Posts Tagged ‘crying’

Almost Got It

June 10, 2017

I thought I was social media dark on my blog last night when I posted.

Except.

Ha.

I was still linked to Twitter.

Figured it out pretty quick, went and deleted off Twitter, and it didn’t link to Facecrack and now, well, I’ve disconnected any sharing on the blog.

It’s just you and me and a couple of friends.

Shhhh.

Part of me want to let out some big scary secret.

But there’s no big scary thing to let out of the bag.

I am a pretty happy lady.

I had today off.

What?

I know.

A Friday.

Off.

My family that I work for is still super sick and I got the message last night after I logged off my blog that they thought it better for me to take off today as well and they’d see me Monday.

I have to say I was sorry for them, but also so grateful, I really don’t know what I would have done had I gotten a severe flu bug.

I hate vomiting.

I mean really bad.

So I’ll happily take my pass and take the day off.

I didn’t sleep in, I got up and went to an early yoga class.

But after that I did take a really mellow day for myself.

I balanced the check book, paid the phone bill, did lots of writing, got in some laundry.

Then I scooted over to Nordstrom Rack and spent a lot of time trying on clothes that didn’t work for me.

I had some high hopes, but the retail therapy was not to be had.

Then again, it wasn’t a total loss, I got a bra, two tank tops, two pairs of panties, some body lotion and some mascara.

It was worth the trip, just to pick up a couple of staples.

Sure.

I had hoped for a new summery dress or maybe a pair of pretty shoes, but fact is, I have bought myself some nice things recently and I don’t really need to do more shopping.

I was looking for something to keep my brain occupied.

It turns out that a woman I have been working with for the past three and a half years is no longer available to work with me and we had a long talk on the phone as I stood by my scooter in the parking lot at Nordstrom Rack.

The blue sky coming through the sky light, the cars parking, the sound of a shopping cart going by and someone who loves me saying, I have loved working with you but it’s time for you to find someone else.

I have never been let go quite like this.

In fact.

I have never been let go.

I have always been the one to find another person to work with.

It was definitely an experience.

Now.

The funny thing is, not funny haha, but interesting, odd, is it odd?

Or God?

I think.

Well.

I believe.

It was God.

As I have prayed a lot over the last week about the relationship.

Something was said to me last week when we met that hurt my feelings deeply and though there was some repair in the moment when she realized how hurt I was, there was still an underlying wounding that I carried with me for days.

I just didn’t know what to make of it.

It came out in my therapy session Tuesday morning.

And.

Well.

Yes.

As a matter of fact.

I bawled my damn eyes out.

Then I worked through it.

Then.

Later that day when I was checking in with someone else.

I got mad.

I mean.

ANGRY.

I was yelling cunt in a church courtyard, so yeah, maybe livid might even be an emotional marker.

I did calm down.

I did write a lot of inventory.

Then I sat on it for a couple of days and really just let myself calm the fuck down.

Thank God for getting to yoga three times in a row this week.

Totally took the edge off.

That praying and writing and more writing and then I did it.

I called, left a message, said what I was feeling and let go of the results.

The results?

I was let go.

And I have no regrets.

Not a one.

I was honest and I know that there was no bitterness in the parting and I’m grateful for the time we got to work together and I’m grateful that I get to have a new experience with another person.

Before it was happening I had felt this dread and sadness and overwhelm, how the fuck am I going to find another person to work with?

I’m too busy.

But.

When it happened.

I knew that it was right.

And I knew that I wasn’t being dropped.

If anything it was God doing for me what I could not do for myself.

I get to have a new experience with a new person and I will get to grow and find out new things and have a new perspective and until that person comes into my life, I’m held by my community and I am not worried.

I am loved.

I am enough.

And I learned a lot.

Some of which I can’t share here as it’s just not my place.

But.

Suffice to say there was deep learning here.

And a deep gratitude for my community and for the people I talked to over the last few days and today and for feeling held and loved and having that love reflected back to me.

I know that I’m still going to have some feelings.

Abandonment.

Not lovable.

Not enough.

Yada, yada, yada.

Victim.

Martyr.

But.

They will pass.

And I will come out the other side stronger and better and more graceful.

Whenever God has “taken” something or someone from me I have been given the gift that he was waiting to put into my hands but I was too busy holding onto something that didn’t work out of some misplaced idea that I could fix it and make it better.

Not realizing God had the solution right in front of me.

My hands are empty.

I am now able to receive.

My heart is ready.

I will walk through this.

I have to.

There is not another choice.

There is only the present.

And all the gifts inherent.

I am loved.

And that is enough.

It always is.

OW

February 26, 2017

Fuck that hurt.

That hurt more than I expected.

Hurt my face.

Face still hurts.

Hours later, my jaw is aching from having a weird rubber thingamabob in my mouth for too long.

No.

I was not at a sex play party.

I was at the dentist.

Yes.

I finally went.

Ten years later.

Pro tip.

When they say get a cleaning every six months.

Listen.

Walk through the fear, just go.

I am smacking myself for letting it lapse so long.

I can only beat myself up for so long though, I haven’t had dental insurance and it’s a pretty penny to get dental work done and you know, I have things to do, places to go, people to see, I’m busy.

Too busy.

But when my teeth felt.

Well.

Achey.

I guess is the word.

Back in December I made the decision to go back to the dentist and I used part of my Christmas bonus to buy dental insurance for the year.

It became activated in February, so as soon as I had the card I made the appointment and my dentist has Saturday hours, and voila, there I am sitting in a chair at Sunset Premier Dental at 4 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon listening to a child screaming.

This does not bode well, I can see in hindsight.

AND.

I do not joke, I thought I was hearing things, I really did, I thought, ladybug you are just anxious, they are not talking about you.

They were talking in rapid fire Chinese, Mandarin I believe, and occasionally in between the crying and the screaming of the little girl I could swear I heard my name, “Carmen” being spoken.

Turns out the little girl was named Carmen.

I was hearing things right.

The dental assistant was very sweet and kind and did my ex-rays, then I sat for a while, looking at flower decals on the wall and owls and clouds and soft pastel paintings, listening with half an ear to the easy listening on the radio.

I now will have Huey Lewis and The News imprinted in my mental memory of the dentist visit.

The dentist was super kind Chinese man, Vincent Leung, D.D.S. who made many nice jokes and patted me on my shoulder a lot and also, yes, I am not joking, wiped tears, the continual stream of tears, off my face as I cried in the chair with the big rubber block thing holding open my jaw.

He did the initial exam and looked over the ex-rays and then went and consulted on another client while the nurse came back, or dental assistant, not sure what the difference is exactly, to inform me that yes, my insurance did cover a good amount of the necessary care, but, I would still need to cover some out-of-pocket costs and she explained that I had to have some fillings, Doctor Leung had joked that I had a smattering of “baby cavities” and also, fuck me.

Gum Disease.

I have heard of it but I did not know what it was really.

The doctor came back, showed me my ex-rays, pointed out the baby cavities then pointed out what was happening with my gums, why ten years of not getting my teeth regularly cleaned was not the best idea for me, even with brushing three times a day and flossing once a day, for real, that’s my routine, my gums were receding and if I let it go too long I was going to start losing teeth.

Fuck no.

Do the damn cleaning and scrape the teeth, underneath the gum line.

The sound it made.

Like tiny high-powered squirrel robots screaming in my mouth.

Getting to that point though I skip the worst part.

The part that was the hardest to bear, the part that had me crying and scared and shook up.

Yes, it was painful.

Even though I was numbed out.

It was the pain of the numbing out that shook me up.

First, the local anesthesia.

So much of it and the taste, and then I ended up swallowing some and oh my god, so grateful I had a decent lunch, if I had gone in on an empty stomach I would have thrown up on nice Doctor Vincent.

Second.

I have not been on anything, nothing, nada, zip, zilch, zero, since I got sober.

Nothing.

NOTHING.

No pain relievers, no prescribed meds, I have not had any surgeries, although I have had some challenges, hello severe ankle sprain two years ago that still bothers me, but nothing stronger than ibuprofen in twelve years.

I had a physical reaction to the anesthesia and it felt awful to have something in my body, intrusive and I shook a bit and I got super cold and shivery.

Then the injections of Novocaine, super long thin scary needles, had my eyes shut, but still, super long thin scary needles, and even with the local, it still hurt to get the injections, the needle had to hit bone before it could be pulled out.

Six times.

Six injections.

I was destroyed.

Tears rolling down my face.

The doctor kept patting my shoulder and gently dabbing my closed eyes with tissues.

Probably not the doctor now that I think of it, the assistant, but yes, much was made of me crying.

I just oozed and leaked tears the entire time.

And prayed.

I prayed a lot.

I said the Serenity Prayer over and over and over again.

So many times.

I had a cute thought in there at one point.

“God wants me to have sexy teeth.”

Yup.

I thought that.

Made me smile on the inside.

I couldn’t smile for hours after, it was so disconcerting.

I had so much Novocaine in my face my ears had numbed out.

I am not kidding.

Afterwards I was told I needed to come back, I am going to need to come back for a while on the regular and get the deep cleanings.

The good news is that the biggest part of it was dealt with today and the maintenance cleaning though frequent, I have another appointment in May, it will only be $70 and not $1350 as today’s visit was.

Thank fucking God.

And I had the money in my account.

Thank God for that too.

I paid rent yesterday and bought groceries and after that I still had a good lump in my account for whatever today was going to cost.

I have $350 left in my checking account.

But.

Hey.

My teeth are hella clean, sexy and super fucking white.

And soon available for making out.

As soon as my jaw stops hurting.

Grateful it wasn’t worse, I didn’t have any teeth extractions, I don’t need a root canal, I don’t need crowns.

It was scary and hard to sit through, but I made it through and although the Novocaine was wildly uncomfortable and the injection process was painful, I got through.

I lived to tell my tale.

I will be able to do it again and I will know going into it.

It wasn’t exactly the Saturday I had planned.

But.

I am grateful for getting through with it, for showing up, and for taking care of it.

It could have been so much worse.

Frankly I’m not sure I could have handled much worse.

Grateful beyond words that I didn’t have to.

Seriously.

Teeny Tiny Case

February 26, 2016

Of the feels.

Fucking sads.

Go the fuck away.

Don’t you know tomorrow is Friday?

Bah.

Oh, body, really, do you have to do this?

Sometimes I wonder if my body cycles the way it does just so that I can occasionally access emotions that I sit on.

It’s like, normal Carmen just breezes through the day and I am pretty fucking unruffled.

Quick!

Pee before yoga, you got a minute, it only takes two to walk to the studio, go, fast.

And there like a little blight on my happiness.

The dreaded red spot.

Not the period, nope, that’s got about two days to go, unless I get lucky, insert irony here, and I get it tomorrow morning, which the rate my hormones are emotionally playing the violin may strike a day early.

Ugh.

I ovulated.

“Another baby down the drain,” my brain whispered to me.

Fuck you.

WHO ASKED?

I most certainly did not and was a bit abject that this is now the tact my brain takes to malign my day.

FUCK.

I hate overblown emotions.

I don’t like having the sad’s and I am not interested in the feel’s either.

Back off.

Maybe I should change the music, Regina Spektor is lovely and all, but I don’t want to think about Ne Me Quitte Pas Ma Cher.

It just makes me want to burst into tears.

And now I’m full blown crying.

Good thing this is not a video blog.

Bah.

I just miss someone.

And sometimes that happens.

And it catches you off guard and it doesn’t matter that you’re wearing red lipstick and look really cute, sexy pin-up hot, I mean, I do, I got some looks today, it doesn’t matter if you’re crying over fantasy spilt milk.

Some times things don’t work out and it’s not because there’s not love there, it’s just not there for you.

Every one knows its going to hurt.

Ugh.

I guess I just needed a really good sloppy cry.

I guess I am surprised that I still feel like this, the grief comes, it goes, it dissipates like the moon waning in the evening sky, the stars flashing while the moon whirls slowly over the arc of the sky.

And when I am awake, late in the night, when I so just want to be asleep.

And there’s still no cure for crying.

But the moon is streaming in and the whiteness, like snow illuminated, sand ripples, waves crash, the icing floating over the ocean, the glitter of diamonds, the shatter of breaking my own heart.

Darling let go of her hand, let go of her hand, let go of her hand.

She’s the kind of girl who’ll smash herself down in the night.

She’ll break her own heart.

And you know, she’ll break your own heart too.

The pain of knowing true love exists.

Oof.

Ok.

All cried out.

Fuck listening listening to this music any more.

Back to Mike Doughty Stellar Motel.

Ah.

Better.

Side bar.

My friend commented about Mike Doughty liking one of my Instagram photos and did I just freak out?

Yes.

I did.

And I freaked out more when he started following me and now he’s coming up on my facecrack page as a friend suggestions we have four or five friends in common.

I’m like, hey sugar, we don’t really know each other, but hey, hey.

I like your music a lot.

A LOT.

Swear to god I have listened to Stellar Motel on repeat now for a good solid week and a half, I’ve played it every day, at least once, often times more than once.

Now.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not just listening to Mister Doughty, but he’s kind of got my attention right now, plus, I like to think that I sound good singing his stuff, it matches my vocal range pretty well.

I love singing.

I’m not the greatest, but it does make me happy.

I sang a long to all sorts of things tonight trying to find the right thing for the boys to listen to.

Everything from “Somewhere over the Rainbow,” to Thomas Dolby, then Jim Croce, Van Morrison, Steely Dan, again Mike Doughty, but from Yes and Also Yes, not Stellar Motel, oh and some Art of Noise–the boys freaking love it.

I was at work late tonight and I go in early tomorrow.

And I found out I’m getting out a little earlier than I thought tomorrow as well, I’ll be done by 5:15pm or so, the family has dinner plans.

Swell.

I’ll get my nails did.

Or do some grocery shopping.

Definitely need to take care of doing the deal, not sure where, who knows.

After the emotional roller coaster of hormones, it seems to have passed, I really think I just needed a good cry.

And lucky you, you got to be the witness thereof.

I thought I had all my cries out, but sometimes there’s just another in there.

I’m being a bit vague about the whole thing and I’m not sure why, the person I am having the feels around stopped following my blog.

That hit like a ton of bricks.

We’re still facecrack friends, but I did stop following him.

It was just too hard.

I haven’t been on his page in weeks but it’s hard, his profile photo is one I took.

The last time I saw his page he was half naked on the beach.

I was like.

Um.

I can not look at that.

I’ve basically been in, shocker, a unrequited love relationship for months.

It started to fall apart in November, had it’s death knoll in December, buried under the glittering lights of Paris, dissolved in the New Year and the week or so before Valentines Day, well.

Yeah.

I haven’t done much writing about it because I was so fucking in love it felt like I was being consumed.

Oh fuck, here comes the waterworks.

It’s hard.

But I will live through it.

“Just be grateful that God gave you this man in your life so that you could get a chance to see how deep you can love,” she said weeks and weeks ago at Tart to Tart.

Yeah.

Like that.

I prayed for weeks, months, let it go, surrender, move on.

And I have.

I have stopped walking down that street, I don’t fall in the pothole, but man, the siren song of it lures.

I saw him sitting in Burger Joint a few weeks ago, the one by my job, and as I rode my bicycle past I said, “don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, fuck, looking, looking, fuck, yup, there he is, and keep fucking moving.”

That’s what it’s been like.

The anger that my person was talking about that needed a valve, yeah, might have had something to do with being mad at myself.

I assuaged myself for a nano second.

“But he said he was in love with you too,” and yup.

He did say that.

It’s a powerful thing to tell someone that you are in love with them and they tell you that they are in love with you too and there’s nothing he can do and there’s nothing I can do and it’s not important the why’s and where of’s, it just is what it is.

And I can cry in my soup, or tea, or whatever is in front of me, the collar of my red cardigan, my heart broken and bloody once more, or I can say hey, you lived, you loved–oh so hard–and you learned and now.

Well.

You get to keep loving.

Harder and stronger.

Bigger and faster.

With greater joy and fervor.

With all my heart.

And that heart is so big now, so full and open and blown apart, you’d be amazed at what I can hold.

I don’t regret a moment.

Or the experience.

I know greater love for having known this love.

I always will.

And for that I am grateful.

Hormonal or not.

I get to have this experience.

And knowing that.

I know that I am taken care of.

Always.

Blessed.

Graced.

Held.

Loved.

Always.

 

 

If You Could

January 6, 2016

See me now.

You would see how committed I am.

Fuck me.

The internet in my in-law sucks.

But.

Haha.

I found out there’s nothing wrong with it in the fucking hallway.

So.

Yes.

That is correct.

I am writing my blog in the hallway, the entryway to my house, basically I’m not in my fucking house, but the door is open.

It’s cold out here.

Fuck.

Not really how I want to be doing this, but at least I am online and I figure, well, I am a fast writer, I’ll have this done quick like and then go back in my house and not have internet some more.

I kind of am not cool with it.

But.

After the conversation with my housemate, this morning, I asked as I was trying to get online to look at my syllabus and start doing some homework for the class–she emphatically noted, “it’s must be your computer, because I’m getting online upstairs.”

It’s not my computer.

It’s apparently where my computer is.

Like in my house.

Or in the hallway.

Haha.

But I still needed to see what was on the syllabus.

Probably should have waited a little while though.

I wanted to throw up when I saw the reading.

Fuck me.

I really hope the reader is done tomorrow.

I want to be able to get them and not be reading this stuff online.

I need to underline and highlight, the stuff is not going to stick for me.

And if I have to jog out to the god damn hallway to get online I’m not going to be a very happy lady.

Ugh.

Maybe what I will do is go back inside and write this in word then come back out and get online and post.

It’s a pain, but at least I’ll be warm.

And the seating is more comfortable.

And I won’t have to listen to the noise coming from upstairs either, it’s distracting as all hell.

Ah.

It’s not the big things.

The big things.

They hurt, they’re hard, but I know how to deal with them, write it down, put it in the God box.

(pink bunny)

Let it go.

Surrender.

Maybe cry some.

Ok.

Shut up.

Cry a lot.

But hey, the feelings they pass faster that way, they do.

Call someone.

Make an inventory.

Call another someone.

Go do some service.

And the big stuff, I can navigate it.

The small shit, the little bump under the carpet, the daily grievances of life, sometimes that is the stuff that I cannot negotiate.

Like what is that sound?

It’s like a remote control car being driven around in a relentless circle.

It’s not the soundtrack to the movie, but it’s…

See.

I digress.

The little stuff can wallop the hell out of me.

I can’t fucking take it.

I’m freezing.

Back inside my little lair.

I like my little lair.

Even if the internet is not reciprocating with me, at least I am cozy.

And the sound track is so much better.

A little Al Green, “Let’s Stay Together.”

That’s more like it.

God damn I love some Reverend Green.

I remember dancing to it at the Angelic, once in a while getting spun around the front of the bar by this person or that, Charles, the bartender, who was not the best bartender but my God, he could lead a good partner dance.

For a moment, being twirled around in front of the band and throwing my head back and laughing.

I must have been a sight.

I still am a sight.

I am also having a heavy duty hair geographic itch.

Serious itch.

I have been reaching out about it to a few folks, looking for a new spot, I’ve been with my person for a long time but I have been encouraged to expand out towards other horizons.

I mean, it’s been heavily suggested and since I take suggestions, I need a new hairdresser.

Because.

I am thinking, yes, go all blonde.

Do it.

Blaze the shit out of my hair just once.

“Girl, it is getting big,” he said to me tonight after I checked in and let him know what was going on with me.

You know, some more crying, but good crying, relief crying.

Sometimes a girl has to get it out.

I’ve cried an awful lot lately, but I know how cathartic it is and how I have needed to let go and surrender.

And.

Oh.

I think I have!

I’ve done it!

I’ve let go!

Yippee!

Then.

Nope.

Ah fuck.

Feelings.

They just keep happening.

Ok.

So have them, make friends with them, the less I struggle, the more I surrender and I feel like I have finally laid it all down, put it all on the ground, said, hey you, feelings, you go on about your bad selves and I’ll just be laying here mushed out on the ground.

Contemplating Spring.

I’ll be watching the dogwood blossom and the blue sky ahead and maybe I’ll be breathing free and steady and full of love.

Nah.

Not maybe.

I will be.

I am now.

I feel lighter and looser and gladder, even though sad, in my person.

A loosening and letting go.

Love is a story that can’t be told.

Sing it Al.

The time is right.

It’s almost that time.

Though not quite, I still have a few days to go, but the revelations I have had this year around this anniversary, well, they are something.

(Oh, look at that, saving of my draft failed, yeah, I know, motherfucker, I can’t get internet in my hobbit hole today, or for the last five in a row, which yeah, fuck you, is not as relaxing as you think it would be.  If I wanted to be off the grid I would unplug on my own, thank you very much)

Am I going to have to write an inventory about my WiFi?

Bahahaha.

Oh.

I am a sick person.

Fuck.

At least I know it.

Back out to the hallway with you.

Where I am metaphorically, so often, in the hallway, in the dark, looking for the next door to open.

Free.

Though.

Free to move about.

Free to love.

Free to let go.

Free to move forward.

Because.

The best thing I can do is give you your love

 

PS.

The acoustic’s in the hallway are fantastic for singing.

 

You’re The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair

July 12, 2015

That cries all the time.

Yup.

That would be me.

Crying on the back of the bus.

Damn you MUNI.

It’s bad enough to be that woman, but to be that woman on the back of the bus?

Even worse.

There’s a certain kind of anonymity that the N-Judah train permits, not so much when they are running buses to and from the beach as the work continues on the tunnel between the Cole and Duboce stops.

The girl with flowers in her hair who cries a lot, I think, is actually what she said.

I haven’t cried this much in a long time.

I have not seen my disease so up close and personal and in my face, and on my face, and smearing down my face.

I really shouldn’t have even attempted the make up today, but I tried to put on a brave face, even though I went to bed crying, I woke up crying, my face was leaky and runny and disastrous.

I would get it together to fall back apart.

I can say with all conviction and truth the amends to be made from mistakes in my sobriety have to be some of the most painful I have ever attempted.

And I haven’t made this one yet.

I did something last night that I am ashamed of, horrified by and bereft with my behavior.

I was manipulative and dishonest and I didn’t even realize what was coming out of my mouth but there it was and my friend got hurt.

It was like being in a black out.

I said something cruel and dishonest because my fucking instincts got bruised and I thought I was better than that, I don’t know, that I got this, I know how to live I do, I….

Fuck me.

I don’t have a clue.

Until the look on my friends face woke me up.

What did I just do?

I can’t breathe writing about it.

I have been putting off writing about it for hours, hoping that I would be able to make the amends tonight.

It does not look like that will happen.

I can’t force solution, it’s not on my schedule, it’s not my time frame.

It’s my fucking monkey though.

Or monkeys.

Shame.

Manipulation.

Perfectionism.

DIshonesty.

When I wrote, just because it’s taken me this long to get to my blog does not mean I haven’t written today.

I have.

So much, my heart hurts for it, my heart hurts for my friend, for myself, for being in this disease, for being human, and for knowing that the only way through this is though it.

And I may very well lose a friend who means so much to me that I cannot fathom not having him in my life.

Oh.

And there’s another one.

Self-sabotage.

I think I have let go, I think I have surrendered, then I go down that path, unconsciously, it seems, but I can see in hindsight that I got upset, I felt threatened and I said unkind things.

Things I did not mean, things I don’t even remember saying, except for the gist of them, for the flavor–which is all sea salt and rot on my heart, that what it tastes like and so I took it to the beach.

I took it first to 7th and Irving and was a mild wreck in my folding chair, my ass falling off, I stuck it in a bag and got it where it needed to be.

I shared and I shared sadness and sorrow, but I also shared solution and when I finished and the time was up I read about a vision for you and my voice cracked.

I cannot remember the last time I started to cry reading something.

The wreckage of the past caught my attention and twisted in me and I thought, the wreckage of last night, and then I read the rest of the words and felt something move and shift and a teeny step forward through the miasma of grief.

Then down the stairs out into the sunlight, buoyed up by the froth of crinoline under my dress.

If I’m going to be sad I might as well wear something that will bring some lightness to me as I drift tear stained around the Inner Sunset.

I went to Tart to Tart.

I got an iced coffee.

I sat down across the table and I spilled my guts.

“Well, aren’t you just a garden variety drunk,” she almost laughed, but then told me what she saw, her perception, and her generosity of spirit and point blankness, “you owe him an amends.  Do you have a piece of paper?”

I took out my notebook.

I wrote down what she said.

I cried with horror over my inability to have seen how hurtful I was to my friend last night and I admonished myself.

I didn’t cast about ashes and I didn’t beat my self with a hair whip, but man, I came close.

“Hey, don’t talk about my friend like that,” my best girlfriend said to me this morning when I shared what an asshole I had been.

I love you and I forgive you.

I kept saying it all day.

I kept seeing how deep this goes, how much work I still have to do.

“Oh!  Get grateful for that, it means you’re human, and you get to work on letting go of these defects.”

Back at Tart to Tart the almost perky tone of my person bolstered me, I knew she was right and I knew I have to go to my friend in a position of service and kindness.

And face to face.

That was the directive.

I reached out.

I got a response.

It was no thank you.

Once again I break my own heart.

No wonder I wore my heart sweater today.

Cream hearts on a field of black.

I did more praying.

I did more writing.

I did, oh come on, more crying.

Hell.

I haven’t really stopped all day.

There will be a moment of reprieve then it starts again.

“This is worse than with ____________,” I sobbed on the phone later in the day, having walked down to the sea and asked for it all to be taken away, wash it away, take my sins, every one, help me have kindness and compassion, for myself, and be of service to my friend.

However he needs it.

Not however I want it.

“You self-sabotaged and now you know what that feels like, you can recognize it and you can stop it the next time you have that feeling arise,” he told me.  “Then you talk to me first before you say anything.”

“And we hurt the ones we care for the most, we don’t mean to, but that’s what we do” he finished, “now you are aware, now forgive yourself, and let him have his process.”

The hardest part.

I wore that fucking flower in my hair all day long.

I thought there was a chance to see my friend and make the amends.

He reached back to me later and we set a time, but it came and went and he cannot meet me.

So I sit here in the grief that I have wrought.

My own self-made misery.

I can’t hate myself for it, I can only forgive and move forward with the knowledge that my disease runs hard and deep and I have to lean in on my God and I have to pray more.

Kneeling by my bed, walking in the ocean, walking through the fear, praying for forgiveness again and again and again.

I can’t regret the past, nor shut the door on it, but I can learn from this and I can hope for a new beginning and for a new freedom from the bondage of self.

The price feels so high.

“You will get through this,” his voice so calm over the phone, the waves splashed on my feet, the sun embroiled my head and lit me through with far-flung light, “you will come out stronger and better and you will love more for it, I don’t know what it will look like, but you will come through and you will have learned a deep lesson about yourself.”

There is a gift here.

I cannot see it.

But it is there.

Wrapped on the beach.

Dusted with the tears of the mermaids as they

Sing each to each

I will walk through this grief.

I will assuage this sorrow.

I will open that box.

And be bedazzled with glory.

I will keep doing this work.

It’s the only way I know how.

I will find my way back to love.

It has not left me, I just cannot see it through the blur of sea-salt in my eyes.

But it is there.

Love.

It is there.


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