Parallel

It's Thanksgiving.  I am full, still digesting the news from two months ago.  I can't get pregnant.  I am absorbing the alone time silently wishing for a fast forward button to January.  My boyfriend has left for the day to spend the holiday with his family.  Our worlds have become parallel.  He is living and I am just existing in my own silent path next to him.  Exhausted, I barely can keep up.  We our worlds apart.  He has moved forward as if the last few years had never happened.  And I am still grieving.

I told him last night I had wished for 2 more months before the holidays began.  I needed time to mend my broken heart.  He is silent.  He has moved on and we no longer are walking on the same path together.  Craving the touch of his hand in mine just as he does when we cross the street.  Maybe it was the security I needed that he wasn't abandoning me, at least not this time.  He forgot to be my friend in the beginning of all this.  At times I felt like I was Sisyphus carrying the weight of our work and him up the hill only to have everything crash down on me month after month.  And now I am left with this giant stone.

I used to relish in my alone time, especially during the holidays.  Truth is, I have spent many Thanksgiving's alone.  My family of birth shattered years ago.  I had hoped to have a family to call my own.  It was the dream.  And now I feel uncomfortable in my skin trying to find a sense of gratitude for all that I have, desperately wanting to stop dwelling in all that I don't.  The picture around me is peaceful with the fur family gathered around prepared to catch my tears.  And me, I tap away on the keyboard as if to create a peaceful lullaby that will comfort me. 


And while I continue to search for words and thoughts to keep my mind from wandering to those dark places, I keep reminding myself that it can't rain forever, even though at the moment I am wishing for an ark.

Pause Button

It's like a time out, but I call it a pause. I have been doing them a lot lately I have noticed. It's my own personal way of stopping all that is happening around me. I turn off the news, I put down the phone and then there are too many pet videos to count. I just need things to stop and this is the only way I know how. I am not delusional, really. I know the earth still spins and life continues while I am paused, but I choose to press the pause button. Why shouldn't I have a moment in time that is just mine? I want the quiet and the calm. I waited 40 years for the chaos to end. It continues, but I can still press pause. 

Too many events. Too much sadness. And yes, too much death. On the heels of my sparkly friend who now shines from a different place and the news reminding me of how scary the world can be; it's time to press pause. And while I sat on the couch yesterday across from the woman who is supposed to help me breath through the storm, I want to pause her too. I don't want to hold on to her words. I want to let them go. This session is brought to me by the letter "T". Every single leather couch owning, note writer with several initials after their names says the same thing. Isn't this the thing I am supposed to let go? All those memories, all those events, and yes, the bad people. Aren't I supposed to let them go? Why is it necessary I have to talk about this... again? I feel like I am indulging someone else's sick fantasy. "My patient is so sick." "How sick is she?" I watch as she furiously scribbles in her note pad. And they all look at me as if they are telling me something new. As if I have never heard the word "trauma" before. Don't they understand the illness in my head? Don't they recognize the shame? Seriously, do they think I need the affirmation or that the "empathic" look is supposed to make me feel better?

I feel no better than the mouse in the lab. I am someone's experiment as they try to fill me with words just to see how my body reacts. The worst being the eastern practitioner who told me that each and every story was my fault, even the ones in my crib. I somehow asked the universe for it all and apparently my subconscious continues to crave more. I am Oliver Twisted now, "Please sir, might I have another?" I wished I walked away thinking she was wrong. But the experiment continued and the illness inside just grew. She was my Milgram.

Perhaps the pause is my antidote, my cancer fighting pill that keeps the shame from taking over. Tonight, I am popping the pill. I am putting my past trauma's on hold today and while I am at it, I am pausing all that is happening around me too. I am typing and while the words don't come out quite the way I see them in my head, the clickety clack of my typing soothes me just the same. It's the lullaby for the depressed. And of course, the sound of the button as I push pause.

Infertility

The words have been swimming in my brain and I knew to write my story would be to acknowledge the hurt. I am drowning. The tears just flow and I can't help myself. Small fits of rage punctuated by tears that appear as little dots on a page. And still I can't help myself. I let the tears flow. Everything is at the surface and raw. I used to live for moments like this, where the facade was removed and I was real. Now I gasp for breath at my reality. I don't know how to live with this and I think the harder part is I don't want to. I suppose I shouldn't be shocked. I am 42 years old. I just don't feel it. I thought I could do anything I set out to do. I believed my body wouldn't betray me. I believed in my own will. I wanted to believe that all the decisions I have made my entire life would not lead to regret. There are no "do-overs" and I see myself now as having truly fucked up my opportunity to have the one thing I have always wanted, family. I have been diagnosed as being too old. The words sting. I waited and I waited and I waited for the "right" time and now the time is gone. I thought I got to choose. How did this choice get taken away from me. Why didn't I get my notice before expiration? Wasn't someone supposed to warn me that in this case if you don't use it, you really do lose it. And now it's gone. All my fantasies of family gone. Sure, I still have the one I was born into that rejected me from day one. The one that reminded me of all their regret. And even more now, I don't understand. And in my head, they have never counted. I wanted a family of my own. I wanted that love to give. And it's just gone. This is my diary I tell myself. Where else can I go with all this? Years and years of trying only to be reminded of chronology. I feel so broken and the reality is I am. Dreams of family gone with one diagnosis. And there is nothing I can do to fix this. The girl with the perfect grades, the straight teeth, the clean home with everything in place and this. This tarnish on my record, this black mark next to my name, this blemish. Fuck that, it's more than a blemish. A blemish goes away. I still can't breath. I have been crying for days. And the letter from the doctor sits here reminding me that the purpose I believed I had does not exist.

White

A childhood stolen far too soon.
I never asked to make these decisions
I never asked for the guilt
For the yelling
For the blame
For the hatred
For the depression
For the mania
For the anger
For the loneliness
For the sense of being so fucking alone
I didn’t chose any of this and still I can’t walk away

I wonder how I would feel if she were to succeed
If the blade cut through and I just watched instead of making the call
What if the cocktail worked or the pills kicked in or the rope dug just that much deeper.
What if I let her run, what if I just let her go.

I feel so much anger watching her peacefully sleep with her wrists wrapped in white.
And I wonder, when do I get mine?

Safe

I don’t understand why they call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The P and the T and D make sense, but not the stress. Stress doesn’t begin to describe what I feel. It seemed like such a simple decision. I need shoes. Actually, I desperately need shoes. I would just leave work early and go to the mall and buy shoes.

As I stepped out of the office, the bus was waiting as if it knew my mission. And despite the typical crowdedness the Muni usually offers me, instead there was a seat. Not just any seat either, but a solo seat. So I sat, headphones on, as the bus slowly crawled down the hill toward Union Square. I looked out the window and away from the action inside the bus. I could hear the yelling, but still I ignored the altercation around me. I had a goal and a destination.

As I stepped off the bus, I expected the swarm of holiday shoppers. I breathed slowly and deeply as I pushed through the crowd, reminding myself of my errand. I made it all the way in to the store and up the escalator and then it hit. The rush of anxiety, the feeling of being totally overwhelmed and this was beyond stress. My hands began to clench and I wanted to leave. I forced myself to wander the floor, touching shoes. But I knew there would be no success. I couldn’t open my mouth. The tears were already forming and all I could feel was shame. There was Christmas everywhere: Red and green wherever I looked. I could feel the rush of warm begging me to remove my coat. And I knew as the warm began to turn into pools of sweat I had to go.

I flew out of the store and onto the street and began to walk. I wanted to wander aimlessly until I felt better but knew I had no choice but to walk down Market Street to the bus terminal or I would be forced to take the night bus, which drops me off blocks instead of feet from my car and there would be more anxiety. As I made the walk down Market, I tried to ignore the faces walking by, but in every face I saw him. He was here in San Francisco. He was walking behind me. He was walking towards me. I couldn’t stop seeing him. My heart raced as the fear became paralyzing. I slowly let my gaze become unfocused as I continued walking, so I could no longer see anyone.

The sweat began to dry and my feet reminded me the shoes I was currently wearing needed to be retired. And I was desperate for home, the isolated sanctuary that protected me like a soft cocoon. How I wished I could metamorphose into a butterfly. There were months to go before my wings would develop and I could fly under the soft rays of the spring sun. But for now it’s tears. Not stress, just tears. Just like the deep drops of a winter rain, my tears flowed from the same dark place from within. And as I stepped inside my fortress of solitude the tears rolled down my cheeks as if to create a moat to protect me inside. And for now I am safe.

Little White Pill

I knew my mother’s offer of a treadmill was another thinly veiled attempt to let me know she thinks I am fat. It’s pathetic that there is no ability for her to offer me such a generous gift. Those niceties never really existed for me anyway. I suppose it was nice of her to give me a journal at 9 years old and a calorie counting book to help me track the number of calories I was eating per day. But the gift of a lifetime battle with an eating disorder was more than I thought I was receiving at that time. And now, I no longer looked forward to her gifts.

Unfortunately the timing of this gift offer coincided with a week of uncontrolled anxiety. And the more anxious I was becoming the more difficult it was to spend time with the man I love. I was embarrassed for him to see me like this. Leaving the house this morning I knew it was a question of minutes before the panic attack set in. Thank god he didn’t see me as I struggled to breath and my hands clenching ever so tightly. The mantras, the breathing, none of it working. I hate the shame I feel over my inability to take control over myself. I suppose I even blame myself for not controlling my nerves and letting them rule my body. And now I had a witness. Over a decade of secluding myself from others allowed me to escape the shame I felt having anxiety. Yes, I need to medicate. Who wants to admit that? The only way I can feel “normal” is by taking treatment. Realistically though, it works. It’s a relief to feel my heart begin a regular pace and my breathing no longer labored. And I don’t know how to be around him now as I work towards getting better… again.

I didn’t even know how to be better with the changes happening all around me. The Viking and I decided to take the plunge toward cohabitation. And now I had a real choice; I could choose to live with him or I could choose to live with my anxiety. At the moment I am leaning towards the anxiety because having him see me like this is too difficult for me to stomach. The fears of rejection, of him not accepting me, of him seeing me as difficult and ultimately of him abandoning me were too much to bear. Still I long for the partnership he offers and try to remind myself the concerns floating in my head were the result of my anxiety and not based in reality. I was too afraid to ask him for the truth since ultimately it would require a vulnerability I wasn’t comfortable with. I suppose for him to love me, to really love me meant he would have to know all of me. Even this… the stuff I didn’t even want to know or acknowledge about myself. The part of me I see as hopelessly broken if not for the little white pill. Yes, the little white pill. And with one quick drink of water I am soon on my way toward clarity once again.

$50,000 Angel

I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the Gulf. Perhaps it was the drone of the news playing in the background this morning that had me thinking how ineffectual I felt. The word I like to use is impotent. I feel impotent. And I felt far away. The Gulf feels far. The floods in Tennessee feel far. And I feel removed. And truth is I am. I suppose I began to feel guilty that I haven’t taken these causes under my wing. I simply hear about them and feel powerless and yet do nothing. Even as I made my way to work, my reality of my profession couldn’t seem to pull me out of this sense of not doing enough. Preventing and treating breast cancer wasn’t enough; Nor were my other “causes du jour.” Years of volunteering with animal rescue couldn’t seem to console this sense of powerlessness I felt nor the fundraiser I began to help an injured friend. I can’t seem to do enough in a world that is seemingly falling apart.

Now I promise I am not getting “emo” on everyone here. But as I looked around me, there does seem to be injustices happening. Besides the injustices that are happening on a global scale, as I shrink my world to just that, my world, I couldn’t help but notice what hits so close to home. From the murder of my mentor by a single shot in the back, to the accidental injury that changed my friends life, to the termination of employment experienced by another for simply doing what she loves (burlesque),and to the extreme health decline of another. How could I do enough? There just is so much.

Perhaps my sense of impotence was stemming from the anger I feel as I sit with the awareness that there are people out there taking advantage of the kindness of our community. Yes, I am mad as I learned about the defrauding of my community through the solicitation of funds for a cause based in fantasy rather than reality. I jokingly said I was selfish that this situation was distracting people from donating to what I deemed a more worthy cause, my friends’ medical expenses. But was I being judgmental? So what if this other party skewed the facts of their situation for financial gain and empathy? Would those who would have donated to my little cause turn their attention away to assist in a personal vendetta in the form of a legal action? Did it really matter who was suing who? Why do I care that they are putting their hand out to line the pockets of their personal cause?

Sitting on Muni, I began to think that perhaps it’s my thinking that is flawed. Of course I am not enough. As I constantly turn to my own community asking for support, I know this. “Be the bra people” has been my tagline for years. So maybe I need to look outside myself to understand how through these 6 degrees of separation my community is making a difference in the world. We are able to look outside ourselves and practice what is known to me as “Tikkun Olam,” repairing the world. Ironically the first person that came to mind is a biker I know and a former skinhead. And while his facebook posts tend to predominantly reflect his punk rock values of “fuck everyone” he never ceases to surprise me with a government official’s address or phone number or most recently BP and a suggestion to be proactive. Or the daily facebook posts from a Little Darling I was fortunate enough to cross paths with as she continues her crusade to save pitbulls, one bullie at a time. Or my curly sister in New Orleans who was forever changed after Katrina. She moved from California to Louisiana just to be part of the solution, one child at a time. I am not enough.

I suppose as I go about my Wednesday, I am simply looking for the comfort that I impact a greater world through the actions of those around me. Or maybe this is a call to action. Doing nothing is not enough. I remember years ago backstage with The Fixx (a story for another time), I made one of the band member’s cry. I didn’t mean to and I am quite sure alcohol fueled the response. But he asked me what I did for a living. My answer was “saving the world one convict at a time.” I was running a literacy and creative writing program for parolees that I had started in San Francisco. My goal was to reduce recidivism by creating healthy options for those leaving the correctional system and to reunite families. He lamented he never did anything for anyone. My response was to put my hand out. I reminded him that I couldn’t do my work alone. For everyone on the ground, there’s an angel dropping a dollar in my pocket to keep the work going. He was a 50 thousand dollar angel.

And yes, I am looking for that $50k angel today just to make a dent in my tiny community, my community of friends. But I would settle for just encouraging everyone around me to take a moment to just do something. Write an email for a cause or write a check or play with the puppies at Animal Control. Or even add my cause of the day, the Whit’s Knee Fund. Just do something. Because it is all overwhelming when we wonder what we as individuals can do. But looking at what we all do, there’s a comfort there, so I hope people will comment and share.