home, journey, rant

Good mourning…

We live in a time when our senses are bombarded with distractions on a continual basis. At the same time, as we battle this truth in even the most basic of times, we are encouraged to live simply, take in our moment and just be. It is almost like we are simply setting ourselves up for failure and the habitual guilting of self because we try to slow down and take in the moment, but our way of life usually won’t let us.

Until our way of life makes time stop.

I do not know anyone who has been wounded/injured/killed in this Vegas tragedy. I do not know the transgender teen who was brutally murdered in MO. I do not know anyone personally who has been affected by the devastating weather in Mexico, Puerto Rico, etc… I realize this makes my world seem so small, since the tendrils of these tragic reaches spread out so far. (The realist taking up residence in my brain uses this opportunity to point out that my time will come, and I shudder.)

I spent the stolen, few free moments of my weekend devouring a book that talks about the necessity of slowing down and living present, in the moment. I fell asleep praying, as I usually do, and I kind of vowing, brain groggily, to practice the slow/present in the morning.

Morning came hard, slamming my little untouched reality. While I do not personally know anyone altered by such brutality, this does not mean that I am not affected. I should be affected, we all should. Waking to such horror does not make me want to live in the moment. It makes me want to play a game on my phone, busy myself with mindless activity and escape from the moment. As the death and injured Las Vegas tolls rise, as my mind has to comprehend what four people did to one soul- I want desperately to be present in a different moment.

And then I chastise myself because I am so selfish. So many people DO know, do LOVE, people lost and broken by these things. Who am I to feel I deserve something different? I don’t.

I deserve to be in those trenches of hell just as much as any other person, and no one deserves it at all. The only thing stopping this from being my reality is a few details. As these things continue to happen, (and grow in severity), there is no protecting me next time.

So, I keep my promise and I intentionally practice living in this moment. This awful, terrifying, hopeless moment. Why, God? Why did this happen? How could this happen? Why is this the time I need to focus and be, and practice intentionally savoring my life? Life… Why?

Here’s why: Because I did this. We did this. Each one of us are at fault for these unspeakable things. I am sorry if that is uncomfortable, but it’s true. I am sure that someone reading this will think, offended by my words, (off course offended, I mean, isn’t that part of the problem?) and defensively remark that they would NEVER carry a gun to a hotel room and aim it at unsuspectingly HAPPY people (because 9 times out of ten, concerts are a happy place.) That same person while declare that, though may not agree with transgender equality, they would never stab and mutilate someone because of it… And yet, the internet is full of faceless people hiding behind their booming fonted arguments and opinions. The words found on the internet inspire suicides in CHILDREN. We are all so busy disconnecting from real life relationships/people/community to attack and lash out on those who disagree with us online, because it is safer that way. Is it safer that way? Look at suicide rates… Look at the state of things. We are all so macro focussed on ourselves, our thoughts, our opinions. We are all so ME FOCUSSED, that we are missing the people planning the violent ends. We are missing it. In a time when the culture is touting about how WOKE they are, maybe we are more asleep than ever. Actually no, we aren’t. We are simply laying there, eyes closed, pretending we are.

Your average home burglar will target a darker, quieter neighborhood, where everyone keeps to themselves. They neighborhoods with watches, who form a community, that’s another story. While things may still happen there, (it’s life… bad things happen) those neighbors take care of each other. THERE IS POWER in relationship. In love. In loving people, even when we don’t understand them/agree with them/etc.

Whether from Terrorists, American made or not, or the agendas of our own leaders and agencies- America is an EASY Target right now because we are so far removed from community. We are so busy looking at our selfie sticks, retweets and Insta-likes that we are missing it all- not just the beauty in our moments, but the absolute brutality in them too. Which tragic moment will act as our wake up call? Let’s stop blaming our leaders for their same behavior and start taking responsibility for our own.

The sky is blue here, the air crisp. Our nation is grieving deeply, and I am too. More than that though, I am keeping my eyes open. I am planning to love the lonely, help those in need and stop living through the filter that makes my ego feel it’s best while hiding behind anonymity… Nothing will make any of this not a tragedy, but if we rise up and unite together, the cowards will shrink back to the darkness and we can at least aid good coming out of the bile…

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chronic illness, confession, entertainment, fibro, gratitude, journey, rant, self care

I totally hold Joss Whedon responsible…

On Monday I had a pretty rough day. It was one of those days where, if it could go wrong, it did. I had a few rocky appointments/meetings, followed by some pretty not-awesome (but also not terrible) news from my doctor’s office. The thing about the doctor was that they called when I was getting a massage…

I realize this is likely the point in the story where I’ve lost your sympathy vote. Massage? This girl is complaining about her bad day AND she had a massage??? Yeah, I know how it sounds. Please though, allow me to explain. While it may not be everyone who suffers from a chronic illness’ journey, I can tell you that massages are a necessary evil for me. I have to book in advance because of the type of therapist I have to see. When that date rolls around, it doesn’t matter if I am in a Fibro flare up or not, I have to go. How my body receives the massage very much depends on if I am flaring or not, and what the weather outside is like. Let’s take yesterday, for example… It is really, unseasonably hot in Michigan right now and so my body HATES me. My therapist had to spend an extra 15 minutes just to get my neck and shoulder muscles to loosen a little. My lower back has been miserable ever since the massage and I’ve juggled a headache. THIS is more common than not, how I am post massage. So it’s not really a fun thing.

Anyway, I digress… As I am (slowly) dressing from my session, I decide to listen to the voicemail my doctor’s nurse left. What followed was a very ominous message which left me wondering if this was when they share that I only have a few weeks to get my affairs in order. So yeah, I’m fine,(whew!) but the massage AND the anxiety when 90 minutes passed, after I returned the call and left a message, with no word, took their toll on me.

The day had a few other bumps. Over all I just felt drained physically, mentally and emotionally.

Tuesday was different though. I resolved that I would approach every situation differently. (There must have been something off, in the air, yesterday because people were NASTY!) What I found, instead, was myself silently (and often comically) observing life’s quirky bits…

  • like the conveyer belt, at the super market, ate an elderly woman’s $20 bill. Chaos ensued and I was delivered about a hundred apologies and treated with kid gloves as they attempted to solve the error. Is this the sort of thing someone might get really angry about, I wondered. Instead, I had a lovely little chat with Killian the clerk, who must be nearing his 11th birthday, he was so young.  At one point he shared that he really loved old horror movies, and when he offered up movies from the early two-thousands as evidence, I kindly took my receipt and headed for the door. Oh Killian, sweet small boy, I could be your great-grandmother… I really couldn’t, but that is how I felt. (I also bought a bottle of wine, which he did not card me for, so he may feel the same. Silly, Killian.)
  • Tuesdays at 10:20 a.m. are apparently a major traffic time at the USPS. Who knew? I purposefully avoided it on Friday and Monday because I knew my business there would take some time. People were over all carefree, so I clearly made the right choice as everyone in public, Monday, was behaving like they were straight from a freak episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
  • Starbucks drive thru employees tend to lean strongly one way or the other. You have the ones made of cardboard, who seem more bot than person. Those are kind of fun, sort of. (except probably on Monday. No one was fun on Monday. Seriously.) The other side of the spectrum would be the overly chatty ones. The ones who feel the need to divulge very personal information, OR take credit for your purchase. Of course, I am generalizing… Not ALL of them are like this, but I have encountered one or the other more often, as of late. Today I ordered a peach infused green tea. This is not a drink I am new to, and yet, this barista guy decided to congratulate me on my choice. He was confident I would really like it, and that he is always telling people to order this very drink,and they don’t, so it made his day that I had chosen it and that if I did not like it, come back and he would recommend something else. Um, ok, buddy… Pretty sure it is bound to taste like the other 350* I’ve ordered this summer (*slight exaggeration).
  • Tuna. Tuna… I have loved Tuna forever. Grew up eating Tuna casserole, Tuna sandwiches… I have appreciated Tuna because it is such a great source of protein. I tried to eat Tuna at lunch and got sick. the smell, sight and taste of it is so unbelievably repulsive to me- instantaneously. What? Why? I feel like I have lost a friend. (a smelly friend, but hey- I love unconditionally.)
  • People really do stand in super market aisles, lost in confusion. Maybe this has been me at times, but I have never really noticed it in others. Today’s trip found eleven patrons in such circumstance. (Then again, with the conveyor belt eating money and the talk of “super old horror movies” (SHM!) I am suddenly wondering if Joss Whedon is responsible for this silly day too…)

I have produce sitting in my fridge waiting for me to chop, dice and stir it all into a big pot of soup. The lover of fall in me is irritated and antsy that such rituals have not begun. It is nearly 100 degrees outside and my autumn loving soul just cannot understand. I hear rumors that fall will descend upon us tomorrow and I am holding out hope, stock pot and ladle in hand. (At this point I am going to blame Joss Whedon for the weather too, because, why not? It seems like something he would write.)

There is a spider crawling on the outside pane of my office window. I have killed a half a dozen (after spraying, mind you) inside, over the past week. Apparently the spiders are too on their autumn clocks and heading in-doors because it’s time. (either that or- I hesitate to say it- we are slowly being overrun by arachnids. Dang it, Joss… knock it off already.)

In all fairness, today it is misting out, cooler, and absolutely glorious…

books, confession, journey, Lately, rant

When do we say enough?

Coming off the weekend, I found notes scattered with an array of things I wanted to write about here. Somehow though, the weekend killed those desires, or at least numbed them. Monday’s are my big home day. The day where I catch up on laundry and household chores, the day I get some reading done, take care of phone calls I need to make and knock out a good chunk of work. Usually, I’m sad to admit, this is work related stuff I am a little behind on. This, of course, leads to loads of guilt when I don’t actually catch up on anything.

Except laundry.

Laundry is always done.

I am currently listening to an audio book that I’m not loving. Reviews of this book are GLOWING, which leads me to wonder what my problem is. Readers rave at its humor and easy reading, but I find my ears choking it down (if ears could do such a thing) and have not laughed yet.

I am not usually an audio book fan, but have found they help on the laundry/chore Mondays, as well as the longer moments in traffic. Somehow I lie to myself and tell myself I am maximizing my time that way. And sometimes the books are so great, but this time it isn’t. Perhaps it is the narration? At any rate… I read, on Saturday, the tale of this particular books author. The article mentioned that she’d simply entered a competition and won. Her manuscript was passed on to Penguin and a book deal was given. The article’s author seemed to be awed by not only the book’s author’s luck, but the fact that she is over 40. What? Is it more likely for such magical things to happen if one is under 40? What difference does 40 make anyway? Does being 41 mean that my life’s goals and dreams as I know them are screwed and I may as well select a coffin and begin planning my memorial service?

I mean, really… Just when our society seems to make great strides of progress in some areas, women decide to march around with vagina hats on their head and we have nazi gatherings. (While one is obviously NOT as garishly grim as the other, I’ll still admit it is embarrassing.) Male, Female, Gay, Straight, Trans, White, Black, Jewish, Muslim, Christian, Athiest… Over 40, under 40- why can’t we, as a people, just get over our radical fears and judgements and just love each other? These things are getting worse because we are so adamant about taking sides. My side is community. Humanity. Can’t that just be enough? This division is being driven by bigger, governing forces and we just play along and people die. PEOPLE DIE…

We need to stop.

And also, let’s give props to an author for writing something that resonates with people, (even if I’m not one of them, I still applaud her!) and admit her age doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it…

chronic illness, confession, fibro, journey, Lately, rant

Fell on deaf ears…

As far as weekends go, this past one was among the worst. Its has been the sort of morning when I wake up after about 90 minutes of collected sleep, and ache for warm sand beneath my feet, solace and sunshine as waves crash and fill my senses with the healing reset that only the beach can do for me. That salty air is a balm which nothing else compares, and so naturally I haven’t had the pleasure of such pleasure in years. The benefit of living back home was that, at least once a year, I could make that happen. When the topic of moving back to this place arose, I honestly laid it all out there. I would need intention, on his part, to connect and prioritize us. I would need quality time together. I would need to still make it to the beach.

Do you ever feel like the things you allow yourself to vulnerably express fall on deaf ears? It isn’t that you aren’t heard as much as the listener simply doesn’t care enough to remember/do something about it/validate you/etc? This has become the story of my life and that change began the moment I agreed to move. It was subtle, for a long time, changing us each in negative ways. There was a time when I was a partner, a best friend, a nurturing mother, of actual value… It was life, so naturally it wasn’t always easy. This though, this has become something worse. At some point, something changed and I became the easy one to punish, the easy one to blame. Is it any wonder when the general theme around my home was that I was the problem- why it made sense for me to leave? I am reminded again and again and again of how I walked out on my husband and family. This perspective isn’t real. It is like the protocol changed, and suddenly it wasn’t expected that we be honest with ourselves. I left because my husband wanted me to. He was the ONLY person who ever said it was the “best thing”. He was the only one who ever seemed happy with the decision. He blames me for physically walking out the door, even though it was only after he made it clear I was not welcome to stay. Yet, lets blame Misty. That’s easy. Blame is tossed around like a ball on the NBA court. I get to be the scapegoat because that helps everyone else feel better about themselves. It’s ok to hurt me to soothe yourself, I guess. I mean it happens whether I like it or not. The three days I was looking forward to, in this season, were Mother’s Day, my mom’s birthday and Genny’s graduation. Well, the first two were complete nightmares that only pointed out the lack of consideration I am worth in the eyes of others…

I am so tired. And that’s the thing about chronic illness. Stress makes it worse. Lack of support (note: I have none here, really) makes it significantly worse. And then I am made to feel like garbage because I am truly doing my best and it isn’t enough. I am doing my best with the puppy, I am doing my best at home. I am doing my best to intentionally prioritize my health. I am doing my best with this frustrating season as a parent. I am doing my best, and am told so often how I should walk more, exercise more, need to take better care to train the puppy, need to ___________. No one stops to look at the fact that I cry myself to sleep and then wake up every 15-20 min anyway until I simply can’t lay there in pain anymore. No one notices how long it takes me to get up the stairs or how I about collapse afterwards because I am in pain. No one sees me rubbing my hands near constantly, holding back tears or throwing up food because I am too nauseous. No one is looking at me, just the expectations they have of me and how I am failing them. I can flat out say I CAN’T DO THIS. I AM HURTING. I CAN’T FUNCTION RIGHT NOW! and yet no one really hears this. The irony is that when I point this out, that isn’t heard either. I can lay out instance after instance after instance and it doesn’t matter because I am not worthy of hearing. Period.

I am so tired, and I simply fall on deaf ears. I need help. I need patience. I need support. I need to not be treated like a burden. I need to not be lied to. I need to be loved. Actively loved. Words mean nothing. Sure I hear “I’ll help you, I have no problem helping you.” But that isn’t true. I am broken down and being pelted by the actions which scream otherwise.

Super grim post. I know. It’s where I am today.

Who am I kidding. It’s where I am every day. Today I’m just a little more honest.

adoption, confession, gratitude, infertility, journey, parenting, rant

What it means to be a woman…

Right now, being a woman is a very trendy thing. There are all of these social media driven explosions about how we should be proud to be a girl, etc. It has happened here or there, over the years but Hillary’s campaign really began the process of bringing it to a head. Because he was running against a girl (and I’m not sure any man would have made it through the election without being painted as a horrible person because of the “Feminist” climate of our nation, honestly) there is no way Trump could have escaped without being labelled a sexist monster who hates women… Then again, it is really Trump himself who made our president-elect such an easy target. I am not going to venture into political waters because everyone else is doing it, and that’s just not my thing. I am here to talk about how this is a really great time to be a woman. You know, #proudtobeagirl and all of that stuff. And don’t get me wrong, I am.

But why now? Why is it so incredibly, mind blowingly awesome to be a girl now? Why isn’t this sort of enthusiasm consistently offered to young girls when they get their first period? Why isn’t it intensified to such a huge degree when a woman pushes a child from her body? Why isn’t being a woman, and all of the awesomeness it entails, being celebrated when the nurturing love of a mother breaks, and breaks, and breaks the heart it beats in because motherhood is painfully hard sometimes?

Feminism is about women having a voice, having rights, being worthy. The heart of feminism is something every single one of us should stand for. TRUE Feminism is not what we are seeing these days. Is it Feminist to have a say about what goes on with our bodies? Ok. I agree, no one should be able to tell a woman what she can or cannot do with her body. My biggest fear, as far as abortion laws are concerned, is that the government would have complete say in regards to whether a woman could keep her pregnancy. If we have strict abortion regulations, this will give them that power and that terrifies me. BUT why has abortion become this symbol of feminism? Why does abortion represent a subculture that is supposed to be about fairness and beauty? There is nothing fair or beautiful about it. Regardless of your perspective or stance, abortion is an ugly act. Metaphorically, let’s look at Breast Cancer. In a society where great tits are invaluable, imagine the woman who learns she has to have a mastectomy and will be left with a caved in chest in place of her greatest physical asset. After her scars have healed, she may feel a sense of beauty in her scar, but the very process to get from one point to the latter will be a hellish journey, paved with varied indescribable emotions. If a woman is diagnosed with breast cancer, should she have the right to make the decision on how to treat it? yes. It is her body. It is her body, period, and up to her to live with the consequences of her decisions…But women should not march the streets deciding that mastectomy scars, or the right to have a mastectomy if we choose, defines us as true women. Just like an abortion. I believe that a baby is a baby from the time it is conceived. I also have a family created by the system in place to remove children from heinously abusive situations. How is abortion any worse than the situations of the 428,000 foster children in the United States. If women who were not going to want or love their babies were forced to have them, what would that number be? And it isn’t just a number, these are children. Broken, beaten, molested, bandaged, damaged, tortured and fractured (sometimes beyond repair) human beings…

Abortion is not something to be celebrated. It also isn’t some deep dark secret that women should keep buried in shame. We each have a story. Those stories are defined by choices we’ve made and choices others made for us. Let’s celebrate our individual journeys as women, and build each other up regardless of differences. Abortion should not be the focus here…

Womanhood should be, In all of its glory.

Hail the women who raise up other women to not only believe in themselves, but to empower other women. Hail to the women who do NOT belittle men as less than worthy. Two wrongs do not make a right. It was never ok for men to treat women this way and it is never going to be ok for us to do this to men. True feminism means we are equal to stand beside them. NOT the same. NOT better, but deserving of equal pay, equal rights and equal opportunity.

I love being a woman. I’d much rather have a vagina over a penis. I love scented lotions, good books, my feminine handwriting, hair products, the very special sanctity that is female friendship and great lip gloss. I love that I have nurturing relationships with my daughter, that I cry in movies and that my shoe selection is much cuter than my husband’s. I don’t want to be a man. I want to be a woman and celebrate true womanhood. True womanhood has absolutely nothing to do with abortion. True feminism, the very essence of feminism, has nothing to do (NOTHING TO DO) with abortion.

Until we can focus on the real priorities and stop getting caught up in the details that distract us along the way, we can expect for things in this country to continue to fall apart. It doesn’t matter who our president is, if we can’t get it together and stand as a diverse community who truly loves and accepts EVERYONE, we are lost. (and by everyone, I do not mean simply the homosexual and transgendered communities, but the Christian Pro-lifers too.)