Head start

I heard this quote the other day (found out it was a rather old, famous quote, but I forget who said it now), something about people who are born on 3rd base thinking they hit a triple. It has stayed in my mind ever since, because it really is a simple truth. There is this whole mess of people in America who think the "American Dream" is so attainable by everyone if you just work hard enough. "I work hard - why should I help anyone else?"

But if you grew up never having the water or electricity shut off because your parents couldn't pay it, if you got in trouble for bringing home bad grades (or worse, skipping school), if you never found bullet holes in your house or the houses around you, if you never had a serious mental illness or physical disability, you are already ahead of a hell of a lot of people. People often hear my early childhood story and have such sympathy. My mom died when I was 8, my parents split up just before that, and I had to be raised by my grandma (minus a sister I loved very much, because she went to live with HER dad at that point). She had very little money and somehow managed keep us lower middle class.

But you know what? I was loved. I was cared for in my grief, and never told to "just get over it." I was bombarded with ideals such as the value of education and taking care of myself while still helping others. I was expected to do well and so I did. I lived in a town with almost zero crime, let alone violent crime. I never saw anyone get shot, or beat up. The lights were always on, and the only time water didn't flow freely was because it froze the night before.

So, yeah. I feel like I was born on 3rd base, but I know I didn't hit a triple. I work for what I've got, but I know damn well it took more than the things I've done to get here. I got a head start that not everyone gets.

And even for those who did have a harder time growing up but find themselves with a supportive wife or husband, and healthy, bright kids...so much of that is chance. Good chance. Admit your good fortune that a spouse who can take care of shit at home while you go make the bucks puts you at an advantage.

What a world it would be if everyone understood these things.

I've learned it.

So, after my marriage ended, I was pretty desperate not to be alone. I joined multiple dating sites. I met some great guys; sometimes they ended up not so nice, sometimes I just didn't connect with them. I had many first dates - some that I thought went great and didn't go anywhere; others I could barely get through. Some of the men I dated, I still think about - mostly fondly. One or two I wish could have been more, but I'm at peace with their decision to not date me.

But what I have learned is that I'm already happy just on my own. I'm still on a couple of dating sites. I don't get the attention that I used to (I guess that's bound to happen when you're on there over a year). And I'm far more choosy than I used to be. I realized something not long ago: because I am content and happy with my life, it will take something pretty damn compelling to make me want to change anything about it. He may come along; he may not. But if he doesn't turn my eye AND my brain...I'm not giving it a second thought. My minutes are too precious for that.

I worry sometimes that it's ok being single when everything is ok - when there are no constant major crises as there have been in the past. I worry that if things go south, it will be harder because I'm alone. But I remember I do have family, I do have friends, and I'd figure it out. It would not be easy, but I would figure it out.

I do want love...of course I do. But I'm no longer of the mindset that NOT being in love, or even part of a couple, means my life is less fulfilling.

And that's a pretty fucking awesome realization.

Missing.

Sometimes, part of me hates that it is my home...no longer "our" home. In a way it will probably always be "our home."

Just when you think

Just when you think it's over, that it finished almost sooner than it started: it begins again. Sometimes that's a bad thing. This time, it was a good thing. And it's not that I don't have reservations - of course I do! But I am leaving my heart and mind wide open for whatever will happen, to happen.

Compatibility is important, it really is. You can try to think other things will be enough to compensate for the deficits, but usually, you're wrong. And it doesn't mean it all has to line up 100%. If it did, wouldn't we be bored?

I like thinking about him. I think he likes thinking about me. I don't have a clue where it's headed or for how long, but you better believe I'm going to enjoy the ride.

Double-u. Tee. Eff.

How in the modern world does a guy get fired from a tabloid news show for being a party to a conversation glorifying sexual assault, when the guy who actually TALKED about sexual assault is not disqualified from running for President?

How is it a rule that a person being a natural-born citizen in order to be our President, but it's NOT a rule that they have to have some semblance of decency toward their fellow citizens?

How are women defending a man who thinks it's ok to do whatever he wants to him "so long as they're attractive enough"?

It still makes me weep. There are so many, sooooo many good men in this world to choose from. Men who I might not agree with all the time, but nonetheless are worthy, smart, capable men. And the one who is allowed to let people vote him into the highest job in our country is a joke of a horrible human being who I wouldn't work for, let alone want as the leader of an entire country.

Why are we surprised?

Why are we surprised when people we care about, but who have hurt and disappointed us, continue to act in the manner they always have? Why do we keep hoping for better, different?

I'm not crushed this time; at least I have that going for me.

But I'm still disappointed because I wanted to believe it would be different this time. This Charlie Brown is finished with that particular Lucy.

Losses.

I stop to count them sometimes, just so I don't forget that there's a reason I'm sad and anxious more than I'd like.

About a year and a half ago, I suddenly lost my dad.

A year ago, I lost my marriage. Six months ago, we made it official.

A few months ago I lost another relationship I'd begun to enjoy. It wasn't love, but it was something.

Right after that I lost my beloved grandmother who raised me.

Both my older sons needed major surgery; one, an emergency appendectomy. The other, to fix a badly broken wrist (and then stopped working. And stopped living. And now I'm catching him while he falls).

And now I'm just alone, and a little bit broken. I have to admit that sometimes, as much as I want to believe I'm completely ok.

I'm not. But I'm getting through it.

Before and after the shakes.

It was 9 years ago today that my son had his first seizure. In a way, August 15 is a massive marker on our timeline. It's before and after epilepsy. He doesn't remember much - but I do.

I remember being able to watch all my children run and jump and play and do all of the things that little kids do, and never once worry it would end in a seizure that broke his skin or his arm or his body. I remember not living in a world of twice-daily medication, of wires glued to his head periodically, of lighting-quick thinking because there were no meds to slow his cognition.

I remember the few problems he did have at birth, things that were totally manageable and nothing near life threatening. I remember the frustration of dealing with those, but never did I feel the fear that epilepsy brought into our life.

August 15, 2007 changed all of that. We've never been so innocent, so carefree, so normal as we were before that fateful morning that his right arm started convulsing spontaneously, scaring us both half to death.

I will never, ever forget that day. And I will always wish it hadn't started what it did.

Staples Strange

So, on Sunday afternoon I decided to get off my ass and go buy some school supplies at Staples (despite my proclamation on FB that I was waiting). I mean, it was tax free weekend. Not that it saves me a hell of a lot - 7% on $50 worth of shit isn't much (just notebooks and stuff). But also, I sort of wanted to be around people, too.

Anyway, as I was ambling through Staples, one of the employees stopped me. He noticed the tshirt I was wearing, which has a sort of Rosie-the-Riveter style picture on it, and the words, "Fighting Epilepsy Every Day - It's not for the weak." And he stopped to, well, kind of proselytize, but also sympathize and encourage. He was probably in his late 50s or early 60s. He told me that when he was a baby, he was very sick (part of the problem was seizures), and doctors told his parents he was definitely going to die - to the point that they gave him last rites. But he recovered, and had no seizures for many years. Fast forward to his army career. He was a medic, and of course came across seizure disorders in his job there. In fact, he had a grand mal himself while serving. He said that while talking to his supervisor afterward, he felt a hand literally reach inside his head and touch him, and heard a voice tell him that he would never have another seizure.

And he didn't. And he proceeded to tell me it was about faith, and that it's inside us. He didn't seem to be pointing to any one religion except to say there is a God and he does things. At the time I was thinking, "Did it ever occur to you to ask why he let you have seizures in the first place?" But as usual, I didn't feel like making the situation uncomfortable (it was already feeling a bit strange).

Now, you all know that I don't believe in god (still don't) but the whole exchange did make me think. If nothing else, having another human notice something about me, and acknowledge more than just a cart full of paper and pens, was touching. Strange, of course, but touching in a way that stayed with me.

Weary.

I am, at this moment (and at several moments lately) freer than I have ever been in my life. I am not bound by the constraints of religion or parents or children. I'm just me - working, reading, playing.

And in a very strong way, I feel paralyzed. Who am I, without her? Who am I, without them? So much of my identity was wrapped up in the woman who raised me, in the children I raised. And while my children are still growing, and only temporarily absent, the fact remains I'm very close to them being grown up and independent. Much closer to them being completely dependent and by my side the vast majority of my hours.

And she - she is gone. For good. While I no longer have to live with the fear of her judgment and her disappointment over some things, I no longer get to live with her presence. She loved me, she cared about me, and she talked with me. I had a 93 year old best friend, and I made sure she knew it. I want to hold her and love her and be with her again. I can't help it. I miss her like crazy some days and I want her back.

I know who I am, and mostly what I like, but the fact is, I am tired. I'm so very, very tired, so much of the time. I find it difficult to pursue things that interest me. I would rather curl up and read a book or watch a movie or TV show than just about anything, because it requires so much less energy. When I do something different, it always feels good. But getting motivated to do it? Oh, it feels, sometimes, like I am trying to move a mountain.

I'm trying to give myself space, a break, room to just be. Not do, every second. But I am keenly aware that I'm in the 2nd half of my life and what I want is TO do. To experience and know and create.

I must find the desire that is stronger than the tired.

Old new love

I don't think I fully appreciated (or appreciated at all) how difficult it would be to fall in love in middle age. It used to be so easy - it smacked me in the face; I didn't see it coming. Sometimes it happened when I didn't want it to.

And now, now that I know what it is and what it can be, I don't know if I am capable of it, even if I do find it (which is feeling more and more questionable).

I find myself starting to accept things I normally wouldn't, just for the possibility of maybe being in love some day. And then I catch myself: if he's not going to put any effort into it, why should I? I have far more respect for myself than to be someone's option, or his backup plan.

I'm not above pursuing him; no, I won't give in to the sexist notion of a woman needing to be pursued. But the pursuit should be mutual. If he's worth it, than so am I.

Ignore me and eventually I'll forget about you. It's that simple.

And it's ok if it means I'm alone; I happen to like me.

At the edge.

I don't know why I am writing this; at least, writing it here. But here goes.

I am in Phoenix. He lives here. We had a fight, over a week ago. I was supposed to come visit the weekend before this; he had to cancel because he had to work. The argument on the phone culminated in him hanging up on me, and I have not heard from him since. I have called, emailed, sent text messages. Not a lot - no more than once a day. But no response.

He had said, just a couple of days before that, he could see making a life with me. And one fight changed all of that? How? Especially at our age? One day you want to build a life - the next day, one argument, and it's completely over?

So...here I am. Staying in a hotel a few miles from his apartment. I will soon get dressed in the outfit I wore on the first day I met him, and I will show up at his apartment. He may refuse to see me. I'm prepared for that.

If he does refuse, I've got plenty to keep me busy. Books, movies, I can write. I've got the hotel until Sunday, and if nothing else, it's good to get out of town for something besides a funeral. It's good to get out of my house for a bit - my normal walls, my normal life. It's good to be away, and just...be.

I don't know what the next 48 hours will hold. Maybe nothing in my life will change. Maybe everything will.

You can't do it alone.

What Goes Around...

Karma is a fun thing to say. “That’s karma for you!” we say when someone who experiences what appears to be punishment for past crimes. “Isn’t my karma any good?” we say to ourselves when bad things happen and we think we’ve been mostly good people. We want there to be some sort of divine justice in our world. We want it to make sense.

The fact is, like many made-up religious things, karma is make believe. It makes us feel better to think when someone hurt us, they’ll get some sort of punishment from the universe at a later date. The problem with this is: it’s not always true.

Plenty of people do plenty of bad, hurtful things - and get away with it. It might even look like they are extra-blessed after their misconduct. And we also need to remember that even if they do go through something bad in their life further down the road, it doesn’t really fix what that person did to you.

Instead of believing the very fallible “what goes around, comes around” philosophy, we need to learn to practice something that is so easy to say, and so hard to do: let go.

It is so hard to let go. I get it. I am in the midst of trying to let go of a few painful things myself. It would help if I knew those who hurt me were hurting a little too. I admit I’d probably feel some satisfaction. But the thing is: those people are not in my life anymore (either by their decision, or mine). The only thing left for me to do is to let go.

Would it really take away the pain of being rejected and abandoned by him if I knew some other woman did the same thing to him? Would it really ease the sting of loneliness if I knew her new best friend dumped her, too? I suspect not as much as I think it might.

So instead of perpetuating the myth of karma, I am advising others - and myself! - to just…


Let.

It.

Go.

Breathe through the pain, remember to smile with gratitude at the good times, and when hurt lingers longer than it should: let it go.

Into the fire

Ok, maybe that title is a little dramatic. But, then again, maybe not.

I was thinking this evening how strange and sad it is that we can forget some really big, important life lessons. Last fall when I was first separated, I dated a guy who told me about this book called Daring Greatly. Things with him and me did not work out, but just that one thing was quite valuable.

I thought I could do it - be brave enough to be vulnerable. And here I am, on the edge of returning to a different man - I can't really call it a relationship, as I'm not sure that's what it ever was - but returning to a man I enjoyed immensely, and a situation that I am scared of entering for a number of reasons.

We didn't have a good start; we both acknowledge that. There are various reasons for that, valid reasons, but yes, it was painful for me.

I want to get past that, and I'm trying. I don't think he ever meant to, or wanted to, cause me pain. I was in a vulnerable place relationship-wise, and he was in a personally vulnerable place. Pain was on the menu and we didn't even know it, because we didn't really know one another and quite obviously didn't trust each other. It was just too new for that.

But I have learned a lot about me, in these last several months. About what I want and need, what I'm capable of.

And I believe in the possibility of love. I know it exists; I've seen it. The lifelong kind, I've yet to experience, but I've observed. I still don't know if it's possible for me: not because men I am attracted to or fall in love with are incapable, but maybe, because I am. I don't want to believe that about myself, but I fear sometimes that it may be true.

Nevertheless, he wants to take a chance with me. And while I need a lot more than what he seems willing or able to give, I'm risking it, for now. I am not leaping, and I'm not diving, but I do want to get past more than just dipping my toes in the water.

I want to really, truly be involved. And I don't know if he'll let me, really. He says he wants that, but I still feel like there are mixed signals. I think if you want her, you leave no doubt in her mind. But it's also really very possible those are my doubts; not anything he's done or not done.

I want to be brave enough to be vulnerable, and I am trying so hard. I hope he understands and appreciates my effort. I want to know, and to be known.

Never ever

If I believed in God, maybe this would all be easier. Maybe not - but, maybe so.

If I believed in him, I suppose I'd believe I would see her again. I'd see her, and my mother, and my dad. And all those people I miss so much.

But I don't. And I won't. The last time I saw my grandmother is probably the last time I'll ever see her. I'll never hold her, kiss her, watch her fall asleep in the big chair again. I'll never again see the look of delight in her eyes when she was happy or excited about something.

Does she know how much I love her? Does she know what I remember?

I remember when she came to babysit a chicken-pox-ridden Joey for a week so his dad and I wouldn't have to miss work. I remember her coming out here to New Mexico, from Illinois, on a day's notice to take care of Joey and Quent so I could honor my bedrest for Aaron to not be born too soon. I remember the year she bought us tires for our car, when we couldn't afford it. I remember the gift she gave me when I graduated college, something I didn't even know still existed: a photo of my mom and dad and sisters, all of us together. I remember all the times after my mom died when I sat and cried, and she found me and held me. I remember crawling into her bed when I was too scared to sleep alone. I remember taking her to Wendy's, to see Joey at work. I remember my 40th birthday, when she got me a cake for an impromptu party.

I remember her getting mad at me for making out with a boy in a car outside our house at 1 a.m. I remember the awful arguments we had when I was young and naive. I remember her canning and freezing and making pies and teaching me to bake and feeding my body and soul.

And I remember rushing home when she was first sick, fearing she wouldn't live through the weekend. I remember holding her hand for hours, certain she was leaving us. And I remember the grief she went through losing her second child, my favorite uncle.

And I know that her belief in seeing her beloved husband, her children, her family and friends who have already died, is bringing her comfort. And I am as glad of that as I am sad that it won't actually happen.

And I am so very, very said that she is nearly gone, and that I will never, ever see her again.

The best thing I've read in awhile

Courtesy of an Aussie friend of mine:

"I wouldn't cross the road to piss in your mouth if your teeth were on fire" followed by a chest poke and a breezy threat to bang their wife as I stroll of to whatever is next.

Now, if only I can remember to use it (or modify that last part to suit my circumstances).

Missed, or missing.

These things don't happen in real life...they happen in a movie. And yet, apparently, it happened to me.

He flew here, to my city, for the sole purpose of seeing me. I did not acknowledge him; I was seeing someone new, and honestly? He had hurt me. I wasn't interested in being hurt again.

But now he says he always wanted me.

And the other one? It turned out he wasn't kind at all.

Life is strange.

Intestinal Fortitude - or lack thereof

"Does it hurt more when I press on it, or more when I let go?" the doctor asks, probing his lower right belly. He winces.

"When you let go," he says quietly. She gently performs a few more diagnostic tests on his body, and he stays quiet the entire time.

The room we are in, a triage room, has a door to the outside. I can't quite figure out where we are in this labyrinth of medical facilities - rooms full of people and gurneys, tears and antiseptic, anxiety and immodest gowns. It's windy outside; the door keeps opening and closing slightly - a strange thing for a pediatric emergency exam room, I think. Later when the surgeons visit, even they comment on it. We all have a small laugh at the absurdity of a faulty door to the outside world in this seemingly private place.

Before long, we're told that yes, it's appendicitis, and surgery will happen very soon. Tonight or tomorrow. The surgeons appear to tell us exactly how they'll do the surgery - where the cuts will appear, and what the risks are. My son doesn't hear the "good parts." He hears that his body will be broken into, that there are some Very Important Organs near the Thing they want to remove, and all the things that can go wrong.

He sheds a tear when they leave. He is scared.

I've spent so much time in hospitals with his brother that it's hard to scare me anymore. I have a lot of trust and faith in these people who care for my babies, nearly always so, so well. But seeing him cry, well: that is another matter. That is my son, my tall-as-me, so independent and self-sufficient 14-year-old son, suddenly small again. And afraid.

That is what kills me. I put on a brave face and tell him it's ok to be scared. I promise he will be absolutely fine, but being afraid is normal. I tell him he'll be asleep, and how lucky we are that we caught it so early.

And the minute I step out into the waiting room, knowing he is in a room full of people who know exactly what they are doing - but do not know HIM - I start to cry.

When He touches her

“Come upstairs,” He said. He knew what she wanted, what she needed. She rose and followed him obediently. What precisely awaited, she was never quite sure. All that she knew was that it would fix her tonight, and somehow He knew the formula. He took care of things. He took care of her.

What would it be tonight? Would it be slow and gentle, melting into her curves, gentle licks on her nipples, stroking her hair? Would it be reaching between her legs to feel the hot wetness, slowly stroking her until she begged?

Would it be hard and fast, primal, animal, almost angry, filling her with life and drama and erasing the tangled mess in her mind of her fucked-up day? Would He enter her within minutes of access to the body He adored and desired?

Or would it be creative, taking His time with the ropes, slowly, limb by limb, one body part at a time, making her His beloved charge, and taking her as wholly as He wanted her, as she was unable to do anything but receive the pleasure He knew how to give perfectly, completely? 

Or would it just be…quiet? Touching. Stroking. Nothing sexual, but wholly intimate in a way that almost made her weep, recalling it later.

Any of those things, all of those things, were part of a life she was learning to enjoy, to feel she deserved. And it mattered that all of those things were with Him. Not with anyone else. Him.

Strange and funny, charming and weird, difficult and desirable: He was a different kind of thing, of relationship, of life, than she had ever known. And oh, she was scared. But hopeful and happy and strong enough to know that whatever the future held, and however long or short it lasted, this will have been worth it.

A weird envy.

In reading a book that I've been reading for far too long (it's a long book), I realized something: it's not uncommon for people in relationships to be jealous of their partner's wholly separate interests or passions.

I admit that when I was younger, I was guilty of this. I wanted to part of my significant other's life in every aspect. I didn't want him to have significant things that I wasn't a part of. And honestly, I think that feeling was mutual. But that relationship eventually ended, and in my next one, we had some wholly separate passions. And it was good. I did not envy the time he spent away from me on his interests, because it allowed space and time for me to either a) pursue my own or b) just be me. That relationship ended as well, but the space and discrete interests were one of the more successful elements of that coupling.

I understand a passion for something can become an exclusionary thing - and that it can be purposefully so. It can be a reason to be absent when you desire the absence instead of confronting difficulties. But it doesn't have to be that. It is just a thing your partner likes, and you do not share.

That doesn't mean you can't appreciate your partner's passions in some capacity; I think it's good to encourage them and to at least talk about it, if not experience it once in awhile, with them.

But jealousy? Nope, that's not for me, and hasn't been for a long time.

The touch

She’s not sure why
Her face is red
Raw and wet and streaked and
Fallen
Lines this way and that
Telling a story she can’t
Eyes clouded with
A pain fresh but old
A scar torn open
A wound too deep
She wants the touch
that heals, that soothes
But ever doubtful
She deserves
Can she ask?
Can she receive?
She begs for dark
And peace from the trembling.
And maybe
A touch can reach her
There.

What is one of your greatest blessings? (from 300 Writing Prompts)

This is from a notebook of writing prompts...it ends rather abruptly as I ran out of writing space in the notebook and didn't want to "cheat" by writing more here.

*****************************

One of my greatest blessings is my intelligence. I have always been quick and bright. As a child, I was considered "gifted." I never quite believed I was truly any smarter than my peers; I just simply loved to read and learn new things. And learning and remembering came quite easily to me.

But I have realized, twenty years into adulthood, that being/having above average intelligence makes my life easier. I have had to endure a number of fairly difficult circumstances, not the least of which is my son's illnesses. Many things have to be researched, thought about, and decided upon; my intelligence makes it easier to sort through them with deep understanding. And I have a solid sympathy for others going through the same things, only with less ability to understand and solve them.

Of course, it means I fear any kind of dementia a lot. I would find that devastating, because quite simply, my brain is probably the thing I am most proud of.

Only - or already?

It just hit me that I'm only 40 and a lot of things could still happen to me - or I could even make them happen. I admit I've mostly been thinking that I'm already 40 and everything has already happened; the rest is just repeats.

But I'm starting to understand that maybe that's not true at all.

Tracking...

She knows this.

Believe her when she says that you are in kind of a bit of an extraordinary way. She sees things - she notices. The way you speak to him, so small and furry and dependent upon you for everything. The way you listen and understand the things she says and doesn't say. The willingness to engage in the minutiae of her life in a real and helpful way. The way you've brought her into your world - the reality of it, not just the ethereal beautiful parts (although you do that too, much to her delight). And the way that you allow her - and yourself - to have the kind of space that grows a relationship in a healthy way, letting two people be individuals who can still care deeply about one another. You allow space that creates longing, not doubt.

She knows because she's been where it wasn't kind. Where it wasn't a highly valued thing to the person she loved most, the person who said he loved her most. One of the things she wanted most of all - he couldn't see past his anger and pride to give to her.

So when she says you are kind: believe her.

Simply

You're making art...

...touching my heart.

Keep going. Keep doing. Keep me.

You may miss my face...

   ....and you may miss my body...


But I'm searching for someone who misses ME.