My Salvation

Sometimes I get so weird
I even freak myself out
I laugh myself to sleep... it's my lullaby

Sometimes I drive so fast
Just to feel the danger
I want to scream... it makes me feel alive

Is it enough to love?
Is it enough to breathe?

Somebody rip my heart out
And leave me here to bleed

Is it enough to die?

Somebody...


save

my

life


I'd rather be anything but ordinary

please...

Is it enough?
Is it enough?

Anything

To make me feel...


alive





- Excerpted from "Anything But Ordinary", Avril Lavigne

Mobile

Yesterday was Easter Sunday, and I was sitting in church, listening to the priest give his homily - the part where he talks to the congregation about the message in the Gospel and readings and stuff, so the people can take it and then apply it to their own lives, hopefully for the betterment of themselves and society.

What caught my attention was the part in the story where Jesus has just been crucified on the cross, and all of the apostles are sitting around, probably in shock, wondering what to do now... one of the questions the priest posed to the audience was: "How long do you think it took for the apostles to recover (i.e. get over the shock that Jesus, their compadre, Master, leader) from the horrific recent events of Jesus being tortured and crucified - killed in a painful and barbaric way right in front of their eyes?"

I thought about that for a moment, and I decided it would have definately taken more than the few days it takes to get from Good Friday to Easter Sunday.

I next considered the part of my Catholic faith that says Jesus "rose from the dead" which of course, was in line with what had been prophesized. Now, the way MY mind works is this: people who die DON'T come back. However, prophesies must come to fruition for faith to take root; for people to believe. It is highly conceivable that anyone living during Jesus' time who had a vested interest in making that prophesy "true" could have broke into that tomb and taken Jesus' body out. Poof! A religion is born.

Life is such a funny thing; I have been going to church for years and have listened to these stories over and over during that time - but what's different for me now? I have the new perspective of having someone I loved - a lot - die on me, so yeah, I can completely relate to how those apostles must have felt. People are still people after all, no matter what historical period they lived in. I also questioned for a moment any priest's ability to really relate to the people in their flock - do priests ever get the experience of working a regular job to support a family, only to then lose that job? Do they understand the pain of planning out your whole life with your partner, to have him or her die and leave you completely and utterly lost and alone? It's not called "interpersonal relationship" for nothing - there must be some relating going on. Some sharing of common experiences. Some empathy - which makes two people equal - not just sympathy, which makes one beholden to the other.

The Bunny wasn't tortured... I was. I still am, because every day I question my reason for being here, where my life is going, what am I supposed to do with my time and my talent when it's so hard to even drag myself out of bed every day. As the days go by, there are more and more things to do - like I am on rollerskates, holding onto a rope behind a speeding car - unable to hold on or let go. I'm just... stuck. Completely and utterly lost and alone.

He's the one that's dead, and I'm the one that's dying.

Homicidal Tendencies

So, I had a dream last night. My mom was in it. Normally, dreams involving my mom are frightening episodes - revolving around her trying to kill me (literally). I've had these kinds of dreams from time to time over the last 39 years of my life, and what I have noticed is that usually this kind of dream is a notification of sorts... something in my real life is going to change. And not slight change - significant change.

This dream corresponds with my mood lately - I've been a bit unsettled. Now, more than any other time before - since the Bunny's death - do I have a sense of "This is my life. How do I want to live it? What do I want to create for myself?"

Speaking of creating, a good friend of mine turned me on to a book she thought I would get something out of: The Van Gogh Blues - The Creative Person's Path through Depression, by Eric Maisel, PhD. A primary theme in the book is how critical it is for a creative person (such as myself) to be engaged in "meaningful work" - work that matters. This echoes one of my own personal themes in life... I get a lot out of doing things that I believe have an impact on the people around me; my world.

There are two ideas I read in the book so far that sum up my current real life dilemma:

1. "You must find a way to survive, one that doesn't kill your soul or drain every ounce of energy from your body."

2. "A creator must stop pestering himself with the unanswerable questions that plague him - the need to know why he is alive, who or what made the universe, who can tell him about the meaning of life, what are the first or final causes - and accept as his mantra, 'I am alive.'"

Dr. Maisel acknowledges that being true to oneself, following one's passions, trying to find meaning inside life and living - it all takes a huge amount of courage. But have I not been told over and over how "strong" I am? I believe that I am; I try to live up to that reputation when I have my emotional lows... and fortunately I have enough support that when those lows appear, I am able to work through them fairly quickly. I am able to "bounce back."

I am strategizing about changes in my life; in the work that I do, in the activities that give me happiness and fulfill me. Changes I am thinking about now are more life-changing than when the Bunny was with me. I would have been content in my life then. Now the challenge is to construct a different picture - a life that I will be content in WITHOUT the Bunny. God, it frightens me a little to write that, and as I sit here typing those words, I am getting a little teary-eyed. That is the hurt that strikes at my very core... so I try not to indulge in thinking about it too often - just push forward, doing things, relating to people, and one day I will wake up and realize "You know what? I'm... happy. I am content. I am at peace."

And knowing that my husband would have wanted it like that will give me the strength to keep on that path.

Reasons vs. Excuses

I believe nothing shows more about a person's true character than his or her actions - how they behave in real-life, everyday situations.

I am happy to report that the latest "guy hang-up" I've been suffering from over the last several months has finally come to an end; I've had enough opportunity to observe the guy's behavior and determined that he's got some qualities that just don't jive with me. In other words, he's egotistical and a bit of a skank. All things being equal, my standards are higher than that. I deserve better.

I sometimes wonder if I am too judgemental. In the past few weeks I've been accused of being inflexible, limited, and a handful of other negatively descriptive words from individuals in my orbit - thankfully not people I consider to be my friends, but people that (by nature of these real-life, everyday situations) I have interacted with - and I keep coming back to my gut that tells me I don't have to explain myself to anyone. I am not looking to be "changed" to suit some outsider's perception of what kind of person they think I should be. What I AM looking for, is inspiration. Motivation. Warmth. Connection. Acceptance - warts and all. It sounds so simple, but believe me: the application of this concept is somehow very difficult to bring to life.

Back to my story. So! This realization - my emotional "letting go" of this fantasy relationship - caused me to think of people and behavior in general terms. I have frequent discussions with my friends about how people act and why they act that way... "he had a bad childhood" or "she was in a bad relationship" - these are reasons cited for the behavior I can see played out now. What annoys me is when people try to go one step further, into "excuse" territory - rather than simply provide an explanation of their questionable behavior, they try to justify why the world should accept it from them. "I had a bad childhood so I am now going to go through my adult life and treat other people like crap before they have a chance to hurt me like my parents did" - you know, everyone on the planet could find an excuse if they searched hard enough. Regardless of what anyone knows about their fellow man, everyone has skeletons in their closet. I don't understand why most people are so quick to believe that everyone else "has it better"... in that respect, we are all the same. We may not be privy to the intimate details of that inner closet, but believe you me; it's packed with all kinds of crap.

So in my opinion, we all start at zero. Everyone has different experiences - you have relationships with people and you get to find out what those details are all about. Those details are the crayons used to make people colorful, beautiful... unique. No two are alike. And you simply appreciate having those people around - not picking them apart, thinking "oh, I would not have used that color" or "there's an extra tree in the landscape I think throws off the balance of the..." You either appreciate it, or you don't hang it up on your wall. Period.

Even this guy. Not to say I wouldn't take notice if I were to visit someone else's house, but he's not the kind of art I want hanging up on MY wall. And that's okay. Because who I surround myself with - the people I seek to inspire me - says something about MY true character.

And my gut tells me I am on the right track.

Night Passes

I met a potential friend - "Tracy" - recently and was in the process of getting more acquainted with her when I hit what is, for me, a relationship-killer. To tell you this story, I need to tell you a few things first: When I meet someone and decide I would like to make that someone my friend, it's irrelevant to me the circumstances of our introduction... I know lots of other people like to place restrictions and limitations on friendships and other intimate relationships, such as "never date a client" - I call this tendency "putting others in boxes." I hate being put in a box, most especially the "client" box. Had this type of rule held solid when I met the Bunny, we never would have gotten married - because we were co-workers AND he was a manager while I was a mere line employee - and if you have been paying attention, well then you realize the significance of THAT story.

So back to this present dilemma. Coincidentally, the rule that reared its ugly head was the "You can't be friends with patients" one - so you can figure out that I met Tracy in the office of one of my medical providers (I have several). Ironically, Tracy is not my doctor, and neither am I her patient... but it was enough that I was a "patient of the office" and Tracy a temporary worker for one of the other doctors on staff (THAT doctor, also not MY doctor).

I will be the first to say that I understand that several people out in the real world create rules such as this. I get it. And I also know that sometimes - SOMETIMES - things can go awry when you start mixing up the boxes... but to me, those are the exceptions, not the majority. And as the Bunny always said: You should NEVER make the rules for the exceptions. It was no way to work, and it's certainly no way to live. Otherwise, people would be too afraid to get out of bed every day, for fear of the what-if's.

Needless to say, I had to share my point of view with Tracy, and it was not an easy conversation for me. I think she was suprised at the vehemence of my reaction, and accused me of being "inflexible." But to me, this is a core belief of mine that is being challenged. My friends get my full disclosure; and I don't relate to people from the perspective of "if so-n-so finds out about it, they aren't going to like it/like me/approve/I'll get in trouble..." Honestly, I don't want to work that hard, trying to remember who's not supposed to know what, or who I am trying to keep something on the downlow from. That's the beauty of just being honest and open with anyone and everyone I meet and interact with - it's so easy to be in relationships, in my experience.

I didn't have high hopes for maintaining a long-term friendship with Tracy already; in the last few weeks I could tell we were very different people. Not much in common. But I would not have had the heart to judge her - I hate when people try to make me into something "acceptable" so I in turn never go there with anyone else. I can either take them or leave them, and the same goes for me. We all have a choice in how we live our lives, and what kind of person we ultimately want to be. I, for one, kind of like the person that I am.

And as I told Tracy: For me, in MY life, my perspective is the only one that matters.

Peace.

Feeling Forty-Four

The dreams are always so vivid. I usually don't remember them clearly, but in the moments when I realize I am awake - I am WIDE awake - and I remember my dream. This one was my own personal House, MD episode... I love Hugh Laurie, and House, MD is one of my favorite TV programs. So in my episode, I dreamed about the relationship between Cuddy and House - always threaded with an undercurrent of sexual tension. Appropriate, since I am still hung up on the most recent "inappropriate" guy - I can relate to the tension. The story line was very convoluted, but the jist was that it turned out that Cuddy and House actually had four children together; children that made it to adulthood but somehow, all ended up dead. Appropriate, since I tend to contemplate a lot on death and dying.

I remember thinking: I need to be careful getting out of bed. My thoughts tend to go verrrrrry slooooow when my blood sugar drops; it's funny, because it's exactly that - the speed of my thinking - that clues me into something being wrong. I know I have to test my blood sugar, but it's more important about getting over to my laptop so I can blog about this experience. It's my mission and compulsion: sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings with the world - it's my connection, my addiction. It's my savior. It keeps me tied to reality. It keeps me from floating out in space. It keeps me from floating away.

The other thing I always notice is that I can only think about one thought at a time. This is definately a departure from normalcy, because normally my brain can hold about fifty thoughts at a time - and I am actively thinking about half of those thoughts simultaneously. I get myself out of bed. I have to go pee, so I head over to the bathroom to take care of business. My dogs - always attentive to my every move - follow me. Winnie, the boxer, comes all the way into the bathroom and sits by the tub, watching me. This is unusual - I tend to think the bathroom scares her, because she rarely walks in like that; usually waits just outside the door... it makes me think that her doggie sense is telling her that something is off. I love Winnie... I'm glad she's been here with me. She was here when the Bunny was here, and she kept me from being lonely right after he left.

My laptop! Oh yes, I remember. I make a left out of my room, and I walk through the laundry room on my way to my office. "I need to do some laundry" - this random thought pops into my head, and immediately my body complies. I turn back around and head into the bathroom where I had a pile of whites piling up... I grab them, throw them into the washer, add some detergent, and turn the machine on. I have to get to my laptop... but wait! I really should test my blood sugar first.

I grab my medical stuff (cleverly disguised - I keep it in a makeup bag that I carry around with me - it just looks like a "girly-girl" thing rather than a "sick person" thing), and I pull out the machine that conducts the test. It takes a little bit of brain power here, and I start to cry. Low blood sugar always puts me really close to my emotional triggers... I'm not sure what makes me cry; I can't even assign any thoughts to it - it's purely feeling, it's undiluted emotion. I can't think... I can only feel, like a blind person feels heat from the sun. You don't know why you feel it, or what's causing it - you just get warm.

After an eternity, the machine beeps at me. Yup, my blood sugar is low. "Zero" means dead, and the number that's displayed is only in the double-digits. An intelligent, coherent person would probably stop everything she was doing and go drink a glass of juice, make a piece of toast, have a banana. But right now, I am neither. I'm on a mission. Where's that damn laptop? I need people to know. I need people to understand. I need to write.

And when I can finally get these thoughts out of my head... then, THEN it's time to eat. My second favorite activity.

Stop This Ride I Want To Get Off

A few days ago, I woke up with a really bad low blood sugar reaction. Or rather, didn't quite wake up. I ended up tumbling out of bed, and, in a very disoriented and disorganized fashion, proceeded to walk through my house, running into the walls and furniture... mostly with my face. Long story short, I ended up in the emergency room with a splitting headache, a sore shoulder, and a small but messy cut over my left eye (I made the mistake of looking in the mirror after my pinball episode through my house, and freaked myself out when I saw blood covering the left side of my face). It was actually the fact that I had hit my head to the point of senselessness which convinced me to go to emergency - I mean, how ironic would it be to die of a head injury - the widow of a man who had died of a head injury? I just couldn't bear for the story to end in that fashion.

It's been kind of interesting, walking around in public. Clearly, strangers take one look at my face and think that I am a victim of spousal abuse, or maybe my boyfriend beat me up... but, true to form, my story is much more fascinating and improbable than that (i.e. "story of my life"). People kind of look at you, then don't look at you again... they never ask what happened, because they think they already know the answer. It makes me feel kind of strange, and a little bit defensive that they would assume that someone like me would stand for some asshole beating up on her, or even worse, that they would imagine my husband would be such an asshole as to beat up on me. I have to fight the urge to scream and rage at those people, insisting that the Bunny was the best husband on the planet. Yes, irrational. Probably the product of me being under an overwhelming amount of stress as of late. That's my newest buzz word: overwhelming.

My remodel has taken over most of the rooms of my house at this point. The good news is, the entire process is almost completed... probably just a handful of weeks left. The bad news is, I have nowhere to escape - for now, my "sanctuary" simply does not exist. And I can feel the effects of it. I'm a little stir crazy, a little on edge, a little more crabby than usual, a little more short-fused. It's like I can't get anything done, but tasks keep getting added to that "to-do" list. I kind of just want to curl up in a little ball and cry my eyes out... what happens when the "strong" person melts down? It's times like these that I really feel the loss of the Bunny. He was my rock, my foundation. He was strong enough to stand up to me, to not take my shit, but also to be my anchor - something I could hold onto when things got... overwhelming. Just like they are right now. I really miss him, then I want to kick myself in the ass because it's mostly because I am being selfish, and feeling sorry for myself. What a pussycat.

I realize I just need a few things to end... the remodel will the be first; I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Then I can get back on track with the training for my hike - yup, the wheels fell off the old exercise wagon again. I was telling my trainer just today that it was hard to work out regularly because 1) I hate exercising and 2) I'm lazy. Did I mention I hate exercising? Anyway, I've been thinking more and more about the hike... I decided I don't actually have to do it "in optimal condition" - I just have to do it. Who cares if I feel like shit afterwards... in fact, feeling like shit will probably make me feel better, at least emotionally if not physically. I'm kind of looking forward to physically exhausting my body - pushing myself to the farthest limits I can - to prove to the Bunny that my life with him was worth it. That he was worth all of this pain, and frustration, and anger, and sadness. Because that's how stinkin' happy I was with him. And I want him to look down on me, pushing forward with life... and for him to know I am not ready to lay down and die. Not even close.

No matter how many walls I run into along the way.