Posts Tagged ‘relief’

No More Tears

June 5, 2018

What a freaking relief.

Yesterday, last night I should say, because technically yesterday was a vale of tears from morning until about 6:30p.m. when I had to pull it together to take care of my Sunday night commitment, was the first night since my landlady gave me notice that I did not cry myself to sleep.

And!

Oh.

So good.

This morning too, no tears!

I did a lot of work yesterday, and throughout the week when I think about it, to get through the fear.

A lot of self talk, a lot of letting the tears happen when they did.

Granted.

I did holler a couple of times, “stop, just stop.”

But.

For the most part, they just kept on coming.

Yesterday was by far the worst day of it.

Of course, it was pointed out to me later that I had actually time to stop and have the feelings, I have been a busy lady and not being able to do much sitting still when I did have the chance to the emotions just ran away with the house.

I cried a lot.

But.

I think it moved things along and by the time I met with my person up at Firewood Cafe I was almost cried out.

Almost.

I still cried for the first half hour or so and then I slowly started to get relief.

And perspective.

And that it was more than just the threat of losing my place, it was also the past few weeks of busy and go, go, go, graduate, and hang out with my mom, and get all my paperwork turned in so I am really done with school, and have an endoscopy, and maybe I have cancer, but probably not, but maybe, and having to terminate with a client and all sorts of stuff, it was all the things.

All the things needed to have a word with me and then did so in a grand sweeping emotional way.

I seriously thought a few times that I was hormonal, I never cry like this for this long, unless really depressed, but then I’d still be crying and that crying is a different kind then what I was doing.

The crying I was doing was all fear based.

Not so much sadness based.

Fear based and anger based.

I have had some angry moments, let me tell you.

But it got worked out and the more I talked, cried, muddled through, the easier it seemed to be until by the time I walked into the basement of Most Holy Redeemer to take care of my Sunday night gig I was almost wholly myself.

And then!

Oh.

My old friend from my early days in recovery came prancing into the room with another dear friend and it was so good to connect and reconnect and catch up.

She’s been living in London for the last seven years, New York before that, and it was her first time back to SF in ten years.

I mean.

It was good to see her.

And hear her.

And then go out and hang out afterwards with all the friends and people and go to La Meditereanee and have some good food and laugh and get perspective.

I also heard so much advocacy for me getting to be taken care of and that there is abundance and that I do deserve it.

I sometimes forget that.

All the time.

That I am allowed to embrace abundance.

So.

My attitude changed and I began to see this whole thing as an enormous gift.

Oh.

Like many gifts I have received I did not like the wrapping paper it came in, and I have wanted to give it back, but there it is, in my lap, begging to be opened, to be revealed.

More will be revealed.

There’s always more to learn.

I get to take this situation as an opportunity to grow and to manifest what I want in a living situation.

I also get to take this as a chance to let my voice be heard, to not be run over by the circumstances, to advocate for my rights.

I listened again to the voicemail of the woman from the SF Tenant’s Union who reached out to me the day prior to my going in to the drop in session and was assuaged again to hear that what is happening is not legal and I have loads of rights.

She reiterated a bunch of them and I found comfort in that.

I know my rights and I get to speak up for myself.

Not something I have always done.

Not something that I am great at.

But fuck, what an opportunity to learn.

So.

I’m going to get to learn about something new and in the process I will find a new place to live and it will be done with grace and dignity.

At least on my part.

My part is all I’m responsible for anyway.

Speaking of my part.

And taking responsibility.

I have filled out my BBS (Behavioral Board of Science) application for my AMFT#!

Yesterday I got passport photos taken so that I can turn in a recent photo to the BBS.

All I need to do now is get LiveScanned fingerprinting done.

I will be doing that on Wednesday.

The hope is to have it all taken care of and ready to send into the BBS by Saturday.

It was strongly suggested that I send it in registered mail and insure it and track it and make sure it gets signed for.

So a trip to the post office before my internship on Saturday.

It’s a really exciting thing.

Once the BBS gives me my AMFT# I will officially be able to take payment for my therapy sessions.

At which point I will be transitioning from my current internship to my private practice internship.

I am really excited.

It feels so nice to have positive, forward motion actions happening.

And though I do not know how long this hallway of uncertainty is in regards to where I live next.

I do believe.

With all my heart.

That is will be fucking fabulous.

Seriously.

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Abundance

May 9, 2018

Of tears.

Of tissues used for said tears.

Also of acknowledgements and validation and super sweet holding.

I do quite like my therapist.

I had so much happening this morning that I literally was at a loss as to where to jump in.

But jump I did.

We didn’t even cover half of what I was thinking I was going to talk about, which was fine, the one big issue I had awoken to this morning I dealt with my person on a phone call over my morning latte.

And though there was a lot of work that was done and an abundance of dumping, I even apologized at one point, I don’t normally dump, but I just had to get it all the fuck out.

She said, “bring it on, get it out.”

So I did.

It was a relief to do so.

I talked quite a bit about how much pain I have been in and how I felt like it was beginning to really make me weird in the head, she reflected that my body is working over time to keep me in balance and that it’s a hard thing to do right now.

It really is.

And it’s been pretty relentless these last few days.

I shared that I haven’t really dropped into being done with school, about how I almost fucked up my paperwork, but not really, but my head space has been foggy with dealing with getting everything done and being in pain whilst trying to do it, and that I didn’t beat myself up but that I was flummoxed at how side tracked I got doing what should have been a pretty simple tasks.

Simple tasks are not so simple when I’m busy and also trying to navigate through this experience with my body.

My sweet body that is just trying to get by and I am doing whatever I can to help it.

Second day of oatmeal for breakfast, salad for lunch, oatmeal for dinner.

I will admit, I haven’t had time to do decent food prep and not much energy for cooking when I get home.

Do a big therapy session, cry a lot, then go work a full-time shift with a teething baby and then after that go see two clients and be emotionally and empathetically available for them and expect myself to make a big fabulous dinner?

Nope.

Oatmeal.

I like oatmeal, so that’s not really an issue, but it does speak to me that there’s a lot happening inside that’s not in equilibrium.

I very much want to get back on track with my health.

I am grateful that I have an appointment soon to find out what’s happening.

And grateful for a therapist who let me dump for a while and then I got to talk about the other hard stuff.

I will be terminating a client on Thursday and there was a lot to process around the situation.

So we did that for a bit too.

And it was super helpful.

That my therapist went to the same school and did the same program as I really is such a helpful thing.

I get such nice perspective.

She doesn’t self-disclose much, but she does relate to me and I know that in the therapeutic alliance we have together that her experience helps me with mine.

Then.

I got to talk about the fun stuff, the happy stuff, the amazing I got a private practice internship!

It was such a joy to talk with her about that.

Especially since working with her helped me see that it was possible.

When my supervisor recommended it to me I was rather at a loss as to how to go about it.

My therapist opened that door, shared insights, and gave me places to look.

She did not tell me to approach the person I did, but she helped lay the foundation for that experience to unfold and I am so wildly grateful for that.

And that when things are supposed to happen, they just fall beautifully into place.

She reflected to me the amount of work I do and also what I could expect to charge as an intern would be higher than others just starting out as private practice interns.

She told me without a doubt I can charge $80-$100 per session.

Of course.

I won’t get that full amount.

But I tell you what I will get half of it at the minimum.

And that means $40-$50/hr.

So much more than the $0 I make now.

I have pretty much decided, you have heard it here first, that I will give up my internship where I am at as soon as I get my AMFT # from the BBS.

Once I have that number I can be paid as a private practice intern using my supervisor’s number, the woman I just basically got hired by.

We’ll have to set up W-2’s and there will be taxes taken out and other things I am sure.

I will have to pay for her supervision and I will have to pay a portion of the lease for the office.

She will take that out of the amount I am paid by my clients, and then she will pay me.

I will be making money and I will build a practice an I will have abundance.

That was the biggest take away from my therapist today, that I have striven so hard, all my life, worked and worked and worked and studied, and now, I am almost there.

That I am close.

In fact.

That I am closer than I even think I am.

I will be done with my current internship by September 1st.

That’s the plan.

I figure I will have my intern number by that point, it does take a little while for BBS to get all the paperwork and assign a number.

I am hopeful that I will be able to start seeing clients at my private practice internship after Labor Day.

Which feels about right and will be just after I have done the intensive for my PhD program.

I am so ready to step forward, ready to transition out of where I am, ready to start seeing the fruits of my labor.

I am excited about it.

I really am.

And I am ready to embrace all the abundance.

I.

Am.

So.

So.

Ready.

A New Experience

April 10, 2018

“Would you care for any tea or water while you wait,” I was asked as I checked in today at the One Medical office at 10th and Irving.

That was not a question I was expecting.

Nor the lush quiet, the lounge furniture which was modern and clean and the waiting area that was sunny and vibrant with plants.

I was also not expecting the bathrooms.

Well fucking done.

Big, clean, stocked with feminine hygiene products and condoms.

That’s right.

The lighting was low and soft.

The music was unobtrusive.

And.

The doctor was on time.

There was no wait.

I was seen at the time of my appointment and escorted back to a really clean, well-appointed, tech heavy exam room.

My doctor was great, attentive, sympathetic, eager to help me out.

I mean.

I have not had this experience ever with a facility.

And it was in such stark contrast to the shit show offices I have been seen in recently that it was almost a shock, I thought I was on a movie set for rich people with good insurance.

It was a lovely shock.

I am super grateful that I signed up for the service.

And that my employers paid for the membership fee.

Granted I did not get what I wanted, which was a solution right fucking now to the reflux and the discomfort I have been experiencing, but I got an immediate referral to a GI specialist at Sutter Health.

In fact.

My doctor assured me that not only would I not have to figure out whom to go to, I wasn’t going to have to figure out if said GI accepted my insurance, the administrative team would take care of figuring that out for me.

He recommended I download the One Medical App on my phone, which I did, and ping!

In coming message right there.

“We’re very tech heavy here, you can do everything from you phone and the app, you can e-mail, make appointments, get your referrals, get refills on medications, the app will make it really easy for you to use the facilities,” he relayed to me as he was taking my history.

I gave him a very thorough history of what has been happening with the reflux and he did say that I needed to be seen by a GI, but that he also wanted to make sure that there wasn’t anything that could be possibly missing in the picture.

He also covered ground I have already gone over, what foods to avoid, smoking, drinking, weight loss etc.

He said that though there was nothing wrong with my weight there might be some room for weight loss which could alleviate some of the symptoms, but that what he was hearing was that it needed to be addressed faster than reasonable weight loss, if that was the only thing that was needed, to rectify the reflux.

And.

I’ve lost 4 more pounds since the last time I saw a doctor.

I was really surprised.

I know I haven’t been eating as much, but I was really surprised.

I don’t feel like I’ve lost weight, although there is a bit of a difference in my face, because I have been experiencing some bloating with the reflux and my stomach constantly feels full even when it’s not.

I have to maintain an eating plan as a part of my food recovery but truth is I have been eating less, I have been entirely skipping my evening snack now for two weeks, and I have been eating a lot more salads as they are supposed to help with the reflux.

Though honestly, nothing has.

The diet changes have done jack shit.

And I relayed that as well, but he still did a very in-depth look at what was going on.

He let me know that as a member of One Medical I would get two free full physical exams each year and another service which I’m not remembering right now.

I’ve been scheduled to go in for that in May.

The doctor whose office I was referred to will be contacting me tomorrow to set up an appointment.

I am going to ask for the soonest they have and hopefully get in really quick.

My new doctor also prescribed a different reflux medicine which I have taken today.

No real difference from what I was already taking, but I’ll keep trying it and we’ll see what happens.

Over all it was a really good experience and I am so grateful to not have to go back to see the doctors that I was before.

I am still experiencing the reflux pretty badly today, but I feel relieved to be on the right road to addressing it and to have a team behind me that really was all about customer service, being helpful, and making sure that my needs are being taken care of.

The doctor had great bed side manner and he told me that I could explore finding other primary care providers, but I said, no, I wanted to work with him, he was comfortable, I didn’t feel any weirdness, he was respectful, and he’d done such a compassionate job of listening to me express the discomfort that I was in, there was no need to find a different doctor.

Very happy with One Medical.

Very, very, very.

Now, fingers crossed I get into the GI quickly and get the situation taken care of.

I am ready for more relief.

Seriously.

Huge Relief

September 10, 2017

To change my mind.

To see where I was taking on too much.

To apologize and make an amends to a friend.

To get honest with my person and with myself.

To see where my priorities lie.

To let go.

To surrender.

Such relief.

I have been grappling with something for a few weeks now and I suspect that recent events in my life, like letting go of the idea that I have to go to Burning Man every year for the rest of my life and that I always have to be working toward something, coalesced this afternoon as I rode my scooter into my internship.

I don’t want to do the Aids Life Cycle Ride.

Let me clarify.

If I wasn’t working 40 hours a week, interning 15 hours, and going to graduate school full-time I would be totally down with doing the ride.

But.

I realized.

I am working so hard already and to commit to another commitment seems fool hardy, prideful, and unrealistic.

I like to believe that I am superhuman.

“You don’t have to be Super Carmen,” my person told me, “Carmen is good enough.”

Fuck me.

I forget that all the time.

As if I am not constantly trying to self-improve, do better, live harder, go bigger, I am not enough.

And.

Good fucking grief.

I am enough.

I also realized that I had self-sabotaged myself by committing to do something that would make me re-arrange my already super full schedule and in effect make it so I would not have any days off.

NONE.

Yes, that’s right, I would be working full-time, seven days a week, for the next 10 months.

Fuck that.

I deserve to let myself have a little down time.

To love and be loved.

To not go crazy in my last year of my Masters program.

I mean.

I’m still working six days a week, I’m not slacking.

I rode my scooter to my internship and thought, it’s ok to change my mind, it’s ok to see where I bit off too much and it’s alright to acknowledge that maybe I knew this all along.

That maybe I didn’t buy the road bike when I had the chance because I really knew I didn’t want to do the ride.

I think I was setting myself up to give myself an out.

I had run into my friend who convinced me to ride again a week before I went to Burning Man and his talks about doing training rides made me feel nauseous.

How the hell was I going to fit it in?

I started to consciously let myself know that maybe, just maybe, it would be ok if I changed my mind.

I actually think going to Burning Man really helped me with that.

I realized there, at the event, on a very deep level, that I work really hard to work really hard on my vacations.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

Instead of busting my ass, granted for an amazing cause, and I don’t regret the $95 I dropped to register, it’s a gift that I wouldn’t ask back if I could have it back, to bust my ass on my vacation.

Maybe.

I might want to actually have a vacation.

Like.

Lay on a beach.

Or.

Sit in a fucking cafe and read a book, people watch, drink coffee at ridiculous hours and not worry about getting up at the crack of dawn to ride 100+ miles and then come back from a seven-day ride, for which I would be using my vacation time, to go right back to work.

I mean.

Maybe I want a real vacation.

And.

Then.

When I said it out loud, when I got on the phone with my person, I got to my internship a little early simply so I could have time to talk with my person, I felt the biggest most amazing relief.

I knew in that instant that it was the right decision for me.

“Honestly, doll, I’m relieved to hear you say this, I was wondering when you were going to come to this realization.”

OH my god.

I love that he doesn’t judge me, that he didn’t tell me to not do it, that he let me have my process, and then to have it reflected back to me with honesty, well, that was that.

I’m not doing the Aids ride.

And I am ok with it.

We talked a lot about things happening in my life and I shared about a great deal of joyful things and it was so good to catch up.

I also talked about doing a trip for my graduation.

What that might look like.

Barcelona.

Paris, maybe L’Ile de Re, where my friend has a family home, off the West Coast of France, especially since she was such an important part of my first two years in the program.

That it might be really nice to see her and celebrate the accomplishment.

She was also the person who has said time and again how much I would like Barcelona.

In fact.

My savings account, I have two, one is my prudent reserve, and the second, my travel savings, is called Barcelona.

Not “going to Burning Man” again next year.

Not “doing the Aids LifeCycle ride and spending over three thousand dollars on a bicycle, gear, and who knows how many countless hours on the training.”

NOPE.

It’s named, “Barcelona,” because when my friend mentioned how I should go I thought, that would make a great graduation trip.

So maybe instead of sabotaging my dream with stuffing in more than I can handle, it’s ok to admit I made a mistake.

I told my friend tonight face to face and sat down and talked to him.

He totally got it, and then he added, “I totally honey potted you into agreeing, you know I did, don’t feel bad that you can’t, it’s ok.”

It’s ok.

Sigh.

Fuck.

Thank you.

I apologized again and hugged him and that was that.

I need to apologize to the three people who donated and then I think I’m clear.

I’ll also contact my ride representative and rescind the ride number, the ride will fill up and someone else will get to ride in my stead.

And.

I also contacted my assistant director, who is in charge of scheduling my clients and said, I need to not take clients on Saturdays.  I can do a consult now and then, but no clients.

At least for this semester.

I feel a lot better.

Much clearer.

Much cleaner.

And so relieved to be just regular old Carmen.

Super Carmen gets to put her cape back in the closet for at least today.

Thank God.

It needs a dry cleaning anyhow.

Ha.

From Garbage Bags

October 24, 2015

To graduate school.

I was sitting in my Therapeutic Communications class and something was said about the video we had just watched, a really intense video of Nancy McWilliams demonstrating psychoanalysis with a woman who was trying to negotiate a domestic abuse situation.

It was a surreal story.

It was just an hour of therapy and so much ground got covered and the therapist was amazing, directing subtly, strengthening the client, reflecting back to her, empathizing with the client.

I got a lot out of it.

A LOT.

I also got annoyed with a fellow in my cohort who kept asking questions.

Pushing questions that, as I saw it, were serving the person asking them but then, the professor used the questions to illustrate some key points in the reading we had to do for class and also to help teach the class some really salient information about being a therapist.

We, as a class, were then invited to see how our own need for resolution may be at odds with the clients.

I remember flaring up inside when the questions were being asked and feeling that there was this well of antipathy inside me.

I got annoyed.

Then I realized that I was annoyed because if I had been that woman, if I had been that client, and the solution was to get me to see a solution immediately, I wouldn’t have been able to get there, in fact, I would have said, fuck you, fuck the therapy, and I will deal with this on my own.

In effect.

What I did do.

On my own.

With a lot of help from some close friends, I got out of an abusive relationship.

It was not physically abusive until the end.

He hit me when I broke up with him.

I ran out into the street.

In the middle of January with no socks on, a pair of jeans underneath a flannel nightgown.

Now.

For those of you that know me, this is highly unusual.

Even in the dead of winter.

Even in Wisconsin.

Even in January with below freezing temperatures.

I always, since I was about 17 and the step father moved out of the house, I always, slept in the nude.

That night.

I wore a nightgown.

Intuition.

Premonition.

I don’t know.

I can’t say.

But I did.

And when I ran shivering, scared, uncertain where to go and which direction to take.

I knew I couldn’t go running down East Johnson Street, he would find me too fast.

I ran to the Sentry Shopping Centre that was on East Washington.

I ducked along the cement walls and found my way to a pay telephone, remember those?

I called 911.

I got a response and they said they would be sending a car out to me.

That was when I heard my ex-boyfriends car.

In all actuality, our car, it was just as much mine as his, we had both bought it, an older Jetta.

I could hear it turning and I hoped it was heading toward East Johnson.

But.

It wasn’t.

And I got frantic with the operator on the phone and tried to cram myself down into that very small phone booth and make myself invisible in my flannel nightgown with corn flowers on white cotton, with a ruffled that was piped with blue ribbon, with cuffs that reminded me of Laura Ingalls Wilder and Little House on the Prairie.  I watched the car, the little blue Jetta grinding up the street, hoping against hope that he could not see me flattened against the wall of the phone booth.

I believe.

Looking back.

That was the last time I ever wore a flannel night-gown.

It’s been thirteen years since that night.

Almost fourteen.

Will be fourteen in January.

That’s when I left him.

The operator on the 911 call held me together until the police arrived to take me to a friend’s house.

I will never forget the way the lights looked wicking past the back seat window, the calls coming in over the radio, the destination never seeming further away as the sodium street lights glowed sullen in the snow, the hush of the streets, the lack of traffic, the drive around the lake on John Nolan Drive.

Then my friend’s house.

I refused to talk to the police.

I did not give up the ex-boyfriend.

I was too co-dependent.

I did not want him to get in trouble.

He got in trouble anyway, it just took a little longer.

I suppose I could have navigated it differently, but I didn’t know the difference and I didn’t know how to do it.

I do now.

But I look back at that girl, that young woman with such love and compassion, what I went through to get from there to here.

And.

How long I told myself that it was normal, that it was something that happened, that I could somehow normalize the trauma of fleeing my own home in my nightgown in January in Wisconsin.

I was isolated.

My friend, my best friend and her husband were in town visiting and they noticed it.

Another friend and her partner were in town.

They all had tried to get me to see the light at some point.

My ex-boyfriend pretty much blamed them for the timing of the break up.

He was probably right, but I did not understand how much until later.

My best friend navigated me going into work the next day to tell them I had an emergency and was leaving town for the weekend.

The plan was to get my stuff and take me up North to Hudson where I could chill out and figure out what I had to do next.

I was in shock.

My ex saw us leave my place of employment, he had been driving around Madison all night looking for me and who knows how many times he was circling the block where I worked.

He whipped into the parking lot and flew out of his car, our car.

He tried to get to me.

He tried to talk to me.

My friends were all in shock.

Then.

He spit on me.

Full on in the face.

Suddenly the guys stepped forward and corralled him.

My friends got me into the back of their car.

We pulled out burning rubber.

Two seconds later my ex got in his car and pursued.

My friend’s husband lost him after a few intersections.

We flew to my house.

I unlocked the door and having no idea what to do, I grabbed a large black garbage bag and threw random clothes into it.

I ran around my house.

My sweet little home that I had lived in, nested in, hosted Christmas dinners and Thanksgivings in, had made our home, was now an unfamiliar territory or terror and fear and I just had to get out of it.

My ex didn’t get back to the house before I left.

I was that fast.

I huddled in the back seat of my friend’s Saturn and numbly watched the landscape go by.

I remember passing a refinery and thinking how spooky and eery and utterly beautiful it was in the night with the flashing lights and the mists shimmering into the black void of sky.

I reflected on this in class.

All the memories that came up.

Then the tears.

The joy of knowing, that despite myself, for it would be another long year and a half before there was closure and ultimately, really not until I moved to San Francisco in 2002 did I get finality on the relationship (he stalked me for a year and a half and I got a restraining order that he violated once then he got to go jail and do work release through the Huber program the city had in place for inmates with work release options, two full years of restraining order and yet I saw him twice more before things were all said and done.  Ah alcoholism, how I love thee, not), I had made it out.

I made it out.

I had tears of utter gratitude and awe on my cheeks at how far I have come.

From being a woman fleeing her own home with a garbage bag full of random grabbed things.

To a fully self-supporting, radically self-reliant, strong, resilient, loving, kind, compassionate, tender-hearted woman.

From garbage to graduate school.

A small transformation.

A flowering woman in bloom.

A wide open heart.

Vulnerable and strong.

“We both were tempered by fire,” my friend told me, leaning into me in sweet confidence, “but the heat of your fire was hotter than mine, and I want you to know I acknowledge that.”

Tempered.

Strong.

Flexible.

And full of empathy and compassion.

For the client on the video screen who couldn’t get out.

And.

For myself.

The woman who did.

My life continues to unfold.

And amaze.

I am graced.

I.

Really.

Truly.

Am.

Hurt So Good

November 11, 2013

But it still feels bad.

I went to Suchada today for some relief.

I got beaten up, in the best possible way and stretched and pulled and rubbed and stomped on.

My housemates boyfriend said, “just tell them to stomp on your face.”

Well, I ain’t so sure about my face, but I was more than willing to have them stomp on my shoulder.

I awoke earlier than I thought I would on a Sunday, which is not a bad thing, I will allow myself to sleep in, but if I am not tired it’s just mental masturbation and the thoughts get rolling and there is no relief.

Fingers crossed there will be some relief here in a few minutes.

I just took a big dose of ibuprofen.

When I got up this morning I felt good, stoked on the day, despite a smidgen of anxiety around having a day completely free and open to do anything I wanted to do.

I wanted to practice, most of all, saying yes to the moment.

I had a great breakfast, two big mugs of Holler Mountain coffee from Stumptown with some unsweetened vanilla almond milk, I wrote four pages long hand and was shaking out the rugs and sweeping the floors when my housemate texted and said,

“hey!  We are going to Trouble to get coffee, come!”

Alright.

Despite the coffee I had already imbibed I did go and have an Americano, so good.

We sat in the little parklet outside the cafe and talked shop and chatted up the neighbors and I met some more folks in the hood and we hung out in the golden sun and the chill autumn air of the Outer Sunset, the ocean glistening benevolently in the distance, drawing my eye to it again and again.

What also drew my eye?

The big poster with a yard sale happening at 46th and Irving.

Hey.

That’s where I live.

Skate boards, surf stuff, girls clothes, art, bring your own cup mimosas.

Ah, a hipster yard sale.

Excellent.

And it was.

I picked up a Bialetti Espresso maker and an awesome teal coffee mug for $2.

$2!

The Bialetti itself, though not in the box, was obviously never used and brand new it runs generally $35 depending on what model you get.

Score.

“Oh, you should get this!” My house mate pointed to a corner of the yard, they really were hipsters–the guy in the owl poncho was so hip I had to stand a little back and bask in his hip aura–and I was having fun picking through the goofy tchotkes they had, I turned and she was looking at two boogie boards.

I don’t even know what a boogie board is, but I have heard tell they are wild fun.

There’s no standing up and you just play in the white water.

I guess.

I will investigate.

I will put on my wet suit and go on down to the beach and play.

I have not been able to re-connect with my friend with the long board, but as he’s back in town from a recent vacation I suspect I will soon.  I do have the tentative date to go to Pacifica next Sunday with the girl I ran into last night in Noe Valley and if I can’t get to him by then I figure I will just rent a board in Pacifica, get a taste of another kind of board experience.

Anyway, the idea of going out to play in the water sooner than that was really appealing and when my housemate and her boyfriend, who is a surfer amongst many other things, said, it’s a good boogie board, get it.

I did.

I asked, “how much?”

“Um,” the guy in the owl poncho said, pushing his square black frames up his nose, “how about $5?”

Done and done.

And now I have a boogie board.

Boogie Board

Boogie Board

I was ready to leap off into the sea right then and there.

“Excellent, now I can just go out and not have to wait for anyone to have the time to go out with me,” I said gleefully hugging the little board under my arm.

The difficulty for me has been meshing up schedules for the surfing to happen.

“Oh no you don’t,” the boyfriend said, and my housemate, linking her arm in his, agreed.

“You don’t ever go out to Ocean Beach alone, the undertow can drag you right out to sea.”

Then her boyfriend told me a nice little horror story about how it had happened to him.

Eek.

Ok.

But I still want to go.

I know I should go with someone though.

Even if it is just to sit and watch me wave good-bye as I get pulled out to sea and drift off toward the horizon to be devoured by sharks.  At least there will be someone to tell my housemate she can rent the in-law out again and my parents might want to know.

I might have gone down today, but I had managed to get myself booked in to Sudacha.

Both the housemate and the boyfriend assiduously recommended it.

They sort of put the fear of God into me by how tough it was going to be.

So when I got there I made sure I checked the box that said first time and as I looked over the areas of the body I wished them to focus on I paused while debating the level of pain I wanted to be in: Soft, Medium, Hard.

Traditional Thai massage is done with hands, elbows, and feet.

There was going to be someone standing on my shoulders.

I circled medium.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to circle soft.

Turns out I probably could have circled hard and I may just do that the next time I go.

I will be going again.

It was intense and I felt muscles that had not been massaged in years singing their creaky hoarse way bright and clear and loud.

But not my shoulder.

Damn it.

Out damn spot.

Out.

I think there is something else going on.

I am going to make an appointment to be seen by my doctor again at Kaiser now that I have officially received clearance to go to them via Healthy San Francisco.

Which is not free, but is something I can handle at this time.

I also received a nice welcome back letter informing me that I would still be able to see my old primary care physician.

Yes.

The ibuprofen has not kicked in yet, I will be taking it easy the rest of the night, and picking more up tomorrow.

I have a full week of nanny.

I shall rest.

Hydrate.

And be grateful that despite not getting all the kinks worked out, I did get a lot of attention to an area that needed it bad.

It was also really good for me to lie still for an hour.

Really good.

More of that in my future.

And boogie boarding!


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