Boy; Unhinged

“…and suddenly I was exhausted by all the years I spent doggedly chasing the carrot of self-improvement, while dragging behind me a heavy cart of self-criticism” (Bremer, K., 2010, Excerpt from Cover Girl).


Ample enough to be a maverick rather than gauged by the illusions of society, to which one can never fully measure to, I’ve gathered a resounding quantity of stillness in this day. It wasn’t more than a week ago that the pangs of doubt were sucking the life-force from me and but 12 hours since I last breathed that heavy-handed sign of desperation. Criticism and self-improvement are oddly paired in what trails through my day and somehow, self-improvement wins by a hair’s breath of distance generally leaving me to slump into a mass among twisted sheets and the ceiling fan whirring its meditative noise for me.

Rett was but one when we began this flight of fancy. Bitterness and rationalization soon came to the surface, followed soon by a mix of fright, pain and anguish. When I can project the timeline in my own head of what he’s had to endure through what constitutes 90% of his life, the results are debilitating. I can only imagine what his adult therapy sessions are going to sound like should he ever muster the courage to delve back into his childhood once we finally get through it. 

Where do you start something like that? “Once upon a time in a state of confusion and mistaken identity, I was born…” that’s how I’d begin that phase of treatment.

See what comes of it from there. Posh.

It does lead me to thinking though…what exactly does self-improvement consist of? What do you temper it against? Yourself? Your self? (I always preferred to reference the self in that manner. Don’t really think it’s appropriate in a grammatical sense, but for the sake of the psychoanalysis behind it, I feel it’s much better to separate the two – you know: my self, her self, your self, etc. The self as it would be, is a separate and highly important position.). Little perennial that he is, Rett has this amazing ability to switch modes from one to the other depending on his surroundings. It’s becoming more and more prevalent - either he’s happy, young, curious and free when he’s home, or he’s returned from a visitation in a state of fright, fear, angst, anger and self-protective. Now and again there’s the marking that indicates Dad wasn’t able to control his himself (this “self” stays with the “him”) but as my little perennial builds his vocabulary and personal identity, the actions of Daddy dearest are more and more psychologically twisted.

Really twisted.

Yesterday, for instance was a good day for him. He was home. He was safe, unburdened with what he had to process and how much it wouldn’t make sense to him. He was free to tie up his shoes and run through the fresh-cut grass with his dog. He sat for dinner and said grace without peering out through interlaced fingers to see make sure he was in good company while doing so (Saying a blessing is forbidden at Dad’s). He was a boy, unhinged.

Today, and at the notice that he’s scheduled to spend the long holiday weekend with Dad, like a light-switch he transformed. All that aggression, those questions, the worry…it’s been building since I gave the news. My correspondence with his teacher through the day has already revealed two emails that speak to him “being unkind to a classmate” and so full of energy that he can’t “sit still”. He KNOWS!

“Give him credence!” I think to myself. “He’s not just six, he’s six and intelligent! He’s confused and receiving empty promises. He’s scared and not getting safety. He’s voicing the injustices and not being heard!”

That. Is self-improvement. It’s self-improvement being cut off at the knees, but self-improvement nonetheless. The catch will be if he can continue to improve him self and make the changes to not pull a wagon of guilt behind, or criticism, … or anger. Already, he’s farther ahead than most. Somewhere though, in the midst of learning your voice and learning your self (while learning to live in your circumstances) I believe you are more-likely to be recognized by your age than you are your intelligence, particularly if you’re “too young”. Bah.

Hinging this child is the necessity he faces to swing between the highs of “normalcy” at home and the enfeebling lows that come from time spent with dad. From that I sit in a state of stillness today; figuring that when the time is right to movement, I can be reassured that there is more faith than fear. Or as T.S. Eliot said, “Still and still moving”…there is movement though in the physical sense all is still. There is movement. Enough so that when this cycle finally spins out, my little Rett will once again run as a boy; unhinged.

Polish Up Those Shoulders

Today I was asked when I'd be taking "that trip down the aisle"?  At this same time I was reminded of the ways in which we process relationships and how, for whatever the reason, things have taken their sweet time in coming to fruition.  Relationship-wise, you're either the "point-and-shoot" type where very little nuance, every bothersome issue or habit is because of something that someone else did. Or, it's a role-responsibility relationship.

In many painful reminders I believe I've succumbed to the ever easy point-and-shoot and I would imagine that's because the alternative is hard.  If you accept the responsibility of your role, rather than pointing a finger whenever you're displeased, it becomes fairly evident that it is you who must do the work.

Not afraid of work, I put my gloves on preparing to identify the problem and drag it out by its toenails if it didn't voluntarily go.  Ask Lovey - that poor man's been through what might suffice for a modern day war of the roses where it concerns my stubborn streak and cleaning-frenzy-when-agitated therapeutic regimen.  And though even that can have its good side (streak-free living quarters) I begin to feel pressure when its all the time my problems, my issues, my therapy, my mental health, what I'm working on fixing, etc.  I begin to feel as though I cornered the market on tumultuous relationships and anecdotal self-help.

Rationally speaking, I know I'm not the only person that has issues they need to work on, and I'm certainly not the last, yet depending on my focus, remembering that rationale can become very blurred.  Resolved to stop pitying myself, I take a deep breath in and conjure up the energy to step forward again.

"Alright"  I tell myself, "you're going to have to accept this one too.  Polish up those shoulders...".  There were times when the little things that played out in our lives as children implanted themselves so deeply that they became seeds for our adult actions.  Only at this stage does one realize that by correcting the faults of those before us, we must also acknowledge taking the blame for it as well.  And isn't there some adage about "with great responsibility comes great...?"  I think Spider-man said it.  "Power".  So power it is.

Ultimately, I am responsible for how I feel and to what degree.  I know that I feel happy when I have the love and attention of my partner.  I know that I feel gracious when I have the health and togetherness of my family and children, or when my son sleeps in my bed because he's "not scared there," (even if it has become a last resort for convincing him of an early bedtime)...or when my photo albums reflect the years of memories in all stages of life. That entails a role-responsibility relationship; therapy being an added bonus for years to come.  Being careful of the pressure that I exert on someone else making me happy, I'm going to have to keep my role(s) in mind.

And in this same pattern of thought, I'll dream forward to the day when I actually am walking down that aisle.

Be the Drip

Because parenting was never described as “easy” and because the added element of divorce, makes nearly any nuclear family with children become mismanaged, I am having a difficult time with being Mom.


I don’t believe it’s the adage of “Because I said so” 100%, nor do I think that children should be handed the reigns of their childhood to run amok as they choose. I don’t know that there’s any one ideal that I subscribe to with parenting, and I have yet to meet someone who has raised the perfect child. As a matter of fact, there appear to be more parents that are still searching for clues to living as an excellent human-being, than there are children (me being one of those).

I don’t mind the every day cycle, the running, the gathering, the shopping and the structure; what I mind is the incessant evil and manipulating nature of “the other” parent that appears to act only out of spite and vindictiveness. Isn’t there somewhere he can go? Like…the tar pits? Or Iceland?

It was about a year ago that I had an inordinate amount of tension pent-up and decided to take it out on a dried out log that had been sitting by the fire pit in the back yard. With a splitting maul and an ax, I marched right over to it, read it it’s last rights and then commenced the pendulum swinging; hell-bent on finally splitting it to handy little pieces for the next get-together. As I'm sweating into my swing, I hear a *tink, tink, tink* from the side. And any wood-chopping person knows that you keep an eye and an ear out for what might be around you as you’re lunging blade into wood, so as it would be, the noise was slightly disconcerting. At the turn of a head, I see my bestest girly – she’s in her strapless sundress, hiking up one side with her left hand, barefooted and *tink, tink, tinking* at the other log nearby…with a bitty, little ax. The wood slivers flew into the breeze as she held her dress up and out of her way – you have to plan your trajectory, you know. I made a comment to her that day being as frustrated as I was … “We’re all about futile efforts here!” We laugh about it still. The picture though – of taking measures to just keep chipping away at the problem, the goal or whatever other name you give it…I suppose that does have an effect; futile as it may seem.

Like Peg told me over a year ago – “Be the drip, Trish!” She used it as a metaphor for how the tiniest amount of water can create a cavernous ridge in solid stone just by dripping, continuously and without diverting from the drip…drip…drip. It’s back to the making of life, as compared to the drudging of life. I'm tired of drudging. Time to kick things up a bit (or at least get my *Tink* on!).

Dearest Child of Mine

I am sorry that you have to contend with these issues that exceed your cognition right now. I'm sorry that I married a man who has not produced a good role model for your fragile state of mind. I'm sorry to see you weighing the good against the bad and not knowing where to turn or what to do. I'm sorry that you feel like no one’s listening. I'm sorry that there isn’t change coming faster and most of all, I'm sorry for the times when I don’t know what else to do or say.  I'm sorry that he’s broken.

I'm glad that you feel safe enough to act out around me because you know you’ll not be hurt. I'm glad that you’re blessed to be as intelligent as you are. I'm happy to see your face shining on the good days and humbled at your smile. I'm saddened to see so much hurt put in your direction by someone outside my control, but delighted to see you growing into a wonderful person who is more compassionate than you are resentful. 

I pray more than I answer and try to be thankful more than I worry.  I do have absolute faith that this will not last forever and that every dream is worth following. I recognize that this will not be the last time you have to come up against forces outside your control or understanding and that the head-on meetings with the man who fathered you, will certainly occur again.  It is my job to prepare you to work through these inevitabilities to the best and healthiest ways possible for the tools you’re equipped with and the age that you are.
It is of what we fear that we are gauged emotionally. Or, in reference to the Piscean me…I've gauged everything emotionally, fear or not.  Bugger.  With that in mind, there is a path that unfolds before me, it’s been a tad rocky and overgrown, but a path nonetheless. I'm referencing this path because it encompasses the dear message, the continuous worries and the frights of childhood that I allude to with nearly everything I speak of.  Bah. 
Tomorrow…maybe tomorrow we’ll speak of confusion and what that means.

Manners & Comprehension

One thing that I fail to understand is how I spend inordinate amounts of time to consider what I feel are the various avenues of possibility and yet, my expectations are often rendered a dry well. What is it that I'm not seeing? Did I miss something? Am I still supposed to be hibernating? Can I please get an answer? Someone…anyone…


This cycle of communication mishap, the one between me and the “system” seems so hindered that I retreat. I draw back the reigns and pull under my shell to contemplate the pieces that I may have overlooked…how I might be further persecuted and what that would mean to accomplishing a dear goal of mine. When I feel that air has cleared and the smoke has dissipated I venture out again.

**BAM** Miscommunication in my face!

Posh.

Bah.

Voltaire said that “True greatness consists in the use of a powerful understanding to enlighten oneself and others”, and though I perfectly understand that, I feel that my comprehension is belabored by the others. And how is that right? What I understand is that there is a large populous that remains blissfully ignorant, that as much as I attempt to follow rhythm, my step is heavy and that language is key to communication and is highly gauged by the manners that are instilled in that language…or else tone.

Maybe we can start there – with communication. “Please” and “Thank you” are both, incredibly powerful and when you couple the basics of language with priorities, well…then you’re on to something good.

I figure it can’t always be like this, not forever anyway. “This too shall pass” was a common phrase as I recall my teenage years, spoken often by my mother. And yet now I sit with the hope that “This too shall pass soon” - as my patience is wearing thin; my comprehension even thinner. Oh, and “please”.

A Chance at Redemption

It came to me today as I followed a little red-winged blackbird that’s been flitting around the nearly-empty parking lot in the back.  It flew among the branches of the trees in the back; the poplar trees all shedding their fluffy seed pods left the bird scampering through what looked like snow falling mid-Spring.  I'm searching, longingly questing every time I get to thinking – always thinking that there must be something I'm missing or an element of this picture that’s escaped me.
Like the bird however, the one that skipped branch to branch – I'm reminded that much of what I'm aspiring to be, I already am.  I fail at giving myself credit because I don’t want to be boastful and then the second-guessing starts. And well, that’s a never-ending cycle.  I keep assuming that I'm going to end up at *that* spot where I’ll be happy and the efforts that I’ve put in will render a beautiful result of life as I see it in my dreams.  In essence however, it’s already arrived – just that the thoughts I'm having are overwhelming (and ultimately creating) the vision that I'm seeing.  

A Way

There has to be a way out of this stalemate.


Is it just me who’s feeling the beckoning of desire up against the drag of communication? Doesn’t seem to be productive in any way – this attempted “fight no more forever” deal breaker between the ex and I. I’d be all for putting down arms, and basically have – but him: he seems to embody what it means to entrap, con, manipulate and belabor. Bah! Move along I say! Move along to a time in your life where you’re actually living it out in the scope of what it means to be you; not me, not through our child.

More about me: about how I can alter perspective, how I am able to accept life and change it into a fine pair of spectacles for viewing it through. Of how I choose to accept language – language of love and life and of dispelling fear. Fear governing much of what happens – that we might not account for enough, harbor too much pain to be inoculated against it and at some point, after years of treading life’s waters, that we might not have enough air to breathe until we get to shore. Silly fear. Such a waste.

You know what was exciting about Ginger being the barefoot temptress and askew chanteuse on an island? It was that she trod her own desire in light of the circumstances of her train-wreck existence. For a character designed on sarcasm and a sharp tongue, my identity met its match and then it transcended to another level, as dear Ginger donned her gown and traipsed into the next melodramatic scene. I effortlessly apply too much thought into what it means for something to have meaning.

Open mouth and express a new found liberty of perspective and wishfully waiting to hear feedback, I sit.

The circle-‘round effect is squared off at the shoulders of making peace with my demons. Most of whom have already vacated the premise, but still – a few remain. They may always be the stow-away kind to “poke” attention to things that should have died long ago; ideas, thoughts, memories, etc. Acknowledging them just enough to kick them out of the way. They’ve been worried over enough – given enough time and energy and no longer are they mine. They just happen to reside in the deep, dark voids of my brain.

Four, three, two...

I don’t know exactly where it started: the fear. I believe it to have been something like that of a constant drip. It began and just didn’t cease; drip, drip, drip, fear growing as I tried to balance curiosity with learning. It was a matter of waging war between heart and brain, of that I'm certain. Brain urged reality, desire for freedom and suggested ways out that would surely leave me as emotionally-void as he. And heart – well heart may have helped the drip of fear more than it was entitled to. It too, was scared. Mentally, I can picture it as the scales of justice – or as it would be at the time; justification. Everything from the sociopathic stance was justified to me: so much so that the directive soon came to: “Write down what I say. That will enable you to go back through and remind yourself of what your problems are”.



That was nearly ten years ago. And those novels that were to serve as reminders – they’ve been burned to ashes.


The thoughts however, they stir. Like dusty, clinging webs of pragmatic demise, they hang in the far regions of my mind. “What my problems are…?” What are my problems? I can see now what they may have been then, but do they still infiltrate my actions now? I think it’s like the teachings of the power of the unconscious state: that we all bring a program of hopes and dreams, of fears and behaviors with us as we transcend into adulthood; into relationships. It’s unconscious – it’s seemingly subtle and yet, like a vapor it interrupts our adult lives with the search for unmet childhood needs, not recognizing boundaries or walls.



Drip, Drip, Drip.



The webs are relevant because now and again, I take a mental broom to them and open the windows. Their relevance serves to remind in a positive way – to remind that at that time, and maybe even now – I am too kind. I listen, (stubbornly) I engage (directionally) and I anticipate the outcome (prematurely). I expected promises to be fulfilled and carried out. I anticipated the day when all sorrows would be forgotten and when I walked to the mailbox there would be the grandest, most golden invitation to a celebration in my honor. TA-DA! An apology might soon follow for contending with all those things that hurt and traumatized, that injured and frightened me and being that I was so forgiving, I would take my golden invitation and check, check, and triple-check the date to make certain that I showed up early for the big day. That day didn’t come though…and it never will. Not in that regard. Because it’s been lived; that facet of my life – that experience and all the tools, tears, fears and happiness that it brought with it has been lived. It creates cobwebs at this point and some I keep, but most go through the open window.


I anticipated that there would be more sorrow than this. And maybe it’s because I held on for far too long – wanting for things to change and be what I saw them as in my mind’s eye. They couldn’t possibly live up to that expectation, ideal as it seemed. And now…now it’s a cartoon of sorts. The memories – the ones that must go now, they hang with four fingers clutched to the edge of a cliff. I'm above those fingers and one by one, I pluck them off. Four…three…two…*BINK*….they fall away.

Dear Self

Dear Self:


It is precisely at this point in time that you need be reminded of some very dear attributes and coincidences that affect your being.

You are no longer subject to the hassle and persecution of your other being – the one that has kept you prisoner for far too long to the scrutiny of your self. You have broken free from the chains that bind in that matter and you’ve been afforded another opportunity to live your life “as if”. In this calling, you shall immediately begin every action as-if it were for the best of every dream and desire you’ve ever had. There is no judgment that will take from you another ounce of energy or life force, it is not allowed. There is nothing that can return you to the point of a critical state of breathing for you have weathered the storms to this point and you’ve been handed the “pass Go, collect $200” from your maker.


Your life as it was is not your life any longer. It has bearing only to the point that you remember the nuances which guided you; that you recall the elements that were so harsh that with the deepest breath of air you know you will never have to live that again. NEVER! You shall discontinue visiting that place that harbors pain and anger to the point that you are rendered helpless. You are not helpless. You are not a victim. You are strong and come in a complete survival package, full of the accoutrements that every “backpacking-through-life-being” needs; even the little matching blue-speckled cup and saucer set.


The path you’ve trod to this point was orchestrated in such a manner as to teach you all the core elements of moral and ethical masters. It was no mistake – and for the record, you passed. The intention was to get you to learn and to foster belief that you absolutely can make it through your storms, no matter what degree they reign down upon you. From this, you’ve garnered a new outlook and understanding – you are stronger than you ever gave yourself credit for and more beautiful when looking from the inside-out. You cannot gauge your actions through the eyes of others – only through yourself and from this you will find great peace and serenity at knowing you are exactly where you are supposed to be. You exist in the plain of a beacon – showing to others what it means to live a good life and though you get weary, your purpose in life is beyond measure. You have been looking for a quantity that will make it all “fair” but there is no fairness when your footsteps have precision in their step and intention in their making.


Keep walking as if – and everything – absolutely everything will unfold before your eyes. To such an extent that the words will elude you for description and your senses will be filled with the acknowledgement that purpose has found you and you are home.

From my Being

I’ve been here before. This very spot in my being where I didn’t think that I had the gusto to continue. It was five years ago. And at that time, I didn’t have the gusto. I didn’t have care or concern, or even energy. It wasn’t worth my investment to continue a relationship that had outgrown itself on one half and on the other, had dried like a shrunken head in the hot sun of life.




So strange to go around the bend after five years of treading water to find that the bend reveals a position of the being that I’ve seen and lived previously. At that moment, I do believe I felt my heart stop beating and because it had been beating in such rapid succession with the space that you occupy when you live with chaos, I had to make a decision right then and there. Was I going to live this cycle again, surely to repeat it over and over until I was no more? Or would I change up the game enough to realize my true potential at being? I let out a breath I’d been holding for years….FFFFFfffffffff……



Change up!



Really, it was a dual-effect – a promulgation of forces all meeting at one location and smacking me about the head and neck to wake me up. I'm happy to say that it worked! I’d been sleeping; snoozing through the forks in the road that Frost’s lines of encouragement delivered and decided to tread same path; same cycle for years up to that point. Until I awoke, I didn’t see that I had the man of my dreams, the life that I wished for – right under my nose! And then, the crusties came out of the corners of my eyes and I began to see – really see – what was happening. I’d become so accustomed to living in misery, that I called it company and let it stay for a while. Like that friend that says they need somewhere to crash, and that they’ll only be a little bit…maybe a week or two. Until four months later, you realize the stink resonating from the couch is because they’re still there and haven’t laundered themselves. Aye! That was my misery – my company. Stupid, really. But at that point in life – it was elemental to sustaining anger and disbelief.



Around the bend I came – saw that same location, the same path – yet, this time…there was a fork. The fork symbolizing a necessary change – if I so chose to go that way – that I would absolutely need to push forward, no reverting back – no falling into the comfort zone of misery and chaos. Right now was the time to make it big and it HAD to begin with me. I would have to resign my position of being in charge and of redirecting every outside force to the cobble walkway that I was going. I would have to focus solely on M-E and not have it consume my thoughts of it being self-pretentious. Me had to be important to me and that couldn’t happen until I began to give credit to the capabilities that I had in stock; untapped stock.



Two hands, ten fingers – gripping my chest for every fight left in my brittle bones, I grabbed hold and tore it open. If it was coming out – if I was going to be important to me, than I was going to get to the heart of the matter and really figure out what I had going on inside. I regurgitated everywhere! Imagine landmines of emotional disillusionment and sticky, yucky vengeance and baggage splattered on the walls and the ceiling, in my hair and on the light switch. I wasn’t pretty. However…it was necessary.

The two months, three months that followed that were assimilated to the processing of a seed that’s planted in the ground in due time with the coming Spring frost. It can’t germinate too quickly, or it’ll surely die off …it has to get warm, feel secure, have the promise of Spring, get some water, some nourishment and then finally BUST out of it’s little seed pod and with a click of the heels, find out just what it means to grow through dirt and become the rare orchid that it was meant to be! Badabing! I was coming alive and for the very first time in years; decades, I could breathe! No inhaling only to hold it – no exhaling frantically just to get it out …I had a pattern of breaths, deep ones and of generating my own sanity. Gradually, the corners of my mouth raised in succinct pattern with the germinating thoughts of awesomeness that were in my head and now – well now I just can’t turn it off.



I'm in love like Thumper in “Bambi” or the blushing little school girl that can’t stop the twinkle in her eyes. And I'm proud. Proud of me – I’d thought for so long that my arms weren’t longer precisely because they shouldn’t be used to pat oneself on the back all the time. And now I wish that they worked kind of like noses or ears – and kept growing as we get older, just so I could give myself a pat on the back! Pat – Pat – Pat…there, there me.

I'm not done yet for this is just the beginning. I know this feeling, this life holds so much more for me, for us – me and Lovey – that it’s going to continue to unfold in the most glorious of things. Sure, there’ll be down times – and sadness, but in the correct mindset, it will be handled in the best of ways, healthy ways. I'm an active agent in my own life and I owe much of my gratitude and accomplishment to the man that (through threatening the very worst ) peeled back the layers of my onion skin and held my feet to the flame; Lovey. For you – I am so graciously thankful from the depth of my being. You are my one, and hand in hand we’ll travel this awesome, beautiful life!

Lil' Piece of Heaven

I’ve got myself a little piece of heaven in my hand. 

Those fleece sheets really keep out the cold, and as I unwrapped myself – planted firmly alongside my love, I gazed toward the window, the sun shining brightly in and calling for me to wake, I drew in a deep breath of life.  Today was going to be delightful in all it’s mystery and story-telling I could feel it!

I donned my best suede skirt, black, silk cowl-neck blouse, a pair of glittery stockings holding in the exuberance that my legs were feeling and slipped into my engineer boots just before putting on my green jade ring for the sake of its inability to absorb negative energy.  I tossed back my blond locks (which are growing so fiercely as of late that I’ve decided even they’re happy!), spritzed on my rose perfume and smacked my lips together with their shiny gloss just before looking one last time in to the mirror – “I love you” was the whisper and out I went to find my lovely, adoring fan base.

They were there – each of them in their wonderful beings.  My Lovey – he’s the embodiment of what it means to really feel love – to live love, and have it live back; love back.  Takes my breath away that quirky, yet distinguishable, wonderful man!  And he makes me laugh – like, really laugh, that guttural, belly laugh that sometimes stops all sound from exiting your body yet your mouth is gaping open. Ah, Lovey.

And “Wissa” – the pet-name received by little brothers that can’t pronounce the syllables all the way for lack of their two front teeth.  She’s a doll – a beacon of what it means to be a young woman coming in to her own. So full of life – of questions and disbelief at times, and then others…she’s whirling around in her pretties all dolled up for the world to see and appreciate. She’s certainly appreciated. 

Then there’s “Dogger” – another pet-name not really befitting his uniqueness and brilliancy as a child - one with too many responsibilities and worries for being only six years old.  He contends well for the most part though.  If Lovey and I can keep up the positivity in our little home, it’s sure to manifest greatness for this little boy.  These two little cocooning larvae…we can only imagine what they’ll metamorphose in to.  It promises to be quite a show however. I’ve already placed my reservations for VIP seating on this one!

Anyway, there they were – hustling, bustling in to the beginning of this day.  My rose parfum trailed behind me as I put together my coffee fix for the morning and stepped out the door to greet the day.

“Oh day of mine – how I’ve missed you!”

That’s the summation – that this day is mine. It doesn’t ask to be anything other than received.  Another opportunity to jest into whatever we’ve decided is most important to our becoming; the day is there to grant that opportunity. And I'm jesting.  My smirky-grin isn’t for the sunshine in my eyes, but rather in delighting for the opportunity to do this again. And maybe – just maybe, tomorrow I’ll get to do it again!

Contending with the Difficulty of Making Amends

Between me and my problem - we were entangled and confused.

Just because you want answers and validation and feel that by feeding me a continuous stream of unaccountability and confusion, does not mean that I must justify you with a response.

I would only be positioning myself and family for further ridicule as you would surely dissect my language and initiate your position of common pandemonium.  Sadly, this is the interplay among persons with a waning proficiency at being honest, humble, or realistic.
As such, I have concluded that I shall not be burdened with expending energy in a black hole of rationalization.

Does then, our avoidance of showing affection to drama, mean that it will rise again in some new stage or forum?  Probably.  Only long enough to pull some of the air out of what exists as healthy -- like fire starving for oxygen.  It sits idle behind closed doors, under latched corridors and soldered openings until...until one day a window is mistakenly, forgetfully opened and *BAM* It ignites again!

Nope. Can't have that.  Let the fire die out and don't feed it. Let it go until it breathes no life, affects no business of the current and decomposes to ash.
I suppose it comes down to the position of our focus.  Focusing on the possibilities of fallout from any situation, instead of from the vantage point of the self (not in a self-conceded way), only leads to more confusion.

Standing For

Much of life is the capacity to stand for something, in favor (as it resonates with your personal philosophies) of an outcome that will most likely result in a general direction of "for" - OR - the standing against an opposing belief.  In standing for, we create a constructive intent -- the desire to see fruition as it would mirror our value placed on the situation.  And sadly, there's a realization that much action is invested in standing against things rather than for them.  It's everywhere! Politics and media relations come to mind as the black hole of irritating against. But that aside...


There's a sense of freedom when you align your cause with standing for the elements of power in your environment that they might produce something effective and beautiful.  For instance, I stand for: the cause of open, loving, caring relationships -- in love and friendship, I stand for teaching children that they have the power to view life in the most positive of scopes..through standing for.
It takes less energy to stand for and in the feng-shui  sense, accepting the for from others is nearly effortless and creates a wholeness to the being.  Standing against presents two resistive forces - kind of like running your car head-on into a brick wall. There's nothing positive that can be drawn out of that instance. 

In the same context, introducing a situation that presents no resistance can often lend itself to be a scary endeavor for the immediate environment. Usually, and with the notion of "bird's of a feather..." having no resistance is a tool that comes across as being volatile...if that makes any sense.  Either way, when you start the cycle, you perpetuate goodness.  No more standing (against) the spin-cycles that serve only to drag you down.  Circling the drain isn't fun for anyone, but there are some people that feel compelled to stay there -- in among the hair and soap scum, pleading their case for being saved. If instead, the mustered up some strength of spirit, laced up their boots and went traipsing out of the scum...they'd be much better off.  And in the event that you become aware of what it is that you stand for, only to see those around you standing against something else...well, march on little soldier! Remember, there is no appreciation to be had for the self when you can't get out of your own way.

Making me Feel...

In a holding pattern again. Sometimes, it's necessary. To deliberate thoughts and feelings and properly place them where they need to go. In the context of time, I think that there's never enough to be completely satisfied with what you feel you've lost, but then again...too much when you're waiting for something else to happen.  Frelling holding-pattern. 
What we feel in many ways is a reflection of what and how we interpret another's actions and allow it to then impact our own status.  Precisely what I'm having difficulty with. Yesterday, I imploded to the degree that there was nary a dry eye in the room...they sat, single-rowed and content until I opened my mouth. And it wasn't even planned -- that "coming out" of feeling.  The time limitations didn't seem to matter because there was a rapid boil of issues all competing for attention, or at least to be verbalized.  So I spewed.  Like a geyser...and it did feel good. To let it go - part of the reason that when you impart too much thought into any subject, your thoughts become the feelings that, when they're weighed against what you're intently trying to relay, are skewed.  Jibberish that I can't seem to formalize into something constructive, but which I know IS constructive and needs to be lived through, contemplated and then brushed into the wind. For once and for good.

The 90/10 Principle in 2010

In many ways I am a creature fueled by fear, anxiety and low self-esteem.  I gauge my own personal growth upon the "feel-good" measures that I have culminated for the day - only to find that there are far more triggers in my reactionary phase which I didn't give honorary credit to.

The 90/10 Principle basically states that life is made up of 10% of what happens to you and 90% - your reaction to that 10%.  In measurement of reaction to circumstanes beyond my control, I have failed.  I have aligned my fear with the tally sheets that adorn my notebook for what I think should happen; consistently keeping track of the efforts toward self-improvement, and I recently slung a good line of BS at the person who is my hero because of it.  The man who has, for four years been my daily breath of sanity, thick and thin, hot and cold, good and bad, he is there for me.  Though as any wandering soul can relate, being bombarded with a constant barrage of "did me wrongs" gets old well before it becomes compelling.

Consequently, does one know what one does when one is called out on one's shit? I will tell you...

One that is fear-driven, denies the magnitude of one's shit.

After 4-1/2 hours of discerning this enlightened view point, I feel it fair to say that I have been a slow-learner in the category of what constitutes acceptance of mistakes.

I made a mistake.  I played a tugging battle between the highs and lows which has kept this man chasing boomerangs for far too long!  And at this point, the cryptic messages that actions were sending (even though cryptic) ...have served to adorn, or really cloud the intention.

Buggers!!

In the meantime, and with 90/10 in-tote, I'm putting out there that my Hero deserves a medal. For contending with this, with me...thank you Love.

The Elements

There were changes that brewed slowly - they took nearly a year to come to the surface in true light, bubbling ever so slowly until they spilled over the top of the pot in a rolling boil. Similar to the way that those "watched pots never boil" the adage to be calculated into the scheme of things once it makes sense in hindsight.

Friendships, they are like candy bars. Made of similar ingredients: chocolate, peanut butter, cocoa, oil and mix of those other names that you can't really pronounce. Some have nuts, some have spice. Others come with coconut and chewy nougat...they're all delightful in their own way, but there's always a favorite. A good and trusted stand-by that satisfies hunger when those chewy mixtures fail to fill the urge. This is the spin that bubbled over the surface. One of those "I'm thinking of looking to enjoy a new kind of candy bar in order to broaden my horizons".

I welcomed the opportunity and even drew on the strengths that were in the mixture. I put aside the begrudging after-taste and aspired to recognize what elements were really worth filling in the rating sheet on. In all honesty, there were many categories to that rating sheet that I added when I got to what should have been the end. I filled in more because it was worth it to me at the time. To have more categorizations of what my little candy bar could be - there was so much more potential that existed outside the 1. Satisfies hunger A: yes  / B: no...2. Decadent mixture A: yes / B: no...and so forth.  There was substance to the friendship and I had reached a point where the basic rating of beneficial - or - detrimental wasn't substantial enough to throw out the wrapper. You know; might wanna buy it again.  Until now. When the pot boiled over.

Having invested more than the potential called for, I felt that I'd given friendship more than its due course to prove sustenance. I feel that I even mellowed out the taste with a bit of sherbet in between bites just to cleanse my pallet so I wouldn't be judging unfairly. Then, there...at the crucial point of proving its worth, it crumbled. It blamed and pointed, accused and acted out. Dammit.  Why?! I stated my peace. I've said my fair share where it concerns what the power of cocoa beans hold - and the ways that they can be so distinctly different, but still yummy. I gave chance, and chance, and chance...for the cocoa bean to come to fruition in its own time.  I even waited. Damn cocoa bean.  It's like waiting for a productive harvest from the orange groves of Florida this year; ain't happening. 

Shame really, I was looking forward to having a new favorite.  Guess that's why there's always a stand-by candy bar. Because some things never change - and others, the ones that do change...they're like a nuance to self-improvement. RE-focus attention where attention be: to the improvement (and change) only accountable to the self. 

I didn't judge you little candy bar.

Emotional Affiliations

(Originally published in DivineCaroline.com > October 9, 2008)

I step outside with a wet head, draw my coffee to my lips, and realize that these are the mornings that I love. It is through the mist of the clouds, setting low in the yard, that the smell of wet leaves and dewy gloss waif over the grasses starting to turn to brown. There is the sound of birds rustling high in the trees and I take in a deep breath for the attempt to relieve this pressure on my heart. Many times, I can turn back the pages of my mind and recall the days that I would nestle into the crevice on your arm and wrap legs around in a mass of tangled morning warmth. I rest fondly with that memory and then suddenly, feel the pangs of love gone wrong.

It brings me out of that idealistic fairy tale and the clashing, banging horrors of what life was really like hits me square in the temple. That’s the part that carries with it resounding pain. The kind of pain that I can’t seem to drop now that I’ve moved on; now that I’ve been separated for more than three years; now that I haven’t twisted legs with the man in nearly as much time as we were married. One would assume that things could be suppressed enough to dissipate after enough time has passed, but they don’t. I’m finding that you have to pick them apart and dissect their innards in order to find the meaning to all the questions that surface when hindsight kicks in.

I talk to friends in a dire need to rid my soul of these horrors—wanting for the nostalgia of the good times to rely on and the bad days, the ones that dragged me to the bottom of despair, to go and eat themselves through until they don’t exist. People listen—my friends, they listen—but I question whether or not they really hear me. The agencies, they’re all set with convenient slogans of promise to help us through these agonies. They give tomorrow a shimmer of hope, but through my experiences, they lack a main ingredient. The one ingredient that extends achievement to make it real: accountability.



When you retell your life so many times over to stranger after stranger with an undying hope that they’ll be able to direct your sobbing soul somewhere profitable and yet, they jot down a few notes and schedule another appointment for some future meeting. My resiliency and idealism tells me that things aren’t as they seem; that people really do care and that they’re in their positions precisely for the reason to assist and amend. Why then, do they seem to take some long in the realization that I’m telling the truth? Why do I continue to feel the way that I do when I step outside and that dewy fog hits my face, the little pods of moisture stagnating on my skin and relentlessly wrapping me? Why is it that when I reach the points of clarity, I can’t maintain that perspective?

Maybe it’s because memories play tricks on these dear hearts of ours. They plot and scheme and pose as benign stagehands for this play. I realize that in essence I’m living as though my life has already reached a pinnacle ending—its resolve to capture pain and heartache, wrapped eloquently in the warmth of a true love and a real partnership, has taken up residence in my void. In this cycle, I’m reminded that it is ultimately our choice to continue on down the path of righteousness and truth; our choice to turn the corners of our mouths upward against that prick of painful memories—to prove outwardly that we’ll be alright in the end. I must keep in mind that those in the positions of assistance are there in order to help but they, too, are limited in their approaches. Friendly affiliations do not necessarily allow for a hug when we walk through the door of a practicing professional.

In this pain and heartache of remembrances, I feel I might reach a place where my strength out of pain will resound in my ability to stand tall on my own. In the meantime, I pray for continued strength and understanding. I reach out to the friends that smile cautiously as they listen to my tales of woe and I appreciate their place in my life. To build upon our lives is the essential part of living—the accountability that may be missing is what can ultimately be replaced and/or created by the ones that have trod this very road. In lack of accountability on others’ part, I take ownership of my life. I am building this piece by broken piece and when I finish, I will have created my own masterpiece.

Indifference

Back to the drawing board where it concerns applying the self. In some certain situations, I think you try to care and you apply every effort of caring in an attempt to garner yourself an understanding, but it simply isn't effective...enough. Why is that? Why is it that you can even exist in a place where all you do is absolve yourself of the responsibility of being within an experience, and yet you still push for resolution though it doesn't concern you? Is that the power of having an integral position in something? Of being IN a situation and not living apart from it?

I deem this indifference.

A dangerous, suspicious place of occupying one's mind, indifference. It's nearly a beast of its own. To want to have care, take care, give care and yet...nothing. Can indifference be tamed? Be logical? Be fixed? Does it evolve to the next life form that is...say, a touch of misunderstanding, or displaced anger, fear, rage? More of a want to be indifferent, when everything else is suggesting that you do care, that you do want "difference" in order to change indifference. I see that there is hesitation when indifference comes to play for the weekend. Like that friend that you don't really care for in most instances, but that you spend time with anyway. Maybe for lack of knowing what else to do with yourself while they're there. Maybe because they always seem to show up at the most-inconvenient times and force you to contend with the issues that are them.

Oh, indifference...why is it that I speak of you when your very nature is that of not caring?

Okay to Feel

The power of letting go comes in the ability to feel without having to control where that "feeling" goes as you experience it. This came up recently in the event that called for attention from me on a level that existed outside the being in a room. When you're not letting go of all of it, you're crazy-making in your head and still trying to hold on to the control and of making reason where sometimes, there is none. Sometimes, it's the taking that sigh of relief without having to explain beyond that. And that's okay.

In some events, in the process of letting go, it takes over the necessary element of really listening and of hearing what's happening outside ourselves and that might mean that we're not supposed to come up with a plan.

When you can't really listen and you can't really hear - when you're afraid of what you're thinking because of the chaos of what you feel...it's because you're digging your fingernails in as a last-ditch effort to attempt being the one in control. Be in recognition that you're not going to die for what you "feel". And maybe that's part of the reason why the experience lacks explanation. Because its outside of the self. Because in the process of decades of repressed emotion bubbling to the surface, there is no capable way of explaining it away or justifying it to the inquiring self that will equal enough of a reason beyond simply feeling it.


When that occurs -- the point is to simply let it BE.

Owned.

I have been lost to the idea of contemplation. The point in cognition where you're thinking about thinking - about every idea that's passed the realms of putting thoughts into their particular place. I've been categorizing and making sense of what I can, while hitting the "delete" button on the rest. Thing is, I realize that the mental trash bin hasn't been emptied. I thought that there might be some funky happenstance occurring that I hadn't yet accepted. That maybe there was a glitch in the wiring that wasn't allowing me to fully rid myself of these pesky little thoughts. They encompassed all those included in the "what if", "may possibly be" and "would have, could have, should have" category...the "But..." situations.

At some instance in that realm, it occurred to me that it's all about what we choose to keep ownership of. What we accept as our own when it comes from the outside in. I think that we're highly sensitive-beings and more often than not, the influences of our environments bombard our beings with feeling and we process those feelings against what we think we already know. Against what portions of experience we have chosen to keep as our reference manual.
For instance: It has been said, thought and determined among the governing authorities that the placement of children on sleeping bags for an overnight stay with their grandparents, all in one room -- is unacceptable. The punishment was governed by authorities who referenced some arbitrary set of something-or-others and the Nay-Sayers extended me a feeling that I'd done something wrong. And for whatever reason, I've chosen to live with that feeling for almost two years now. Until...I see the local news present (because of the single-digit weather that's hit our part of the state in the last week) that the homeless shelters are above their capacity. People are coming in droves to find a warm place to sleep and some food to eat. The camera-man pans over the crowd, who seem mildly delighted that they've been offered such a refuge and then I see it...a gymnasium floor covered with 2-inch thick mats for sleeping on; a wool blanket atop.
"That's it?!" I think. That government-funded, grant-accepting homeless shelter is providing beds and meals to persons (which, by the way, I completely agree with) and the "bed" as it would be, consists of little more than a mat on the floor?
"And I've chosen to keep lugging around this feeling of inadequacy because some person on a power-trip and in a so-called capacity to 'judge' has suggested that I acted unlawfully by having my children sleep in a sleeping bag, one room and during a visit to their grandparents'?"

Here I'd been searching for the next thought process that might offer liberation - and the issue of liberation has been to simply disregard and drop those "thoughts" as they occur. They are no longer owned by me as I'm choosing to disregard their existence and pertinence.