Category Archives: insight

My Best Friend: 2 Days and 22 Hours

It is almost one month since I put Claddagh down.

That phrase is so gross to me; “Put them down.”

My dog was already a submissive… she was “put down” in many ways in her early life.  I am still disgusted at it all.

But, you know what?  I will only talk about it here.  I bombarded FB for the first two weeks with my pain… and now in modern decorum I will pretend it doesn’t rip me apart on the inside.  Oh, geez, am I following the steps of my forefathers, who chose to sweep inconvenient truths under the proverbial rug?

People don’t know how to mourn, these days.  Our fast paced society urges us to “get over it and move on” as quickly as possible.  We treat ourselves like processed food with defined expiration dates that serve as suggestions.  You might be cool eating an out of date yogurt at your own house, but if a host of some other house offers the same thing, you cringe.

“Keep it in house.”

See, I don’t feel like I am allowed to mourn my dog companion for more than a couple of weeks.  It isn’t allowed to break me, because their life expectancy is so much shorter than ours, and I should have known better.

I don’t feel like I can allow Claddagh to be the portal in which my previous pain, loss and suffering is filtered through.  I just don’t feel like I have permission to fully feel, even though people say “take your time” and “feel it fully.”

I don’t feel permission because I am always trying to integrate and get along, and no one likes a Debby Downer, or a Miserable Mandie.  I don’t feel permission because the extent of the pain is mine, alone to bare.

After day three, I told myself, “You HAVE to stop crying.  You HAVE to buck up.  No one cares as much as you do about it, and no one wants to hear about it.”

If you make it a mantra, I guess it makes it easier to adhere to, just through repetition.

If left to my own devices, I look out the door and say “All I really want is my dog.”  And I imagine what that looks like, only to further upset the state of my heart.

Honestly, I don’t care if I upset you if I end up crying in reminiscence of my dog; but because I am empathetic, and I know you don’t want to hear it, I will self censor.  I am not looking for your pity or sympathy…. I know you don’t know exactly what to say and it may be uncomfortable for you, that every topic you excavate leads back to me and my dog.

I am sure it is annoying, or at least uncomfortable.

I’m sorry, but I’m not.

I suppose if you don’t know what to do in the awkwardness, just smile.  Know that I experienced a facet of love in life that I would have otherwise avoided, and that in and of itself, is bound to make me a better person in the long run.

I know she wasn’t as interesting to you, as she was meaningful and profound to me, and that is okay… but try not to sweep her memory away in your urgency to bring me back to whatever you feel is your self perceived center.  I will take my time, and I require no rush on your end, for it will not bring any benefit.

She was “my girl”, ya know?  I don’t even know if I am allowed to use the same distinct whistle if I find a new dog friend… I feel bad for chiding my cats with her same belly rub rhyme.   Things are flowing into each other with my other animal friends,  where it once was distinct and individual.

And I liked that, ya know?  When her whistle was our whistle and not like any of the other whistles that were common for the other animals we mutually knew.

I kinda wish I got a Chilton manual on how to deal with this,or a “When your Dog Dies for Dummies” book,  even though I know, internally all I need to know.

Life cycles are beautiful, until you see the shame in loss.  My dog should have lived forever… I mean, that is how I feel. I never thought about getting another one, even though at times I thought about re-homing her due to my own personality flaws.

I’m looking at rescue dogs, trying to find a face I recognize.  Not Claddaghs’ face, per say… just a face that feels familiar in the rustic part of my being that is perfectly adapted to animal companionship.  I know it will happen when it is meant to… if it is meant to.

No worries here.  I just miss her so damn much and rightly so.

 

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My Best Friend: Just When I Was Getting Comfortable

I felt sick as a dog on the night of September 11th.  I was waking up hourly to empty my liquid bowels.  Standing up made me nauseous and I was afraid I was going to shit down my own legs.  I figured maybe it was one of the eggs I put into my dinner omelet.

The cats weren’t helping.  They wanted to lay on my stomach, causing me more discomfort.  I just wanted to sleep it off.

The 11th rolled into the 12, and I tried to go about my normal routine, but I wasn’t feeling normal at all.  My uncle came over to help out my grandma and I tried to sleep the day away, but was reawakened every hour or two by demanding felines.

I slipped in and out of dream space.

The woman accuses me of being an escort because I have a stack of cash.  I tell her I just sold my truck.  She also accuses me of having fake “air inflated” breasts.  I tell her that “that isn’t at all true.  I got fat and lost some weight and now I have stretch marks.”

Other strange thoughts invade my mind as I toss and turn.

I just don’t want to feel this way anymore.  I just want to sleep for 24 hours straight.  I just want to be taken care of because I don’t have the energy right now to care at all. 

I wake up early on September 13th.  I go to my Facebook feed.  There she is in my memories.  My fur buddy’s 10th Doggaversary.  Today would have been our 11th.

See just when I was settling into the idea that I no longer have to fill her water and food bowls, I am reminded of how far we went, and how close we came to 11.  I think about how, we would celebrate together since my birthday is so close to the day we found each other.

I realize, it wasn’t the eggs that made me sick; it was knowing that I would have to wake up on the 13th and deal with a new slew of emotions.  And that settling into emotions is much like the settling of sand which can be moved by a breeze, or a wash of water, dried out by the sun and stepped on, only to be encrusted into the indentations of some passerby’s shoes and transported to places unseen.

I’d like to not have to do anything for a while, so that I can just sleep if I want to sleep and dream these weird dreams, hoping we eventually reunite in that dreamspace for a little bit.  And, see I know I can’t tarry there long, but I would still like the opportunity, nonetheless.

 

Prelude to A Love Letter

I think we knew each other once upon a time.  Like, LIFETIMES ago.  I am writing this like I know for sure… but, in this climate, I can’t be certain, so let’s leave it to fiction… everyone likes a little bit of comedic-romantic-intergalactic fiction, right?

This is our eighteenth try at finding each other in some form of what is now called Earth and basically we have been told that if it doesn’t happen this time, then,it won’t ever be like people hope it is, and we at least want a fighting chance for an intergalactic minute .  I just want you to know I find it fucking cryptic and weird that we’ve been graced with twice as many tries as a cat gets lives.

So here we are in this last “hoo-rah” of life cycles with the chances and potentials and, well… maybe it was just a physical selfish desire to connect, despite all the connection we had previously in that timeless space.

I’m not even sure what I am trying to say…

All of us were, and then we were not, and then we became us again and then it fell apart and reassembled and continued on.  So we were always in the picture while being out of frame, over and over.

So, you know.  We’ve met.   I know you. I love you through the veils that seek to obstruct our views.

On top of it all I feel you and know everything about you, which draws us in and out of one another. Ebbing and flowing like the ocean, sometimes catching you off guard awash with an epic wave the slips sandals from feet causing stable stance to be up turned.

This feels like the Prelude to a Love Letter, so perhaps I will name it as such.

 

Alignment

One of the most amazing things that can happen, is when you want something to happen and it does without any active provocation.

Today I was able to chat with the best friend of my deceased brother.  I’m sure he is mentioned somewhere in this digital archive that I need to go have printed at Kinko’s/ Fed Ex.

We don’t talk often, but when we do, I think it is stellar both domestically and celestially.

Let’s face it, I don’t talk to many people very often.  And when I have a day of insightful conversation I know the world is about to shift again. I feel like everyone else does, just before it happens… a sense of imbalance, perhaps a need to purge, vent and connect.

If people were stars, I would be a distant star in the middle of a few clusters.   I might even be a nebula in the middle of some star systems… I don’t know, I am not an astrophysicist, I am a writer/ thinker who likes analogies.

Either way, shit is happening on the other side of the veil and I am well aware of it, and so are you, even if you don’t get it.

9/11 is a hallmark day.  (Like Hallmark Cards.  If you don’t have words for it, Hallmark has a card for it.)  Only, if Hallmark has a card, it is cryptic.  You’d be better to wait for their holiday ornament.

Feeling uppity or downity with your friends and fam today?  Feeling a strong desire to make life changing decisions with little to no planning?  Writing things like this, that may seem cryptic?

It’s what is up right now.  World wide.  This is part of the “matrix” the “construct.”  There is a self destruct mechanism built into the program.

Fight it.  Stop falling in line with this false “make it look pretty, because it is better than nothing” paradigm.  Fight it, and STOP IT.

I won’t until I’m stopped.

It’s another precipice.

People like me feel ultimate isolation because there is little to inspire real connection and the game gets old.  So if you face certain realities, while realizing that the best connections you may have will be momentary in times of struggle.  You realize you have to hold tight when others can’t. The only way this is possible is when you realize the bigger joke of the matter and if we really do live in game theory, some of us are the people you have to find in order to save yourself in the game in order to move to the next phase.

I’m no savior, but I am a point of re-connection to  that other reality which is unavoidable at some point.

Hit me up when things get weird.

They Want You to End Your Story as an Archetype

Has anyone ever said to you, “You think outside the box.”

Or, “You are different, you don’t think like most people.”

“Dude, you’re crazy.”

Did you think twice about it?

My whole life has been scattered with sentiments such as this and when I watch media I see where people base their reactions.

No, I don’t think inside Saturns Cube.  No, I don’t think like most people, because I think for myself.  And, No, I’m not crazy, I am the best kind of sane.

Here is what I will admit that is uncomfortable for everyone but me;

1.)  I look at Death, dead in the eyes, daily.

2.) If you tell me what I am going to do, I will do everything in my power to work against your orders.

3.) I am familiar with the script, and if I can’t flip it, I am going to burn it.

I probably don’t seem like the “type” with my brightly colored clothing and admiration for Natalie Merchant.  You expect this from people who predominately wear black clothing and listen to death metal.  “Those are the people really looking Death and Destruction right in the eye socket.”

Nope.  I love daisies and sunsets and technicolor leggings.  I believe in some prophetic hope and I choose to support life where pain exists at every opportunity.  I’ve spent a life time feeling like a walking contradiction.

I probably talk about Death, more openly than anyone I know who listens to Death Metal, and only slightly less than a Mortician.   If you just look at me with no knowing, you probably think that the conversation has never crossed my path, or so I assume.

It’s been five dogless days.  I’ve given myself a week to dig deep with no judgement, and quite honestly I don’t give a fuck if any of it offends.  I know I am going to experience new waves of realization down the road.  I know I will never be the same.  I know she isn’t coming back, so I am going to be like the Jews and sit Shiva for seven days.  I am going to purposely mourn the fuck out of myself.

Already, each day is a bit easier because crying is just a pain in the eyes.  It is hard to do anything.  I know I am perpetually dehydrated, so I cried as much as I could, until I couldn’t.  Realistically I know future tears will be shed once my water stores have been replenished.

I’ve reached a point of brief anger, willing to call out any person who thinks they are more Death Metal than me, to sit with me and really talk about death in realistic terms and not just in strange dark corruptions of the real thing for the sake of imagination and anger.  Quit fucking pretending the worst, because sometimes the most innocuous circumstances lacking in violence are actually “the worst it could be.”

Stop hiding behind dark facades of separation, the real end of it all will never make it as a t-shirt slogan worth baring.  Stop pretending to be so callus.  Stop pretending to know more about death than the dead themselves.   I admit I don’t know shit, but I am still so invigorated by feeling, that it is undeniable that I am still alive.

You don’t have to change your wardrobe or interests in order to understand this; just know that those of us who seem unsuspecting to certain concepts, specifically Death, may have been contemplating it’s role in life for as long as they can remember.  The acceptance and comprehension of it is so deep there is no need to display it outwardly until we are called in a moment to do so.

You won’t learn anything from this, I am sure, but I needed to write it nonetheless.

The only useful advice I have, is to recognize your demons and deal with them the best you can.  If you can at least call them by name, you have a better chance at dominating them but few of us can slay them on our own.  Know the names of your specific team when it comes to protection and support; we can all use all the support we can get.

 

 

 

My Best Friend: Cigarettes, Dog Bites, and the Death Diet

This piece may seem a bit off topic in my series about Claddagh.  However she was with me when the whole situation occurred in my writing.  My landlady had found a lost dog, and that dog got along with Claddagh, so I kept it for the night.   While the dogs were playing, things got a little rough and I was on the floor between them.  The scuffle turned into a fight, so in the process of pulling the dogs apart, the visiting dog bit me.  I was hit with a lost childhood memory of being bitten by a puppy while staying with my aunt.  Minutes after this memory returned, I received a call from my family saying that said aunt was in the ICU.

I was completely bowled over with emotions.  I wasn’t completely sure what her prognosis was, but it sounded pretty bleak.  As a coping mechanism, I explored what my family might be going through in that moment, especially focusing on my cousin but at the same time realizing the attributes I didn’t like about her, were/are prevalent in me.

My aunt did not die that night.  It would turn into a drawn out process that would take another three uneasy years.   The following piece is my raw expression from that night.

 

July 18, 2009

Skin is thin.  A scratch, a paper cut, a scrape. Blood from a small wound, the pain radiates for a day; a reminder of some lame excuse for not paying close enough attention.

I am bleeding from a scratch and a bite. Slightly deeper than superficial.  This is payment for being a good Samaritan.  I can’t be mad, it was harmless fun gone awry by animals who communicate some other way.

How often in human reality does this happen?  We are asked to play nicely, then some words are said in jest causing a friend to unravel enough to fight back.  A fight unseen on the horizon.

It was just two beings- doing and then there was an unseen spark.  One took something the wrong way and since I am not fluent in dog play language, I find myself in the middle.  I’ve pulled larger dogs apart without incident.  Why tonight?

As I assess the bite on my forearm and I am taken into an old memory of being bitten by a puppy when I was two or three.   I am in the care of my aunt, playing in the front yard of her humble apartment with a small puppy belonging to the neighbor.  The bite catches me off guard.

The phone rings.

It is my father telling me that my aunt is in the hospital and things look grim.

The timing of all of this makes me reel. I have to write it all down, the perceptions I am having in this moment thousands of miles away from my family.  I’m not sure what is going on, and I know writing will calm me down so that I can process the bite and it’s deeper meaning.

I am jaded on death; the cycle of life few seem to live, all reaching variations of the same end.  Those who live their lives like tomorrow will never come because they already know it’s on its way to greet them.

Then there are those aching to leave their mark, they live for posterity.  For now I am ambivalent, watching it as it comes and goes; feeling l’ve already lost so many important ones and still there are more to come as I continue to keep loving.

There are no words for this, no way to convey the normality of it, despite the pain and what it seems to be.  It is what I call the Death Diet.  It comes and goes, as we all do, in it’s own time- staying for short and sometimes long duration.  A visitor,  unannounced, unwelcome.

As to not forget those I’ve lost; how can the relationship continue, how can each of us live on and keep those who were once here and dear to us, after they depart?

Is Spirit not something that speaks in each ear in due time?  Do remnants of the past not live and breathe around us, still?

And so they do; each person, place or thing.  Our interaction with them is not at all lost when voices stop humming and hearts stop beating; body buried below.  Beyond the picture enveloped in memory…

Perhaps that is the reason I like chicken and dumpling soup.  The one thing she would fix for me that was recognizably made from scratch and not from a can.  I’ve not seen her in years and tonight she lays under anesthesia in a hospital.  She lays in a deep sleep from two heart attacks in a row.

She was found barely breathing by grandparents; those kind and gentle souls who’ve seen one daughter die away already.

Does Leslie sit next to Terri as she lays in  medicated limbo?

Does she hold her hand in spirit?

Does Terri ask, in a morphine induced dream, the same thing Leslie asked when she lay deteriorating her own hospital room over two decades ago?  The same hospital many renovations ago; a place Leslie never left again, alive.

Is Leslie there, and is she honest?  Does she say “No, you aren’t going to make it.  I tell you this because I am your sister and I won’t lie to you.  I am going to sit here with you until you go… and then I am going to see you to the other side, where all of us are covered in rainbows.  I am going to give you the biggest bear hug.”  Does Leslie then squeeze Terri’s hand?

Leslie is eternally twenty-six, or maybe she shows up as a seventeen year old; thin and vibrant.  Healthy and cancer-free.  A spirit in a dream only recognized by the dreamer.

Family waits in the hall.  The son acknowledges his distance. A certain sense of discontent and regret boil beneath the surface.  He questions her sadness and why she couldn’t do more for herself and him.  He knows he distanced himself  out of fear and retaliation.

She left him fifteen years ago.  She gave up being a responsible mother despite how much she loved him, despite how much he loved her…  Something inside of him felt sick with longing and regret, disgust and confusion.   He knew this was coming and in some way it was a waiting and a relief at letting this subconscious worry go.  Yet he knew, this wouldn’t be the end of his worry, there would be others- the grandparents who sat next to him, for instance.

No.  This would be a double edged sword of worry, like, “one down, two to go.”  This loss would only breed more anxious anticipation.   This thought was neglecting to add the dozen or more people he also adored and maybe even loved.  He was focused in this moment on family ties of blood.

In the face of their differences in belief or opinion, he saw and valued whatever it was that this was – “however fucked up.”  This was the only place the son was suppose to be right now.  There was much to acknowledge and heady thoughts to consider.   This was an act all too grown up for anyone to want to take on; he was no stranger to responsibility but this was a first when it came to what many may consider posthumous intimacies- him being an only child of a husband-less mother.

There seemed to be a question of “deserving this.”  Was it something he deserved for being less involved with his mother than perhaps he should have been?  For keeping busy for more time than it seemed necessary in the mentality that “Life is Short. Love Hard. Visit Your Mom”?  He knows he should have visited more.  He shouldn’t have been so fearful of seeing her and trying to help her out.

Questions just become answers that lead to more questions.

Here is where he should be.  Waiting in an ICU waiting room; thinking about all of this.  Taking it all in.

Next to him are his grandparents, now in their eighties.  They’ve been less than active for years, left to sit at home with injuries that happened later in life and never healed properly.  Here they were, watching their second daughter fade before their eyes.  She’d been back home for nearly seven years now.  About as long as she’d been gone when one day she decided to abandon her home and her son for some internet love affair.

She had bought a home just a block away from her parents.  She was working as a nurse when one day she just quit going to work because the internet was more important and interesting than helping the geriatric folks she was employed to care for at the assisted living home.

One day she got in her car, and drove to the east coast to meet a man that she would come to realize he wasn’t who he said he was, only to leave him for another far off man who was not who he claimed to be.

She left the son in the abandoned house and the utilities were systematically shut off.  The mortgage went unpaid and the son was displaced.  She left debt and pain in her wake, only to show up back home – ill of health needing a place to stay.  She would be fifty-three and living in her parents basement.

I suppose we all have regrets.  I wonder if this is hers?

My family is susceptible to addiction but they are also susceptible to will power, drive and sarcasm.  I’ve fallen into the categories.  Right now my addictions are strong and my will has been weak.  This must switch because I have things to do and I suspect my dead mother is sitting with my dying aunt in a hospital room.

I never really got to know my mom but I’ve had my whole life to observe my aunts actions and consequences.  At my youngest, when my mother was still around, she was having a hard time dealing with a smart ass two year old daughter.  It was too much.  My mother would leave me on the door step in only a diaper because “if you don’t want to live here, you are going to leave the way you came in.  Naked.” And screaming.

My mother would call my aunt and tell her that she couldn’t handle me, that she had locked me out front.  My aunt who lived a couple of blocks away would come to get me and dress me in over sized clothes belonging to her son. She would take me to her apartment to ride out the emotional storm.  I would play with my cousin and watch movies until I wanted to go back to my mom.

My aunt would bundle be back up and take me home.  This back and forth is part of my earliest memories.

From what I can tell, my aunt had horrible taste in men.  Manipulators; liars, drunks and a gay man who was in the military.  She chased men that seemed to share her dreams only to leave her in the dust.  Her will was weak, she neglected to see these things in advance.  She was always waiting to be saved from her own squalor so that she could ACTUALLY LIVE!

She wanted to have it provided for her by someone she cared for and in the meantime she drowned her sorrows in some other reality.  A place where she could meet other “real people” feeling the same way she did.  Perhaps she didn’t see that they were all reflections of her.  Lonely, sick and addicted. Weak-willed and seeking, only bound to find one another.

Lost in a basement on oxygen, typing away.  Beauty of youth lost long ago, only to live in a shadow of cyber script.   She stopped living a long time ago.  She craved the life we all do- To love and be loved.

She adored nature, but she rarely visited it in the end.   There were times when I was very young, when she would take us fishing, early in the morning before the sun rise.  The thermos would be full of hot coffee, (and though I scowl at parents who allow small children to drink coffee,) she would pour each of us a cup mixed with a hot cocoa packet.  A poor man’s mocha at sunrise.

How did a person so close to nature, move so far away from it?  How did that sanctuary neglect to hold her interest? Loneliness.

We don’t all wish to be hermits.  How sad to age before your time- what a predicament to want love and to be too sick to attain it. Family was never enough.

She was married twice in her youth, but her youth is a bit of a mystery to me.  The eldest child, the oldest sister of three other siblings.  Did my grandparents have high expectations for her?  Did she lack guidance?  What was the exact moment that made her give up?

She had her son, young, with a Native man who would disappear from the picture shortly after it was taken. Her next husband  would be a closeted homosexual in the military who would tend to be abusive.

Her long time friend Loyd would love her desperately over the year, and their friendship would grow, but it would never be the relationship both of them were longing for.

She smoked cigarettes her entire life, until she couldn’t.  They were always the cheap smokes, GCP’s or what ever was affordable.

She loved babies and believed that everyone that she was able to hold, was a little bit hers and that included me.

I guess I never really viewed her as the adventurous type.  When she left, she must have really believed things were going to change for the better; but she was already lost in a confusion that misaligned her radar.

As this story unfolds under my finger tips, I unabashedly see the personal similarities in myself, things I would rather not admit to.

Now I am left with a dog bite, reminding me of who I do not want to become.

My Best Friend: Lessons In Commitment and Loyalty

I’m not much different than most other females who grew up around the same time I did.  We all watched the same Disney movies and obsessed over Wesley in Princess Bride.  We actively consumed the fairy tales of Princess’ being swept off their feet.  Add in some religion, and there was always some illusory man who was suppose to show up and sweep us off our feet.

By the age of twenty-five, if it hasn’t happened yet, the internal worry mixes with the biological clock and things start to get a little weird.

I didn’t start building strong female relationships until about that age.  I started to embrace the feminine in myself and with that came a new feminine energy.  At times I would think that I was the most “girly” out of the group, even though I considered myself far less “girly” than my cohorts.

I’m certain when I went for a dog, I didn’t care what gender it was, but for the first time in my life I was starting to really make female friends and I am sure that played a role in how everything unfolded.

During this time I was becoming very aware of the emotional pain many women carry with them.  It was a suffering that would come from competing with other women more as an unspoken way of being than a logical reaction.   I was going out of my way to express appreciation for women, even ones who I interacted with just in passing.  It could be as simple as saying “You look fantastic in that shade of blue.”  or ” I really love your hair, it looks so soft!”

I could see that women on the daily were not only trying to meet the world with some beauty, but they were trying to convince themselves that they were worthy of love and attention and the most basic way we are taught to seek that out, is by outward expressions of self care.

I knew I wasn’t out there trying to steal anyone’s boyfriend.  I was trying to find some loyal female friends while seeking love, and if you want to get a lady’s attention, give her a sincere complement.

When Claddagh came into my life, it wasn’t complements that won her over.  In fact it wasn’t complements that kept her around.  But while I was trying to figure out how to bring more love into my life via friends, she was sitting right beside me as I hashed things out.

In February of 2009 I received an art commission to paint a mural on the inside of a pump house at a tree farm.  For a week, Claddagh and I camped out while I painted the mural.  In the evenings I would sit by the fire with a headlamp writing about the various musings I may have had over the day.

Here are my scribbles about “What the fuck the roller coaster of love is”;

  • Doesn’t know what love is but aches for it, due to fairy tales and day time drama.
  • Meet someone who likes you and you couldn’t care less for as an individual.  Sometimes it matters not, for the first timer. It’s the wanting of love so badly that most novices force it based on lame criteria.
  • Settle into that “like-ness.”  For some this happens faster than others.
  • Grow personally or experience partners growth.   Get annoyed with everything you previously adored as “quirky.”
  • Jump knee deep into the dramatic experience of separating ways and the fucked up boomerang that always brings you back.
  • Wrestle with emotions vs. a need to get laid, enduring attitudes turn into pet peeves and the struggle to stay seemingly sane through the process.
  • Question life; it’s meanings and what could possibly be next.
  • Waste a few months feeling bad for yourself and procrastinating making a big decision.
  • Finally settle on something, perhaps the easiest thing….
  • And just when you think you are on the money…..
  • The Universe says “I’m sorry, actually you are going to do this ____.”  Which was your least favorite option from the options you initially had to choose from.
  • Just when you resign to your new circumstance, this new, interesting and attractive person comes in and because you haven’t lost all your hormones yet, your body says “HELLO!”
  • Knowing that you just experienced “love” and you have a lot to deal with, your mind says, “OH NO!”
  • Undoubtedly you spend time with this new stranger and your hormones won’t quit screaming “OH YES! PLEASE, PLEASE!”
  • Since you realize we are all animals who are most responsible to responding to our physical instincts,
  • Consciousness takes a back seat in decision making
  • Cave in and let hands graze nameless places- get high on pheromones.
  • Act like sad orphans literally dying to experience affection.  Once is never enough.
  • Realize that all of a sudden this indulgence and connection produces a a desire to satisfy something primal.
  •  Intimacy becomes a third party to rugged and animalistic behavior.
  • Start feeling things for a stranger while temporarily avoiding the recent void of failure, hoping to be re-filled.

Claddagh sat there as a silent bystander as I purged what could be seen as the worst flow chart for “love” to ever exist.  But what do I learn from this when I go back through it with that knowing?

My views on love have been quite askew.  Claddagh showed me another way to love, and it wasn’t based off of some unrealistic script that we are fed through entertainment.  This is why it hurts so badly.  We didn’t follow predictive programming in the unfolding of our friendship.  Even up into the minute I had to choose to let her go, I had no idea what I was doing and I was simply hoping for the best for both of us.   There was an undeniable trust that we were doing the best we could.

I learned that I need to further listen to my instincts.  Love doesn’t really exist in one-sided affairs and one sided affairs have seemed safe.  It’s easier to reject than to be rejected.   But what does it look like when both parties love?  It is harder to walk away, and I have been good at walking away… but I couldn’t walk away from Claddagh.  She made me look at the worst parts of myself, and she could have disappeared at any point in time to find a new home, and she didn’t.  She pushed through my wreckage.

Thanks to her, I can sift through it, and see more of what she was showing but I was only recording in passing. Thanks to her I can see love outside of that wreckage.