Posts Tagged ‘lonely’

Be Gentle

October 25, 2015

To yourself.

He said to me on phone as I sobbed into the receiver.

The receiver.

Please.

As though my little phone has a mouth piece and an ear piece.

As though I am in a corner of the house in Windsor, the kitchen nook, on the old yellow rotary, oh yeah, that’s right, I had a rotary phone, out dated even for then, but completely functional, with a long curled cord that would get tangled up in itself.

“Have you eaten yet?” He asked, discerning the most important thing, “girl, you’re totally in HALT.”

Hungry.

Angry.

Lonely.

Tired.

I might add sad to that.

Halts.

But it doesn’t sound as good and crisp as HALT.

“Of course I have,” I said into the phone, “I know better than to call you without having first put some sustenance in myself.”

I had eaten the bowl of soup, Tom Kha from Thai House (Vietnamese coconut milk soup with thinly sliced onions, lemon grass, carrots, and chicken) with some brown rice, standing up in my kitchen trying to catch my breath and focus on what was in front of me.

Damn it man.

This is the second time I have done this to myself.

I am acutely aware of my part.

My feelings, though, they were hurt.

Hurt.

And so it goes.

I had my feelings hurt.

Things happen.

How do I recover?

How do I take care of myself?

Shakily spooning soup into my mouth like an idiot who had waited too long to eat, tears snaking down my face co-mingled with eye liner and snot.

Sexy.

I tell ya, I got sexy all locked up, don’t try to get anything by me.

I fell down this hole and I should have known better, in fact, I had an intuition to eat my dinner, call, text, and say you can’t wait until after school to eat.  But I got caught up in a conversation with a professor.

And.

Then I thought, no, just soldier through.

Gird your loins and get it.

It’s not so bad.

And.

The thing is.

It’s not too bad, my feelings, my tender heart, tender, but was I going to die?

No.

Did it feel like it?

Yes.

That is the nature of a panic attack.

Welcome to graduate school, land of panic attacks.

Someone in my cohort admitted to having had one yesterday, maybe they are in the air, catching, like a cough, a soul sickness, a salty sadness, bereft in the elevator shaft of my soul, the cars rumbling up and down, but only stopping mid-floor, caught up in the sinews and entanglements of my heart.

Second panic attack since I have been in graduate school.

Good times.

At least I know what to do, but it was hard to facilitate that where I was.

I closed my eyes and prayed.

I asked to have it lifted.

I slowed my breathing.

I got into my body.

It was hard.

My body was a bit depleted.

I am going to take a moment here, now, and breathe.

“Don’t tell someone who is in a panic to breath,” my professor said today during lecture, “why?”

“The client will feel judged,” I said.

I felt judged.

Scared.

Vulnerable.

Then abandoned.

On the doorstep.

The front gate.

The wrought iron rails dipped in safety orange paint.

I held a crumpled brown paper bag of take out soup in my hand.

My ride pulled away after declining to come in.

I was a mess.

I felt like I showed my most vulnerable self and was dropped like a sack of kittens outside of the car and as I sobbed inside, I shut the door to the car and walked away.

My feelings were hurt.

Yup.

Give it time, give it time, give it time.

“You have every right to feel like that,” he said to me sweet as pie in my ear, “girl, maybe what you have to do is just submerge yourself in your school weekends, nothing but that, stop trying to fit other things in when you are in school, a dinner date after class all day is too much.”

He paused, “and pack some more snacks.”

He was soft, but firm.

Then he told me about falling in a hole.

And climbing out.

And walking down the same street and saying, “oh, there’s that hole again, better skirt it,” but walking right into it again.

Pulling myself out again.

Then.

Going down the same street and saying, “oops, there’s that hole again, maybe I should give it more room, but still skirting too close to the edge, which crumbles and I fall in.”

I laughed, yes, I have done this.

Then.

“Then, one day you walk down the street and cross over to the other side,” he continued.

And.

“Finally, you just don’t turn down that street anymore.”

“Be gentle to yourself,” he admonished me again, “maybe go for a walk, get some fresh air, or do whatever you need to do to take care of yourself.”

“Now, I got to go and eat some food myself,” he said.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We hung up.

I drank some tea.

I put Coleman Hawkins on the stereo.

I decided to pause on writing my blog and sent off some poems to a friend in my cohort who asked for a copy of the sonnets I recently wrote.

Then.

I realized I wanted a really, really, really hot shower.

So.

I did that too.

Washed the hair, shaved the legs, dried the hair, lotion, put on some yoga pants and a cozy sleep shirt.

I looked at my phone.

I couldn’t help it.

Then.

I knew it was all ok.

Because it always is.

When I focus on all the abundance I have.

When I know that emotions they come and go and I can write it out and let it go and pray and ask for direction, love, guidance.

So leave your things by the sea.

And when the thieves come in.

Just let them take what they need.

And wash it out.

Wash it out.

Wash it out.

Just wash it out.

I put on The Mynabirds and sang and breathed soft in my heart.

I am taken care of.

I am alright.

I am taken care of.

I am loved.

I love myself.

I forgive myself.

Regret doesn’t undo a single thing.

I hope you’re happy today.

If we could go back to the beginning.

We might not have had any wall between us.

I hope you’re happy at the end of the day.

I hope you’re happy today.

So very happy.

I hope you’re happy today.

Advertisements

The Journey Of A Thousand Miles

September 12, 2015

Begins with a single step.

Foiled again.

I just put down Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching–The Tao of Leadership.

I had never known who to attribute this quote to, although it resonated with me so much so when I first heard it, I was 17 or 18, that I used it for my senior year quotation.

It was either that or I was going to use the Fear Prayer from Dune.

I will leave to your imagination the challenges of my growing up.

I have written of them often and I don’t see them as good or bad, wrong or right, I certainly don’t apply these terminally ugly words either–would, should, or could, to my experiences.

They are just experiences.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed with them and I have to get out all my feeling words and vocabulary and try to parse something from the experience, rather than just be in it.

I was trying to do something akin to that on my ride home from school today.

My ride home from my campus, my ride home from my graduate school program, my first day of school, my first day, truly, as a graduate school student.

It was a full ass day.

It started at 9 a.m. and it ended at 8p.m.

Tomorrow will be much the same, the day will begin at 9 a.m. and end at 8p.m.

I will have diversity training from 9 a.m. until 2p.m.

Then Group Dynamics from 2p.m. until 4p.m.

After that an hour break and then convening from 5p.m. until 8p.m. for Psychodynamics.

Class will be the same for Sunday, 9 a.m. until 8p.m.

Fuck.

Work is going to feel like a picnic, like a break, like a rest.

And work is not necessarily restful for me.

I digress.

I get ahead of myself.

I leave the moment, where there is nothing wrong, where I am doing the best I god damn can, and I am writing, even though I could be reading more, my brain will only hold so much and if I don’t lay some of it down, like a good yeoman dropping the plow to rest, I won’t have the space in my brain to take in more information.

There will be more information.

There will be more learning.

There will be more not understanding what is happening and just letting it happen.

There will also be the happy coincidence of having actually taken a good photograph for a student id!

I was shocked.

I figured there would be thirteen chins and my nostrils would be flared and I don’t know, all my photos for ids are wonky, but it actually turned out and there it is.

I have a student Id.

Where are my discounts bitches?

I jest.

Really the only thing I want with my student id is to be able to access the gated and locked space where I can park my bicycle, a space that is outdoors, but also covered.

Hallelujah.

It’s such a nice thing.

Just not having to worry about my whip.

I was grateful.

I was also grateful to get on my bicycle at the end of the day.

To ride away from campus and head home.

Despite the wind kicking up and the night being a little blustery, it felt good to be in my body, when I could get my mind off my classes and actually be present for the bicycle ride.

There was the same old song and dance in my head about how I work so hard and I am doing all the things and how come I am working so hard again, and that phrase popped into my head, the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step,” except that I transmuted it to my bicycle pedal.

One pedal at a time.

One stroke at a time.

Push down.

Pull up.

I wanted to be stuck in my head.

I wanted to feel isolated.

I wanted to cry out.

Just because you read my blog does not mean you know what I am feeling!

I am lonely.

But not alone.

I know that.

And the lonely will pass.

I am busy and I have made this choice to go to graduate school, to take on the awesome and amazing adventure of becoming more me and more of service and more available.

My needs are met.

Despite my pay check being $0.00 today–really why even send me a pay stub?

I had forgotten that.

No pay for me while I was at Burning Man.

Sigh.

But I am ok.

I have what I need.

I paid my phone bill today.

I have a beautiful body that I get to walk around in, bicycle in, sleep in.

I have food.

Although I am going to have to manage eating better, I can’t afford to eat out twice in one day three times a weekend, that’s just too much.

I will be bringing food with, I just have to find time to go grocery shopping.

Probably Sunday night after my last class ends.

I don’t think I’ll be doing my normal cooking for the week like I usually do, but I don’t think anything about my schedule is going to be “usual” any more.

This is ok.

I am learning.

I am growing.

I will continue to do so.

And.

I am loving more.

I did find that I wanted to wall up a little my first day of class, that there was a struggle, internal, to be open, to be present, to be with my cohort and to let them see me.

Despite my “newly” pink hair (new to folks in my class, not that I have dyed it again) and safety orange pants.

I was grateful to reconnect with friends and classmates and to have met a new professor who is eccentric and smart and called me right the fuck out in class when we did our introductions, “oh, yes, you ARE smarter than me, I can tell.”

I did not mean to put on my smarty pants, but I felt inadequate.

I am just a nanny after all.

Not a clinician or lawyer or social worker.

I haven’t studied Gestalt for the last two years.

Hell, I don’t even know what Gestalt is or Freud for that matter.

But.

My professor picked up on both my insecurity be hearing the language I used and gently and succinctly put me in my place.

I am not smarter than she.

But I am smart.

And just because no one validated me the way I needed to be validated growing up doesn’t mean that I can’t give it to myself, that I can’t move forward, that it is all hard work with no validation and approval.

I approve myself.

I have worked so fucking hard to get here.

And the journey is beautiful.

And one step at a time.

And once in a while.

I will stop in that step, look around, and be so grateful that my journey has brought me here, to this place of privilege.

“How do you do it?” He asked me in the hall way between classes.

“How do you manage to live in San Francisco and go to school?”

I don’t know and if I speculate too hard on it I will freak out.

I just get to do it.

I get to.

Being the operative language.

I am a lucky motherfucker.

I am.

And.

The journey?

Why.

It is glorious.

A God Box

March 25, 2015

And a hot shower.

Then.

Everything got right with my world.

I was exhausted after work today.

Exhausted.

I don’t even want to think about how tired I was.

I was meeting with someone at Church Street Cafe prior to going to the 7:15 p.m. thing where I do that thing, and while riding my bicycle up 17th Street I thought, Jesus, sweet fucking Jesus, I am tired.

If I am this tired, on a Tuesday, how am I ever going to have a boyfriend?

How the fuck am I going to get through graduate school.

I forget that, “this too shall pass.”

Tired is not a state I am good in.

I suspect that no one is.

The littlest guy is a heavy napper, bless his little sweet soul, but like a lot of moms I have worked with, the parent gets worried that a long nap equals a long night of not going to bed on time and thus I am admonished to wake up the monkey after a certain amount of time.

I believe this leads to some inopportune things.

First, no body likes being woken up.

I don’t.

I was woken up with a startled poke this morning.

My brain shouted at me, “holy shit, you forgot to set your alarm, get up!”

It’s true.

I had forgotten to set my alarm, not something that I do very often.

I have it set for tomorrow usually as soon as I wake up.

I just sort of automatically switch it back on.

However, on Monday’s I go in an hour and a half earlier than I do the rest of the week.  The family likes me to come in one day early and stay an extra hour to help out with errands and organizing and such.

Not a problem for me to do.

But that means I am up and going well before my set alarm for the following day.

I set the alarm on Mondays for 6:30 p.m.

The alarm on Tuesdays is set for 8 a.m.

But when I went to set it yesterday, when I thought about it, it was still before 7 a.m. and I just never got to it.

Completely spaced.

Nothing is quite so disconcerting as waking up to realize that I have not set the alarm.

I woke up at 7:59 a.m. this morning.

That was a pleasant surprise, but it was still a jarring way to wake up.

And that is the issue, I think.

The little guy gets woke up well before he’s ready and then over compensates by juicing up with adrenalin and then he’s wonky and that is what I think makes bed time at night so hard, he’s getting to worked up.

That’s my theory anyway.

I hesitate to share that with many a parent, but I might just have to.

Tomorrow is another day and I will let it play out the way it needs to, not worrying about it right now.

Especially since I am so nice and cozy and relaxed, and well, not tired at all.

When I was riding my bicycle I was close to bonking, I realize now.

Dinner for me was nearly an hour past the time I normally eat with the boys.

There was a potty emergency and instead of coming home from the park and digging into some dinner, I came home from the park and striped down the boys and hustled them into the bath.

The schedule throws them too, unfortunately, they both were ready to eat as well and so, well, bath time was lively, yo, let me tell you.

By the time I got them into pjs and had them back down stairs for dinner I was a little wonky and needed to eat.

I typically know better.

And sometimes things like this happen, but my reserves were stretched and when I was boy wrangling after dinner, dish washing, plate scraping, composting, picking up, rearranging, shoving food into my mouth when I could.

God how I hate that.

I really have grown to like sitting and eating my meals, as mind fully as possible.

I don’t always succeed in completely unplugging from my phone, but I do usually have success with sitting down to eat my meal, rather than cramming in a bite here standing up and trying to multi-task eighteen different things.

I did eat.

I did manage to get through the last hour of the day.

I did make it to Church Street Cafe and sit exhausted and near to tears, and by the end, in tears, at a table in the front and discuss with my person how I need to advocate more help from the mom and dad at certain times and how I can say that without coming off like I’m telling them that I know better, I don’t, I just have the experience I have, and asking for what I need.

“It’s not a confrontation, its communication,” he said to me.

Ah.

Yes.

I still have that old idea in my head that asking for what I want is confrontational.

Nope.

I am just communicating my needs and they have told me before they don’t want me to get burned out.

I don’t want me to get burned out either.

I sat.

Cried.

Prayed.

Held hands and let myself be held.

Then I sat for another hour and in that time felt myself come back into my body, the food had kicked in and I could feel my batteries recharged.

I even enjoyed the bike ride home.

I also notice my God box, the reading I had read out loud tonight, the one paragraph that I had as the book passed into my hands talked about putting a note in the God box and letting it go.

And rediscovering later what I had given over, usually things that I had completely forgot about–because they, the problems, had been taken care of.

I got this God box in Paris about two years ago and had not opened it since. I randomly pulled out notes, mostly about how am I going to pay my rent.

One especially that made me breathe in, knowing I had been so taken care of, even though I could not see it at all at the time, dated 1/29/13–Please help me pay February rent–I don’t know what happened, but I do know I did pay February rent, but on the 29th of January I did not have the funds and didn’t know where they were going to come from.

One slip, 3/9/13, where am I supposed to live?

I had written down Paris, New York, San Francisco?

I found centimes and Euros and pence from when I had gone to London.

I found a note I had written more recently that I had completely forgotten about–Please help me with >>>>>I am miserable–that one was dated 1/7/15.

The next I pulled out?

Dated 1/14/15 Please show me what to do about <<<<<<< I don’t know what to do.

Well.

He broke up with me just days later.

I got my answer.

So I put the bottom back on the bank, my hot pink fuchsia rabbit from the Pylones store in the Marais, and I wrote out a note to God asking him to help me be of service to the family I work for and to advocate for what I need.

And yes, I asked about a sign in regards to a boyfriend.

I damn sure am due one.

Then I got into the shower, oh hot shower, how do I love thee, let me count the ways.

I washed my hair and gave it a deep conditioning and then slathered myself in cocoa butter lotion and made a cup of tea.

I feel ever so much better.

My bunny bank God box smiling benevolently on my book shelf.

My sweet home, a home I know I am covered for rent for, a job that I know I am loved and appreciated at.

And God’s got the boyfriend, he always has.

He took care of the last one, he’ll take care of the next.

As long as I take care of myself.

And keep turning it all over.

Again and again.

And.

Again.

A little Sad, A Little Lonely

August 25, 2013

I just wish that you were here to hold me.

Fell into the self-pity trap today.

Everyone has someone but me.

Gah.

I hate that my head goes there.

I am just feeling a little isolated while everyone is out there building and hammering and setting up theme camps and getting their party on.

The event opens in eight hours and it’s already pretty crazy out there.

But I am not out there.

I am in here.

I am at camp.

I agreed to it.

The parents are in the middle of their longest shifts.

Dad went on shift today at 7:30 a.m. and is still working.  He had no breaks, no naps, cereal for dinner.  Mom started at 8a.m. and she is still working.  Although she did get a nap and I got an hour break mid day.  It is eleven p.m. right now.  Mom should be in by midnight or so, dad a little thereafter.

In that hour break, while mom napped with the baby,  I would have gone out and taken photographs, but my camera was in dad’s car and dad was all over the place, but never in the neighborhood.

I might have gone for a bike ride, but the wheel is flat.

Maybe, I thought, I should just take a nap.

No!

You only have this hour, do something with it.

I am working now.

Not crazy work, but I am here, I am awake, I am tied to camp until mom and or dad comes back.  Dad is actually working fairly close to me so it’s not a huge deal that I am here and since I knew I was going to be in it I told my friends that I would not be out and about.

However, I am feeling lonely, the irony of being at Burning Man is that sometimes you can get really isolated.  And I also happened to have fallen into the expectations trap once again.  Which I had believed to have avoided really well, but fucking things snuck up on me today.

Too many couples cuddling around me in cute furry outfits.

Fuckers.

Go away.

I want to be cozying up to some snuggle bunny.

I want someone to be holding my hand and making out with me.

Which is pretty much what I always want at Burning Man and I typically get bit by that expectation.

I have written of it again and again and again and frankly, I am tired of it.

“You will keep repeating the same relationship until you learn what you need to learn,” she said to me when I complained about my room-mate.

I can’t get out of this relationship, it is with myself.

I am stuck with me.

I write the god damn affirmations all the time, but sometimes those old records get slipped out of their dust covers and I am playing the I am so lonesome blues once again.

Really what it comes down to is that I am tired.

I have been working twelve days in a row, seven of which have been out here on playa, and the last two have been 8 a.m. to midnight or there about.

So, yeah, feelings, I am having them.

What I am doing, however, is just letting them happen.

And I am practicing good self-care.

I expressed that I really needed a shower, and I went and took one.  I got in a small nap today too.  The hour that I was free to wander about I ended up sitting down in a camp rocking chair and closing my eyes.  I accidentally fell asleep.

My intentions were to do something, but when the bicycle and the camera were taken away and I was left with nothing but myself, myself needed to sleep.

I certainly did not think I was going to do that, especially with the camp next door blasting old Snoop Dogg.

But I fell the fuck out.

And when the mom popped out of the trailer one hour later I startled awake and apparently I woke up on the wrong side of the rocker.

I was emotional, I still am, but it is passing.

And this is Burning Man, where the crucible is harsh and the layers get scrubbed down fast and the emotions are just there.

Part of being able to have these emotions, too, is that I am safe and protected and very well taken care of.  I have food and shelter, amazing shelter, hot tea, and shade during the day time, A/C when ever I need it.

Sometimes when I have everything I need I end up yearning for things I want, it’s somehow permissible to yearn then.

But truly, if I am not happy with what I have, why would more make me happy.

I like myself and I like that I can feel.

In fact, I am very lucky.

I am not checked out.

I am present.

Oh, so present.

Which is a gift.

The nice thing about having a good cry?

It’s done.

It’s cathartic and I usually feel hollowed out and clean and ready to be filled with joy afterward.  I am allowed to be sad, I am allowed to run the full gamut of feelings.

And they are feelings, not facts.

Which doesn’t discount my need to have them.

Thankfully I don’t stifle them anymore.  I have them, they go, and then I move forward.

There will be another 24 hours of really intense work–which is not quite that hard, more just that I am tired to it, I am here to be of service and I get to be a little cog in the machine that makes Burning Man go.

That is pretty special.

Tomorrow I will throw on my crinoline in acknowledgement of the gates opening and I will smile and gift my love and my strength and my grace.

I have plenty yet to give.

And a heart freshly washed with tears to open up to the sky.

One week down.

Two to go.

Hang on, it’s going to be an emotional ride.

It always is.


%d bloggers like this: