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

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

Only Kindness Matters

“Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Word can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.” – Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

I’ve become extremely sensitive to kindness lately and have had a few more of those moments when a fellow human being shows me one iota of genuine compassion or sincere kindness I start to crumble. I don’t know the reason behind this, but I have a few ideas.

I was at tango on Friday and the topic of me moving came up. One of my fellow tango dancers offered me his place for less money and it’s closer to my job and most of the tango venues. His kind offer made me bawl my eyes out. Upon further discussion, I learned that he will be away from the home for 5 months, but will return after that and we would be house mates. While I’m sure he has nothing but the best intentions in mind, I can’t risk putting myself in yet another potentially harmful situation. I know him, but I don’t know him that well. While my new place may be a bit of a hovel with no real kitchen, I am one of the most innovative people I know and am certain this is the best scenario for Merlin and me.

He's my love and the one thing I care about most in this world. 

One of my friends wasn’t so convinced. She mentioned jumping from one frying pan to another. Sure it’s not ideal circumstances, but here are my options: continue to live in a toxic environment or get the hell out. I chose the latter. Where I’ve lived the last several years have never truly been a home to me and I’ve not really been able to use the kitchen for the most part anyway – so what’s the difference? I’m trading a little bit of convenience, but that’s really all I’m giving up. I just can’t live under the same roof as someone who is unpredictable, angry and negative. I’ve been pretending in this environment for a long time and I’m quite certain I’ve reached a point where I can’t pretend anymore.

This. I just can't.

I’ve had a long standing record of issues with maternal figures in my life – the women who were supposed to care for me and have my best interests in mind used me to manipulate others, financial gain, or as a buffer to their public image. Granted, I’ve received motherly care from very unexpected places and they’ve loved me, cheered for me and have been a constant source of support without expecting anything in return. My current maternal figure has been no exception. While she did legally adopt me, it became apparent to me soon after that it was to boost her own image so her social circle and colleagues could see what a good person she was for all of the things she did for the little orphan lass.

Because I never know what mood is going to greet me at the other end of the door, I dread going to the place that I’ve called home. It feels as if all the negativity, anger and hostility she’s ever felt towards any single person or situation is set aside and saved specifically for me. The last straw came when she told me she wished the hound dead; this coming from the woman who displayed herself as supportive when Cassie died. That was it. I haven’t been able to pretend to be even slightly content in that environment. In fact, I’m sick and tired of pretending. I’ve seen what a lifetime of her verbal lashings have done to her son who is nearly 20 years my senior: he still lives at home, has no motivation of leaving and does none of the things that most responsible adults would do: own a car, pay rent, buy food, etc. I refuse to let her wear me down to the point that I’ve given up on life.

No knock on my brother. I love him. On the same note, I'd rather live in a cave in the wilderness than have to live one more day in that house. 

I made another trip to my favorite shop this weekend with a friend. As usual, the owner knew exactly what I needed and had nothing but love and support to give me. As I told her about my current transitions in life and the hurtful, threatening words towards the living being I love most in this world, the shop owner said this, “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I’d be thrilled to have a daughter like you.” Once again the flood gates opened and there I was bawling my eyes out – in public – in the middle of a store. I think I’ve become so conditioned to negativity that I don’t know how to handle kindness and every negative thought I’ve ever had about myself has been consistently reinforced by the current environment in which I’m living.

The smallest form of kindness and I can't stop crying.

For a brief time I felt guilt over having no concern for my adoptive mother. She was hospitalized. It was nothing serious – a condition that causes some really nasty headaches. While it was a painful condition, it was nothing that was life-threatening. While this was going on and the doctors were running a battery of tests to determine the root cause, I had no concern whatsoever that she was in the hospital. It’s not that I didn’t visit and it’s not that I didn’t go out of my way to do nice things for her – I just realized that my actions felt forced and disingenuous. I felt worry over the fact that I may have turned sociopathic from my constant exposure to such a toxic environment – and that was the only thing that concerned me. When I saw my therapist later that week she told me that I shouldn’t spend any more time saving, just get out. That’s exactly what I sought out to do.

While I found a place and have been consumed with packing boxes instead of fawning over my adoptive mother, she only comes across as resenting me more for it. Any time I enter the house (which she reminds me is hers on a regular basis) I’m bombarded with a plethora of her, ‘You need to’ and ‘You’re not doing this right’ among many other things. Recently I responded by telling her that I’m an adult and I am confident that I’ll figure it out. She’s basically ignored me since and has resorted to her own special form of passive aggressive action: she knew I will be moving the last weekend of April/first weekend of May. She knew that her husband and son wanted to help me move. She decides that the last weekend of April/first weekend of May should be the best time for her to take a two week trip to Hawaii with her husband. The end result has been a lot of pressure to get all of my things out NOW. Because I’m working full time and house/pet sitting in a neighboring city that gives me a little bit of a commute, this has been a considerable source of stress to me.

It’s almost over. It’s almost over.

Reflecting on the last several years of my life combined with the conditioning I received at such a young age, I’m not surprised why I’ve failed so much in relationships and why I tend both gravitate towards and attract what proves to be harmful to me in the end. I'm working on breaking that. I can do a lot about my own outlook on life, but very little on others. It's an individual process. I know that once I’m away from her influence I’ll not only feel better about myself, but other aspects of my life will improve as well.

On another note,  I survived an interaction with the Beloved and it was nice to have one of those rare moments when we can sort of talk without scrambling in opposite directions. He seems content in life and I wish him the best . . . . and then there was the brief moment I saw a pretty young lady sitting on his lap while he played music in a rather intimate manner. My first immediate reaction was the realization that I desperately wanted to punch this girl in the face. The other realization came a couple of days later and it was this: despite how much I cared for him, I was really nothing but a number among his long list of admirers. When I’m ready to date again, I think I deserve to be more than a name on a list; and I won’t be ready for that aspect of life again for a while. I’m hoping that bearing witness to that brief moment will be the nail in the coffin and I can finally lay all of those feelings I bore for him to rest. I need to move forward in life. Deep down, I’ve known this for a long time and perhaps I’ve finally reached a point in my life that will enable me to do so. 

A New Chapter

“We must be willing to get rid of the live we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. The old skin has to be shed before the new one can come.” – Joseph Campbell

I know I’ve been posting a lot lately – but I take it as a good sign because I’ve got nothing but good news these days. I’m starting a new chapter. Just knowing this has lifted a huge burden off of my shoulders and I feel light and free. I woke up this morning and it’s the first time in a long while that I didn’t feel like waging war on myself by being self-destructive. I didn’t feel defeated; I didn’t feel as if I was losing the longest battle I’ve ever fought. I feel relieved – happy even – and that’s a pretty good feeling.

Let there be light! It's kinda a big deal for those of us who dwell in Portlandia - HUGE actually.

I’m growing suspicious of my Celtic Spirit meditation book; I think it’s reading my mind or something. Today’s reflection was The Prayer of the Spring Equinox, of darkness fading to light and new beginnings. I’m grateful for those words and I’m grateful that the sun is shining today. I’m not even upset anymore over not fitting into my jeans due to the pounds I packed on after Cassie died. It’s not permanent. I’ll get back to where I want to be soon enough. Also, I’m pretty damn lucky because I carry it well and no one seems to have even noticed the weight gain except for me – or they’re being extremely polite because I’m my own worst critic.

On the topic of criticism I struck up a conversation with one of my gal pals last night regarding how insanely self-conscious we females are. For every good quality that someone points out to a woman, I can guarantee she has a list of at least five things in her head that she thinks is ‘wrong’ with her. I’m not sure if this is built into our DNA or something engrained in us when we were little girls, but women tend to have insanely unrealistic expectations regarding their appearance; and not just their features, their size as well. I’m making a commitment to myself to not criticize every single imperfection and focus on the things that I can change – like the weight gain; and this is something I’m doing for me and no one else. And I also need to take my own advice and start noting my good qualities and what I’m doing right.

Ladies, let's stop striving for the unrealistic perfection that others tell us we should be. 

There’s this hilarious song by Flight of the Conchords called ‘Business Time’. This song mentions business socks. I wore my business socks last night – but within an entirely different context. I went to tango to meet with a friend I haven’t seen in a few weeks. I missed him. Guess who forgot her dancing shoes? This gal. The funny part is that I actually had two pairs of shoes in the bag that I took with me and I somehow managed to leave them behind when I was shuffling things in and out of my bag. So there I was. In my business socks. Dancing. It was challenging, but still fun.

Dancing is serious business. 

I may have had a small victory over my relentless reptilian brain as well. I danced with a guy my age and I was at perfect ease (even though I was dancing in business socks). I’ve given it some thought because I want to know what was different about this experience that made me feel so comfortable with him. I had a shot of bourbon; I had spent the entire day consuming caffeine to keep myself awake. I was still too wired for bourbon to knock me down a couple of notches, so that was most definitely not the reason. Before he and I danced he spent some time talking to me. He shared his art; we talked about hobbies and a variety of other things. I’m thinking that’s why I felt at ease – and it was lovely . .  . and yet another reason for me to wake up feeling grateful.

Did I mention it was close embrace as well? Thank you fellow tango dancer!

Tonight is another tango adventure. I have a feeling I won’t be dancing much because the crowd is going to be insane and I volunteer on Friday evenings. I’m slightly nervous. Beloved is going to DJ – and I’ve missed him. While I’d love nothing more than to hug him and talk for a while, I’m going to refrain from that urge. I’ve got to get my head on straight and deal with all of the baggage that I kept stuffing down so it doesn’t latch onto someone else, so I don’t lash out at anyone close to me. I’m working on forgiving myself for that as well.

I have a good feeling about my new chapter in life. I’m marking it with a tattoo I’ve been coveting for years, Says the gal that just got an apartment and needs to save money for practical things. I asked for some insight from my co-worker and jogging partner. Her thoughts echo my own – everything is aligning so perfectly and it should be honored. So I’ll be keeping the appointment I made on Tuesday and not worry about spending a small chunk of change on myself for something that isn’t practical in life, but honors a spiritual aspect of myself. 

This awesomeness is going on my back. 

Sweetest Downfall

When god (aka tango instructor) spoke to me during my emotional breakdown, she said something that I’ve been churning over in my mind since, “Don’t’ live with regret.” She mentioned the biblical story of Sodom and Gomorrah; the characters were turned to salt when they looked back. Moral of the story: don’t look back. Look forward instead. That’s a lot easier said than done, but I’m still trying. This doesn’t mean we don’t learn from our experiences and mistakes, it simply means we don’t live in the past – in what has already taken place – in the things we cannot change.

Live in the moment and make it beautiful - I'm still trying to get there.

I’ve touted a good deal of regret with me for many years; and not just regret, but also guilt. I feel guilt for the life I live sometimes – because I ask myself why I’m a college graduate and my sister has been swallowed by life and I have no idea how even start looking for her. I regret that I don’t know how to find her and I regret that I couldn’t do more for her. Then I have to look at it like a rational person, What could I have possibly done differently? The answer is nothing. I have to let that go. We were children. There’s a very unpleasant feeling that comes with being a powerless child. I keep reminding myself that I’m no longer a powerless child, but someone who has a say in her future and her here and now.

Then there are the people from my past I carry with me like heavy weights – because I feel guilt over having some measure of success in this life and know that they suffer for their choices. I’ve made choices, too – I just feel that somehow it was luck of the draw. I have to remind myself that while that is a small part of the equation, it’s not the whole equation. I didn’t choose the same path and that’s why I have no criminal record or teenage children before I make it to thirty or in a really bad marriage. Granted, I almost made that mistake once. I dodged a bullet.

Then there’s regret over lashing out at the wrong person. My sweetest downfall in life was loving someone deeper than I knew myself capable and seeing the beauty in life again. Before that time in my life and before the Beloved and I crossed paths again I felt as if my life was drifting in a black sea. It’s still mind blowing to me that joy can be a trigger simply because it’s as emotionally strong as fear. I regret the words I said when I was both confused and in pain and even still now I wish I could take it all back, but there’s no rewind button to this life we’re living, is there? I’m quite certain that’s my biggest regret in life. And there are times I regret hardly being able to speak to him the few times I’ve seen him since . . . . so I remind myself that regret is a destructive force and I can’t keep living if I’m too busy beating myself up.

"You are my sweetest downfall

I loved you first, I loved you first

Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth

I have to go, I have to go

Your hair was long when we first met . . . 

Samson came to my bed 

Told me that my hair was red

Told me that I was beautiful and came into my bed

Oh I cut his hair myself one night

A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light

And he told me that I'd done alright

And he kissed me 'til the mornin' light . . . " - Regina Spektor

So while I honor the practice of not berating myself, I have noted things that I most certainly do not regret. I don’t regret ever being owned by my dogs; those two furry babies have been my constant joy and comfort since one precious little lady literally walked into my life and the other was a treasure I sought out. I don’t regret ever purchasing or wearing a fake engagement ring. It’s either boosted my confidence because I don’t feel like I have to hide away or it really does have mystical powers that ward off predatory douchebags. I don’t regret all the times I tried and failed. I don’t regret starting tango only because I wanted another means of connection with someone; the dance turned into one of the best forms of therapy. Overall, I don’t regret moving to Portland. Sure, the sun practically never shines here – but my time here has been far more enriching than any experience the Central Valley could have possibly offered.

I confess my quads are killing me - but I am so going to own this mother f-er

I don’t regret starting a couch to 5k challenge with my co-worker; I was quite certain I was near death on day 1 – yet here I am and we’re still chipping away at it. I don't regret that my hardest lesson learned in life was also my sweetest downfall. I don’t regret living, losing, loving or crying. I don’t regret who I am, either – quirky gal with occasional meltdowns, PTSD rage and hesitation blended with a whole lot of laughter. I often say ‘I regret nothing!’ in jest – I’m thinking that’s something I should start taking seriously. Lastly, I don't regret the expensive dress I just ordered so I can showcase the tattoo I'm getting in a couple of weeks. 

Okay . . . not quite as dramatic - but it's still going to be awesome.

(dis) ability

“Part of the problem with the word ‘disabilities’ is that it immediately suggests an inability to see or hear or walk or do other things that many of us take for granted. But what of people who can’t feel? Or talk about their feelings? Or manage their feelings in constructive ways? What of people who aren’t able to form close and strong relationships? And people who cannot find fulfillment in their lives, or those who have lost hope, who live in disappointment and bitterness and find in life no joy, no love? These, it seems to me, are the real disabilities.”  - Fred Rodgers

Those that are close to me know that I have worked long and hard for many years to overcome a very traumatic past. This doesn’t mean that I’m still not affected. I have relapses from time to time, usually triggered by a combinations of stressful events that occur simultaneously and are  a little too much for me to process at one given time, or a trauma has repeated itself. For women with abusive pasts in particular, this is not uncommon. We find ourselves repeating the same patterns over and over again – regardless of how educated and self-aware we are that this happens. We think it will be different this time around; the ending is the same.

I've given considerable time to reflect on these instances in my life. The end result is almost always the same every single time - I refuse to admit it's happening and then I'm ashamed to admit that it's happened. I'm taking a very long break from dating for now. 

I don’t share my story with many, mostly because it’s literally one sob story after another. I choose not to dwell in the past, but strive to move past it. From my experience, most people attempt to understand and don’t treat me like a fragile piece of porcelain that will fall to pieces at the slightest crack.

As I’ve documented my experience with tango, it’s been no secret that I often come across women who seem to hate me for no reason whatsoever. I also come across women who love and accept me as I am – they do not require explanations, but offer an understanding that I am rarely granted from my gender. I am grateful to these women because they understand the concept of sisterhood.

We are there for one another. While sometimes envious of another’s beauty, we are genuinely happy for her, her talents, and the light she gives to the world. I sincerely wish I could say all of my female sisters shared this mentality. Sadly, they do not and strive their hardest to rip one another to shreds because they are so unhappy and insecure in their own lives – because this is the only thing that will make this type of woman feel better about herself.

While some have made it crystal clear that they despise me, I pity them. What a sad way to live life.

The woman on the left: I've lost count of how many times I've seen that look directed towards me. It's easy to hate ourselves and emanate those feelings on our fellow females. Learn to love yourself instead. Life is too short for that kind of pettiness.

“I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.” – James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time

Valen Tango 2014 has consumed the last several days of most tango enthusiasts. While I had sincerely hoped that this was something I could have participated in fully, I knew I could not because I had promised friends I would care for their very energetic dog over the weekend.

I attended opening night of Valen Tango. Before I go further, I would like to explain what a PTSD relapse is for those who may not know. The most basic, reptilian brain takes over – regardless of what my higher thinking, prefrontal cortex says. I am driven by instinct, which is mostly fear – because my early life taught me to fear.

I walked into the doors of the opening milonga. The door shutting behind me startled me. The two women at the desk thought this was hilarious. I’ve always been embarrassed by my over reactive startle response, particularly when it is PTSD induced. While the woman laughed, I tried to brush it off, mumbling something about being pathetic. She replied thusly, “Yes you are!” and laughed even louder.

I attempted to hold my true feelings in. I said, “Actually, it’s a side effect of PTSD. Thank you.” I should point out that this was not a polite ‘thank you’. The other (younger) woman chirped in, “Was this before or after the door?” Both had a good laugh at this one. I paid my fee and walked inside, wondering to myself what on earth I had ever done to offend either of these women.

I don't view myself as broken and I sure as hell don't consider myself lesser than just because I react differently than the vast majority of people to certain things. In fact, there was a time in my life when my senses were so high that I knew if someone was standing behind me and I could tell just from their presence if the person was male or female. Depending on the gender, I would sometimes tremble out of fear. I'm not as hyper-vigilant anymore. Overall, I'd say I've come a long way and see the 'symptoms' of PTSD as badges of strength. Not everyone in the world can boast they've survived (and thrived) under circumstances such as mine.

It's far easier to laugh and point fingers rather than took a good hard look at your own reflection and consider what kind of energy you are sending into the world.

I ran into the younger of the duo on Friday at a milonga mixer. I dragged my brother along to tango for the first time. He seemed to enjoy himself and this made me happy. I hope he tries a few more outings with me. When I ran into the younger woman again, without saying a word, she looked at me as if she wanted to slit my throat. I still have no idea what I have done to offend her. Perhaps it was the fact that I had one hell of a time regardless of her looks of disdain.

It’s a pity, really. While I’ve never known her name, I always thought she was a very unique beauty. I no longer see her that way now, but as someone who is plain and insecure in her own sense of being. Someone close to me with whom I confided about this ordeal told me that this is just something I’m going to encounter from time to time, because he thinks I’m lovely, outgoing and almost always smiling. Granted, I'm no raging beauty - but attitude definitely goes a long way.

In the eye of the storm, there is till a constant peaceful form of bliss. This is what I cling to when life feels overbearing. 

What I ultimately hoped to achieve by attending the milonga mixer was the ability to be near my male cohorts without fear. Mission accomplished. I think that was the perfect setting to test my own boundaries and address some of my fears.

I have come across plenty of ladies in tango who I have thought far more beautiful than I. I admire them and I always think, “Good for you.” Good for you that you have smoking hot legs and are confident enough to show them off. Good for you that you have a curvy figure and don’t try to hide it. Good for you that you are outgoing, clearly loving life, and shine a light on others. These are lovely things and no one should try to snuff those out . . . particularly one female to another. I think we need to stick together.

If I could reach out to her in love, I would – however, I’m quite certain this would only result in more insults. I’m working on healing myself and there’s no point in putting myself out there for more abuse.

We should be fighting the patriarchy instead of each other. Just a thought. 

If there was one thing I sincerely wish I could get women who don’t consider themselves to be a mainstream beauty (which is a horrid thing to strive for) is that it comes with a price. Prettiness, particularly at a young age with no one to protect you from the world, comes with a very heavy price – and that is a debt I’m still trying to pay just so I can feel whole again – because I want to trust instead of fear.

On the topic of fear, I am quite certain my most recent relapse can mostly be attributed to one person: the constant distrust he held towards me, the names he called me, the blame he always pushed towards me – and the grandiose life he felt he would live someday that I somehow hindered him from living because I chose to ‘bow to the corporate gods’. I see him in reality now – away from his influence. He was no one special. He attempted to contact me recently. My immediate response was to change my phone number. It’s really a no win situation. Had I engaged him, the conversation would eventually lead to my faults and shortcomings. By not engaging him, I would most likely be called a cold heartless bitch who thinks only of myself. Instead of doing either, I just changed my number. Problem solved. Soon I’ll be moving and he won’t know where to find me, either. That’s a double win, I think. 

"Let no man pull you so low as to hate him." - Martin Luther King, Jr. 

My Heart's Delight

"Without you in my arms, I feel an emptiness in my soul. I find myself searching crowds for your face - I know it's an impossibility, but I cannot help myself." - Nocholas Sparks, Message in a Bottle

My heart hasn't felt so heavy in a very long time. The last month has been consumed with worry, regret, many trips to the vet, and, eventually, an extended stay in the pet hospital. Then she was gone - and a part of me is with her wherever she is right now. 

The last photo I took of my sleeping beauty.

I'm fortunate to have so many people in my life that love me - and if I didn't have them, I would fall into despair; and that's a really hard place to come out of once one falls into that black hole. I'm trying to stay positive and focus on the good things that are occurring in my life.

Several weeks ago, Cassie began moaning as if she were experiencing a great deal of discomfort. It went away for a few days and I thought it may have been some sort of intestinal issue or minor injury from one of our weekly hikes in the woods. She began moaning again and she sounded much worse. It was awful and I didn't know what to do for her. My family insisted that I go to work while they take her to the vet. I wasn't happy with this decision, but they didn't give me much say in the matter. 

There were many trips to the vet with no real progress on bringing Cassie any form of relief from the obvious terrible pain she was experiencing. My initial thought was that her pain medication for arthritis was causing her discomfort. Her health had dwindled so rapidly and that was the only recent change that came to mind. I don't know what conversation took place between my family and the vet, only that she came home with an antibiotic due to a suspected infection in her intestinal tract. It was doing no good and she was obviously still in pain. I decided to take the reigns and asked my boyfriend to take her to the vet because I knew he would treat her exactly as I would and do whatever it took to get to the root of the issue. 

Cuddling up next to Cassie.

For the entire duration of this ordeal, I could barely manage to fight tears. I thought she was dying; I said I thought she was dying. I was told to be optimistic - perhaps there was a light at the end of the tunnel. I tried to think there was hope, but deep down I knew she was slipping away. Death and I have known each other for a very long time. I felt it and now I know why I was so upset when she first showed signs of discomfort. 

She continued to show signs of distress. My boyfriend booked the first available appointment her regular vet had available: the day before Thanksgiving. I left work early that day and was told last minute that my boyfriend wouldn't make it because something had come up on his end and there was nothing but bumper to bumper traffic. I lost it. I yelled - and I am personally grateful that he was not in close proximity to me when I found out he would not be able to deliver my dog to her appointment. 

He made arrangements to take her to a clinic closer to where he lives. Because of traffic, it would take me over an hour to get there. He sent me a text that said it's okay; it would be an hour before they can see her. My response? No. It is NOT okay. I was still in a rage when I finally made it to the clinic. 

The vet said it looked like Cassie had diabetes according to her urine and blood sample. Their x-ray machine broken down, so they charged me $200 for their work and sent us to the hospital up the road who performed the very same tests again and came to the very same conclusion: Cassie had diabetes. What baffled everyone was her sudden weakness and struggle to hold herself up and walk. Initially, this was attributed to diabetes. Cassie would need to stay for a few days to bring her blood sugar levels back to normal. 

The quote for the necessary treatment was a little over $1900. Having spent several hundred dollars on her care already, I certainly didn't have that kind of money. I applied for Care Credit and was granted a credit line of $2400. While all of this was taking place, I was keeping a close friend of mine up updated regarding Cassie's condition, the vet's suspicion, and my application for Care Credit. She sent me a text that said, "Please don't worry about money. We will cover this. We just want you and Cassie to be okay." I didn't know what I could have possibly done in life to deserve friends who treat me so well and I said as much. Her last text to me that evening said, "Good things happen to good people." For what felt like the hundredth time that day, I cried. However, this time it was out of gratitude and relief. 

A close friend, benefactor, and second mother to my two furry babies.

Over the days that followed, I made visits to Cassie as often as I could. I saw her the next evening and was told beforehand that she was responding well to insulin and eating regularly. I was dismayed when they brought her in to see me. She could barely hold herself up. I laid next to her on the floor, holding her in my arms and stroking her fur. I couldn't stop crying. Still, even Cassie tried to reassure me. Every so often she would look up and wag her tail. I would have stayed with her all night if I could, but eventually I had to leave her. 

I received a call from the pet hospital the next day. I was told she had an unknown neurological condition effecting her spine in two separate places. The diagnostics alone (not including any treatment) was $3000. I didn't have anything left on my credit line; the pet hospital used every last cent of it. I was so upset I couldn't hear anything else the vet said to me. I called my boyfriend and asked him to come see me. I didn't want to be alone and I knew I needed to tell my friend and Cassie's benefactor that the outcome did not look promising. Once again, I thought this was the end. Once again, I was told to be optimistic. 

I remember putting my jacket on. It was the same jacket I had worn the night I laid with Cassie on the vet hospital's floor. It was covered in her fur. I started to brush it off and then I started crying and had to stop. I couldn't bring myself to clean it off any more because I felt like it was the last piece of her I had. 

My friend and her husband are two of the most generous and genuinely good people that I know - and people like that are a rare find in life. Their friendship and endless support has seen me through some rough patches in life - and they give me tough love when I need it, too. They told me they would look for a specialist for Cassie and they would cover the expenses. They just needed to get a couple of recommendations. 

My last visit with Cassie at the hospital looked promising. She was chipper and holding herself up. The staff said they wanted to keep her one more night just to be on the safe side because her glucose level wasn't quite where it should be. The boyfriend would pick her up the next day and take her home with him so he could give her the undivided attention she needed and make sure she got her medications on time. I didn't want her to stay for more tests. I didn't want her to be poked or prodded, or stuck in a cage surrounded by unfamiliar people. I just wanted my baby girl home. 

Jail breaking Cassie from the pet hospital. 

She surprised us on her last night. She walked across the room - and before that she had only been able to manage a few steps before collapsing from exhaustion and pain. My boyfriend and I both thought she would pull through. I left that night. I had work the next day and had missed a considerable amount of work already due to unpaid days off for Thanksgiving holiday and my inability to work my weekend jobs because I was just too sad, too exhausted, and too worried. 

It was about 4am when I got a call from my boyfriend. Cassie had a seizure. He was taking her to the hospital. She was not responding as anticipated to the dosage of insulin prescribed by the vet. Cassie left us not long after my boyfriend arrived with her at the hospital. Part of me wishes I had been there to say goodbye - but part of me knows I would have lost it when she breathed her last breath. The thought of it leaves my heart in pieces. I never knew how much love my heart held for her until she was gone. My boyfriend got an imprint of her paw and a lock of her fur to give to me. That's what I have left of her - that and the memories. 

I received a text later that day from my friend with information about the specialist. I just couldn't bring myself to tell her that Cassie was gone and it wasn't until the next day that I sent a note to her husband about what happened and that we were having a small service for her if they wished to attend. 

My boyfriend stayed up late making a coffin for my little girl. He planted tulip bulbs above her grave and a stone was placed to mark where she lays. It was beautiful and dignified - a gathering suiting to my dainty little lady. 

My emotions have ebbed and flowed since we buried her. I spend time at her grave every day. My other dog, Merlin, seems to be just as sad as I am. I pretend to be happy. I pretend to hold myself together - but the facade falls apart the moment I'm alone. I was told that I saved her. The truth is that she saved me. I was in a bad situation and when she came into my life she gave me something worth fighting for - because I didn't value myself enough to get out of the abuse. I wouldn't let her be mistreated and that's why I got out of that nightmare. That's what she did for me. 

"No matter how little money and how few possessions you own, having a dog makes you feel rich."  - Louis Sabin

She also taught me that trauma does heal. Someone had badly abused her and then abandoned her in the neighborhood in which I was living. She was cautious and afraid when she first came into my life. In the end, she was loving and joyful. She came to be so loving and so trusting that the hearts of the staff treating her at the pet hospital are mourning with mine.

I remember when she came into my life. It was spring. She had been sitting near the same tree for several days; someone had left her there and she was patiently waiting for their return. They never came for her. I called to her and she followed me home. She was half starved and uncertain. Her brown eyes stared into mine with trepidation and gratitude. After two bowls of food and several baths she settled in. She was still wary - she would run and hide every time I brought out a broom to sweep the kitchen floor. Over the years, she learned that she didn't have to be afraid of that anymore. 

"A dog is the only creature on earth that loves you more than you love yourself." - Josh Billings

In stark contrast to what was undoubtedly a traumatic past, she emerged as one of the most loving and sweet natured dogs I have ever had the privilege of having in my life. I will miss her endless dog kisses, her excitement over long hikes with her 'pack', the way she pointed every time she spotted a squirrel and her loving, gentle, nature. Mostly, I miss her presence. I'm told eventually I'll remember the good times and I'll start to feel better. I've never forgotten the good times or the funny aspects of her personality, but that doesn't make me feel better right now.

I've set a limit on wallowing in grief before I start forcing myself back out into the world to make myself happy again. And, yes, happiness can be forced; I've succeeded in this numerous times. In times like these, I think it's necessary for survival, particularly when it comes to me. I can't let myself fall into despair because I'm not sure I'll come out of it this time; I just can't wrap my mind around the fact that she's gone. So I'm choosing not to ask myself what I could have done differently or better. I'm just allowing myself to be sad for a while. 

I know she had a good life with me and I know that death is inevitable and unfortunate. I know I did everything I could to save her. Still, none of this has brought me any comfort. In time, I know I can reflect on my life with her and be grateful for the many life lessons I learned through her. Precious little girl: you are missed and you are loved. 

"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."  - Khalil Gilbran