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

Loss and Love

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” – Maya Angelou

It is with deep and mixed emotions that I write these words. I didn’t know if I ever would share, but I can’t deny that I write to process things. And I hope that any woman with this experience will find some comfort in my words – if only to know that she’s not alone in her grief.

2 weeks after finding out we were having a baby I started bleeding. I had been out running errands, came back home and saw that my cotton pants were soaked.  Naturally I was freaking out. I called The One in hysteria. While he was on his way to see me I called the local hospital (and also where I work) in hysteria. We spent the next couple of days in and out of doctor’s appointments and diagnostics. The end result was that it was too soon to tell anything and we’d have to wait and see.

The doctor did observe the interactions between The One and I. He said we were obviously very supportive of one another and to take some comfort in that because he rarely sees couples on our level. Looking back on this experience, I still take comfort in this.

I waited. I was worried, anxious, and even neurotic at times. There were more visits, more diagnostics; even more blood drawn. My HCG levels had not gone up as they should have. It was not a viable pregnancy and I had experienced an incomplete miscarriage. I had to be scheduled for a D&C and wait another week before the procedure would be done. I guess my body was trying to hold on because psychologically I wasn’t ready to let go.  

I give him as much credit as I could possibly give another human being. The One was as supportive as he knew how to be. He acknowledged that he couldn’t quite relate to how I felt. It’s true . . . one can only really relate if one has experienced it – the slight changes my body was making: the mood swings, the increased heart beat due to a vascular system working even harder to pump blood down to a growing cluster of cells, the random cravings and the tiny little things that were uncomfortable and inconvenient – yet still brought a smile to my face because I knew it was all for one tiny growing baby bean sprout. Sure, it was just a cluster of cells; but it was my tiny little cluster. Sure, it’s a common experience for women; but that doesn’t make it any easier.

The One didn’t question me when I’d sob uncontrollably before drifting off to sleep. I never had to explain myself. Part of it was hormones and part of it was grief and sadness.

I had missed a considerable amount of work. I knew that life would carry on and I would need to carry on with it. When I’d start crying I looked at the clock on more than one occasion and told myself I had 5 more minutes to be sad. Five more minutes to allow myself to cry. Five more minutes to grieve and feel sorry for myself. It took a couple of weeks and an unnecessary amount of retail therapy before I stopped needing 5 more minutes.

It’s a form of sadness that has been genuinely difficult to describe. It’s a loss of the feeling of life and a loss of the excitement over what could have been. It’s a form of sadness that is understood only by other women who have experienced the same kind of loss. It was through this experience that I felt a sense of sisterhood I had not yet found among women. In fact, I had doubted that type of bond even existed. And it was this grief that somehow served as a conduit.

“And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me. Shine until tomorrow, let it be.” – The Beatles.

It was on my last memorable night of grief that I finally finished Women Who Run With the Wolves. For the public record, I’m reading the footnotes . . . and then I’ll probably start the whole thing over again from the beginning. Clarissa Pinkola Estes wrote a footnote on the 2^nd or 3^rd chapter about a figure in Mexican folklore that is known for collecting the souls of miscarried babies and planting their seeds in another womb. So the little one never really goes away, it’s just given a new home. It’s a nice thought. And maybe Baby Bean Sprout just wasn’t ready to join our world yet. I’m ready when you are, Little One.

I lit a candle for you. Until we meet again, Little One.

And it was through this experience that The One showed me just how many forms love can take. Love is when he held me because he knew why I was crying. Love is when he held me and had no idea why I was crying. Love is understanding my need for writing, biking and retail therapy. Love is accepting a cantankerous old hound because he knows how much I love that hound. Love is his amusement when I offer him a key to my bike lock instead of my car because I’m not paying attention. Love is picking me up on a rainy night because I managed to get lost on my bike. Love is finding the best possible attributes for my worst idiosyncrasies.

Love was dealing with my hormonal mood swings of tears and bouts of anger. Love was telling me I’m beautiful even though my breasts were tender and overly engorged. Love was (and is) checking me out when I’m cringing in the mirror at my stretch marks. Love is joking about how when we were young and cute and thought we’d stay that way forever.

Love is choosing to see me in the best possible light and this is a choice he makes every day. Rather than chalking my forgetfulness to an air-headed person, he tells me I’m forgetful because I’m a writer and I’m too busy remembering the very important details that most others won’t notice. And obviously there’s only so much memory one person can hold. 

"The best love is that kind that awakens the soul; that makes us reach for more, that plants the fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds. That's what I hope to give you forever."  - Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook

Our Lives Will Never Be The Same

“Where there is love there is life.” – Mahatma Ghandi

I had a genuinely amazing weekend. It started the morning I finally got matching his and hers pendants in the mail. I was supposed to save them for Valentine’s, but I couldn’t help myself – because The One was there and I also really wanted to sport around a new sparkly thing that would remind me of him. Happy Valentine’s Day!  . . . . To me!

Pretty, aren't they? I 

I hadn’t been feeling particularly well for a couple of weeks, so my appetite was nonexistent. I made a green smoothie for him for breakfast, we took the dogs on a walk, and ran errands that must be done on the weekend when one is an adult. Then we got to my favorite part . . . tango!

Look at those cute little buggars . . . in a dog bed on a mattress I haven't tossed because the hound likes the set up so much. 

We only visited briefly. I had sent an email prior asking if I could pick up some cards to distribute among coworkers and friends because I do get a good deal of people that ask me about dancing and a card just seems more efficient than me scribbling the name of the dance studio on a piece of paper. And, if you’re wondering, the name of the studio is Dance With Joy. The owner is ray of sunshine and the environment is encouraging and welcoming.

We've been talking about taking lessons in a few months.

I nearly burst into tears when the instructor came out and hugged me. I was genuinely happy to see her. She did ask if we wanted to join in, but I opted not to because I had been feeling so poorly. My symptoms were what I assumed to be a severe case of PMS. In fact, I was growing increasingly suspicious that I might have PMDD.

A hug that was something like this, but also tearful. 

The One wasn’t convinced. At his urging, I picked up a pregnancy test that morning on one of our planned stops. He’d seen my mood swings, incessant exhaustion and constant trips to the bathroom. And, that morning he’d witnessed me gag nearly to the point of puking when I picked up dog poo and came pretty damn close to crying like the baby at the sight of someone I love and miss.

I was a bit nervous even taking the test out when I closed the bathroom door behind me. I followed the instructions and watched the line grow more and more prominent as it sat there on my bathroom sink.

It was definitely positive.

The proof is in the lines. And also the urine. 

I didn’t know what to say to The One. I literally had no words when I walked out of the bathroom. I had the test clutched in my hand. I looked at him nervously and nodded my head. He asked me if it was mine and told me to take another test. Silly man. HCG didn’t get into my system on its own. To be on the safe side, I took another test yesterday.

I'm still pregnant

He told me a while ago that I should work on our soundtrack: songs that would tell our love story. Our journey definitely does have the makings of a movie, and I don’t say that braggingly. I don’t say it to brag because it has been an epic and heart wrenching experience – and that was only from my end of working through my own issues before I could be whole enough to love another person.

I have indeed been working on a soundtrack. I’ve been working on the order before I make some finalized version. Basically it would start off with love songs of having just met and being happy, and then breaking up, and then getting back together, and then breaking up and missing the other person and being envious of whomever they’re with, and then getting back together again. Ha!

Maybe someday I'll write it. Maybe someday I'll make a music video. Maybe someday I'll write my own song. 

 But I need to add a new element to it. We’re going to be f*cking parents! I’m somewhere between 5-6 weeks. My emotions sway from being elated, to terrified, to talking to the wee being growing inside me and saying, “Grow baby, grow! I can’t wait to meet you.” I can’t wait to see this beautiful thing that he and I have created together.

September 2016

The terrified part comes when I worry if I know what I’m doing, how the increasingly grumpy hound is going to respond, and how money is going to pan out. We’re moving in together, which will make saving a bit easier. I won’t bore you with logistics of FMLA or what disability insurance will work to my benefit.

The One is elated. I wanted to wait until at least the first doctor’s visit to say anything, but ended up calling my folks over the weekend – because he’s so excited to tell people I was worried about something getting back to them without me having said a word to them first. I’m glad he’s so happy. We’d planned on this eventually, we just didn’t expect it to happen right away without any planning. The best things in life happen sporadically and without warning.

So, we’re kicking it into high gear right now. I need to get moved to his place in a little over 2 months. I’m not elated about the location, which will significantly increase my commute time, but it makes sense for now. He just moved in and his master bedroom is pretty much the size of my tiny little apartment. Before I knew we had a baby on board, I was super stoked to have my lengthy bike ride back – but I’m now realizing that’s probably not going to happen. I won’t forfeit entirely until I get final word from the doctor.

I’m taking this one stride at a time. And I know he and I will look back on that Saturday together and I’ll ask him, “Remember when we were younger and I gave you a matching necklace and then we found out we were having a baby?” 

Our first photo in October 2008. Who would have thought this is where we'd be today? 

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. 

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

The Starved Soul

"I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories from your life - not someone else's life - water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom. That is the work. The only work."  - Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

I was quite sick last week. Looking at the silver lining, being unable to do much of anything allowed me some time for reflection. Admittedly, I don't permit myself much time for such things, if any at all. Clarissa Pinkola Estes write a good deal about the starved soul and our need to return home to the Wild, even if only briefly, to recover from the demands of our modern and disconnected lives. We've forgotten how to howl. We've forgotten to sing. We've forgotten to nourish ourselves in what connects us with the Divine to the point that we're starved so much that we can look for anything to fill the inexplicable void we're feeling. We hear the voices in the distance calling us, pleading to come back to our roots. It's far too easy to cast them away with the excuses we often make for ourselves. I will when winter is over. I will as soon as I've finished . . . . I would, but . . . 

Bring the unfinished novel to a climatic end, dance, complete the poem that was never quite good enough, laugh, sing and cry. Mostly, keep dancing. 

I am a master of excuses. Having made two moves within 6 months while simultaneously performing the juggling act of my life, getting the hound settled and grappling with Truths that I've finally acknowledged I need to accept - I've become accustomed to casting away what nourishes the essence of who I am because of everything else I've told myself should take precedent: the hound (he always comes first) and the constant barrage from others asking me why I'm still not completely unpacked, why haven't I done this or that and why has it been so long since we've seen each other? If the hound is not walked immediately he won't hold it against me for long and everything else that the world tells me I should be doing will still be there. The dishes in the sink will still be there, my un-vacuumed floor will still exist and the three small unpacked boxes remaining in my studio will still be waiting for me. Those things aren't going anywhere. I've been hearing the beating drums in the distance for a while now. I'm starting to hear the howls, beckoning me back home to rest for a while. I'll be heading to my emotional retreat shortly. 

I hear your call. I'm coming home soon.

I'm still physically recovering from an illness that lasted a little over 5 days. I'd wager it's not in my best interest to jump into dancing, running or gymnastics right away. I've decided my starting point will be the relationships I've allowed to exist in my life. I can't always spot the bad applies right away, and in spite of the red flags that are apparent to everyone else in the beginning I tend to be entirely oblivious to the early warning signs. There are several reasons for this; I've been working on them. I've heard from more than one source that I'm too trusting of a person. This is part of the Truth. The other is my tendency to want to see the good in everyone. My therapist compares me to someone drawn to a hot stove: even though I've been burned countless times, I am hoping that I'll be proved wrong and the world isn't as ugly as most of my experiences have been. On that note, I have forged meaningful friendships with amazing people with whom I may not have otherwise connected if it weren't for my trusting, open nature. I have no regrets for these and they are precious to me. However, there are some relationships from which I have decided I need to step back from or eliminate entirely. 

I need time - so much time to process what took place in a highly dysfunctional household. 

It was rare that I spoke about my relationship with my adoptive mother (I'll call her Morgan) outside of therapy. I'm sure most people thought our strained relationship was normal and that I was simply overreacting. Based on the assumptions of most, I didn't know any better because I hadn't been indoctrinated into a family unit since I was a very young girl. To those people and also to Morgan, I was the source of the problem: I was too sensitive, too angry and had too many issues that needed to be dealt with. Also, I was the only one in therapy and that makes for solid scapegoat material. Lastly, I've been prone to depression for a very long time and any feelings of sadness obviously couldn't have been correlated to how I was treated, but instead resulted from my own weakness as a sensitive human being. I'm not even sure my therapist found my stories believable - not only because Morgan's actions were outlandish and irrational, but also not the actions of a person of sound mind. 

Morgan has some very deep rooted control issues, particularly when it comes to finances. Morgan offered to help with my student loans (making sure her friends and relatives knew that her intentions were to save me from student debt) and regularly asked me about my loans. When I finally forwarded the information to her, what I received in response was one of the most condescending e-mails I've ever seen because she was astonished by the total amount (I'm far lower than the national average) and how could they be so high if I wasn't paying for rent or utilities? Sure, I didn't pay for rent or utilities, but I did my best to carry my own weight. I paid for my food, cell phone, car and care for my dogs. Additionally, because I wasn't paying rent I was the live-in house keeper. I worked hard to keep that place up to Morgan's standards and that has been more than one occasion when I had to cancel my plans because she wanted me to do extra in-depth cleaning projects. Her e-mail was offensive and troublesome to me. 

Because I couldn't make sense of Morgan's words, I chose not to respond. Morgan then began calling and texting. I still didn't respond. After only a week of silence on my end Morgan showed up at my office on a clinic day completely unannounced. My co-workers got a sense of what's been bothering me, as they interacted with her briefly and saw me go from a 0-10 within a second. I was very worked up, but it was only noticeable to the handful of people that know me fairly well. For the record, Morgan does not fall under that category. 

Morgan has never really seen me. I'm fine with that, only irritated that she pretends to know me. 

Several days later I asked Morgan not to come into my workplace unannounced. It's not professional and an invasion of my space. Naturally Morgan was defensive. She always let her subordinates visit with friends and family. What was the problem?! 

Recently I told Morgan she needn't be concerned with my student loans; I can handle it myself. Since then, she's made a point of fishing for information regarding my finances. I find it irritating and pathetic. There's not a doubt in my mind that she knows I need to distance myself from her because something is very wrong and she's known for a while - she just lacks the level of self-awareness to ever see herself as a contributing factor to the issue. I'm not saying it's entirely her fault our relationship is on thin ice. I'm searching myself as well and will deal with the Truth's as they come. I think my first mistake was moving to Portland in the first place. I was so desperate to be wanted and loved. It's not like the signs weren't there - I just chose to overlook them and I still don't know why. Morgan has wanted ultimate control of my life since the moment I began living under her roof. 

Regarding Morgan's finances, the truth is that she could have easily afforded to send me to college without me accruing any debt at all. Currently, she can afford to pay off my students loans like she promised. That's not really the issue though, is it? My issue is her attempt to manipulate and control me at every turn and her blatant use of my presence in her life to make herself seem like a compassionate, caring, and giving person. 

I'm tired of the facade and the feigned bond of a mother and daughter relationship that doesn't exist. 

No one likes being used. I've been struggling with this particularly long and drawn out chapter in my life because so much of my childhood was spent under similar circumstances: being used to make someone else look better or charitable, being used for services or money, and the caregiver (Morgan included) making a point to let me know that I wasn't wanted. It hurts. I'm working on letting it go. I'm reminding myself that I'm loved and am blessed to have wonderful and loving people in my life. They're not blood related. None of them have legally adopted me. They've chosen to be a part of my life and offer me unending support, guidance and unconditional love. This is what I'll be holding on to while I'm focusing on letting go.