Sanctuary

“Remember the entrance to the sanctuary is inside you.” – Rumi

I don’t like that I’ve stepped away from this for so long, but such is life. And life makes it hard for me to dedicate myself to anything entirely. At least, it feels that way with the hours I’ve had to keep. I am making some changes in the near and foreseeable future, and am hoping it brings in the results I’d like to see.

And it wasn’t just life, it was the unnerving that came with knowing that two people in particular were paying such close attention to my life. A woman where I work – the self-proclaimed dirty fairy creature congratulated me when I announced I was pregnant. I hadn’t said a word to anyone at work. And if you’re reading now, Fairy Creature, there was never a doubt in my mind that it was you who trolled my blog. And then some guy I briefly dated kept looking at one of my online profiles not long after I announced I was engaged. It was creepy. I contacted him on Facebook, letting him know that it was creepy and that I literally got a notification every time he did that. His response was to go in incognito mode or whatever it is that LinkedIn offers and block me on Facebook. I just have one question for you both:

I have another announcement: I am pregnant. Six months. It’s a girl. I found out in January. Apparently the day I took the test was the very day it could have a positive reading. She’s been hitting the marks on the timeline quite nicely and I’m looking forward to meeting the little one face to face. A friend dubbed her ‘Belly Being’. I like it and that’s how I refer to her when I write my ridiculous weekly updates on pregnant life. It’s definitely a joyous experience, but it’s also a hilariously uncomfortable one, too. I hope to make her a book on all of this someday.

Belly Being's very first gift was an awesome girl power book and a Wonder Woman teether. Compliments of a lovely co-worker. 

I feel like nearly every inch of me as widened, including my feet. I’m hoping it’s not permanent because I hear some women never go back to their original size and  . . . . Dancing. I need to fit into my dancing shoes! I have stretch marks. I have gas. I have a constant halo of grease on my face from the hormones. But hey! It gives me that glowing look that everyone says is so lovely. And I can’t say that this has been an entirely joyful experience, either. I’ve heard that before about women who have had a miscarriage. It’s really messed with my head, making me nearly afraid to be happy about it. Yet here we are and she’ll be here in just a few months. It’s not that I didn’t want to be happy, I was just afraid. And as we’ve progressed further along I’ve taken a small sigh of relief. And now I can feel her kicking every now and then and it reassures me that everything is okay.

This perfect tiny little being. I loved her from the moment I saw her as a tiny cluster of beating cells. 

She's been a positive influence on my life already. I was ready to walk away from a familial relationship entirely - and then I learned I was pregnant and knew that it wasn't a choice that I could make for someone else. So Belly Being has actually improved my relationship with my adopted mom. We still keep in contact, but I keep it at my own terms and that's made this whole dynamic run much more smoothly. 

The thing that amazes me most about this entire experience is the calmness that pregnancy has brought on me. I have felt small instances of anxiety, but nothing lasting. I have lived with PTSD and depression for so long I’d literally forgotten what it was like to not feel those awful things.  I don’t know that this will last after pregnancy, but it would be beyond wonderful if it does. And don’t get me wrong, I have plenty to be losing my sh*t about; it’s just not phasing me as it would have prior to pregnancy.

I’ll be changing jobs. It’s a step down and a cut in pay, but I am so done with the surgical department at my hospital. Bonus points because it shaves a little from my commute. And then Micheal decided that it was time to look for a house after we learned I was pregnant (insert overwhelmed and nervous laughter here). The housing market in the pacific northwest is beyond f*cking ridiculous. We qualify for a $200, 000 loan . . . . which can pretty much get us a frame of a house that’s been burned down from a meth lab gone wrong and is now housing ants. Anything that seems attainable is always going to go to a higher bidder who has cash on hand. Who are these assholes that have this kind of money? I confess, even looking at manufactured homes has been a challenge. Granted, it makes us feel like we have a fighting chance, but its’s still vicious.

We even got close once. The offer was accepted. Everything fell through last minute because the HOA didn't follow through with a letter for the lender and that was it. Then the seller took a cash offer and we were left with nothing but frustration. 

Maybe I should be grateful? I've never been fond of Portland or the Pacific NW in general. 

And despite how impossible this has felt and proven to be, it still seems like a good idea because we really need the room. Currently we live in a modest 2 bedroom apartment with 2 dogs. Technically we have an extra room, because it’s only used 3 months out of the year at most if the step son comes to visit, but it’s off limits. I didn’t feel even remotely panicky until I realized we don’t even have room for a rocking chair. And then I feel Belly Being move and realize there’s an actual tiny person living inside of me. Oh. Em. Gee. So I have a few moments of worry and then I’m done with it. Prior to pregnancy all of these things: job change, change in pay, looking for home to buy, insanely dumb commute, etc. All of those things would have resulted in me setting something on fire.

We’re taking all of these birth prep courses, too. And for these ice breaker exercises they had couples ask one another what they’re doing to prep for their nursery. LMAO!!! I’m not sure I’d have time to work on it even if we had one. Up until a few weeks ago I was still working 2 jobs. So these women with their unswollen feet with husbands who supported them fully wanted to know what I was doing to get ready for baby. I joked that I mostly just cried in the corner about it. That’s a half truth, I guess because sometimes I certainly feel that way.

I'm not at this phase yet, but I pray for Grace for those who are near me when this starts. 

Honestly I can’t complain much. Compared to what I’ve heard from other women, my pregnancy has been relatively easy. I haven’t had too much intense cravings, either; that’s also a benefit for Micheal because I’m not driving him too crazy.

I envy this little girl already because she has an amazing dad who is just as happy about her as I am.

Secrets

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

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

A fascinating colorful life, actually.

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

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

Beautiful Namibia . . . . I miss you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He might as well have taken a hammer to me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mostly irate, though.

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

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

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

Burning Bridges

“It don’t matter which way you go

When you’re callin’ the highway your home

When every old town’s just the past burning down

It don’t matter which way you go.”

Waylon Jennigs, Reno and Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Empath's Perspective: TLDR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think this should extend to everyone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They're Only Memories

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guess who still puts on her happy face anyway?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Puzzle Pieces

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

You must pay the toll!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If I can't see you I can't hear you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something’s gotta stop the flow.

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

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

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

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