sueeeus

...one of the last of the innocents and she keeps fooling herself...

I’m learning.  At a glacial pace.  Or even a plate tectonics pace.

It’s beginning to dawn on me that my body and heart and soul are all speaking to me at times, and that I should listen.  They may actually know what they’re saying.

When I recall all the nights I would cry myself to sleep, curled up in fetal position, in complete and utter anguish, I should have listened.  Instead, I assumed I was somehow at fault, that I really was that insecure, or that my hormones were to blame.  I have pages and pages of blog posts and journal entries to that effect.  Pages and pages which constitute hours upon hours of rationalization.  It’s not you it’s me.  Guess what?  It was you.  It was me too.  I should have given myself credit and honored my body, heart and soul, instead of allowing myself to be duped by my head.  What my head couldn’t see, everything else about me could.

I wasn’t then and am not now an overindulgent mother who lets her kids walk all over her.  Yes, I have a particular parenting style that is gentle, but also strict.  I believe that discipline can be accomplished without a  heavy hand.

I wasn’t then and am not now insecure and needy.  I’ve always been open and loving.  Not grasping, in order to receive or validate my existence, but simply giving. I give my all, with innocence, pure, simple,  open and complete.  If it’s met with scorn, ambivalence, or rejection, of course I wince.  How can I not, when all I’m doing is pouring out love?

Yes, I am definitely ultra sensitive.  Absolutely and most definitely.  Positively and completely.

I should do a better job of giving myself the benefit of the doubt.  At least I recognize that now.  I hope I can pay better attention from here on out.  I probably won’t, but I can at least make an attempt to try now and then.  Or at least recognize it more quickly in retrospect.

Eventually…

adorned

Today I honored myself.

I bought some pretty things to adorn myself.  Pretty things to celebrate me.  Pretty things to make me feel more pretty.  This year I’ve lost 38 lbs, without dieting and without trying.  I think the hot mama in me is re-emerging.  She’s been buried for a very long time.  She’s coming back, because I’m coming back.  I’m finding myself again, rising from the rubble of the past fifteen or twenty years.

Today I had a migraine.  Today I took vicodin.  Today I had a massage.  Today I shopped.  Today I walked.  Today I had ice cream.  Today I walked through a mall with no anxiety.  Today I had the worst Thai food ever.  Today I told my kids I love them.  Today I dreamed.  Today I smiled.  Today I laughed.  Today blue eyes looked into brown eyes.  Today I talked to people I love.  Today I remembered people I lost.  Today I shared precious memories.  Today I learned new things.  Today I embraced.  Today I kissed.  Today I listened.  Today I talked.  Today I heard music.  Today I danced.  Today I stretched.  Today I did yoga.  Today I sang my heart out.  Today I cried my eyes out.

Today I realized that everything is going to be okay.  Today I am ready to let go.  Today I let go.  Today I am at peace.  Today I am ready to rest.

Today was a very good day.

lookout

I’m trying to be honest with myself.  It’s so easy to point a finger anywhere but at yourself.  Just because no relationship as yet has ever worked, doesn’t mean that I assign blame to the other party for the ultimate demise thereof.  I know I’m not easy to live with.  I’m strong and independent.  Stubborn.  Set in my ways. And not interested in somebody else dictating how I should be.  And I’m not so arrogant that I don’t acknowledge that the opposite holds true as well.  I have no right or even desire, really, to dictate how another should be.  We are who we are.  We are  how we are.  If there is any change to take place, it’s on an individual basis only, and that is if and only if said individual makes the decision to make some sort of change, to his or her self, for his or her own reasons.

People need to be able to cooperate, in order to live well with one another.   And nobody has a crystal ball.  How can one know if the shoe fits, unless one tries it on?  And what if it feels great at first, but then you develop a blister?  And what if you treat the blister, and keep wearing the shoes, but you develop more blisters, and then you sprain your ankle?  What if you try to stretch that shoe, or stretch your foot, or buy special socks that are just a bit thicker or just a bit thinner, so that you can make that shoe fit?  There comes a point where you have to just take a look at your feet and take a look at those shoes and accept the fact that they just don’t work well together.  It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the shoes.  It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with your feet.  It just means they don’t fit each other.  So you wistfully set those shoes aside, or give them away in the hopes that they will bless somebody else.  It isn’t failure.  It’s just not a good fit.

I’m not angry with Skills, or even Gadget.  I’m disappointed in the colors that have emerged at various times in this journey, but truly, I don’t and can’t hold it against anybody.  It’s just data.  It’s just another point of information that helps describe that person.  And I can’t be angry with them for not being who I need.  They are who they are.  I am who I am.   We don’t fit.  I’m okay with that.

I can take ownership and apologize for any pain that I inflicted.  I am certain that there is pain.  So I am sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.  And I have to take ownership for the pain that I have experienced, because I am no victim, and I am no martyr.  I am responsible for my own self and my own feelings.  I have, in the past, done discredit to myself by trying to make things fit that simply don’t, can’t and won’t fit.  I thought I was doing the right thing, making every effort to make things work.  But I wasn’t looking at the damage I was doing to myself.  So now I’m trying to look at things in a different light.  To flip the script.  Before, it took me years to stand up and make ways part.  This time, I recognized it much sooner, and took action.  Granted, this time around I have children, so I have to ask myself what is the ultimate impact to them for whatever choices I am making.  And that helps me focus on the bigger picture, which is caring for myself so that I can care for them.

I don’t know what next time will look like, or how long it will last, or what trouble I will make for myself.  I don’t know, absolutely, what I want.  I know some of what I want.  And some of what I don’t want.  I don’t want to be lonely.  But I’ve learned that the loneliness one feels when one is with someone is so much worse than the loneliness that one feels when one is not.  I want someone to talk to, to laugh with, to dine with, to be with.  But not necessarily every day.  And not necessarily to live with.  I don’t know that I know how to live with somebody.  Anybody.

I sure as hell could stand to get laid!  I don’t really mean that, because what I really want is to make love.  Big difference.  In a dreamy ideal world it would happen every day!  But that’s not practical or foreseeable.  I’m serially monogamous and just don’t know how to be casual about that sort of thing.  Too much emotion and stuff between the ears is wrapped up in that, for me.  It’s a good thing that I have woman-kind’s best friend, the most amazing invention of all time –the magic bullet.  And it’s not the mini- food processor of which I speak.  And it’s also not– the– same–.  But if times are tough, it’s there.

I think I’m feeling better.  I don’t feel like the blood in my veins is sludge any more, or at least not today.  I don’t feel like howling or breaking anything.  I don’t feel a deep sorrow.  I don’t feel angry at anyone, or at myself.  I don’t feel frustrated.  I don’t feel wistful.  When I see that I truly accept others for who they are, I am learning that I can just as well accept myself for who I am (indeed, not doing so is hypocritical!).  I don’t need to chastise myself for being who I am.  I am who I am.  And if I don’t like who I am, then I can change myself to become who I want to be.  I have that freedom!  I have that right!  It’s up to me.  I’m the commander of my own ship.

...my future's so bright I have to wear shades... ...see how I sparkle!

I’m in a slump!  I’m always tired and feel like the blood in my veins is more like sludge.  I have no energy.  No inspiration.  Nothing.  Zip.  Zilch.  Nada.

Gah!

It doesn’t help much that I sprained my hip.  I have good meds so I am ambulatory, and it’s feeling much better, thank you.

I tidied the boys’ toy room — it’s amazing how they can make any place look like a complete disaster, with almost no effort at all.  They hardly even have any toys remaining, since I’ve confiscated almost everything.  And they STILL manage to spread them out to cover every inch of floor space.  It’s like the way Jesus fed the thousands with only a couple loaves of bread.  That’s what they can do with their toys.  Nothing short of miraculous.  Only it doesn’t do much to benefit humankind.

It’s a cloudy day, but hopefully it will be nice enough to take the boys for a walk, once the little one wakes up from his nap.

I should plan the grocery list for the week, but did I mention that I have no inspiration?

I don’t seem to be following the normal stages of grief and loss.  The first stage is denial.  I’m excellent at that.  But I’ve moved on.  The next stage is fear and anger.  I sort of skipped that stage, I think, and went straight to grief and depression.  But I’m sort of waffling back and forth between depression and anger.  Different thoughts surface now and then, and I find myself irritated, but also thankful, because the mere presence of those thoughts helps cement the reasons for my actions in changing my life path so dramatically.  The final stage is acceptance.  I like to think that I have acceptance, in that I know that moving on was the right thing to do.  However.  Key back to the slump comment.  No energy.  No inspiration.  These are clearly marks of depression.

And I don’t want to be depressed!  I want to be thrilled!  I want to be excited!  I want to laugh!  I want to sparkle!

Gah!

Where’s my fountain of life?!

Gadget took the kids this weekend, and I have a thousand and one things I could have done, but I was at a loss without them.  Instead, I filled my days with errands and odds and ends.  I drove all the way to this fancy shopping center on the East side so that I could find a specific hand lotion that was on clearance at Anthropologie.  Success!  I actually found it.  But in the process, had a mild panic attack or two.  Something about being amidst all that over the top consumerism.  Although, the waterfall of clear butterflies suspended three stories for viewing pleasure while riding the escalator was delightful.

butterflies

I hid out at Starbucks for a while and tried to catch my breath.  The coffee was underwhelming, but people watching is always interesting.  A group of chefs sat next to me and had a meeting about what they were going to prepare that evening.  Artists at work.  It was a fun eavesdrop.  But I still couldn’t catch my breath, so I walked, and walked, and walked.  I found a Greek sandwich shop and had a gyro, which helped a little.  And I stumbled upon a farmer’s market, where I treated myself to a bouquet of fresh flowers for only $5.

fresh from the market

They’re so happy and colorful.  I just might try to find a farmer’s market closer to home, so that I can brighten my sphere with fresh flowers more often.  Once home, I tried to find some enthusiasm for anything on my to-do list, but again, couldn’t focus and couldn’t breathe.  So I went for another walk.

It was a parade of slugs.  They were out in force.  I’ve never seen so many slugs in my life, and considering where I live, I’ve seen a lot of slugs in my life.  Did you know that slugs eat s#!t?  It’s true.  They do.  I’m not sure what they’re eating in this particular photo, but they were intent.

slugfest

I spent alot of time on Facebook replaying videos of LB saying ‘Sponge Bob’ and ‘Mmmmmm’, over and over and over again.  I missed my kids.

The good thing about this kind of anxiety is that I have little interest in food and I have to keep moving so that I can try to breathe.  So I’m getting some air and exercise.  In my past life, I would escape to food and television.  I’m still trying to figure out what’s tripping me up, other than just delayed processing of all the emotional trauma from the past years.  Or something.

My sister is encouraging me to keep up with my fish oil and vitamin D.  I’ve been forgetting to take my handful of supplements for a few weeks, so who knows, maybe there’s something to that.

It’s nothing short of amazing, the way a small change like painting a room, or even a wall, can work wonders on one’s mental and emotional state.  The act of painting is itself soothing and therapeutic.

before

after

during

after

Now I have a nearly clean slate with which to work.  I can do almost anything with this room!  Currently, it’s just floor space for the kids to romp (and two fully exposed corners, perfect for time outs, mwahahaha).

So many possibilities!

I have a fantastic life.  Truly.  I recognize it.  I have a great and stable job during a tough economic climate.  I have two boisterous, happy, healthy boys.  I have a comfortable home.  I have a reliable vehicle.  I have food in the pantry.  I have a closet full of clothes.  I have loving friends.  I have incredible sisters.

And yet.  Something is all knotted up inside of me, and I find it hard to breathe.  It’s not self-pity, as far as I can tell.  I don’t want to wallow in anything.  I’m not feeling down on myself.  I don’t think I’m chastising myself.  I’m acknowledging and taking ownership of my mistakes and shortcomings in managing relationships, but not beating myself up over not being able to fit a square peg in a round hole.  I like myself.  I see good in myself.  I recognize that my existence contributes positively to this world, in that I love and give of myself to others, and I do good work for my employer.  I try not to burden anybody (Gadget, of course, doesn’t share that particular view).

And yet.  Something inside me feels like it needs to howl at the moon or run a marathon or break something big or cry my eyes out (more than I already have).  It’s like I’m stuck in this strange visceral state and I need a kick start to snap me out of it.  Only I don’t know what kind of kick is needed.

On an intellectual level, I know everything is fine.  Gadget can play his silly games, but it’s all smoke and mirrors and won’t amount to anything.  And yes, there has been a great deal of change and stress in my life this year and last, but all of that is past tense, and the here and now is full of goodness.  So why can’t I breathe?

these hands

These hands are strong and capable.  They are not afraid to work.   They are eager to help.  These hands are soft and gentle.  They touch the ones I love.

these arms

These arms hold my children.  These arms embrace the ones I love.

these legs

These legs are sturdy and strong.  They reach the ground and take me where I need to go.

these feet

These feet have walked in foreign lands and felt the touch of foreign sands.

this belly

This belly carried my babies and kept them safe until they were ready to face the world.  The marks are a badge of honor, earned while I swelled to accommodate the beautiful babies that grew within me.

these breasts

These breasts brought forth the life-giving sustenance that nourished my babies for two full years.

these eyes

These eyes are the windows to my soul. Wide open, they hide nothing. These eyes have cried an ocean of tears. They’ve sparkled with joy and flashed with ire.

this smile

This smile can light up a room.

this skin

This skin is soft and silky.  Feminine.  It speaks, and what it has to say is “I am woman.”

these lines

These lines have stories to tell.  Each wrinkle unique to me, and only me.

these scars

These scars bear testimony of joy and pain.  Each one carries its own memory and evokes the seasons and the senses.  This one, a burn, came on a hot summer night, in the company of family and loved ones, while the secret sorrow of another lost baby distracted my mind.  I treasure each scar, which represents some chapter in my life.  Each one is a part of the story of who I am and how I came to be the me who is here now.

this mind

This mind is at times sharp and quick. At times misunderstood. At times blocked. At times stubborn. At times witty.  At times at war with itself.  Always hungry for resolution, reason, understanding, wisdom, peace, and harmony.

this face

This face is a fortunate happenstance of genetics.  It wears the years well.  This face says, “This is me, here and now.  I am strong.  I am kind.  I am good.  I mean no harm.  I am trying to do my best and to be my best.  I am alive.  I am real.  I am blessed.  I am not broken.  But I am sometimes sad.”

this heart

This heart is learning to honor the vessel that holds it.  This heart is full of love.

Sometimes I feel as though I’m spread too thin and I just don’t know how to hold it all together.

I want to be able to give my kids the kind of attention that they need without being manipulated by them.  I want to give them love and support, and I want to nurture them, but I also want to give them direction and I want them to learn to respect others and to be obedient.  I so want them to grow up to be good, upstanding people in this world.

I also want to be able to give due attention to my new found love, and to nurture this relationship so that it can grow and flourish.  I so want it to work.

And I’d also like to give myself some attention, in which I can somehow recharge my weary self so that I have something to even give to the people in my life.

I’m recognizing that when Skills is here, my boys behave badly; there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Clearly, they are competing for attention, and choosing the path of least resistance, which has the most immediate attention-winning potential, albeit negative attention.  I have to be swift and immediate when administering correction.  Everything is disrupted, and in the end, nobody is happy.  It’s exhausting, especially to my gentle, harmony-seeking soul.

Today I had some time alone with BB, and it was nice.  He behaved well, for the most part.  We painted some of the living room while LB napped.

I love his drawings

He was so worried about getting into trouble, he didn’t want to tell me if he spilled a drop of paint, or got some paint on his fingers.  Bless his precious little heart.  The boy is constantly in trouble for not listening or helping himself without asking or not sharing or complaining about what’s for dinner.  He loves to draw, and I’m thrilled to see his confidence and ability grow as he draws and draws and draws.  He’s got great imagination, and I try to let him know how much I like his drawings.  I save almost all of them.  Some day when he’s older I will show him, and he will know that even though he may remember me barking at him constantly, I was always loving and appreciating him.

the artist at work

He doesn’t know that I watch him when he draws.  I see him, intent on his work, and my heart swells with a mixture of emotions — some joy, some wistfulness, much love.  My little boy, alone, entertaining himself.  I need to be more interactive with him, somehow.  Somehow.

Later, BB was tired and LB was wide awake, so I brought LB downstairs with me, snuggled him next to me on the sofa under a soft blanket and we nibbled on crackers together.  He was so happy, there in my arms.  It was sweet to have some one-on-one time with him.  I got to fill up on toddler sweetness, as he’d raise his beautiful little face to look at me and giggle as we ‘talked’ about how yummy the crackers were.

It’s amazing how small moments as these can be so energizing and healing.  To share positive attention with my children, to hug them, tell them I love them, smile into their eyes –these things are so fulfilling.  And yet, somehow, moments like these seem so few and far between.

How I wish I could figure out how to balance it all, how to see and assess the moments and deflect or divert situations before they escalate or explode.  It’s like I’m a bomb squad of one, under constant pressure to figure out whether to cut the red wire or the blue wire.  Or maybe the white one.  Unless there’s a green one.  Or it could be the black one.  It’s exhausting.

I have about ten drafts hanging out around here.  Some go back a few years, even.  This one I started last November, but it mostly still applies.  It seems that my emotional state tends to be somewhat of a broken record, anyway.  So here goes.

I wish I had somebody to talk to right now, but since I’m a blubbering fool, I wouldn’t be able to speak coherently anyway. I do have someone to talk to, several, in fact, and I’m truly grateful — yet I don’t always feel like I’m truly understood.  It would be nice to be understood.

~*~*~*~

It can be a serious character flaw, to want to please one and all.  It would behoove me to grow a backbone.  It could come in handy both in my professional life and my personal life.  Instead of standing tall, puffing out my chest, and deflecting the onslaught with wisdom and grace, I take it, and take it, and keep on taking it.  But later, I have to pay the piper.  It all goes inside and churns away at me so that I find myself short of breath.

I wish I could be like Superman.  The way he soars up, up, and away, closer to the sun, folds his arms across his chest, closes his eyes, and rests and recharges.  Then he’s all strong and rejuvenated, and ready to blaze into action.  Me, I hear the cacophony of demands, wails, criticisms, insinuations, whines, expectations, opinions and complaints, but rather than filter through it and find the nuggets of goodness, I feel as though I’ve got kryptonite shrapnel embedded all through me, and I’m incapacitated so that all I can do is curl into fetal position while I’m kicked around, hoping for it to end, searching my mind and my will for some fragment of strength to hold onto and pull myself up, up, out and away from this mess.

Is it very helpful to be told I should be stronger?  Not much.

I commented to some of my work friends that I should develop a shell to shut these things out, but they almost all said that if I did, it should be selective to only those necessary.   In a way, that’s a heartening thing to hear.  It perhaps supports that there is value and merit in the kindness and softness that exposes my vulnerabilities.

~*~*~*~

What’s in a name?  I’m wanting to change my name.  I didn’t have it changed in the divorce, because I didn’t have any hard feelings toward Gadget at the time, apart from the simple fact that the marriage absolutely had to end.  Mainly, the kids have the same name, so I thought it would be less confusing as we go through life to have the same name.

However.  As time goes by,  and shades of character unveil, I find myself wanting to remove all traces, insomuch as is possible.

I could take back my maiden name, but I hesitate to do that.  I think that I associate it with an identity of who I used to be, rather than who I am.  That was someone from a previous life.  Someone who wasn’t as sure of herself as I’d wished her to be.

It raises the question, ‘Who am I?’  Which prompts the response, ‘24601’.  What if I changed my name to Valjean?

Sueeeus Maximus Valjean.

I kind of like it.  People will think I’m whacked.  Which, maybe I am.  My dead brother would totally get it, though.  He’d dig it.

~*~*~*~

BB has told me several times lately that he wants me to become a vampire so that I “don’t never die”.  It troubles me somewhat that my mortal demise is so prevalent in his thoughts.

~*~*~*~

I do need to be stronger.  I get that.  I just don’t want to be told.  It’s another one of those character flaws.  I’m pretty sure that if I could get rested, I might just be stronger.  It’s so elusive, though, is rest.  Meanwhile, the children call.  I hear the youngest crying.