Tag Archives: insight

insight, life, Writing

Dry July-Day Three- Epigenetics and Sleep

10 Comments

What does full throttle exhaustion feel like?  I don’t know for sure but I assume it feels a lot like I have felt for the last three years.  I’ve been constantly tired, that is until I would have a double shot of Jameson on the rocks.

My senses would perk up as I would hold the cold astringent liquid in my mouth for a whole minute before choosing to swallow; letting the taste of liquor bathe my tongue, the chemicals seeping into the porous flesh of my mouth.  Those sweet chemicals breaking blood brain barriers, causing synaptic sensations in my gray matter.

By the end of the glass, I would have an artificial second wind.

Maybe that second wind would lead to starting a new experimental project; maybe it would lead me to dancing in my dark back yard under moon light until I was breathless and sweaty, maybe it would lead me down some conspiratorial rabbit hole, maybe it would lead me to do some mundane domestic task that I had been putting off (like my own laundry.)

Either way I would chemically prop myself up, until I was tired again; falling into a sedated sleep, where I would lay still for hours.  To be exact, by “hours” I mean,  four hours.  Four hours for my body to metabolize the poison, and send signals to my brain and bladder to get up and get moving, urgent to purge the remnants of spent cells from my internal ecosystem.

I would wake up, quite easily,  but my brain and body both felt the neglect of real rest, so I would go to the bathroom, and crawl back into bed, where I would quickly fall asleep again, only it was a fraction of the quality restorative rest I needed and was chronically neglecting.  Maybe I could grab a nice three to four hour stretch, but when I got up the second time, my body and mind would both be dragging.

Every day I would have the same conversation with myself, ” If you just get up the first time, and get your day started, you could take a little nap later.”  

 ” Maybe if you didn’t go back to bed, you wouldn’t be tired all day.”

“But, I have a natural tendency to be tired at 6:30 am, I think it has something to do with the time of day I was born and my circadian rhythms.”

Interestingly enough, I might not have been wrong about my natural sleep cycles.

  February 6, 2016  livescience.com reported on this topic discussing genetics and it’s effect on our circadian rhythms.

“According to a new study by the genetics company 23andMe, the preference for being a “morning person” — someone who enjoys waking up early and going to bed early — rather than being an “evening person,” who tends to stay up late at night and desperately reaches for the snooze button when the alarm goes off in the morning, is at least partially written in your genes. Researchers at the company found 15 regions of the human genome that are linked to being a morning person, including seven regions associated with genes regulating circadian rhythm — the body’s internal clock. ”

Full article here.

When I was younger, in school, and very sober; I was on a schedule.  I had to be up early to catch the bus or be at school extra early for an event, or be at the pool by 5:00 am to open.  It was ingrained in me to never be late, in fact, ALWAYS BE EARLY!  And let me tell you, I was a pro.

When I was in High School, on Speech and Debate trips, sharing a room with three other girls; I would make sure I was up the earliest, in and out of the bathroom first and situated on the bus well before it was time to depart.  Mainly, I didn’t want anyone to get in my way, and I didn’t want to have to wait on people who were sluggish.  This is just one example of how I would adapt just enough to get by without conflict.

What no one knows though, is that I probably had the worst quality of sleep due to excitement for the next day, the fact I am a light sleeper and some random sleepy team mate is snoring next to me and stealing all the blankets.

When I went to Christian College for a semester, I didn’t have to be up early every day… so my schedule adapted to that.  I would stay up all night sometimes, trying to study; finally I would give up, go for a run around three or four in the morning and return just in time for the doughnut shop to open with fresh doughnuts.  Then, I would take that box of doughnuts back to the dorm and leave them for my suite mates.   (When everyone else was gaining weight, I was losing pounds like I never had before.)

Genetics testing companies are now capitalizing on areas of health, wellness, and fitness of individuals interested in making the most of their genes.  Companies like FitnessGenes®  and DNAFit are using genetic data to help people maximize the physical benefits of their unique genetic make up.  FitnessGenes® blog  assert that “Your Genes Are Not Your Destiny”    through a process called  “epigenetics”.

So though the DNA code is fixed, the epigenetics can be changed by outside influence.   For instance, a person with an active genetic marker to be a night owl, living in that schedule, will reap more benefit exercising later in the day than they will exercising right when they first get up.

These epigenetic markers can be influenced by what we eat; what our sleep cycles look like, the quality of our social interactions and frequency of exercise.  All of those activities send signals to our cells which effect the bodies rise and fall of hormones in the blood of the individual; so what may be good for the goose, might not be good for the gander.

I think it’s safe to say that alcohol consumption has an effect on our epigenetics.

 The National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism   says  “Alcohol can influence gene expression, and specifically epigenetic regulatory processes that modify the activity of genes, through a variety of mechanisms. Some of these are related to the metabolism of alcohol in the cells, explains Dr. Samir Zakhari. In general, several metabolites, such as nicotinamide-adenine dinucleotide (NAD) in its oxidized and reduced forms, acetyl-coenzyme A (acetyl-CoA), and S-adenosylmethionine (SAM) serve as cofactors for numerous reactions in the cell, including reactions related to epigenetic DNA and histone modifications. Dr. Zakhari reviews some of the pathways through which alcohol metabolism alters the levels of these metabolites in the cells and how the changes in metabolite levels may impact epigenetic processes such as DNA methylation and histone acetylation. (pp. 6–16) ”

Well, shit.  What have I been doing to myself?  I have always considered myself smart, if not a bit rebellious.  I am starting to see very clearly that I have thrown my common sense to the wind in regard to this issue for far too long.

It’s is Independence Day, here is America… perhaps today is the day to gross myself out to the point of quitting cigarettes because I am sure it is negatively effecting my epigenetic expression, I think I might be ready to be the best I can be… I’ve gotten a taste of my own personal rock bottom and quite frankly I am over it.

 

Feel  free to leave your stories of how you notice outside influences effect your body and mind in the comments.  Give this post a like and feel free to share with your friends.

To read the other posts in this saga, click the links below. Cheers!

Dry July

Dry July- Day One

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

 

 

 

 

 

insight, life

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

13 Comments

Let me tell you eleven facts about my drinking history.

1.) I drank (more than a taste) maybe a handful of times before I was legal to, starting at eighteen.

Once on New Years Eve, my senior year with my older boyfriend and his friends ( I believe they brought over wine coolers and beer.  I told my parents I wasn’t drinking but my face and attitude were all bubbly.)

Once at some airmen party my  Air Force boyfriend took me to, I drank a few Apple Pucker/vodka shots.

At, nineteen, I got my first “apartment”, (which was really just a room in a boarding house for women in Berkeley, California) My friend Seth and I christened the room by drinking a horrible bottle of Brass Monkey.

At the age of twenty; a couple of times I snuck into the Crown with some friends.  I would drink Bloody Light Beer and Frog Balls ( Tomato juice in BudLight and green olives) because that is what my friends drank.

Then there were probably a couple of house parties in there where I imbibed.  But never to excess.

2.) I have always enjoyed being in control of myself and my ability to leave; so I would never want to get “drunk.”

I would enjoy the feeling of social lubrication because I would get anxious in social situations with new people.

I enjoyed the way alcohol would lower my inhibitions, so that I felt I could easily talk to strangers, or new people.  I enjoyed the way it got me out of my own head, and into the present moment.

I liked how it “chilled me out”; being sober (to me) meant being hyper in many ways.  Hypercritical; hyper-mental, and hyper-insecure.   When I started drinking, I became less hypercritical of the behavior of others.  I was less inclined to be “judgy” about others drinking.

3.)  I didn’t go through the average path for drinking.

I started drinking later than most people and when I went to a private Christian College for one semester at nineteen;  I didn’t drink at all during that time.  So I never got on that whole “college binge drinking scene.”  I really believed that you shouldn’t do mind altering substances, until your brain had fully developed.

4.)  I have always drank for the taste.

  Every New Years Eve, my parents would give my brother and I maybe a quarter of a champagne flute of champagne, you know, so we could “participate.”  I loved the taste of the bubbly… my brother, not so much.  I would drink mine in one quick gulp, and then his.

When I was about 12 or 13 and my parent’s weren’t around, I would crawl up on the counter top, and visit the “little bottles of booze” in the cabinet above the refrigerator.  I would only take a sip.  The only one I liked was Malibu Rum.  I loved the smell, and sweetness (it reminded me of Mexico.)

I turned twenty-one in San Jose, California.  My boyfriend at the time and his friends, were dare I say it, “Alcohol Snobs.”  They enjoyed elaborate drinks, like flaming Dr. Peppers, and Oatmeal Cookies.  I don’t recall any of them drinking cheap beer.  My vice of choice when going out, would either be a Vodka Cran with Lime, or Long Island Ice Tea.  This is where drinking became a habit and a reward system.  “After a long hard day” my boyfriend and I, and sometimes his mother, would have a few drinks together on an almost nightly basis.

In San Jose, I  would use drinking as an emotional crutch, as I got the feeling his friends didn’t really like me that much, and I didn’t have that many friends of my own in this unfamiliar land.

At the age of twenty two, I started to really get into craft beer.  And, admittedly I became a “beer snob”, you know,  before it was really hip to do.

5.) My unconventional life path, catered to drinking.

Being the type that doesn’t want to get drunk or black out, I know how to pace my drinking.  I have had some very unconventional jobs, where drinking at work is actually encouraged and provided for, the employees.   As you can imagine, not everyone “stays in their body” in those situations.  I have always held pride in keeping my shit together.

My “style of  drinking” is slow, paced.  I can drink through out the day, and not get drunk.  By the time for bed, I would just be tired, and at times maybe irritable.

Some of the jobs I have had, where drinking was acceptable on the job were; working in a dive bar, working for a brewery/ hop farm; farming vegetables/ cannabis, working at a distillery, house sitting, dog sitting, and working as a promotional model.

I am a good worker, and I never let my consumption get in the way of my work performance.

6.)  I made money while drinking.

While I had jobs that paid me, while I was working and drinking; I have also used the social lubricant to help me sell art work.  I have sold more paintings out of pubs, than I have any where else.  I would bring my art supplies, and some finished canvass’, order a craft beer and a double Jameson on the rocks, or maybe a Bloody Mary and get to work on some art.   Eventually some one would come over to see what I was doing, and BAM, I just made an art sale.

People with money, who are drinking, are usually VERY GENEROUS.

7.) I started drinking alone near the beginning of my legal usage of alcohol.

I moved around quite a bit after I left home after High School.  When I moved to Summit County, Colorado at twenty two, I found myself in the closest thing I can relate to what may be the “college party” environment.

I like, many other young mountain residence, sought employment at the  Keystone Ski Resort; cheaply living in a dormitory.  The first few weeks I was there, it was downtime right before the summer season was set to get going.  There weren’t many people around, and I literally lived across the parking lot from a little liquor store.  I would go buy a bottle of Chardonnay, and dance alone while making art work in my room, and then I would go take a hike or maybe clean my room.  Either way, my brain was being triggered by the dopamine, and I was riding off the exhilaration of being able to purchase alcohol on my own, as an adult.  I didn’t have anyone judging me, or telling me “no”.  I was free to do as I pleased.

I have spent many hours and some times days where I am alone.  Drinking was just something I could do that accompanied any of my creative en-devours; be it writing, painting, or dressing up in characters.  It was also something that everyone else was doing socially… so I’ve never really been a binge drinker; just a consistent drinker.

8.)  I took pride in how well versed I became in my knowledge of different liquors and beers.

It’s people like me, who made craft beer the thriving industry it is today.  Every where I would go, I would be educating people on drinks.  I don’t know why this made me feel like I had some sort of upper hand, but it did.  Now I am a little ashamed that I was basically just being an enabler.

9.)  It’s only in the last couple of years that the effects of alcohol, have really started to gross me out.

Be it my own weight gain, or how I see alcohol effect people around me; I’ve gotten really disgusted.  The hardest part is watching the effect of alcohol really turn someone into a nasty little gollum, which is what I have experienced in the last couple of years, second-hand by watching a friend struggle with their addiction.

I don’t get mean when I drink.  I actually stay in a very kind head space.  Occasionally when I am under stress, or near my moon,  I slip and let my deep, hidden emotions out.

Many times in sobriety I have felt misunderstood, or that the people I care about, give no fucks about my internal state of being.  Drinking with people that I care for, has allowed me to purge some emotions that I keep locked inside.  I do have an unspoken expectation, that if they know how I feel, things can change; however, they rarely do.  It really isn’t their responsibility to fix anything in me; namely my own perceptions.

Drinking alone while writing, allowed me to feel the freedom to put those deep emotions down on paper, and many times I would surprise myself with how far I was willing to go down that personal rabbit hole.

10.)  I only recently started judging myself for my solo consumption.

I’ve had so much freedom; free time, and self authority as an adult, that I haven’t been very self critical of my consumption.   It’s just something I can do, because I want to. I still get my work done, and do it well.

I have found that it to be a medicine of sorts because in my youth I felt very structured and controlled.  That structure and control felt like jail.  And though I was thriving in jail, it was partially because I am a mutable personality, and I try and make the best of any situation by conforming just enough to get through with out drama or trouble.  Funny thing is, that DOES actually work in jail.  It’s like some places, it isn’t okay to swear at work, so you even though you may swear like a sailor all the time; but, you reign it in at work because you need to get paid.  It doesn’t mean you lose your sense of humor, or intellect.

Why am I judging myself now?  It all comes down to the lasting effects.  The slow suicide.  The fact that I know I could accomplish so much more without alcohol hanging around all the time.  The fact that, living in the situation I am in, is temporary; and I will be better equipped for the next stage, if I reevaluate my consumption.

11.)  I knew at some point, my mind would just change.

It’s been the case for people in my family.  My grandma use to drink Milwaukee Light, and crap beer like that, and smoke cigarettes all day long through my childhood.   Then one day, she just quit.  When I asked her why she quit, she simply said, “I didn’t like how it was making me feel, anymore.”  And that made sense as a very self aware decision.  Granted, my grandma has had some health conditions that definitely benefit from cutting out beer and cigarettes, but her will to change on a dime, is inspirational in a logical kind of way.

Dry July

Dry July- Day One

 

insight, life, Writing

Dry July- Day One

10 Comments

Let’s get down to it.

Day One, I didn’t even really think about drinking.  The day before I spent probably a good four hours watching youtube videos of peoples tips, tricks and before/ after pictures of weight loss after stopping alcohol.  I embedded my mind with all the health reasons I’ve been over it for a long time, but negligent to take the next step.

I exercised twice during the day, because I knew that the night time was going to be the hardest for me.  See, if I am sober and listening to my circadian rhythm, I want to go to bed around 9-9:30, but my grandma doesn’t want to go to bed until later.  I never feel good about going to bed, unless I have tucked her in, and know she is in for the night.  Drinking would give me a second wind to stay up later, because I wasn’t drinking just one drink.  Just one drink would probably be enough to exacerbate sleepiness, but it would also lead to sleeping for four hours and waking up wide awake as my body had metabolized the alcohol.

I’ve been self medicating sleep for years, so I know when I take breaks my body is tired, but my already active mind is trying to reboot and rewire.  I was hoping that by over exerting my body, it would be easier to settle to sleep.

Well, that didn’t work.  I was restless.  I used my usual breathing and mental techniques to fall asleep for a sober nap and my body just wasn’t having it.  My mind was in some peak awareness and I could hear the popping of fireworks behind the white noise of my air conditioner.  Usually white noise can be enough to help me sleep, because I am a light sleeper, but the fire work noises sounded like some one periodically knocking on the walls of the house.  Just as I would feel myself slipping toward sleep, another noise would shake me out of it; leaving me to start over from the beginning.  Slowing my heart rate, breathing deep and focusing on that “falling feeling.”

I started my sleep journey around 11:30, tossed and turned until around 6:30, and finally fell into an uncomfortable sleep with uncomfortable and vivid dreams.

In my dream I was staying with this strange older host couple  that had a bunch of  young people staying with them.  The guests were rambunctious, and not very interested in keeping things clean. Especially the bathrooms.

I find myself in one such bathroom, and some one had plugged a toaster in near the toilet.  The counter top was covered in miscellaneous objects.  I accidentally bumped the plugged in toaster, into the toilet, which created a spark… and I freaked out.  (In real life I am intimidated by electricity.)   I approached the hosts and told them what happened and they freaked out, telling me I owe them all this money for damages.  I think to myself, “You are mad about this toaster incident, but you seem unconcerned about the filth and damage all these other people are doing to your home.”

I had to figure out how I was going to make the money to pay for the damage.  I got lost trying to find my car, where I planned on just running away from the situation.  That didn’t work and I was back at the house.  I tried to work out a trade, and I made a really interesting piece of art that stood about six feet tall, and they said, “That’s not enough.”  I began to see that they weren’t a friendly old couple; they were extortionists.  They wanted cold hard cash; which I didn’t have much of.  I handed off $22.00 out of the $72.00 I had in my wallet.  They aren’t satisfied, but I don’t let on I have more, knowing I will need it to get out of this place. 

See what I mean about rebooting and rewiring?

Past insecurities, like dirty bathrooms and electricity, which have played predominate roles in past dreams, rise again to the surface.  Shame, and feeling lost.  Trying to compensate for that shame with external actions attempting to convey worth, are thwarted.  The desire to run away from everything vile, in order to return to something beautiful.  The arduous journey; the internal struggle, the fear of loneliness.

As my body and brain attempt to regain a normal balance, I am sure I am going to have more restless nights.  More latent realizations.

Dry July

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

insight, life, Writing

Dry July

12 Comments

I am going to take a hint from the Aussies and give my own spin to Dry July.  Dry July is a concept to encourage Aussies to cut out drinking alcohol for the entire month of July, in order to bring awareness and monetary support to those suffering with cancer.  It’s a sort of fund raiser, where you get people to sponsor your sobriety for the month by donating to the Dry July fund.  Those funds are distributed to people suffering from, or care taking people who have cancer to help defer costs, because let’s face it; Cancer is an expensive mistress.

The idea is, “people don’t choose to have cancer, but you choose to drink.”  By taking the month off,  you can focus on your own health and wellness.

Australians, much like Americans, live in a socially acceptable alcohol fueled society; and it can be hard to escape the temptation to drink because it is readily available and legal.

I myself have gotten into a lazy habit of  daily consumption, and not even the stereotypical consumption of social behavior.  In fact, looking at it, has made me redefine social behavior.  See, even though I have sat alone drinking, I am actively being social on the internet or on the phone.  So, even though I am not out at a party or a bar, I’m still engaging in conversation while staying up late and drinking.

Through this month I hope to start some new routines, and set some goals for myself.

I want to redirect my focus on my fitness.  I’ve jumped back into exercise in the last week, and I have dropped around seven pounds.  I know that by cutting out the empty calories of drinking, I will lose that weight much quicker.

I want to start a podcast.  I have wanted to do that for about seven years now, but I didn’t know how to start.  I think that Dry July is the perfect beginning topic, because I don’t expect it to be easy.  I live two blocks away from a bar/ liquor store.  I don’t have any bills or debts, so it’s easy to spend my disposable income there.  Topics that I would like to talk about are the effects of drinking in a sedentary environment, how to stay healthy while being a care taker; and my personal experience of taking a break.

Over the last few days I have been watching many youtube videos of Australians who decided to do Dry July.  I have been finding all the tips and tricks of tackling a sober month.  The consistent point that is expressed is; “What is your personal reason?”  Most people reach a point where they just make the decision because they have a personal epiphany, like how much weight gain they have gained.  Or taking a new look at their societal norms and wanting a break.  Some just want to save some money.  Some people just need the collective energy of a group dynamic to cessate.

For me, it is definitely the weight gain, and the senseless use of money toward something that isn’t going to help me at all in the long run.  In fact, I know it has been suppressing me from my potential; and at 36 years old, I want to see where that potential leads.

If you are interested in taking your own spin on Dry July, and would like some accountability, please feel free to reach out to me.  I know that I will probably need some people to talk me through any urges that may come up.

Dry July- Day One

Dry July- Day 2- Eleven Facts

 

 

Art, insight, life

Uncomfortable Conversations

Leave a comment

Just now I slipped into morbidity and thought, maybe my eulogy or my headstone, might say ” She got too mentally involved with shit that didn’t relate to her actual life, and missed out on a shit ton that was awesome.”

I promptly went outside, pulled weeds and watched the sunset… Who the hell does Future Mandie appoint as their sponsored voice in something like a eulogy or a head stone?   Hopefully, they are more poignant than my reckless imagination.

I have been thinking and talking about death quite a bit in the last couple of weeks.  It brings my attention to the ways I avoid administrative type tasks in my adulthood.  The shit no one wants to deal with.

A couple of weeks ago, my uncle forgot to tell me that he would be late coming over in the morning.  He basically has consistent “AM Grandma (or in his case MOM) duty.”  He is single, without kids, and structured, but creative.  He understands I stay up late, to capture some hours with out responsibility.  It works out well.

Anyway, he forgets to tell me he will be late, and at 9:30 am, I walk out into a dark hallway, and hear my grandma’s dog scratching on her door.  I get the dog out to pee, and open the curtains, and immediately ponder why the hell my Uncle isn’t here yet.

He is anal retentive about making sure if one of us has “schedule changes”, that the other one is up to date on what the what is.  So… THE FIRST THING that comes to my mind is ; “How long do you wait to do a welfare check on someone who you see everyday, but lives alone, so far as you know single and basically shares little to nothing about their personal life?”

I mean… “He seems healthy, but what the fuck do I know?”

I tried calling.  I send a couple of text messages.  I got grandma up, and made breakfast… He finally got a hold of me around 11:30, saying he was “on his way.”  I didn’t bring it up.  He didn’t offer to explain.  But, since then, I have been going through some adult administrative mental anxiety starting with that question… how long do you wait to call for welfare checks?

Would one of his friend/bandmates do it before me?

How exactly does he structure his time to commitments?  Who relies on his reliability?  (He is really reliable, but sometimes unexpected.)

Who are his Emergency Contacts?  Should I at least be acquainted to them?

What do I do about……..?

He holds the vault for my grandma both financially and medically…  I buy the groceries, but I am not on the bank account.  I make sure my grandma takes her PM pills, but I don’t know what they are all for.. though I know I could google it easily.  He attends her appointments, and fills prescriptions that don’t arrive by mail.

What if?  What if one day, my Uncle is driving to band practice down the road from Cheyenne, into Colorado, on the highway, and he is in a fatal accident?  Worst-fucking-case-scenario; am I able to step up or in, or do I have to just pass administration over to the last surviving son, who only shows up once a week and never seems to bring anything helpful to the table, when it actually comes to CARE?

Then I think about HAVING to force communication with a person who has no respect for me as a human, and has done just about everything possible in their power to treat me like I don’t exist; all while training his family to act in accordance…. and I damn near shit my pants.

That’s it.  That’s all.

I need to have some serious and uncomfortable conversations with people who avoid conversations like this, at all costs.  Fuck.

Art, Cheyenne, insight, life, Writing

Mother Pluckin Mothers Day

Leave a comment

I’ve never really thought about being a mother, or what it actually means to be a mother.

I suppose more likely that I have given it some severe criticism over my days.

You know that moment when you just submit to how things are; how you are sure they will always be in the midst of knowing, while STILL trying, somehow,  to make it better – perhaps over compensating in some mentality that had served you for a good long while; but has become such a self identifying characteristic, that letting go is hard, and humbling and tough to move beyond?

Yep.  That is me.

I could blame the anti-mom game on my early life; social programming, feminism, Disney, and the World In General… but I won’t.

I made a choice of self preservation due to trauma in early life… and I have unabashedly  stuck to it.  I empowered myself by it;  I gave it life and definition.  I fed it by ignorantly and fyoulishly adhering to my trauma blinders.

HA!  Like I think I have always known things!

When I was a child, I wanted to be a Grandma, above all…but, I also knew I never wanted to be a mom- so being a grandma, was probably out of the question.

I grew out of attempting to age quickly, and clung to the idea of being “The cool Aunt.”    My tag line is “When you can’t handle the transitions, save your sanity and send them to me.”  I believed I could be the bridging gap between generations, despite being a decade older than my sister.

Somehow, being single and childless, in my mind, equaled freedom which directly translated to “more room to comprehend and connect.”  It also meant “choosing ones own connections” aka “being exclusive and reclusive, mysterious and confused.”   “Appearing more purposeful than I actually feel.”

I have been, successful.

Successful at avoiding certain responsibilities by “opting out.”  Successful at using the word “No”, even when it’s too much, going too far.  Successful at building a very strong fortress around my totality of being-ness.  Successful at giving out selective passage with time limits, to those who dare venture these walls.

But hey, what is your definition of  “Success”? Is it at all defined by your MOM?

Mothers, just…they just aren’t suppose to just leave, ya know?

I don’t know… I mean… based off Disney, they are bound to. Moms exist as a memory with Disney.  Why is it all the girls and boys who love Disney movies the MOST, still have their mom‘s?

Right?!?  They not only HAVE them… they are CLOSE to them…

I guess, I should admit, I never really “bonded with my step mom in a way that  would ever give me a real “Mommy” vibe.  In the same breath, I will admit, I gave that woman hell with solidified child thoughts.

“You AREN’T MY MOM!”

“Why did you choose HER?”

“She WILL NEVER understand me!”

What wasn’t childish, and I didn’t understand back then, was the fact that I was unknowingly competing with an adult woman for my fathers’ attention.

Whoa, right?!?  No one tells you that at 9 years old, even if you are going to a therapist who is SUPPOSE to help you navigate shit exactly like this; why?  Because you are STRONG, you are RESILIENT, you are SMART, and if an adult explains it properly, YOU WILL COMPREHEND AND OUT DO EXPECTATIONS!

On the other hand, you can still carry all those attributes and go on like a bumbling fool because the adults around you are afraid of breaking a child who has already broken.  A child seeking security, and finding everything around themselves a suspect.  A child adapting, but never REALLY feeling like they are trusted or heard.  Ho, Hum.

I don’t blame the effect of this on any one but myself these days.  And, I am hard on myself, so I ask myself things like  “Why didn’t you see this and understand this dynamic earlier?  What is wrong with you?  Why do you continue to fixate on things that are more easily accepted AS IS, instead of ruminating solutions to the past free-will decisions and actions of others?  If that is what they would have thought was best, they would have.  You know they are doing their best just like you, but you STILL SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT and KNOWN.”

UGH.  Someone please bring me a 2×4 to beat my own head in.

That has been my life on repeat in variations for TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS!

Coincidentally, my step mom married my dad at the age of 28, in May, nineteen years ago this year.

I had just finished up my first grade year.  And let me tell you, it was an EPIC year.  I went to Ireland with my grandparents, my brother and my dad.  I felt like I landed in a place made just for me, except for my sensitive stomach.  We traveled in a rented van and stayed at B&B’s and I felt like the magic of my heritage was upon me. During the school year  I had a beautiful and kind first grade teacher, Miss Rolfe, who was super nice and magical.

Then The End of The Year came.  A week before the last day of first grade, I found out my Miss Rolfe was getting married, and on the last day of school we made a celebratory field trip to Brimmer Park, down the road from Baggs Elementary.  I remember my grandma took me to buy  a gift, and I chose two silver candle holders.  I was excited to show her how much I adored her.

We had a child like bridal shower in the park.  We all brought gifts, and over sized white t-shirts for her to sign in magic marker. On mine she drew an eye + heart+ you.  I felt that inscription in my heart.  She was beautiful, she taught with kindness and I thought she would be there forever.

At the end of our picnic park party, Miss Rolfe broke the news; the man she was marrying had something happening in Arizona.  She wouldn’t be at the school the next year; she was moving.

My heart broke, and I am sure my attitude showed it. My grandpa picked me up from school and we walked the three blocks home.  I was miffed.

I remember being home a while and my dad came in.  I was in the kitchen, and he knelled down to me sitting at the table.  He asked me something like “What do you think about me marrying Karen?”

And my heart sunk lower in my chest, but given the opportunity to express, I said “No…No.”

I received an answer that culminated in “It’s too late.”  I had no “real choice” in the matter.

So finding out I was getting a “new mom” with no choice, and realizing I wouldn’t be returning to Baggs Elementary; I was hit with the realization that  I lost a teacher, a school and all my friends; but, hey, I was gaining a step mom and a move to the country west of town, to a new school and house.

I stayed mad for two decades, and anything I deemed my step mothers doing in my misery, went into my brain archive.

How DARE you ask me, what I think and feel, if in the end, it matters, not?

I have always fallen victim to my observations and opinions.

How does one become malleable?  Roll with the punches and keep your mouth shut.  Make up your mind and keep it to yourself.  Suffer in silence.

I looked for my dead mother until I was fifteen; thinking somehow, someway, she could get away faking her death and continue living with another family in the same town.  I looked for her in the aisles of stores, and in the  clouds when I flew on planes.  I thought, in my youth, that you could just put a bouquet of flowers on the roof on birthdays and Mothers day, and she would just float down and get it.  It all continues to give me cognitive dissonance.

But… you know what pulls me out of that dissonance?

I am THIRTY SIX FUCKING YEARS OLD!  This shit is old hat.  I graduated  high school half of my life ago.  Life has moved on.  Everyone is moving on in their own way.

If I am honest with myself and my observations, these truths are undeniable… I have kept myself stuck despite knowing the evolving truths….

My dad has someone who loves him, and her loves her back.

My sister has an attentive mother that adores her, and she deserves that.

They all have done the best they can with me, but I kind of scare them.

Everybody is fighting to comprehend the day to day, and it’s changing swiftly.

My step-mom has always done the best that she can with no guide book, she is brave and resilient; but most like me, adaptable.

I wish I came upon all this alone, but I didn’t.

I have been really blessed in my adulthood to have surrogate mothers.  Women, regardless of age, whose lives seemed to somehow collide into mine.

I haven’t had the same “call and check in every day” or “pop in unexpected” or “care for you when you are sick” kind of relationships; but I have had some eye opening realizations and some heart felt growth.  But honestly, I mean, in my own experience the one thing you have to face about a surrogate is, they will always be there MORE for their own in the most natural and organic way.  You are not really the Fruit of Their Loom, er Womb.

Kind of the same thing with my “step” situation.

She has my sister, and my sister has her; and in no way would I ever wish a woman to grow up motherless. They have a pact I will never truly understand.  And I would never do anything to keep them from it.

I hypothesize that maybe if you have enough surrogate moms, you can actually plan that into your schedule and hug more frequently, and have a reason to make lots of handmade cards?  I don’t know.   What I do know, is, they are there when I need them,most times.  But I don’t ask for, or expect much, and that makes it easier for everyone.  Life is like that.  Sometimes, you have to just figure it out on your own because no one is there to pick up the call or rescue you.. or just soothe you.

And that is okay too.

Some of us have to learn to “Mother” ourselves.

My surrogates and my step mom have taught me more about themselves and myself in regard to the life around me by their unique perspectives and my willingness to listen and observe.  They present perspectives I don’t have on my own, unless I really try.  They DO HAVE birth children! They understand love on a level that I don’t They have  and continue to ride that roller-coaster which may not be ending soon when it comes to life transitions and need.

Rumor has it, “You always want and need your mother… no matter how old you are.”

What do they want in return? These Mothers?  Proof of existence?  Proof that their pain and turmoil and worry isn’t in vain?  Proof that their best attributes can rub off and be impactful and important through progeny?… Justification to a certain degree, that the risk was worth it?  The worry has worth?

Honestly, I don’t fucking know.  I am not even going to pretend right now.  Tell me.

The best I can come up with, is, they are like me; care taking spirits.  I took a different angle, and I know that the out come will be different.  I have no expectation than to have to deal with the most gruesome parts of mortality alone.  They probably expect or at least hope their children will be there to hold their hands through it, when it is their time.

I need to work on honoring this, because quite honestly I have previously just shat upon a Mothers purpose, Their purpose.   We don’t have life without Mothers.  We do not have balance without Women… and care taking humanity would be a lost cause without that energy.

But, I’m not a feminist…?!?

I don’t have to be, because regardless, Mothers gonna keep Mothering.  I apologize if I wasn’t appreciative before.  You all impact the totality of the past,present and future.  We need your love and attentiveness.  We need your kindness and structure.  We need your support, and your presence.  We need your fearless protective nature.

You are a TREASURE.

Thank you.

May all you Mothers, have a Mother Pluckin Mothers Day.

Art, insight, life, Writing

December 8, 2011-Jubal @ Whistlers (Chicken Cordon Bluez)

Leave a comment

Often times, when I lived in Nederland, Colorado; I would go out alone, and check out whatever music may be playing, and hang out with friends that were bound to be out.  The night of this show, was a little gathering while I was back in the area in transition; house sitting and dog sitting for local friends.  This is the last time I saw Jubal play.  I am honored to find this in my notebook.  I am glad that I was able to record my perceptions in the moment.  It makes me feel good. I hope it does the same for you.  

The night may be one of those, High Altitude type nights.  The weather is cold, snow is on the ground, and those who choose Whistlers this Thursday, are primarily there for the entertainment and the suspended menu.

Tonight, I have some early bird jitters.  I feel there may be conflict.

The Thursday night football game is on the big screens; Jubal is on guitar and vocals. The audience seems split.  I figure, there must be room for compromise.

Jubal begins his set, almost as a warm up.  He is playing his less played set list. He emanates a desire to own the room with his music.

Jubal, is an inexhaustible well of music, the type of performers most towns wish for.  But, tonight, We, Have Him.  Knowingly in this moment, he has his competition; be it the football or those few patrons who would prefer their Chicken Cordon Blue in silence, he denies them their wish with gritty growling and harmonic strums.

Tonight we are all somehow the embodiment of this well, that Jubal is.  Some may be dry on the surface, but they are rich and deep, below.  The well is not purely a wood base on the ground, or a metal pipe with a pump.

One could consider a tree, a living well; pulling water up from the depths through it’s roots up to the leaves above, into the branches.  This is how Jubal and his music holds some capacity of the humanity around him.  They rise to him to be with each other, seeking some sweet soul nourishment; finding their call is answered.

If one becomes too dry, they turn to dust and fly away.

When one is fertile and hydrated, one grows and shares their steady beauty to those around them.

Sometimes, we become dry; and we don’t know exactly why or how. Was it the weather, or failure in the roots?  Does a tree, or a well, ever ask?

Sometimes, the well is muddy.  You have to drop the bucket through scum to find the spring.  You have to dig deeper for the clarity.

What really matters?  Perhaps in this journalistic opinion; it is the beautiful clarity that serene submersion brings, seeking the purity.  Jubal holds the perfect sound track for this; somehow every song begs the question, “What really matters?”

Is the game more important than the player?  Is the player always the star of the show?

“Perspective.”  A wise woman, once said.

The room is almost full, and it seems we are on some 24 hour precipice of a Full Lunar Eclipse that will be visible locally.  I wonder if the lunacy of the moon tonight, is reflecting back humanities lunacy.  What is the symbolism of it’s momentary shadowing?

I suppose we are all a little creative and crazy; especially when humbled by seeing the shadow of ourselves, in the midst of lunatic confusion,we still have just enough of a grasp on who we want to see within ourselves that we can find some reconciliation.  We find at times, even lunacy can be overshadowed by a strong desire for realization.

Jubal Thompson passed away August 7, 2016. You can read his obituary here Jubal Obituary.  You can check out his original music on Reverbnation here  at Jubal’s Songs .

I dedicate this writing to all of Jubal’s friends, family and musical admirers.  I apologize, if it wasn’t more about him, or his specific music; however I honor the fact he was a strong participant in a community I was apart of and love.  I was honored to spend time and conversation with him, and I feel this piece touches on a deeper part of our understanding each other in friendship.  If you want to do something in Jubal’s honor; buy a kid an instrument and encourage them to express themselves through the tool of music and words.  And always, listen closely to the truths expressed therein.

 

Art, insight, Writing

Above All, Love Thyself (2005)

Leave a comment

I met that assailant five years ago, today.

Internet connections say little about deviant ways.  I only know the sadistic things he’d say to me, while he forced me down, bleeding; telling me to say I loved him.

In that apartment of discardment and disregardment, the stranger of violence, sickness and anger; and a child trying not to be bitter, bleeding between virgin thighs.  Not from his penetration, but of her womanly cycle.

She came with two intentions; her first stop, a film festival.  She came to meet new friends, she only meant a night with out regrets and loose ends of insanity.  She only wished to be innocently entertained; not emotionally rearranged by a deranged stronger stranger.

She did want the later weather to keep her there; she didn’t want to seem overly careful.  She didn’t want him to be inside of her.

Why did he ask her to lie to him, when she could only cry to him to “Stop!”  Why did he mistake her curiosity for infatuation?  Alcohol, a mental obstruction for erectile distraction?

Her strength only a fraction of his, a safe distance missed by watery miles.  Her smiles are long gone.  Her night began at this innocent film fest with other aquaintences; those artsy types, a long and rainy ride to meet a director for his debut.  Not rude at all to his young admirer.

A wine reception was only a lesson in show business and politics.

Next comes that sick twist of cinematic proportions that corners this sad story of lost glory and innocence.  She leaves the film fest to meet those she doesn’t know; the water flooding the highway floats her toward disaster.

Some one must defend her!  Try and rebuild her sense of self worth, but she’s left feeling more worthless than ever before.  A trusting girl, now she’s only a mess on this emotional train wreck.

It takes more then seconds to think of the lessons she has learned from this tragedy.  I know it’s messed up, because it happened to me.  Now self esteem seems so hard to catch.

Men leave me cautious and sick when I think of lost intentions and sad revelations.  Not all men are the same, but the bad name is branded by a night that broke me.  Not at all a joke to me, just a sad story of lost virginity that needed to be told.

I will choose to be bolder, though my heart grows colder than it would have been, had my innocence been left to rest a while longer.  I needed to be stronger than I was that night.  What was once made wrong, I need to right for myself.  Search for help.  Pay these dues, get past the hurt of being used, sexually abused.

Move forward to help some one else, before the memory fades.  I know no matter how many days pass, I won’t relax because there is a mission to share.  You girls, beware; some guys are beasts out there.  Some times you can control your fate before it’s too late to say those words.

Stand up like a woman, though you feel like a girl.  You show this world that you can overcome; beyond grey skies, look toward the sun.  Innocence is lost everyday.  That doesn’t make it okay or right, but it’s no reason to want to die.  It’s a reason to grow; be bold, live to grow older.  To be the shoulder to some one younger.

It’s a lesson born of a sick sad situation; building aggression, fused confusion and broken illusions of grandeur.  This is the stuff soap operas are made of- the complete opposite of love.  It’s sick, it’s bad, but it’s something some of us have had to endure.  It is the merger of physical violence, sexual deviance, and disgusting circumstances rolled into a complete disregard for a woman’s voice crying out “NO!”

It’s the emotional blow of a lifetime; the intimate mark on a personal timeline.  The invasion of a jail-able crime, but a sentence that doesn’t serve enough time.  Something I didn’t report, a personal decision of mine.  Something upon which Karma I tend to rely on.

So I have gone five years, not so much fearing for myself sexually, as much as I started hating male humanity.  Not the lest life to lead in a hetero-relationship.  I haven’t figured out yet, some I am suppose to live in forgiveness of the situation.  To really let it go, and begin again.

I take it with me everyday… it’s a lot of hidden pain and twisted thinking.  Enough to constitute drugs and reckless drinking; which is what got me moving forward into helping myself and trying to help some one else… yet, I still haven’t learned to love.

I’ve got to take these lessons, there is something to be gained from the most painful of days.  A bit of enlightenment that never fades; a diamond of knowledge from the wise old sage.  A source of healing from the rock of ages. Another one of those challenging steps in the phases of womanhood. A woman, where a girl stood.

Should you ever be this woman’s lover; LOVE HER!  Cherish her.  Covet the love you have for her.  Sing Songs of Solomon to her.  She is a beautiful disaster and at times a walking contradiction.  She suffers the lost virgin affliction.  She NEEDS love to be her addiction.

She will fight it.  She will fight you.  I know all of this, I do it too.  She will cry, she will weep, she will stay up all night and make you lose sleep.  She will mourn, she will come to terms, only to wake in the morning and burn again with anger.  Some times she will seem like a stranger.  The faces of hurt sometimes can not hide within her.

She will want you to hate her, because she hates herself for a situation she couldn’t help. To her control is something she prides in herself, it’s at the top of some list next to personal health.

Just love her. Learn her.  Remind her of her worth.  Let each new day, really mean “re-birth”. The pain is sharp as it internally hurts.  Love and time can heal all wounds.  It’s just a tough job convincing her she is worthy at all.  Not a small task for the weak of heart, the faintly in love.  You WILL want to give up! Yeah, and some times it really sucks… but once she “gets it”, it will be eternal love.

So please, curb your tendency to criticize, look deeply into her eyes and ask her to vocalize her worries, her deep set fears. Tell her, tears are okay.

And if you are on the other end, quit defending your pride!  Don’t lie and say “nothing is wrong.”  Admit that you are insecure, full of fear, anger and resentment. Let him know about those losses and so much more.  Tell him this unlocks the door to the dark stuff that keeps you awake.  These are the feelings that make you fake your security.  It’s okay to express the pain of how you use to be, and how you can seem to change or get it back.

Hold her hand as you listen.  Never think her deranged.  Listening like this could forever change the course of everything later on.

Girl, learn that when they listen, you know they are for your best intentions.  Each time it’s a new lesson of patience.  It makes no sense to try him over and over; Rover only returns if you treat him well.  He can assist you with finding Heaven, if you face it that you are not in Hell.

Sadness for the past drowns the strongest swimmer in the Sea of Despair.  You only fair so well for so long before your air escapes you and you sink so far below, he can’t see you, see him anymore. Just a word from one who knows.  She is the repeat offender; all of her destructive decisions fall in the blender of memories.

The times I have made myself scream at self loathing and the desire for Love to leave, for the leave of love I couldn’t understand and still some how still don’t.  I believe in Love above all, and perhaps just not for me.  Another struggle of trying to believe; I’ll convince you, if you can convince me.

I am waiting for seasons to pass before I drop these leaves of self doubt and hate.  All those lovers before, bailed  after they realize the bait was tainted by sorrow.  I never plan on being sad tomorrow, sometimes it just ends up that way.

If you are sad and you want love, you will find excuses to pursue love and then call it all useless.  It draws you back in, time and again.  I suppose the fact you can still fall at all, is a positive sign but learning how to stay is like finding a pearl of Truth.  Eternal Love is Eternal Youth; the ultimate soother of all those fears and bothered looks. (Trust me I read about it in one of those Self Help books.)

I feel I can help you along a road of self love and self help; but I feel like I can’t help myself.  My advice leaves me dry of knowledge for my best intentions. I tend to learn life’s lessons the hard way.  I start up the same old mountain, from the same place, and fall at a moment late in the game from failed interactions and emotional distractions.  Leading at times to erratic over reactions and faulty verbal transactions.

Maybe someday I’ll try the other side of the hill; it could be the cure for spilling down that rocky road, and getting that bulky load to the top.  Showing that rock, whose boss.

Look at the Lover, and wonder where they got their graceful strength and patience.  The power of two is more than one.  Set this to the reminder at the rise and set of the sun.  Love, above all, Love Thyself.  The wealth of Love is with you.  Covet Love.  Love the lesson of a lifetime, the delicious fruit on Time’s vine.

Art, insight, Writing

Hoʻoponopono

Leave a comment

Hoʻoponopono (ho-o-pono-pono) is an ancient Hawaiian practice of reconciliation and forgiveness. Similar forgiveness practices were performed on islands throughout the South Pacific, including Samoa, Tahiti and New Zealand. Traditionally hoʻoponopono is practiced by healing priests or kahuna lapaʻau among family members of a person who is physically ill. Modern versions are performed within the family by a family elder, or by the individual alone.

Thanks Wikipedia! 

 

Dear –

I am sorry,

I forgive you,

I love you,

I thank you.

These are the four small but massive tenements of change.

I realize, “I love you”, just isn’t something I think or feel, until I do.  It is such a rare thing.  But when I finally feel it; it feels intentional,  yet somehow, also distant.

I will say “I love you” to those I adore, but our geographical distance keeps us removed.  I pass the sentiment through telephone lines and satellite feeds.

Meanwhile, my grandma, a few rooms away; and who I truly and deeply love, sits alone.  Why is it, I say “I love you”, to her, begrudgingly; almost with bitterness?

What have they done to deserve this?  If it is only my discontent, and we are all the same person, only separated by meat sleeves like sausages; am I spoiling those around me?

I am reminded by old adages; “Treat yourself as you would have others treat you.”

The Chorus Of My Answers-

I am mean to myself.

Some lost Golden Truth, imposed and impressed-

” Treat others as you would have them treat you.”

The reality of my actions-

“Treat me like disturbing trash in the wind.  Be swift with your disgust and disregard immediately.”

*****

So, I lay in bed.

I recite, “I am sorry.”

My next thought is “What am I sorry for?”  Deep down I know the list is endless.

“I forgive you…”

But why?  I can’t even forgive myself.

“I love you.”

For what?  I hate love.  I hate the word “love.”

“Thank you.”

What did I do?  No need to thank me.  How can we live in thankfulness with feelings like this?

I start adding things. Improvising.

” I am sorry I have been so harsh with you.  I mean it.”

“I forgive you for allowing Truth.”

“I love you for your resilience.”

“I thank you for sticking around.”

“We might be crazy.”

“I am sorry I’ve tried to kill you.”

“I forgive you for pushing me.”

“I love you for your perseverance .”

“I thank you for accepting my apologies.

*****

Things start flowing from my heart and my eyes.  I am knee deep in a love/hate moment.

“I am sorry I haven’t believed in you! ( I really, really am!)”

“I forgive you for not believing in me. ( I don’t blame you, I haven’t believed in me, either.)

“I love you because you are lovable. (Even when you don’t feel love or lovable.)”

“I thank you for being, me.  (We are One, and that is why it hurts.)”

By this time I feel the familiar choke in my throat; a solitary tear creeps between the slits in my closed eyes.  Again I feel that Love/Hate resurface… what have I gotten myself into?

“I am sorry I dehydrate you, every day.”  (What a dick I am.  I know better.)

“I forgive you for enabling me.”  (Why am I my biggest enabler?)

“I love you for the limits you set.”  ( How can you even say that?  My limits seem nonexistent to myself, these days.)

“I thank you for understanding.”  ( I think you might be mistaken… for now I am more confused.)

*****

I go further.  I focus on my grandmother.

“I am sorry you are getting old.” ( I wish I had more patience and kindness.)

“I forgive you for your failing body.”  ( If only we could turn back time.)

“I love you so, so much!”  ( Why am I crap, at showing it?)

“I thank you for your continued support.”  ( I suppose that is the least I could do, right?)

“I am sorry I am a bitch to you.”

“I forgive you for not stopping me.”

“I love you because you exist as 100% love, in my mind and heart.”

“I thank you, for being just the way you are.”

The grey matter in my brain feels extra mushy.

“I am sorry I can’t figure out how to make life easier for the both of us.”

“I forgive you and your past.”

“I love you because, I do and always have.”

“I thank you, for your silent strength.”

*****

Most days, it’s just me, and her.  And the only people I have to feed, is us.  Admittedly, most days I wait until I am absolutely hangry before I choose to eat.  By that point, she has already been snacking, and squashes our plans to have a shared dinner.

I have made plans for food for “us”, not “me.”  Tonight I do not want to eat alone, but her disinterest is telling.

At this point, I am so hangry, that I put on some boxing gloves and punched a tree for three solid minutes.  I do fifty jumping jacks.  I wonder if I am killing the tree, by not hugging it enough.

I avoid eating “our” food, and have another drink.

My Lover calls me back.  He tells me “Everything is great!  I just had dinner with an old friend of mine that I haven’t seen in a long time.”

I tell him, “That’s all I was calling about earlier…. I gotta go.”

The call disconnects, and I am pretty sure this time it wasn’t my fault, but who knows.  The hung dial tone is loud and it’s amplifying my rage.  In all this dissonance I decide to take a drive behind King Soopers.

I am looking for a “For Sale” motor home I heard about over a week ago.  There are several motor homes and fifth wheels in the trailer park area.  Nothing is labeled “For Sale.”  I am miffed; this adds to my daily defeat.  I just want reinvention and newness; with out babies.

I think I am wasting all my good karma on free drinks.

A week ago I wondered what if I treated alcohol and tobacco, the way I treat psychedelics; I never buy them, they are only received once in a blue moon by gifting, and they must be blessed before consuming.

Today that idea seems a void.  The small destructive pleasure of escapism are at times, the little lights of living.  The little social resurrections, despite how volatile.  Obviously, I don’t ask for much.  Maybe, I don’t ask for enough.  I can’t bare to ask for more, but why?

This Universe is supposedly infinite; most of us really don’t need much.  Many ask for more than they need, and receive more than they asked for.

I don’t mean to sound humble… my ego isn’t very humble; however my needs are few, and therefore I would say my needs, are humble.

“You get what you ask for.”

“You get just what you need.”

“You get what is coming to you.”

“You don’t know how to appreciate it now.”

Maybe not, but I think I do.  Every moment is “Now.”  Science says time does not exist.  Spirituality says we are all infinite.  Astrology says I will find abundance in my 50’s.  Fuck, that is another 20 years.

“To some, 20 years IS a lifetime.”

I tell my inner guru to shut the fuck up.  It is annoying the present place, now, me.  Fuck.

*****

I make my way four miles home from the pub.  I grab a sammie on the way.  I Hoʻoponopono along the way, trying to reconcile some people in my life that I feel have the same emotional lack that I feel in the present moment.  I believe the motion of walking will solidify my meditation.

“I am sorry I’ve allowed you to lie.”

“I forgive you of your past lies.”

“I love you for your brazen attitude.”

“I thank you for teaching  me.”

Despite my outward expressions, I am just talking to myself, out loud.

I continue.

“I am sorry you haven’t been honest.”

“I forgive you for your misuse of imagination.”

“I love you for your creative spirit.”

“I thank you for your unabashed-ness.”

*****

Home is quiet.  The loves in my life are both asleep.  I am happy to sleep alone while battling the reality of falling asleep alone.

Those two don’t realize how different but the same they are.  My loves.

One sleeps in the basement and the other sleeps above, only separated by twenty feet, and fifty years.  I lay in the middle of decades; always more distantly close to one, more than the other.

Distance.  Miles.  Emotions.  Years.

*****

I decided after a long while, to google what I can only say, was once “The Love Of My Life.”

His refusal to engage with social media led me to finding his baby momma, now wifey.

“What am I doing with this lurking?”

I find her comfortably taking up space on Facebook.  Right there, now, in my face sits this happy little family.

There he is, still handsome.  His daughter looks a lot like him.  I cringe.  I cry a little.

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t think that this should have been us… our life would have been different, most likely childless.

I have only had a handful of relationships, and this is just another one that tells me, (from the outside looking in,) that I am all wrong.

I have tested every man I have ever loved; ultimately pushing them far, far away.  Not long after we are over, they move on and start families with women far more congenial; far more loving, far more responsible.  I can’t help but wonder how damaged I must be, or how clueless my self dependence is.

I am, in fact, so sick of being and feeling alone.  Out of love.  I am sick of feeling like I have to keep my emotions at an arms length away from potential love.  I am sick of not finding attraction that stirs my understanding and compassion.  I just want to feel the stirrings of mutual love.  Loving mutually.  I want to wipe those past relationships from my broken heart.

Those who did choose to love me, loved very hard.  In turn, I had a very hard time accepting it, until it was gone and over.

Hindsight is 20/20, right?  It is.  I know.

*****

Dear Lover,

I am sorry we didn’t know how to love each other.  I forgive the pain we cause each other.  I love you, always.  Thank you, for taking time to love me.

I am sorry for breaking  your heart.  I forgive you, for breaking mine.  I love you, and I can’t stop.  Thank you for teaching me.

I am sorry things didn’t work out.  I forgive you for hitting me.  I love you for the sweetness’ we did share.  Thank you for setting me free.

*****

There is just so much to say, and not enough words.  Again, I am left with question and yearning.  I would have given him everything, if he would have just, let me in.

I love a lot of people, but being ‘in love’ is rare.  Mostly for me, it seems attraction is not a defining component of love, how ever it is a huge factor of ‘being in love.” I don’t just mean physical attraction; I mean multi-level attraction.  Body, mind and soul searching type shit.

A burning of compassionate passion, that brings two bodies into a union.  I have found the sparks of those fires quickly die off.  Admittedly I hold grudges that affect my mind, actions and libido.  My libido is already, very weak.

I don’t want to be touched (physically) by ‘just anyone.’ I need everything to feel ‘right.’  This rarely happens.  Instead, I find myself upon some high dusty shelf in some sort of “self preservation.”  I wonder, if I am wasting time?

Art, insight, Writing

Attempting to Submit to Love in 2003

Leave a comment

I knew my adult story started with him.  My superficial bones tested the strength of will, I thought I had.

We tell ourselves things in judgement of others.  An internal pact, ” I will never be that woman.”  Then some how the ironic face of circumstance sets forth a learning curve you once thought yourself to be invincible against.

I walk through life, listening to my own voice-over; laughing and wondering how a story could begin like this; but it did.

Imagine a girl entering into a new period of her freedom.  Twenty-three and vigorously trying to be more athletic and perhaps more hip than she has been before.

It’s a ski town and she is trying the “snow bum” lifestyle for a while.  This place is edgy in its very removed and integrated way of twenty-somethings and older folks alike.  They were all there for the snow; small town drama and copious amounts of intoxicants at any moment came as a sidecar.

Their attitude was “the moment is meant to be lived”; this philosophy in this neck of the woods led to other sentiments, such as “It’s better to live below poverty ABOVE 9000 ft.”

I love the mountains and nature.  Every once and a while I like to party.  Mostly thought I love nature and beer, with a sidecar of interesting stories.  So, I found a job at a local pub with the help of a couple of local friendly friends.  Forward I worked into the integration process.

This was May 2003.  By October I had a few friends I could stand on a regular basis; plenty of places to hang out if things got dull, and a condo with a filthy roommate who was rarely there.

I was getting more fit, and spending much of my free time painting and forcing myself to workout.  Twenty pounds of extra winter clothing and a two to four mile walk, would make me happy, as I was literally “walking my ass off.”

I wasn’t smoking cigarettes. I had a healthy pot habit and mostly drank Guinness or Carlsburg Dunkle.  I walked to and fro, from my three jobs.  Mostly I avoided drama.

I remember it was a warm day in August, or September; the first day he saw me.  I recall him telling me his friend owned the condo behind mine.  He was helping with “home improvements.”

He’d seen me running.  That same day I had finished one of my favorite paintings out under sun.

In this small town, his friend living directly behind me,  his avoidance of drama; we were bound to eventually meet. Our paths had to cross.  It would take a couple of months.

I had some flings before then.  Maybe more than I would like to mention, given the circumstances of small towns, and my distaste for sloppy seconds; none of it was of real potential, just young snow boarder guys.  Most older than me, but not at all very serious.

I am feeling my superficial bones ache.  It takes more than beauty and brawn to win me over.  Still, admittedly, I like good looks and a great mind.  Great minds are sometimes a bit vulnerable to superficial beauty.  The brain could go on thinking in such contradictory and malicious circles, until one finds themselves void of the ability to communicate clearly; perhaps going so far as to not be able to communicate at all.

I’d like to say that when we met, I was starting to feel as though I was grasping clarity; though now I know, I hadn’t even really started the search.

He touched me and this muddled mind and vulnerable heart, immediately forgot about listening to common held fear, and jumped happily forward into a hard lesson.

Something I have always known and been impressed with, is the most effective way to fully know a lesson, is to fully immerse in order to truly learn.