I’m hurting in general.

I’ve never been one for New Year’s resolutions. This year will be different. I’m making a few commitments to myself this time around. 2015 will begin with rejection. I am rejecting the entire year of 2014 and probably finding some ceremonious way to say goodbye to it and all of the events that took place within the course of this year. I’ll be giving myself some emotional space to allow myself to process the things that I keep shoving back in the recesses of my psyche. That will probably entail more crying and possibly hurling objects about. So be it. Here's to better days ahead.  

This will be another mantra.