sueeeus

It’s been written that the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons. I can’t say how many troubled people are the product of a troubled home environment, be it drunkenness, drugs, depression, abuse, and the like, but I can see myself, and my brothers and sisters. I see these people, who I hold most dear, and think of them, who they are, the people they’ve become. I’ve watched them grow up, raise children, marry, divorce, die. I’ve watched their children grow up, raise children, marry, and struggle.

I’ve seen what happens when a troubled person becomes a parent and tries to overcompensate the shortcomings of their youth in order to avoid raising another troubled person. And I’ve seen it backfire with tremendous force. As it would. And I’ve seen us develop those traits that we despise most in our parents. When we promise ourselves while we’re young that we will never, ever be like that. Never. Only it happens. Somehow, it sidles up and slips right in, and the next thing I know, it’s like I’m having an out of body experience in which I look at myself in shock and horror as the voice of my mother or my father is issuing forth from my own mouth.

Man with a capital M

I’m not sure what he thinks of me, at this point.  (Other than that I’m whacked, which I fully admit.)  I hope that in time he will find the warm places in his heart that we shared, and that he will be able to smile and be grateful for having had those experiences and feelings.

I’m grateful.  I’ve recently been contemplating much about the path I’ve walked thus far, and realized that he gave me something that I’d not really experienced before.  Thrill.  He is manly among men.  M.A.N.  He’s confident and carries himself with a swagger.  His arms are gloriously defined and he’s strong as can be.  M.A.N.  When he smiles, he lights up the room.  And he smells good.  He wears a variety of colognes that are completely tasteful and he has the sense to wear them with subtlety, which makes him that much more enticing.  In fact, his personal hygiene is impeccable.  He’s always clean and fresh, and while we were together, I could nibble on him for hours if he’d let me.  I can’t recall any other time in my life where I’ve wanted to do that.  The smooth feel of a freshly shaved face, and the rough feel a few hours later, both equally delicious.  And what woman wouldn’t thrill at the embrace of a strong, manly man?  Somehow, it makes a woman feel more like a woman.

Lying side by side, he would lift me, effortlessly (I could finish the sentence, but I don’t think that part is necessary).  That act, which consumed only one or two seconds in the fabric of time, is imprinted in my mind, hopefully forever.  And with each recollection, I can relive the thrill and feel the butterflies in my stomach and the goosebumps on my arms.

In one sense, it’s kind of tragic to have lived forty five years and experienced so very little intimate thrill, but in another sense, I count myself blessed to have gotten to experience it at all.

I tell him that I love him, but I can’t really explain how and why we don’t fit.  I will always have a warm place of love in my heart for Skills, the beautiful man who woke me up and made me feel alive again.  And somewhere, in his heart of hearts, beneath the oh, so very tough and manly exterior that protects him, the place where we met and stayed for a while, I think he will preserve a little love for me.

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?

Oi.  To begin, I had a child free day and the sun was shining brightly.  I busted out my new air compressor, read the manual, followed the instructions, let it make terrible noise for fifteen minutes in the garage while it was doing its initial thing that is supposed to be done upon first use of a new air compressor, and scratched my head trying to figure out the attachments and fittings, as they didn’t come with instructions.  Being intuitively obvious, and all.  Don’t laugh.  I’ve never done it before.  But I figured it out and successfully inflated the tires on my bike. I didn’t follow the shut down procedure, since I decided I’d take the bike for a ride to see if the tires were still good, or if they’d need re-inflating.

It’s been probably three years since I’ve ridden, because I couldn’t ride with LB when he was a baby due to his spine problem.

I was enjoying a nice ride along a nearby trail, when the helmet started giving me trouble, so I reached up to hold it while going too fast around a bend, and biff-boom-bam, this forty five year old woman skidded very unceremoniously across the pavement.  Not fun.  Not fun at all.  My jeans protected my leg for the most part, and I actually road burned and bruised my boob, all the way through the layers of my bra and t-shirt combined.  Good grief.  Who ever road burns their boobs?

...you should have seen the other guy...

...would have been worse without jeans...

Actually, part of the leg burn is from a previous encounter with the pavement when I tripped over BB while carrying LB.  Nice.  I’ve had three glorious spills in a relatively short time, after a nearly lifetime span of no spills.  It makes me wonder…   I *am* glad that I didn’t have LB with me — I’d be horrified to crash with him aboard.  But I wouldn’t have been going fast if I had him aboard.  Even so.  I need to be much more careful.

Truth be told, I *was* a bit traumatized by the wreck.  I still haven’t actually inspected my bike to see what damage it sustained.  I was sitting on the couch, trying to regain my composure, when I heard a very loud bang from the garage.

BANG!

As I ran to the garage, my first thought was OMG, I didn’t follow the shut down procedure on my air compressor and it’s blown up!  Followed shortly by, you idiot, it couldn’t possibly have blown up, for goodness’ sake.  Followed thereafter by, WTH *was* that?  So, I confirmed that the air compressor was indeed intact.  Check.  Unplugged it.  Check.  Surveyed the garage.  Tried the garage door opener.  Aha.  Something was amiss.  It would try to open, and then give up.  I pulled the dangling cord, which it turns out is a safety/quick release thingy for manual operation, but then didn’t know what to do to re-engage it.  Bah.  Don’t laugh.  I’ve never done this before.  I got the manual out, read it, and learned how to re-engage the safety, and to run the diagnostic.  Only the diagnostic didn’t diagnose anything.  And the thing wouldn’t work.  And my car was inside.  And I was supposed to collect my kids shortly.  So I pulled the cord again and tried to lift the door.  Holy CRAP, that’s a heavy door.  And it wouldn’t catch and stay open, so it was a very hazardous door.  Bah!  I got a step ladder to prop it open, but it wasn’t tall enough for my car to clear, so I had to get my whiz bang extension ladder thingy and adjust it so that it could prop open the door, and maneuver the other ladder out while maneuvering the taller ladder in, all without hurting myself.  Mission accomplished.  Remember, I’m sporting my fresh flesh wounds, so this whole endeavor was strenuous and unpleasant.

Anyhow, after getting my car out, putting the garage door back, and consulting my friend Google, I learned that there are two torsion springs and they have a limited life span and one had just expired.  So the big bang was the spring breaking.  It felt good to have an explanation.  It calmed me down considerably.  Truth be told, though, my first impulse was to call a man.  But I could only think of Gadget and Skills while in that state of mind, and the last person in the world I want to talk to is Gadget, especially after yesterday’s fine turn of events, and seeking help from Skills would have been awkward, though he might possibly have answered had I called, and he might have even helped.  I decided to man up, get over my sexist impulse and see how far I could get on my own.  And I managed.  Afterward, I thought of at least three coworkers who I’m sure would have helped right away, had I had the presence of mind to call them.  But I managed.

So.  There it is.  I would rather not have to trouble my pretty little head with figuring things like this out, and I’d rather not get my pretty little hands all dirty and greasy and grimy, and get myself all sweaty and bruised and cut.  I’d so much rather be a girly girl!

But sometimes a girl does what a girl’s got to do.

I can’t be broken.  I just wanted to say it, for the record.  I can post a picture of my boobs on the internet, in the interest of self healing and self awareness.  And my deliciously squishy belly, in the interest of self acceptance.  But I can’t be broken.  I know this, because I know from where all my intentions spring, and I mean well to all and for all, regardless of how it may play out.  I know this, as well, because in the face of direct onslaught, I still receive blessings of all forms from all sides.  The sun is shining and all is well.  There may be unpleasantness that I have to walk through, but the sun is still shining on me.  So I will continue holding my head high, and I will keep smiling.

Meanwhile, I may have to lawyer up.  But I can do that, if I have to.

And I won’t let one man’s colossal lack of testicular fortitude keep me from believing in the goodness of people in general and men in particular.

I’m not sure how well I can shield the children from their father’s lack of redeeming qualities.  I want for them to grow up with respect for him, but he leaves very little room for such things to be possible.

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.

River, river carry me on
Living river carry me on
River, river carry me on
To the place where I come from

So deep, so wide, will you take me on your back for a ride
If I should fall, would you swallow me deep inside

River, show me how to float
I feel like I’m sinking down
Thought that I could get along
But here in this water
My feet won’t touch the ground
I need something to turn myself around

Going away, away towards the sea
River deep, can you lift up and carry me
Oh roll on though the heartland
‘Til the sun has left the sky
River, river carry me high
‘Til the washing of the water make it all alright
Let your waters reach me like she reached me tonight

Letting go, it’s so hard
The way it’s hurting now
To get this love untied
So tough to stay with this thing
‘Cause if I follow through
I face what I denied
I get those hooks out of me
And I take out the hooks that I sunk deep in your side
Kill that fear of emptiness, loneliness I hide

River, oh river, river running deep
Bring me something that will let me get to sleep
In the washing of the water will you take it all away
Bring me something to take this pain away

(Peter Gabriel – Washing of the Water)

I let him go.  Sent him back to the river.  I think he’s hurting.  I’m hurting.  But I didn’t know what else to do.  I don’t know how to balance life any more.  I don’t know up from down or left from right.  I don’t know how to blend lives.

I told him it was beautiful while it was beautiful, and that I’ll forever treasure that.  And I truly mean it.  I hope he knows that.

Maybe I will find myself again.

I want to.

I need to.

I’m beginning to learn that if someone has an issue with something or somebody, it’s not really about that thing or that person, but it’s about them. In life, we truly have control over only one being, and that is our own self. We may try to influence others or mold or shape them into a version of what we think we want, but when it comes down to it, if that is what we are doing, we are missing the point that we need to look in the mirror and find out what it is within our own selves that is at issue.

At first, it’s not an easy thing to look in the mirror. It’s so much easier to try to pin fault on someone or something else, than take responsibility for it yourself. That in itself is the first big swindle. Fault. Why does there have to be fault or blame? What is it about human nature that short-circuits truth and humility for judgment or pride? Judgment and pride assign fault or blame, and these things stem from fear.

The human qualities I want to be known for and remembered by are love, truth, humility, honor, compassion, and integrity. I would like to be able to look in the mirror and see that reflection.

What do I see?

I see a struggle of human frailty. I see my actions fall short of my intentions. My intentions are pure. Truly. From the depth of my heart and soul. But walking the talk, now that is a different story. The words that I find to express my self are not always heard as intended, and the ability to choose the right words is an art that is yet to be mastered. So much vigilance is needed. So much care. There is such a responsibility with words. They carry so much.

I see a person easily disarmed. Disarmed by judgment. Disarmed by pride.

She needs to be so much more vigilant. See the forest and the trees. Evaluate all words, not just hers but those directed at her, for their source. Measure them against the standard of love, truth, humility, honor, compassion, and integrity. Do they hold up? From whence do they spring?

With such a measure, she is armed, not disarmed. And after the measure, what should she do? Do her own words stem from love, truth, humility, honor, compassion and integrity? If not, she can change. She should change. If so, she should stand her ground.

In all fairness to myself, I see strength as well.  Yes, a struggle of human frailty, but also some triumph of human strength.  I may shed tears at inopportune moments, or cry myself to sleep at times.  But I am strong.  Very strong.  Because I am wide open.  Open for love.  Which leaves me vulnerable.  Unprotected.  It takes a certain strength and courage to be so.  I embrace the love, and face the rest.

What do I want?

I want to understand and be understood, to love and be loved, to cherish and be cherished, to hear and be heard, to treasure and be treasured, to delight and be delighted in.

Do I want this for or from one person or all people in my life sphere? Certainly, from me outward, I want this for all. To understand my people, to love my people, to cherish my people, to hear my people, to treasure my people, to delight in my people.

And inward? Who do I want to understand me, love me, cherish me, hear me, treasure me, and delight in me? Well, everyone, of course.  Is that realistic?

All I know is that I can do my part. My part is to love, try to understand, cherish, try to hear, treasure, and delight. I can do my part. It’s fundamental flow. Give and you shall receive. Do unto others as you’d have done unto you.

Do I feel alone? Sometimes. But that means only that I’m not paying close enough attention, and not seeing the forest for the trees.

Is there a difference between men and women? There are differences, yes, but I think these things are about the human heart and transcend gender. I think that if people get back to the basics of humility and love, then anything is possible.