Posts Tagged ‘healing’

You’ve Done Enough

February 2, 2018

Crying.

He said to me on the phone tonight as I was driving home from my internship.

I had called up my person to confirm our meeting for this Sunday and to discuss some things that I wanted to do and to basically tell on myself.

He made some suggestions and listened to me and gave me a different perspective than I had and then he said the aforementioned you’re done crying.

God damn that sounded good.

I would really like to be done crying.

I could use a fucking break from it.

And I don’t think I cried today, but I know I teared up a few times.

The crying could have happened but I didn’t quite go there.

I was grateful for the reprieve, truth be told.

It’s been exhausting going through this.

I had expressed how I thought my D.C. trip might be a vale of tears and I was told to have fun, to enjoy myself, to let myself have a good time, that I was allowed to.

That I don’t have to do any more fucking processing.

Or sharing.

I’m done.

I can keep to my work and keep to my recovery and do the things that I need to do for my own self care, but I don’t have to continually process this, I have been in grief for two and a half weeks.

I need a break.

And I know that grief does not have a timeline, that the expression of sorrow is not linear.

It will come.

It will go.

But.

I don’t have to court it and what I was thinking about doing may have been courting the grief.

So I won’t be doing those actions and I am forever grateful for the perspective of another and the wisdom of some one who has great clarity and can see me well for who I am and who advocates for me the best things.

I don’t always advocate the best things for myself.

But.

Man.

I am fucking trying.

I am doing the heavy lifting.

I swear.

I am doing things I never thought I could do, or even thought. that I would do a few months ago.

I don’t think I really entertained the thought of the actions that I so recently took, maybe a tiny peek at them, but most of the time no, I really did not see what happened coming.

I mean.

It certainly felt like a shock to me.

And the aftershocks have been pretty heavy.

It really shook my world and changed who I am.

I believe.

In a very deep, very meaningful way.

I am proud of myself for doing the opposite of what I wanted in the belief that by asking for what I want I would be better off.

Even if I didn’t get what I wanted.

And.

Hey.

Guess what?

I didn’t get what I wanted.

Nope, not at all.

But.

The results weren’t mine, I reckon the results of the actions I take really are never mine, they’re for God, the actions are what are important.

I took very contrary actions for myself.

I did something that I am still a little in awe of.

It was so hard.

It was scary.

It was unfathomable sadness.

And I still did it.

I also don’t know what the final outcome of it all will be.

I don’t have to know.

I just know I did for myself something different and new in hopes of lessening the pain that I was in spiritually, emotionally, hell, even physically.

I won’t say that I was going against my principles, or better nature, but I was doing something very outside my comfort zone and I think I was a bit like the proverbial boy whistling in the dark, nothing’s the matter, all’s good, I’m grand.

But I wasn’t and when it all came crashing down on me I realized how much I wasn’t good with my situation despite how much I didn’t want to change, I had to change.

Nothing changes unless something changes.

I made some change.

Good grief, did I ever.

Oh, all the things I get to keep working on.

So fucking many things.

But for now, I can say, let me rest for a moment.

Let me take a break from the crying, let me surrender that pain up and let it go, I don’t need to suffer, I don’t need to wallow, I can acknowledge that yes, I am still sad and fucking heartbroken, but I don’t have to dig around in it and dredge up more grief.

I can accept that I have done the work and I can rest for a moment.

Yes, there is no actual resting on my laurels, so to speak, but there is an acknowledgement of work done and that perhaps it is alright for me to call a time out from the emotional upheaval of the past few weeks and seek a little serenity for myself in all of it.

I feel that’s fair.

And should I need to cry again, that’s fine too.

It’s just ok for me to not do it today and acknowledge that the heavy lifting is done.

As my dear friend in Paris mentioned to me, “the worst is done.”

Sigh.

Yes.

The worst is done.

That makes me sad to write, in a resigned melancholic way, but also aware that the hardest thing I had to do has been done.

I grow from here.

I change.

I allow myself to heal.

I am gentle and kind and loving to myself and to others and I get the fuck out of my own way, to the best of my ability, one day at a time.

One moment at a time.

One breath at a time.

And everything will be alright.

I just know it.

Because.

Well.

It already is.

 

 

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Push Button Baby

August 1, 2017

I saw a couple on the side of the road as I zoomed down Lincoln Way frantically trying to kick over the starter on a vintage Vespa.

I chuckled to myself.

The old Vespas look so fucking cool.

I know.

I used to have one.

It was such a pretty girl.

But.

Man.

It was such a hassle to get it started or it would conk out on me out of the blue.

Like coming down Laguna Honda in the fog going 40 miles an hour.

I got tired of that really fast.

That.

And the freaking horrifying sprained ankle that I got when the kick starter jammed and I folded my ankle in half.

That was no fun.

Months, years really, of healing.

The doctor was shocked it wasn’t broken and then told me it was too bad it wasn’t since the sprain is slower to heal and how badly I had injured it I would be lucky if it was healed fully in a year and a half.

He was right.

It took that much time to heal.

Actually closer to two years, if I’m honest, I had to be really careful and there were times when I could feel it was still injured.

It put a bad taste in my mouth for every having something vintage like that again.

Truth too.

I wasn’t prepared for the amount of maintenance and well, it turned out it was a knock off Vespa, despite the registration issued from the DMV, it was a knock off Vietnam Vespa and no body in town would touch it to repair it.

So.

I got rid of it.

I had it recycled.

I got it off the road.

I wasn’t going to be responsible for someone else getting injured on it and when the mechanics at the shop told me all the issues with it I was shocked that I hadn’t hurt myself more on it, I could have easily crashed it out.

Granted.

There were some gleeful moments on it when someone would pull up to me on it at a light and chat with me about it, the scooter really was well done, no one had a clue it was fake.

Certainly not I.

I was a tiny bit bamboozled you could say.

Any way, that’s an old story and not the point.

The point is.

Thank fucking god for my scooter.

I live in the Outer Sunset.

I work in Glen Park.

My internship is in the Mission.

My school is in the SOMA.

I have supervision in Hayes Valley.

And.

Therapy in Noe Valley.

I have to get all over the city.

And the scooter is quick.

Of course, I do have some anxiety about what will happen when the fall comes and the rains that generally come with the fall.

I will either have to get used to wet weather riding or figure something else out.

I can ride in the rain.

I have done it.

I do not like it, but it’s doable.

I was talking to my friend yesterday as she was getting the last of her household packed up for travels back to France and she looked at me and said, “drive safe poulette (her term of endearment for me–sexy girl, although literal translation is chicken, I like to think of it as “chick” or chickadee), maybe it’s time you got a car.”

Yeah.

There’s that.

Aside from the fact that it would be handy to go to Burning Man.

Heh.

Still haven’t gotten a ride yet, still hedging my bets with a rental, but that too is beside the point.

I don’t know what exactly the point is.

I haven’t had a car for over a decade.

I got rid of mine two weeks after moving here in 2002.

Fuck.

Nearly fifteen years with no car.

Lots of bicycles.

And two scooters.

I do like my scooter and I do so appreciate getting around on it.

I just have time concerns now that I didn’t have before.

I mean.

My schedule has always been full, but then I added in graduate school and graduate school added in an internship and um, ha, since, I’m a therapist in training, I have to be on time for my clients.

I get done with work at 6p.m. and I have clients at 6:30 p.m. Mondays, Tuesday, Thursdays, and I have been assigned a new client to see on Fridays now at 6:30p.m.

My first child client!

Bring on the child and family hours!

Ahem.

I digress.

This whole blog is a digression.

Sometimes when I don’t want to write about what I want to write about, I can go off on tangents.

Shadrach.

Scooter accident.

Dead.

Today.

10 years.

I had a little contact with his mom today after she posted a photo of visiting his grave.

Add onto that saying goodbye yesterday to my darling French friend.

Great recipe for sadness.

I felt heavy with it this morning when I left my house to go meet with my supervisor.

I got to Hayes Valley early and had a fifteen minute window so I called my person and shared about it and he said, “you sound sad,” and there it was, the sad, the heaviness in me, it was sadness.

Tears welled up and spilled down my face.

Yup.

Sad.

So we made a plan to meet at a church in the Inner Sunset after I got out of supervision.

It was so good.

I got right with God.

Then we went for tea at Tart to Tart and had a good session.

We sent my friend from Paris a good-bye photo of the two of us having tea, my face a little wet with tears, and my person smiling to beat the band, ugh, not all selfies are sexy.

Ha.

Oh.

Sadness.

I had my cry though and things began to shift.

I came home, made a nice lunch and then did some school work.

Because.

It’s that time.

I have two syllabi posted up and I checked them out and ordered books for class.

I sighed and realized I was pretty burnt out with the emotions.

And I decided.

You know what?

Nap.

I need a nap.

And that’s what I did.

It was perfect.

I had a little rest then got up, prepped some food for dinner and I could feel the sad had moved out of my body.

I got my things together and hopped back on my scooter, went to my internship, dealt with progress notes and paperwork and then saw a client.

By the time my session ended I was feeling great.

So nice that.

Go.

Be of service.

Feel better.

I scooted home.

Zipped by the park, rode the curves of Lincoln Way, smelled the bonfires at Ocean Beach and though it was cold and a bit foggy, I felt lifted, carried, loved.

I miss you Shadrach.

But.

You would be pretty proud of me.

Ten years.

You think the grief would have gone out of my body, but sometimes it is still there and needs expressing.

I’m grateful I didn’t squash it.

I just had it.

And I’m grateful for the emotions.

I get to have them.

Feelings.

It means I am alive.

And after all the death I have been witness to.

Well.

That’s a fucking miracle.

So glad I still get to be around.

Happy.

Joyous.

Alive.

And.

Free.

Happy Thanksgiving!

June 1, 2017

Yes.

I am aware that tomorrow is June 1st and not November.

It has been one hell of a month.

So much happening.

Amazing things truly.

I love my life, I’m lucky, I’m graced, I’m blessed.

And.

I might just being going to Hawaii for Thanksgiving!

Yup.

It will be my first time, unless something unusual pops up and I find myself in the islands, which I am not opposed to, but to tell you the truth, I hadn’t expected to hear the news today that I might be in the islands for the holiday.

My family I work for brought it up today.

I will have off that weekend from school and work, well, since it is work, will let me have the time.

It’s not a real vacation for me, I’ll be working, but, oh, the location does not suck.

Not at all.

And like I said, I’ve never been to Hawaii.

I really should go, I am part Polynesian after all.

Puerto Rican and Polynesian on my father’s side.

German and Scot on my mom’s side.

I had someone tell me once that I was a Polynesian princess mixed with white trash.

Heh.

I might have a little trashy in me.

I definitely have some princess in me, that’s for sure.

Nevertheless, I am thrilled at the idea.

I love that the family really wants me to be included in their lives and I really love working for them.

Tomorrow marks five months of work and it’s been such a great job for me and the parents really appreciate me and the kids love me.

I love my charges.

LOVE.

Both of the older kids were under the weather today and one of them stayed home from school.

Work was huge amounts of snuggling, singing every song I know from my years of being a nanny, and an almost endless repetition of a lullaby that I usually sing to the baby, and all the babies I have ever worked with and a lot of my toddlers too, to the oldest boy while rubbing his back and petting him and just sitting and crooning to him.

He is the sweetest boy and super smart and vulnerable and the request to keep repeating the lullaby and stroking his soft blonde hair, oh, my heart, I just wanted to curl him up in my arms and kiss away the fever.

He got lots of love and I got to be the Queen of Snuggles.

I also got to do some cooking while he was watching a movie, sick days get movies, and I revelled in the cooking.

It feels good to cook, I miss it sometimes, cooking for a partner or my family.

I used to cook all the big holiday meals for my family and oh, the baking, and the stews, the jams and cheesecakes and pies, the cookies and pork chops.

Midwestern much.

Aside.

I said “bubbler” today and the woman looked at me like I was an alien.

Bubbler is water fountain in Wisconsineese.

I made up that last word, rhymes with cheese, bubbler is a total Wisconsin word, there are a few more, but that one slips once in a while into the conversation, or “pop” instead of “soda.”

Once and a while my roots show.

I am, however, not so connected to my Hawaiian and Puerto Rican roots.

My father wasn’t much around growing up and though I always kept in touch with my grandmother, I didn’t have much idea about Hawaii.

I had things from Hawaii that my grandmother would send and I remember boxes of chocolate covered macadamia nuts and once a grass skirt, coming in the mail from my grandmother.

I think we had placemats too and a few books about the islands and where the family was from.

It wasn’t until I moved back to California as an adult that I met my father’s side of the family in a more concrete way.

I remember meeting some cousins for the first time and being blown away by how much I looked like them, how they looked like my sister, and how I was actually lighter skinned than the majority of the family.

“They look like me!”

It was a relief and in a way an almost instantaneous connection that I had not always felt with my mothers Germanic roots and Scottish ancestry.

I was neither pale skin nor blue-eyed, or green-eyed as my mother.

I did not have blond hair.

Nope.

I got tan.

I didn’t really burn.

Well, once in a while, after long ass days detassling corn in the fields around Waunakee during the summers when I was working the crews, I might get a shoulder burn or a heavy crop dusting of freckles.

My mom though, my God, she could burn so easily, such creamy white fair skin.

Yeah.

So coming to California and starting to get those connections to my father’s family was a revelation.

I’m still not as close as I suppose I can be, social media does most of the work for me and there’s still stuff with my father that I have reservations broaching my family about.

I ceded his care when I was in Alaska in the hospital to the head of the administrative at the hospital.

I love my father.

I have exquisite and amazing child hood memories of him.

I also have some pretty awful ones too.

But.

He wasn’t around and when he had the accident that lead to the coma that led me to Anchorage, I went almost more to settle my own heart, then for anything else.

I sat by that hospital bed in the ICU for four night and five days.

He was in a coma the entire time I was there.

I held his hand and talked to him.

I forgave him.

And.

I asked for him to forgive me.

I made friends in Anchorage and the fellowship there carried me when I wanted to collapse into the snowbanks and the cold air and just cry my heart out.

I managed to not get stuck in any snowbanks but I won’t ever forget the dark night sky outside the window of the room the hospital hospitality house put me up in, for families of critical care patients at the facility, and the roughness of the sheets on the bed and how alone I was.

No.

That’s not true.

I wasn’t alone, I had God, I was carried, but I was by myself.

I was grateful, beyond grateful, to be there for my family and to relay messages out to the world and to let my grandmother be in contact with me and my uncle and my cousins and the love seed that was planted there.

I have never talked to any of them about letting go of my father’s care, but I did visit my grandmother that next summer and it meant everything to me to say “I love you,” and in that moment, as I was leaving to get on a plane from San Diego, in my grandmothers arms, I could feel how much she loved me too.

I will always have that moment.

And I look forward to getting to go to Hawaii.

Even if it’s not with my employers, which is sounds like it might actually be, I will go.

I have some more healing to do in that corner of my heart history.

I will swim in the ocean and walk on the beaches and turn my face to the sun.

I will go home again.

Although it has never left me.

Impressed as it is on the cheekbones in my face, the wide plush smile on my face, the curls in my hair, the freckles on the crest of my nose, the wilderness of my hips, the sway in my walk.

I have not forgotten.

I always have had the islands in me.

Always.

Forgive

April 9, 2017

Forgive.

Forgive.

That’s what the message said.

I forgive you.

I hope you had joy while you ate my chicken soup.

I roasted that chicken last Sunday then used the bones to create a stock, it has garlic, onions, corn, cauliflower, broccoli, and carrots, and brown rice.

I hope it fed you.

I hope it nourished you.

I wish you well.

I forgive you for taking my soup.

I forgive you for taking my gift, the one I was going to give to my friend in the cohort who is getting married.

I hope it brings you love and light and joy.

I do.

I forgive you.

And more than that.

I forgive myself.

I was not to blame, I didn’t do anything wrong.

I will, however, remember the feeling of what it was like to mystify myself.

Because I didn’t believe you could do this to me.

Take from me.

Take my things.

Take my little piece of home in a Mason jar.

My warmth and succor after a long day of class.

I was not expecting to have that happen in a space where I practice so much vulnerability.

Please God.

Have me see what you want me to see and help me to let go of what I can.

I forgive you because I have to forgive me.

Some things are valuable.

And some things are ,well, just things.

“It’s just stuff,” he said and looked into my eyes and held my gaze, “you get to grieve the loss of it, don’t shove off the feelings, but don’t hold onto it, let it go, they’re just things, and as crazy as this sounds, the Universe has something better for you.”

I did not think that sounded crazy at all.

I believed every word of it.

I also took what he said to heart and let myself feel the sorrow of the loss.

I cried my tears.

I also know that the soup and the gift were symbols of other things that I had taken away from me, a sense of safety, a sense that the world is not a scary place, an inner equilibrium, home.

So.

I find solace and safety within myself.

That I am enough and that I can take care of myself.

I was able to source another gift for my friend.

I was able to go to The Market and get dinner with one of my favorite people.

I was able to accept hugs and shoulders to lean into and validation that what I was feeling was appropriate.

I took some action too.

I reported it to the school, if someone is rifling through the student lounge and stealing it should be shared with the students at the campus.

Food is a sacred thing.

We all need to eat.

So.

I forgive you.

I hope my soup warmed you, fed you, nourished you, gives you sustenance.

For that is what it has done for me.

I am proud of myself for taking care of myself, for having the good cry, for letting my T.A. approach me in the cafe and actually have a conversation about it that was both sweet and intimate, but affirming of me and my abilities.

“You are amazing, you have so much light,” he said and gave me such a hug.

I felt seen, validated, and empathized with.

I am grateful for that.

It was an unexpected gift in the wake of the loss.

He was right too.

It’s just stuff.

I have unshakeable faith that God took something from me that needed to be elsewhere, those things, all things really, are for God to appropriate, I had them for a little while, they are needed elsewhere.

I now have open hands to accept the things that God wants for me.

One of the biggest gifts were all the interactions I had with my cohort, my friends, and my T.A.

I was smitten with the love and affection that I was showered with.

I still am.

I had some wounds open.

Sure.

It felt that I my home dumped out and stolen.

It felt like Goldilocks and the Three Bears.

I could almost see the person searching through the refrigerator and going, “Ooh, this looks yummy, and then seeing the gift and thinking, “Ooh, I must have that.”

I understand.

There is a thrill in theft.

I have stolen.

I know.

It has been a long time, but I have.

There is entitlement in stealing.

There is adrenalin.

It can be addicting to swipe something.

To gain vicarious thrill from a source that is unwitting.

But this is just a story.

There is a narrative, an arc of action.

Perhaps there is guilt and shame.

I don’t know the persons story.

I do wish for them the ability to get what it is they need.

That is unconditional love.

I do not like what happened, I don’t care, not one fucking bit, but I do hope there is relief for the person, I wish them the best.

Because you can’t steal what I have in my heart.

In my strength of person.

You only took some stuff.

Stuff does not make the world go round.

You can’t take my sense of value, self-worth, or safety.

You can’t take away my experiences, pains, joys, loves, laughter, growth or healing.

Those things are nonnegotiable.

They are mine and you are not going to ever take that from me.

No one puts Baby in a corner.

I am my own woman and I am grateful for this, already, I grow stronger.

Something got moved around today, an opening was made for some unexpected healing, perception, awareness, and growth.

Actually.

I should be thanking you, Soup Thief, you unwittingly gave me an absolute firm sense of my core and my abilities.

I learned how to use my resources and how to accept help.

I learned it is ok to grieve for something, whether a thing, or a concept.

I softened and I grew.

Pretty amazing day when it all comes down to it.

I will say, I am freaking tired though, it was a draining afternoon to evening.

So.

Another cup of tea.

My apple and some blueberries.

A comfy pillow behind my back.

Half an episode of Billions.

And a good nights rest.

Conflict.

Resolved.

Once More Into

January 18, 2017

The breach, my friends.

Once more, into the.

Oops.

Ha.

I meant, books, once more into the books.

Yes.

I have started in on the reading that will need to be done for the next weekend of classes.

I got a new trauma book in the mail today and that has been cracked, as well as getting into the next chapter in one of my couples therapy books.

There is so much reading.

But.

It is so much better than the reading I was doing last semester, the DSM V is a little, ahem, dry.

I just knocked through a chapter and a half in “The Body Keeps the Score,” which is a book about healing trauma.

I am all down for that.

Yes.

Yes I am.

It’s fascinating reading and I’m a little surprised it’s just now that I am getting into it, but as I know so well, my past experiences will guide me and though I may not have much experience with healing trauma, although that could be argued I tried a lot of different things, I do have plenty of experience with having been exposed to trauma.

“Like to like,” I said in class as we were setting up the parameters for how we as a class were going to move forward.

I meant, that like attracts like.

I reflect that I don’t know exactly, consciously, why, but there is something there, I have worked with too many women who have had identical if not highly similar trauma stories as I have.

I have sought out to work, like wise, with women that I have found out later, had the same experience or sets of traumatic experiences that I had as well.

It’s shocking.

And it’s not, all at the same time.

I am grateful to be doing the work now as a student and I have always had an inkling that what and where I land will have a great deal to do with how I have walked through my own trauma spaces.

And not walked through.

There are spots and things and big old cheesy holes in my memory.

But.

The body remembers.

And that’s what I find fascinating and curative in its own way.

I have done an extraordinary amount of self-work and I wonder how much I saved myself without even realizing that I was saving myself.

And I wonder how much more saving there is to do.

Plenty I am sure.

I can often see when a behavior is not serving me, for instance, but it takes a great deal of effort to not continue to engage with something that isn’t good for me.

Men who are not divorced, emotionally available, or hmm, live in another part of the country.

So sexy.

I mean.

Even a novice in psychology would say, oh, I bet her dad wasn’t around when she was a kid.

I mean.

Duh.

And perhaps I am dumbing it down a little, but it’s a cliché because there’s some truth there.

The child like need to reconstruct the past in my present circumstances so that I may resolve an old psychological wounding.

I had nothing to do with the break up of my parents marriage, I gather it was breaking apart before it had really solidified.

Yet, how many times have I been involved with a man who is going through a bad divorce or break up with children of certain age?

And better yet, with those children being girls?

Ack.

It’s embarrassing.

I will be going into therapy soon enough to deal with that, but I do wonder, sometimes more than I wish, wouldn’t it just be nice to get involved with a straight edge kind of guy, one with good morals, who’s single, not married, doesn’t have kids, isn’t an active drug addict, isn’t alcoholic, or, I don’t know, not a felon or a convict?

Fuck.

That sounds boring!

There is comfort in the known.

I once was told, “Honey, I know five things about the man you are dating without you having to tell me anything,” pause, “he’s homeless, jobless, he’s got less than thirty days sober, doesn’t have any money, and has holes in his socks.”

I was aghast.

It was like he’d just looked into my bedroom.

I’m not joking.

I was mortified to recall that the paramour at my apartment the night before had holes in his socks, I remember finding that distasteful and I was ashamed that my person knew me so well.

I have since had lovers who have stellar socks.

But occasionally I do fall for the emotionally unavailable man.

And boy howdy, they’re just like a big box of chocolates.

Another thing I can’t have.

But my mind has a sweet tooth for the emotionally unavailable man.

They are so tender and deletable.

And.

Safe.

Fuck me.

They are so safe.

They are not available for romantic, emotional commitment, and great!

Because.

Neither am I!

Or so the story goes and then I’ll be safe and not get my feelings hurt and not have all that past trauma drug up and tossed about.

Except.

Well.

None of that works for me.

And as I read more and more and go through more and more of my program I am in fact, looking to heal those places, to let in new scenarios.

To dump the box of temptation in the trash rather than fondly sift through the contents and ponder what it would be like if I just had a tiny little taste.

NO.

It’s just not good for me and I keep finding resolution in the way the material works on me and through me and I am excited and gratified to know that I can change, am changing, am growing.

That the trauma will get worked out, it’s been getting worked out, and that I am allowed to work it out.

Maybe my best efforts at keeping a true emotional and romantic and spiritual relationship with a man would have once been too threatening, that I kept going back to the known trauma of the relational field to keep some sort of fresh wounding intact.

I wouldn’t forget my father that way and I might somehow figure it out.

How to save him.

But.

Really.

I think.

Saving me at this point is more to the point.

And ultimately.

What my father would have wished for me if he could.

This I believe.

And in that knowing, which will sink from head to heart to gut, I will heal.

I will grow.

And I will let go of those old ideas that no longer serve.

For something new and wonderful.

I fucking deserve it.

I really.

Really.

REALLY.

Do.

Out Damn Spot

December 30, 2016

So.

I pretty much stayed in all day.

I did get out for a little while early this afternoon.

But for the most part.

All day inside.

I’m not the greatest at being sick, but I’m willing to call it uncle at this point.

I’m not real sure what’s going on, but I realize I have been sick now for ten days.

I know pretty much the day it started, either on my birthday or on the Monday just thereafter.

I recall not wanting at all to go out with the family and celebrate my birthday with them.

I was running a fever.

I got pretty chilled on my birthday and I know one of the people there mentioned that he wasn’t feeling well, I also know that despite it being my birthday I really didn’t have too much of a problem just coming home and chilling out the rest of the day.

I worked through the cold.

I got through the sads of saying goodbye to the boys.

I made it through a solitary Christmas.

I made plans to do things and get out.

But I have to say that every day this week it’s been harder and harder to get myself out, to do things, to go grocery shopping, to make the deal.

I almost didn’t go out last night to do the deal, but I had gotten a telephone call so I went, and it’s in the hood, up the street a block and a half.

I have something.

I find it annoying.

I dislike being sick.

It feels frivolous.

I know that’s not exactly a mind state that’s helpful to me when I get sick as I sort of shove it back and down.

I figured I was over the cold though, I really did, but it just has stayed and stayed and stayed.

A couple of times I have felt better, went to yoga, got out did a few things, but today after my early afternoon outing I realized when I was leaving on my scooter that I really needed to be at home today.

I had all sorts of ideas and none of them sounded good.

I had my camera with me.

The light was beautiful today.

It makes me a little sad that I missed all the pretty light.

Another indication of sickness, I cry easily when I am sick, leaky little tears, it’s like my heart is trying to send some message to my overwrought, over heated brain, you’re sick, see, you’re crying over nothing, you’re crying because you missed taking your camera out and catching all the pretty light.

But right now, that feels very honest.

I am sad.

I think that’s what does me in the most about being sick, the things that I don’t get to do, even just my normal routine has gotten warped and weird and yes, I do know to be grateful for this time off in between jobs, lucky me, I’m off and I’m ill.

Whoopee.

It may also explain why the massage was wonderful and horrible at the same time.

I needed to get my muscles worked out but I kept getting chilled.

I was probably running a fever.

Low grade fevers for me are hard to recognize, but I do know I’ve been extra chilled all week, I know it’s been cold, but I feel like I’ve been extra sensitive.

Ugh.

And it’s about the only time when I wish, really hard, and then I do know that I am sick, that someone would hold me.

It’s too easy to slide into self-pity when I’m sick and that’s an indication that I’m sick, self-pity.

Erg.

I’m not usually morose about being alone.

Gack.

Anyway.

Today, aside from the sick, was pretty damn nice.

I met with the mom whom I will begin work for on Monday.

We signed the contract, went over the background check, did the little stuff, crossed the t’s dotted the i’s.

I’ll be starting at 9 a.m. on Monday.

Mom may or may not be pregnant.

She’s due tomorrow.

She looked amazing, tired, but good, and we had just a great chat and both she and the oldest have also been sick, it’s going around.

 

Aside.

You know what’s the worst thing about crying while you blog?

Tear splatter on your glasses.

Just going to take a moment and deal with that.

End aside.

 

We talked for about an hour, maybe an hour and fifteen minutes, philosophy, education, emotional rearing, her culture (the family is European and I won’t say much past that as I also signed a confidentiality agreement), the family dynamics and the addition of the new baby.

I feel really grateful to have gotten connected to them, we do seem a great fit, ideologies are similar if not quite the same, I’m sure there will be snags and hiccups and getting used to things, but I’m excited to start the job.

I also realized when I left that I should just go home.

Rest.

Kick this bug in the butt.

Let it out of my system.

It’s all tight in my chest, achy and surreal.

I’ve no cough and I keep thinking I’m going to have one, but I don’t.

And the pain is tightness, but not stabbing, it’s deal-able.

I’m dealing is what I’m saying.

And I’m super hydrated, tea, tea, tea and more tea, and I ate nice warming food today and just lounged about the house.

I finished reading Irvine Welsh’s The Bedroom Secrets of Master Chefs.

I watched a bunch of the OA.

Amazing show.

So sweet.

Just loved how they ended it, super powerful acting and storyline.

I won’t be a spoiler.

I just thought they did a superlative job.

I’ll probably go to bed early tonight and skip yoga and rest.

I’ve an appointment downtown at 1:30p.m.

That’s it.

And it’s to sit in a chair for a long time and flip through magazines while I get my hair done.

So.

I can handle this cold.

See.

I’m already feeling better, I pep talk myself quite well.

A little more tea and then tuck myself in for the evening.

Grateful, truly for the time off from work and for the opportunity to rest and heal so that when the next job begins I will be ready.

I will be.

I swear.

 

Back in the Saddle

September 16, 2014

And it was just like riding a bike.

Except.

Well.

YIPPEE!

It was my bike.

Yes.

That is correct.

I am back on my bicycle.

I mean, I did go for a brief ride last Sunday, Noriega Produce and back and also to the Safeway at Fulton and La Playa, but a real ride, nope.

Not until today.

I did the same ride.

However, first I had to change the flat tire from yesterday.  As I suspected the running out of coffee was the prompt needed to get me into motion.  I was determined after I ground up the last of my beans this morning to fix the flat and go hunter gather some more coffee beans up.

I had a meeting beforehand and some reading to do and that was done and plans were made for some more of that in the future.  It is really quite nice to be back in the routine of making time to see other people for an hour or so once a week and do some reading and gaining of perspective.

It really is the bright spot of my life.

I also did some writing and some meditation prior to the bicycle tire change out.

I finished those two things up after my guest left and decided the best thing to do was to make some lunch, because I know better than to go grocery shopping on an empty stomach, and that it would be helpful to have food in me before doing anything mechanical.

Not that I haven’t changed a flat tire before, I have, it’s just that there’s something about it, that does make me want someone else to do the work.

There is often a part of me that wonders why in the hell do I bother?

How come I put in so much time?

Then I remember, oh yeah, my life was awful and the only way it got better was showing up and doing the work that other people had suggested I do.

And there’s only more work to be done.

I want to rest on my laurels and I want you, nebulous you, to change my flat tire.

Really, it’s not too hard, you can do it.

Um.

I mean.

I can do it.

And I did.

And there was a solid feeling of accomplishment about it.  This is a bike I have broken down and packed up and carried across the Pond, yeah, the big one, to Paris and back, I have reassembled it, changed other flat tires (sometimes putting said tires on backwards, oops, but still), yet there is a thought, false, that I cannot possibly do it again.

That it’s too hard and that it’s something to push-off and put aside for another day.

But.

Today is the day.

I felt it.

I wanted to be on my bike.

It did not hurt that the day was glorious September in San Francisco weather at its absolute finest–clear, high blue skies, no clouds, scant breeze, mid 70s–and it was just hollering to me to take advantage of it.

I opened up the door to the garage and the sun poured in.

I flipped over the bike and propped it against the wall in the garage and used my handy bicycle 15mm wrench and lever combo to unscrew the bolts on the front wheel.

I examined the valve closely and determined that it was indeed broken and I had to replace the entire tube.  I set down the bolts carefully to make sure I did not displace them and got the old dish towel out of my linen closet to use to wipe down my hands.  I used the lever and pulled the tire, a Gatorskin, off the rim.

Then I pulled out the old inner tube and tossed it in the trash.

I opened up the new tube, unscrewed the valve and put a little air in the tube to help it line up with the rim (rims which I still love but can see perhaps replacing with a new set up in about a year, maybe some Halo reflectors or a mirror rim from Velocity), then I slipped the Gatorskin back onto the rim.

Then the tricky part.

Getting the tire back into the rim.

I took a minute.

It took me a while longer than a minute, but not more than five or ten.

I kept rolling the tire between my hand and the rim and it just wouldn’t catch.

I was about to give up.

I thought, well, I can still take the tire over to Swell, the local bike shop at Irving and 42nd, but give it one more go.

And then it just caught.

I levered the tire onto the rim, rolled it through my hands to make sure that the inner tube was not pinched between the rim and the tire, and then I put it back on the front fork, screwed it tight, flipped it over, inflated it, and voila!

Good as new.

I did feel deeply satisfied.

It’s a small thing, but I like that I can change my own flat tire.

I washed up and headed out to the grocery stores.

It was beautiful, the sun shone down, the water on the ocean glittered, the breeze blew, my feet were connected and I felt surer on the bicycle than last week, and my ankle, though stiff, felt capable to do the job.

After my second trip, the most important one, the one to get coffee, I also realized that I was going to be able to ride my bike to the Inner Sunset.

I could feel it.

It was going to happen.

I think I was actually more nervous about how my quads would feel after not being on my bicycle for three and a half months and riding up the incline on Lincoln from 46th Avenue up to 9th Avenue.

The quads held.

My ankle held.

I did it!

Nothing hurts.

Well.

My ankle is stiff and my thighs are a little sore, but really, not bad at all.

Really quite happy.

“This month, dancing, no excuses, you can ride your bike, you can go dancing,” my friend said to me as we parted this evening.

I can see it.

Maybe not this week.

But if I can get back in the saddle.

I can get back on the dance floor.

It is good to be more myself than I have been in months.

Grateful for the healing.

And for the patience to let myself heal.

And for knowing that tomorrow I won’t be riding my bike.

I know to not push too hard as well.

One day on.

One day off.

Until I am fully back in the groove.

No need to kill myself.

Besides.

I will be picking up my playa bike from Cole Valley.

And that’s a ride of an entirely different sort.

Be on the lookout for my purple pennant.

As I ride again.

 

 

All Packed And Ready To Go

September 4, 2014

Yeah.

I know, I just got back last night and unpacked from my 19 day sojourn in the desert.

But I fly out tomorrow to New York for the weekend.

My first time to New York.

Kind of excited.

Just a little.

It seems surreal, New York seems more of a dream than Burning Man, less real to me than the craziness that I attend every year for the past seven years.

I have been to Burning Man 8 times.

New York, never.

That, however, shall be rectified tomorrow.

I am determined to go and not be worried or anxious or wonder what’s going to happen with work or not work or money or school or any of it.

I got a message from the family that I thought I would be working for full-time, who told me right before I left for the event that they could only use me three days a week, and now, a sudden new message in my in box that they have met some financial hurdles and we need to talk.

Nope.

No.

No we don’t.

Ack.

I mean.

I will, I’ll call them tomorrow on the way to the airport, I want to have it dealt with.

But I do not need to have some in-depth processing kind of conversation.

Just tell it to me straight and move on.

I have.

I just sent out a resume and references to a family that was referred to me while I was away, thanks you, you know who you are, the family needs 40-50 hours a week and actually have older, for me anyway, boys than I typically start with.

The job seems a good fit for me though, a two-year old and a four-year old, in the Mission on Lexington Street.

I know that neighborhood well and they want a year commitment, which could dovetail very nicely with my intention to go to graduate school next fall.

They also want to pay me over the table.

Which at first I was not interested in, then, I realized, hey, if I am going to get any kind of financial aid from the school I am interested in, I might need to show income that I have been paying taxes on.

I certainly don’t have $25,000 lying around for the first year’s tuition, and that’s the first year, the cost of the program is going to be around $50,000 give or take a few thousand.

Probably give.

So, I will need to apply to financial aid, unless I have some secret fount of money incoming that I am not aware of.

Or a very generous patron/ess.

So, I got proactive, which this whole day as been about, and sent the mom an e-mail introducing myself and attached my resume to it and also my three letters of reference.

Which reminds me I need to gently remind the three moms that have said they would write me references, to please do so.

Not that the letters I already have won’t do the trick, they are glowing, but, they will just be more up to date with my current experience.

I also, speaking of taking action, have created an account at CIIS, and have received a phone call and an e-mail from their admissions department.

No better time than the present to act.

I thought about returning the call, but I was not as present minded as I want to be when I call back.

I still am a little playa brain fried.

Not too bad, all things considered, but just a little off my game.

I am not as frazzled as I have been in the past, but it’s taken me a bit to settle back down into my life here, out by the sea (I just read that during my edit and broke out laughing, I have been back 23.5 hours and it’s taking me some time to adjust, baha, boy do I have some high expectations of myself).

Another shower tomorrow and I will be ready to return the call to the admissions department and see about setting up a time to go in and meet with them and see what they have to offer and whether it makes sense for me to apply to the school.

I will see if perhaps I can go in next Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday.

I won’t have work.

Yeah.

Found that out too.

Not working those three days next week.

Misunderstanding regarding scheduling and no Cole Valley action for me.

I just have two days next week, not even full-time, with my little girl Thursday, as she adjusts to her new pre-school schedule.

But as I mentioned.

NO WORRYING.

It doesn’t serve and I don’t want to go to New York worried about what’s going to happen.

Because, I already know what’s going to happen.

I will be taken care of, just like I always am.

Sure, it feels a little uncomfortable, but what ever.

I got paid for my time in the desert so I have a tiny reserve and I just sent my friend the scooter payment for the month.  I refuse to let my financial insecurity wreck my time in New York.

Besides, I’m only going for 72 hours.

It’s not like I can do that much damage.

Maybe in the past, but not today.

I’m actually looking at my messenger bag with some fondness, for it’s all I am taking, plus my purse, and it already is 3/4s packed.

I can travel pretty damn light and I am a tiny bit proud of having broke down my travel needs so small.  I have what I need, a few changes of clothes (fortunately it’s still warm), a pair of sandals (low heeled, I promise, I am not going to go bonkers like a crazy fashionista just because it’s New York and where sky-high heels–my ankle’s still got some healing to do) for the dinner reservation my friend made for Saturday night, my toiletries, my laptop, and my camera.

Hell, I even rode my bicycle to Noriega Produce to make sure that I would have some airline food I could palate.

Yes, you read that correctly!

I rode my bicycle for the first time since the accident three months ago.

Not very far and it felt a little weird, but I did it.

Things are falling into place.

And I am going to go have some fucking fun.

Screw the worry.

Damn the financial insecurity.

New York here I come.

 

 

 

It Was A Walk of Shame

August 12, 2014

But not that kind of walk of shame.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

But it definitely reminded me of one.

Underpants in my messenger bag, condoms falling out of my pen bag and knocking about in my messenger bag, what were you doing last night lady?

Thank God the family had left when all this underpants and condom hilarity ensued.

I was reminded of a story, in the briefest barest flash of embarrassment, my mom loves to tell this story, it’s in the top three (top two standing in front of the three-way mirror at Macy’s in my lace anklets at age three admiring myself–snuck out of the changing room when mom went to find a dress that fit better, imagine her surprise, empty changing room, no baby, but suddenly hearing a gaggle of old ladies around the corner cooing over how cute I was cued her off.  Top one–standing on top of my desk and yelling at my class to sit down and be quiet because teacher was having a bad day, teacher promptly burst into tears, said thank you Carmen and everybody sat down and was quiet.  Turns out she had just been served with divorce papers at recess) of the mom pantheon of stories to tell on me.

I was six, maybe seven, first grade (older kid, missed the cut off for kindergarten by a month, so always one of the oldest in my class) and I stood up to use the bathroom and my underpants fell out the bottom of my pants.

I was not only mortified, but I was mystified too.

How the hell did they come off?

Turns out my underwear were on, but I had an extra in the leg, probably from the laundry or they hadn’t pulled out of my jeans when I pulled them off the night before.

Which is what happened to me today.

At the age of 41, I was not paying enough attention to notice that my jeans had a little extra padding in the back side this morning when I went to work.

I mean I am utterly mystified how that happened, I was awake, I swear, when I got dressed, but apparently I was not fully present.

ALL MORNING.

I sat where I am sitting now, had breakfast, wrote four pages long hand, I had extra time this morning, I rode the MUNI to work–sat there too–how I did not feel an extra pair of panties back there I don’t know.

I discovered them when I was getting the boys ready to go outside to the park.

I pulled up my jeans and was like, what is that, and reached back and fished out the underwear.

This is what happens when you are so ready and packed to go that you are recycling your pants to get through the week so you don’t have to worry about laundry before leaving for playa.

I re-wore my jeans from yesterday.

The condoms were from my consolidating of stuffs when I went through the underwear drawer and I stuffed them in my pen and pencil bag in my messenger bag.

I don’t know that I need them, I don’t foresee getting lucky before I hit playa–Mister I’ll Bring You Some Frozen Peas never got back at me the last time I sent him a query.

Oh well.

His loss.

Moving on.

Hopefully with only one pair of panties on my person at a time.

It made me laugh and really it was a day full of life and gratitude for what I have.

My friends, my work, the little boys in my life, my recovery, knowing I have a solution to my disease and taking my medicine.

My heart broke when my good friend text me that Robin Williams had committed suicide today in Tiburon.

I met the great man once, he was amazing, heartbreaking, sad, funny, depressed, overwhelmed, sweet, honest, loving, kind.

I got to sit and be five feet away from him for an hour and it was a pretty incredible experience.  And a hug after that hour and an immense gratitude for what I have.

Money doesn’t make you happy.

Fame doesn’t make you happy.

Sometimes there’s just a deep, deep well of pain and it cannot be addressed or dealt with and thank fully I found a way out of it, but the echo in my soul, that unbearable knowledge of what he must have been going through, I can taste it like mercury blood in my mouth, a bitter sucked orange sadness.

I know he’s not in pain any longer and I am glad for that, though for completely selfish reasons I wish he were still here.

I don’t cry at celebrity deaths.

Two to date.

When I heard the news that Jeff Buckley had died.

And today when I got the text from my friend.

I immediately teared up and my heart just hurt, it felt like I had gotten stabbed, perhaps because I share that disease and know that pain, partially because I am so grateful it is not a solution I have chosen.

Although there were times, two years into my sobriety, when it got really, really bad.

REAL BAD.

I was always crying.

And I can cry a lot.

But I was always crying.

I did not know what would set it off and I did not know when it would stop and I wanted to die so bad.

It was when I was in the shower contemplating being alone for the rest of my life and never having a family of my own (I don’t know why that thought, I don’t know what had brought it about, but I had a sudden realization that I was never going to have children and I was brought low in devestation), I sank down on the floor of the tub, the shower beating on my head and thought, all I have to do is fill the tub up with water and let go.

There were razors there.

It would be warm.

It would be ok.

It would not hurt for long.

Let go.

I gripped the sides of the bathtub, forced my way to standing, turned off the shower, grabbed the towel from the back hook of the door and screamed into it, broke down crying, wrapped myself up in the towel, went and made a phone call and somehow walked through it until I got professional help.

I don’t know Robin’s pain.

I can’t.

But I know thinking about that very permanent solution to a temporary problem allure.

I hope he is in a better place and at peace.

I hope to not journey there yet for many a day.

I hope you know how much I love you.

I love you.

I do.

 

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:

where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


― Pablo Neruda

 

You May Have Noticed

July 19, 2014

There was no blog last night.

This does not necessarily denote a night of getting laid.

More like a day of getting laid out.

I worked a twelve-hour day and did not get home until close to midnight.  I was just tuckered out and had to be up by 6:30 a.m. to do another full day of nanny share today.

Plus, I am helping out tomorrow night as well, with my family in the Castro.

And again next Thursday.

I am not trying to kill myself, I promise.

I am, however, making some hay while the sun shines, even in the fog, it does break through again, here and there.

I was supposed to be getting the good kind of laid tonight and I was about to drink a big old cup of coffee, when intuition nipped at me and said, wait, just wait.

I had a feeling he was going to cancel.

Tonight was not his first choice, the first choice being Sunday, this Sunday, after 11 p.m.

Um.

Yeah.

When I am in bed already, getting ready to rest up for the week.

I had shot that idea down and he said he might be able to make it work tonight, but the gig is out-of-town, he won’t be getting back until late and he has a commitment to be up for tomorrow at, yes, 6a.m.

Well.

No sex for me tonight.

Truth be told, I am ok with that.

I worked a long week, I am tired, I would need to throw myself into the shower and scrub, shave, primp, and lotion up.

Not that I mind any of these things, but right now, I wouldn’t mind just hanging out chill with my tea and the end of the week thoughts coming and some iced peas on my ankle and a video.

Of course, my choice of video watching of late has been Masters of Sex, so not certain that bodes well for my hormonal drive, which is revved up despite being a bit on the tired side.

All things good for those who wait, however, and he’s going to try to get out of his stuff earlier on Sunday and swing by and possibly next Thursday too.

Right on.

I only have a few more weeks before I head out to Burning Man and want to be as juiced up as possible.

Heh.

I usually catch some action on playa, I did last year, might have been one of my best date nights out there, top three for sure, after just doing a quick flip through the Rolodex of sexual experiences I have had out there.

I play when I can.

Every year there has been a connection, or, um a few (I will never, ever forget the hashtags that my boss, the father of my charge that year, put on my trailer door.  It was funny and ridiculous, he knew all my paramours that year–three–yeah hush, my friend said, it’s like you suddenly realized you had a body.  In a way, true, I had just finished losing around a hundred pounds over the past year and a half and did feel a new-found sense of myself, or lack there of.), with the exception of the year that I decided I needed to “Call in the One” and didn’t hook up with a soul.

I gave that book away.

Baha.

And I did find the one.

I am the one.

I just hadn’t a clue before then how really meaningful that relationship with myself really is.

That trope that you are the person you will be in the longest relationship with sort of thing.

Now that I love myself and forgive myself, you know, I am a bit better off asking for what I want.

And also being flexible enough to know that others have their agenda and needs that must be met.

I had a super sweet conclusion to the week with my mom who I will be working with at the event and really expressed how much I want to help and be of service and what could I do to make the experience for her one in which she wouldn’t have to be worried about whether or not I would flake during the event.

We had an amazing conversation and concluded that the raise was fair and that I would also be there for some nights and that I would work some longer days since her job is going to be crazy out there this year.

The event has been given permission by the Bureau of Land Management to open the gates to the event the Sunday before it “starts”.

The event typically starts the Monday prior to Labor Day, when it ends.

In the past the event opened up at midnight on the Sunday/Monday morning of the event.

I remember very well the year that the gates were opened a few hours early.

It was a huge deal.

The Bureau of Land Management asked the event to open the gates early to relieve the congestion of traffic heading in to the playa.

It was opened to the participants at 10 p.m.

Then the next year, a little earlier, the next a tiny bit earlier yet.

Last year the event opened the gates at 6p.m. on Sunday.

This year.

The gates are going to open at 10a.m. Sunday.

This is great for everybody, except the team my mom manages–Placement.

Her team will be going nuts getting it all set up.

I remember very well last year the chaotic radio calls and the many fires being put out, proverbially, all over the playa as the clock ticked its way down to the gates opening.

The work will be much the same for me as last year, but I vouched for the mom that I could handle going longer hours with less break time so that the week prior she could do her gig without having to worry about getting back and breaking me.

It sounds like more work, but it is also less in a sense, less preparing myself, less anxiety about what and when and how I will be working out there.  I am basically going to be a live in nanny (well, my trailer is my own, but there’s is right next to mine) for the duration of the event.

And I am ok with that.

We made our peace and it felt really good to settle into what will happen out there.

And I get great perks, I do.

Access to air conditioning being a huge one, the one, really, that makes the longer days tolerable.  Plus showers, food, transport there and back, a nice trailer to stay in, and my day rate, which though less than I would make nannying here, is not insubstantial.

I will be taken care of and I will do my job well.

I will also be prepared for the longer days, more books, more writing, more editing.

And there will be time, time to go play, to go let the desert seduce me and abandon myself to the spirit as it should so move me to do so.

I will dance.

I will be love.

I will have love.

I will be of service.

I will.

That’s always the best part for me anyhow.

Sharing my experience with others and building more intimate relationships.

And I bet there will be romance, titillation, flirtation, sex, healing, stars, fire, poetry, dance, communion.

There always is.

And I will have more of that before I go as well.

Not a bad way to be heading into my 8th burn.

Not bad at all.


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