sueeeus

The title alone would likely draw all kinds of traffic, if I didn’t have search engines blocked.  Not that I want traffic.  I write for myself, blah blah blah.

I’ve got these thoughts swirling about in my mind that I’ve never had the courage nor taken the time to ponder very deeply, let alone put to paper.  But I think it’s time.  I’m not sure how cohesive it will be, but I’m going to give it a shot.

…why I don’t like …

I don’t like to give or receive oral sex.  In general.  Or at least not much.  Maybe if the moon is waxing gibbous and the planets are aligned just right.  It’s been a matter of contention throughout the better part of  my sexually active life.  Why is this so?  Simple.  It’s because of negative associations that are embedded in the memories of predatorial coercive experiences from my youth.  It’s very difficult to release such associations, and it’s not particularly easy to talk about them.  Why would I want to talk about them, anyway?  Avoidance is so much easier.  Just don’t go there.  I don’t want to think about icky things that happened long ago.

…keeping numbers low…

I, as a human, am a sexual being.  I, as a hot blooded Aries woman of Asian and Scandinavian descent, am a sexual being.  I yearn for connection, for a fullness that is hard to describe.  And I don’t yearn for variety.  Dear God, no.  I don’t get that, about people.  Wondering what it would be like with this one, that one, or the other one.  As if people are flavors of ice cream to try.  I find it gross.  Icky.  There are many icky connotations when it comes to me and the ideas that are trapped in my mind revolving around sexuality.  So sex as a sport, sex as recreation, are icky to me.  I’m so not interested.  Ick, icky, pfthtft, blech.

I have no interest in the dating scene.  I’ve been terrified of it all along, from the very beginning when I found myself adult and single.  Because, as far as I could tell, dating meant having sex with various people.  It shouldn’t mean that, but somehow I ended up harboring that interpretation.  Maybe because when I was young, it seemed that the male prime directive was to get laid, not married.  They wanted to play the field.  I wanted to settle down.

I don’t want to go on exposing myself to others in the pursuit of Mister Right For Me.  Enough is enough.  I want to keep my numbers low.  Or as low as possible.  There is too much at stake, with such frivolity.  Not just physical, with the risk of disease, but the emotional toll is steep.  And I’ve never been frivolous, really.  Serially monogamous, as they say.  But I suppose it’s all relative.  I suppose I could be considered a trollop in some circles.  Because my numbers…  My number is 13, I think.  (I don’t really want to count any more.  I think it’s 13.)   Anyway.  In my own estimation, I have not been frivolous.  I’ve only ever wanted to be with just one.

…in an ideal world, there would have only ever been one…

My number would have been low, in an ideal world.  My number would have been one.  I would have settled in to life with my person, and we would have learned each other, grown with each other, and built a life together.

I know people, my age, whose number is one.  I applaud them.  It’s hard to fathom how they were able to manage it.

…letting go…

It’s not an ideal world.  I have my issues that constrain the relationships I find myself in.  I have a yearning, a hunger, an ache to let everything go and immerse myself in the moment.  I want to release all the constraints and let them flow away so that I can breathe and move and honor each sensation that my body can feel.  How much of this depends on another?  How much of this depends only on me?  Has anyone ever truly let go with me?  Have I ever truly let go with anyone?

…ripped off…

For so much of my adult life I’ve felt like I’ve been ripped off, sexually.  Negative associations aside, I still have a hunger for intimacy.  The man I married was more interested in who-knows-what-until-3 am than going to bed at a reasonable hour and enjoying some midnight magic with his wife.  I literally had to ask him for a deposit when I thought I was ovulating, and that was pretty much the sum of it.  A deposit.  Pathetic.  But I do have two wonderful children now, so it wasn’t for naught.  And therefore it was worth it.  Worth every miserable minute.

I suppose that most of the feelings of ripped offedness (I don’t care if that’s not a word, I’m using it anyway) stem from the marriage.  He probably felt ripped off too, because I wasn’t into giving blow jobs.  That, and he favors big booty and little bustage, and my endowments are exactly the opposite.

It was a chapter.  I’m glad it’s over.

…surrender…

There is something to be said about surrender.  When you carry the weight of your world on your shoulders, the burden is heavy.  How can you let it go?  It takes a certain level of trust to be able to let go, to surrender.  Such moments, however fleeting, are sweet and glorious.  Like honey, smooth and amber, flowing gently, covering everything with a soothing glow.

…mid life…

I’m no longer young.  These thoughts and feelings have been with me for most of my life.  When better to address them, if not now?  I could rue the waste of years and moments that could have been spent loving more fully, or I could gird up and say it’s better late than never.  So now is a good time to address these things.  Or at least try.  I’m on a journey inward, looking for myself.  Finding myself.  Revealing myself.  Unearthing myself.  Discovering myself.  Healing myself.  I must.  Because life beckons.  And I want to live.

…morality, what is it?…

The question of morality has quite an impact on thoughts and feelings revolving around sexuality.  What is morality?  It seems to vary from person to person, and it seems often to be steeped in religious background or  upbringing.  What is it to me?

Is it immoral to go through life, one partner after another, in a seemingly endless quest for ‘The One’?  I would generally say no.  That is, unless the partners overlap against their will.  In which case it’s unkind and unfair to the  unknowing partner.  In other words, unfaithful.  Not good.  Not good at all.

Is it immoral to have sex outside of marriage? I’m thinking along the lines of damage control, rather than religion.  Generally, religion provides rules, guidelines and boundaries designed for our safety.  Not that the intent is never butchered and what results is a far cry from any of that.  The intent of religion is noble.  The execution thereof, not so much.  So I think in terms of damage control.  Sex is personal, intimate and emotional.  It just is.  Well, maybe not to testosterone crazed men.  I’m not a man.  I speak only as a hot blooded Aries woman of Asian and Scandinavian descent.  For me, sex is personal, intimate, and emotional.  To share it with another means sharing intimacy and emotion with another.  It opens a channel of vulnerability.  It seems best, logical even, to keep the impact minimal.  Keep the numbers low.  In an ideal world, my number would have been only one, and I would be married.  But that’s not my world.

Is it immoral to take one’s sexual needs into one’s own hands?  I had a friend who once said, “Better to cast your seed into the belly of a whore than spill it on the ground.”  I’m surprised at myself that I would actually remember a statement, verbatim.  I generally only remember nebulously, without the clarity of detail.  Yet I remember that particular statement.  Distinctly.  Probably because I wholeheartedly disagree.  One, because the attitude propagates a profession that is demeaning to humanity, and two because in so doing, more than one person is involved, hence the possibility of hurt or anguish is amplified.  Masturbation makes complete logical sense.  Nobody is hurt, nobody else’s emotions are involved, no diseases are spread, and a physical need is addressed.  It’s merely taking care of business.  There is a physical need, a tension that grows and can lead to distraction.  Best to nip it in the bud rather than let it lead to something destructive.

That said, I sort of struggle with my Catholic upbringing and the sense of shame associated with such unmentionables.  Masturbation.  It’s hard to even voice the word in thought, let alone write it down.  Religious upbringing aside, it still makes logical sense to me, so truly, at the end of the day, I have no problem with it.

…loving…

I think about loving.  About making love.  I imagine two people, fully immersed in each other.  Skin on skin.  Touching.  Tasting.  Nibbling.  Fingers gliding gently and slowly along curves of limbs.  Bodies tangled up in each other.  Breathing each other’s air.  Feeling everything.  Every point of contact a distinct sensation.  I imagine drifting off to sleep in the warmth of each other’s presence, waking, but only barely, and moving again with each other, tangled up again in semi-consciousness.  Loving each other in waves.  Surrendering completely to each other.  Falling asleep in peace.  Comfort.  Safety.  Waking up in harmony.  Warm.

Smooth.

Honey.

Love.

Is such a thing possible?  If I can imagine it, it must be so.  It must.

…running out of steam…

As is so often the case with me, all these thoughts that are milling about, that need to be sorted and pondered and placed, are sketched in outline and I find myself winded, unable to think further or write further.  All these important thoughts on the verge of clarity.  Lost again in the quagmire of my harried mind.  All these words penned, and yet no epiphany.

At least it opens a door for more thoughts to process.  At least I’ve mustered the courage to mention the unmentionables, so maybe next time, when I can put some thoughts to form, I just might get somewhere.

But not tonight.

In the spirit of the new year, the idea of a gratitude jar (making the rounds on FaceBook) caught my eye.  Good things, blessings, happy moments — these things are written on pieces of paper and stored in a jar.  At the end of the year, one can open the jar, revisit the moments and count one’s blessings.  Literally.

I love it!

I chose a translucent jar, so that I could see the blessings grow.  (Besides, I found it on clearance for $3.50.)

But I’m a yin yang kind of a girl,  so I thought I would round out the concept with another jar.  You know, for the icky stuff.  It’s sort of a psychological exercise, and it’s not a bad thing at all, once I thought it through a bit.  The idea is to write down the things that make me frown, cause me stress or anguish, and put them in the jar.  I chose an opaque jar with a narrow neck, so the notes can go in, but they can’t readily come out, and they can’t be seen.  At the end of the year, perhaps I will set the thing on fire for a touch of finality to letting the hurtful and dark things go.  It’s all about letting them go.  Writing them down gets them out of me.  It takes the energy that might otherwise deflate me, and puts it away.

In essence, this exercise symbolically magnifies the goodness and diminishes the badness, and wraps it all up,  happy and sad, in a thing of beauty.  And that?  Is a good thing.

captured thoughts

Be

“Be” was the defining word I chose for 2011. I didn’t do such a great job of living up to that word.  I think that now, in 2014, I am much better suited to fulfill the aspiration.

On a whim, I ducked out for a couple of hours after work yesterday to look for a daybook to use for the new year.  Nothing like last minute plans and resolutions for a brand new year.  I journal and I blog, but I haven’t been faithful to a daily log of much of anything.  Ever.  I may take my vitamins and supplements religiously for a few weeks at a time, or I may check my blood sugar faithfully for a few months at a time, and I may log my calories and nutrition for a few days at a time, but anything?  for a year?  It has yet to happen.

The open bookstore that I happened upon had a scant selection of journals and daybooks, but I found one that I think will work.  It’s an engagement calendar, really, and I’m going to give it a go.  Whilst there, I found this little heart trinket which reminded me of the defining word I’d chosen to herald the new year some time ago, and I thought, why not go for a do over.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

And so I shall.

To quote myself, “Maybe this is the year to focus on loving myself the way I want to be loved, or treating myself the way I want to be treated.”

Maybe I will find a way to… …just live, just be.

Be.

Hello 2014.  I am ready for you.

With open arms I greet you.

My body is changing.  My physical form is occupying less space in the universe, and with this slow transformation there is a new self-awareness dawning.  How can I explain this?  It’s almost as if, for all the years –so many years!– that I’ve been taking up so much space, there was a gaping chasm separating my self, the real me, from my self, the physical me.  Maybe I wouldn’t, or maybe I couldn’t look at the latter.  Maybe it was just too much.  This is not who I am, I’d say, and I’d turn the other way.  But the problem is –was–, that we live in a physical world, so there is no escaping the physical self.  That is what manifests.  And what of the inner self?  Where did that one go?  That one who might have been beautiful, smart, capable, excellent.  That one is smothered by the shell that is manifested in the physical.  I spent years struggling with self-acceptance.  The dichotomy between who I was and who I appeared to be was too great.  E R R O R.  C A N N O T   C O M P U T E.

It’s so very easy to soothe this unrest, this distress, with all manner of deflections and cover-ups.   Fill one’s every moment with something, anything, so that you don’t have to think about yourself, and the Grand Canyon that separates your self from your self.  Be a super achiever.  Move mountains.  Consume mountains.  At the end of the day, though, there remains a deep and aching sadness, because you can’t really cover up the Grand Canyon.  It’s still there, and no matter how hard you may try to justify or explain or deflect or deny, the truth of the matter is that it is still there.  You can’t escape from yourself.

Grand Canyon

What I’m beginning to notice, as I sit for a moment and gaze down at the legs folded beneath me, is that the chasm is closing.  Ever so slowly.  But it’s closing.  Because when I look down at my physical self, I see my physical self.  And I recognize a faint glimmer of my self.  I can look at the legs beneath me and say, “Oh!  That’s me.  I’m sitting here.  Those are my legs.  They are attached to my body.  They are a part of me.”  And that is the beginning of acceptance.

Two things come to mind as I reflect upon these things.  Why does it take a lifetime and a radical change to deem oneself worthy of one’s own acceptance?  And why is there a chasm at all?  It’s clear to see how the chasm has grown, but not so clear to understand where or why it began in the first place.  The whole matter is tragic.  Such a waste of life.  Such a waste of beautiful moments, beautiful thoughts, beautiful breath.  Such a waste.

I don’t know who will emerge once the chasm has healed, but I do know that I will embrace her, because she will be whole.  She is who I am.  She is the real me.  Hello, old friend, I will say, when we meet.  I’ve missed you.

I’ve been alive forever.

Oh Barry.  You have such a way with words.  I sit in my living room, clinging to the few precious minutes that I have to myself before I collect my children, and your voice fills my head and my heart, transporting me back to the girl I was so many years ago.

The timbre of your voice, like velvet, fills me and warms me.

My home lies deep within you, and I’ve got my own place in your soul.

I feel within me the stirrings of beauty, the dawning awareness of the magic of music.  Music fills.  Transforms.  Transports.  Breathes life to a parched heart.  Gives hope.

Music fills your heart.

My young mind is taking in the world around me.  I am filled with emotions.  I am going through the metamorphosis of child to young woman.  I feel everything.  I see beauty.  I am filled with wonder.  I am awestruck by the magnificence of God’s green earth.

I write the songs that make the young girls cry.

I yearn for love, although I know not what love is.  I ache for something that I can’t put words to.  I have an emptiness that I can’t describe.  To belong.  To be cherished.  To be wanted.  To be understood.  I don’t know who I am, but I feel.  Oh, how I feel.  I am emotion.  I am music.

I am music, and I write the songs.

I want to wrap my arms about the world and fill it with all the love that I have, that I am.  I want to wash away all the tears, comfort all the sorrows, and heal all the brokenness.  I am love, and I want to sing.  I am music, and I want to sing.

It’s from me, it’s for you.
It’s from you, it’s for me.
It’s a world wide symphony!

That girl, so long ago, still lives within me.  Who was she?  What were her hopes and dreams?  The years, like layers of dust, have accumulated and obstructed the clarity of youth.  My sense of beauty is tarnished.  My sense of wonder is shrouded.  My sense of awe is eroded.  My sense of self is masked.  But the music!  The music takes me back.  The music reveals my soul.  The music sets me free.

Now, when I look out through your eyes, I’m young again, even though I’m very old.

What does a twelve  year old know of life and love?  Everything!  The innocence of youth allows hope to exist unfettered and pure.  To see and understand eternity.  Eternity!

I’ve been alive forever, and I wrote the very first song.
I put the words and the melodies together.
I am music, and I write the songs.

What did I know of the path ahead?  What did I know of the cares of the world?  We were poor, and though it tugged at my heartstrings to see my mother’s anguish over how to make ends meet and somehow maintain a semblance of sanity amidst the bedlam in which we lived, I didn’t understand.  Worldly things were not my concern.  There was a roof over my head, food on the table, shoes on my feet and clothes on my back.  So I was rich, and I was free!  I could dream!  I could hope!   My heart could sing!  I could get lost in the music.

I write the songs that make the whole world sing.
I write the songs of love and special things.

Now I am my mother.  The cares of the world are on my shoulders.  It’s up to me to see to it that my own children have a roof over their heads, food on the table, shoes on their feet and clothes on their back.  So they can be rich, and they can be free.  So they can hope and they can dream.  So their hearts can sing.  So they can get lost in the music.  There is a sense of wistfulness that the woman I’ve become has replaced the girl that I was.  But the music takes me back, even if but for a moment, and reminds me that I am still the girl that I was.

I am music, and I write the songs.

I’m beginning to unravel and better understand certain things about myself.  I’m naturally forgiving.  I don’t hold resentments and grudges.  I think I used to.  I must have.  Maybe it’s something that develops with age.  Maybe it takes a certain maturity to face oneself in the mirror and take responsibility for all things.  Things didn’t happen to me.  Life is a compilation of experiences, and those experiences have to do with choices I’ve made along the way.  Sure, they intersect with choices that others have made along the way as well.  But I”m the captain of my own ship.  I don’t have to react to anybody.  I can choose my course.

Maybe it’s more simple than maturity.  Maybe it’s just sheer exhaustion.  One reaches a point, swimming against the current, so to speak, when one can no longer go on.  So we just stop fighting, start treading water, and simply try to stay afloat.  Maybe it’s just survival.

Whatever it is, I am glad to let bygones be bygones.  There is peace in doing so.

In all of this, however, I recognize the need for vigilance.  Forgiveness is one thing, but it’s also critically important to learn from one’s mistakes and not go on repeating them, time and time again.

I’m in a healing mode.  I don’t know what the future holds.  I don’t know much of anything.  I do know that the life I’m leading consumes my emotional, mental and physical resources.  Treading water, staying afloat, is all that I can do right now.  One day at a time.  One step at a time.  One minute at a time. I’m doing what I need to do.

I will say this.  I love being a mother.  Love, love, love.  I may be barely afloat, but when I think of my kids, I feel a smile steal over my face.

How I love them!

They are my everything.

1. Maybe it’s because of the weather.
2. Maybe it’s because the holidays are approaching.
3. Maybe it’s because of life changes.
4. Maybe it’s because of shifting hormones.
5. Maybe it’s because of the commute.
6. Maybe it’s because of the job.
7. Maybe it’s because of politics.
8. Maybe it’s because of other people’s children.
9. Maybe it’s because of my children.
10. Maybe it’s because of school.
11. Maybe it’s because of the economy.
12. Maybe it’s because of the struggles my friends are going through.
13. Maybe it’s because of the struggles that I am going through.
14. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older.
15. Maybe it’s because October 27th came and went and I’m missing my brother.
16. Maybe it’s because I see my brother in my nephew.
17. Maybe it’s because I wonder how my nephew is, without his dad.
18. Maybe it’s because I’m missing my family.
19. Maybe it’s because my kids have been sick.
20. Maybe it’s because I’m sick now.
21. Maybe it’s because I didn’t offer work to any of the people waiting outside Home Depot, hoping for some work.
22. Maybe it’s because I said I wouldn’t help the guy standing outside the grocery store who asked me for food.
23. Maybe it’s because he walked away while I scrounged through my groceries for things I could give him.
24. Maybe it’s because I didn’t follow him and give them to him because I was late to pick up my kids.
25. Maybe it’s because I wonder why a healthy looking young adult is standing outside a store asking for food.
26. Maybe it’s because I wonder about the young couple who are working the intersection near my office.
27. Maybe it’s because I wonder why they have decent clothes and a different outfit every day.
28. Maybe it’s because I feel guilty for being judgmental.
29. Maybe it’s because there was a dead mouse in the toilet.
30. Maybe it’s because there were mouse droppings in the house.
31. Maybe it’s because I heard some scraping sounds near a heater vent.
32. Maybe it’s because it’s dark when I go to work.
33. Maybe it’s because it’s dark when I get home.
34. Maybe it’s because I miss my mom.
35. Maybe it’s because I miss my sisters.
36. Maybe it’s because I miss our family get-togethers.
37. Maybe it’s because so many of my nephews and nieces are already grown.
38. Maybe it’s because some of my nephews and nieces have kids of their own whom I’ve never met.
39. Maybe it’s because so many of my friends are retiring.
40. Maybe it’s because my kids melt down frequently.
41. Maybe it’s because of the struggles I see other parents  have with their kids.
42. Maybe it’s because I’m weary.
43. Maybe it’s because of the daily homework struggle.
44. Maybe it’s because of the challenge of managing childhood defiance.
45. Maybe it’s because I’m healing.
46. Maybe it’s because of technology overload.
47. Maybe it’s because of sensory overload.
48. Maybe it’s because the house is never clean for longer than 3 minutes.
49. Maybe it’s because the laundry never ends.
50. Maybe it’s just because I’m me, living the normal life that I live, and pretty much everyone is going through something similar.

shades of blue

Poppy held to her decision and severed all ties with George.  One day, when she’s had sufficient time to heal, she may mourn him properly, but at this stage, she just doesn’t have the mental or emotional capacity.  Steve arrived abruptly, with George’s sudden departure.  It’s all been quite a shock, really.  Poppy and Steve have been getting to know one another, as cohabitants do.  I wouldn’t call it a romance, by any stretch of any imagination.  It’s more like an arrangement. Of necessity.  Oh sure, she did jump into forever with him.  And she really does want to have a long and comfortable relationship with him.  Happily ever after, in fact.   Right now, however, it’s either sink or swim, and sinking is hardly an option.

In one sense, Poppy’s been very stable.  Oh, occasionally something will happen and she will have a momentary lapse of sanity in which she behaves erratically, but those moments are few and generally last no more than an hour. In general, she’s been feeling very good.

That being said, life with Steve has been a cautious, tip-toeing dance, for the first few weeks.  Steve seems to be a sensitive sort, and has his own idiosyncrasies.  For instance, he does not like to be rushed.  How can I say that, in such a way as to express it properly?  He.  Does.  NOT.  Like.  To.  Be.  Rushed.  And he’s a bit of a moody, broody sort.  So he likes to handle certain things on his own terms, and as long as one complies with his terms, there is harmony in the land.  Okay, so be it.  This is part of learning to live together.  Everyone’s got their own personal boundaries that need to be respected.  Steve, bless  his soul, is very clear about expressing his boundaries.  Poppy could stand to take a page from that book.

As the weeks progress, Poppy has also begun to notice that there may be some areas in which Steve and George are very similar.  She’s choosing not to overreact to this knowledge, but to take heed and reflect on it.  The last thing she wants is to encourage any of these tendencies.  So she’s keeping a close watch on this Steve character.  Watching him like a hawk, even.

~*~*~*~

Installment 2 of the Poppy Saga.

Characters:
Poppy the pancreas.
George who likes to gorge.
Steve the sleeve.

~*~*~*~

It’s been just about 4 weeks since surgery, and I’m doing very well.  The first 2 weeks are liquids only, and the next two weeks are soft foods.  It’s a bit challenging, learning to eat anew.  It’s probably similar to what babies go through, as they are learning to eat.  Things like the size of  each bite and how much it must be chewed before swallowing are critically important.  The steri-strips have finally worn off the incision sites, and the scars remaining are slight.  I’ve had a bit of a struggle with waves of depression, off and on.  I also notice that I tire easily, and I’ve been respecting this by allowing myself to rest when I need it.

I will say this much.  I loathe (ab.so.lute.ly loaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaathe) protein powder.  When I’ve finished the tub that I have, I will never buy another.  Ever.  EVER.

That being said, it’s such a relief, not to be hungry!  It’s also a tremendous delight to look at a small portion of food and know that it can and will be filling and fulfilling (although obtaining sufficient nutritional intake is definitely a challenge).  All in all, it’s a very exciting journey.  I feel liberated, and I am looking forward to finding and restoring bits and pieces of myself that have been lost through the years, as I progress through this excavation.

I hope to do a better job than all the king’s horses and all the king’s men did with Humpty Dumpty.

Poppy and George have been together for a long time. Forever, even.  They got along well enough when they were younger, but as the years passed, they lost touch of each others’ needs.  It’s not unheard of…

George is pretty much a self-centered bastard.  He’s generally ignorant of Poppy’s ups and downs.  Granted, her ups and downs are far more pronounced as the years go by.  Oh, sure, every once in a while he says he’ll do better, be better, turn over a new leaf, and he he may do a fine  job of being on his best behavior for a while.  But only for a while.  It never lasts, and bit by bit, they find themselves back in that desert place where neither can tolerate each other.  George wants to do what George wants to do.  Poppy reacts.  It’s not that Poppy wants to react.  It’s just that her defenses have eroded after so many years of hiding behind the issues.  She starts to feel better when George plays nice, and she starts to think that everything is just swell, and things are getting back to the way they used to be, back when they were young.  But it doesn’t take long for reality to slap her in the face.  Because sooner or later, George will fall back into his selfish ways.

I don’t know why that is.  It just is.  I don’t think George wants to be a self-centered bastard.  I think he would want to be better, in a perfect world.  There are probably a million factors that contribute to the entity that George has become.  A lifetime of factors.

It’s complicated.

Be that as it may, George is George.  Poppy is Poppy.  It’s clear that something has to change, or nothing ever will.  They will continue living a marginal existence until they do each other in.  Literally.

It’s a scary choice, in many ways, for many reasons, but Poppy has decided that George has got to go.  Poppy has  high  hopes that she will be able to find her stable place again, that she will feel good all the time, and that she will find her old self.  She hopes that she will no longer feel like she’s wasting her life, but instead like she’s embracing and living her life.  Loving her life!

It may seem harsh to send George packing, but at this point, it’s the only solution.  This limbo has been going on for over twenty years.  It will continue another twenty years if nothing changes, or if they don’t kill each other in the process.

Goodbye George.

She wonders if she will be so fickle as not to ever miss him or regret that she made him go.  She can hardly think about it, though.  It’s just too much.

~*~*~*~

Installment 1 of the Poppy Plight.

Characters:
Poppy the pancreas.
George who likes to gorge.
Steve the sleeve.

~*~*~*~

So I’m preparing for bariatric surgery.  I start my pre-op liquid diet on Friday (4 Oct 2013).  This is not a trigger decision.  I’ve contemplated it for YEARS and after much research and thought have decided to move ahead with it.  Surgery is 14 Oct 2013.  I will have the better part of my stomach removed, leaving all my digestive plumbing intact.  This is called a Vertical Sleeve Gastrectomy (VSG).  This surgery will allow me to eat, but not overeat.  My body will still  absorb the nutrients I ingest.  I’m very much looking forward to feeling satisfied after eating a normal amount of food.  I stumbled across a blog in which a ‘sleever’ named her sleeve, and thought that was clever.  Also, putting character names to my organs helps me inject a little humor, or at least look at it from another angle.  Because it’s scary.  And it’s permanent.  So I thought it might help me as I embark on this journey.  Although weight and self image factor heavily toward this decision, the driving factor is the fact that I can no longer play the ignorance card regarding diabetes.  I have it.  It’s very clear that my pancreas is not functioning as it should, and that my blood sugar control is erratic.  I have proven to myself that it can be controlled, but I have also to be honest with myself and know that I fall to the same patterns, no matter how vigilant I am, or for how long.  Eventually I slip back.  Hello, my name is George.  I’m on a life-changing journey.  I’m taking steps to make dramatic and permanent changes to improve my life.  This is one of those steps.  So goodbye, George.  It’s time for you to go.

I am finding my way.  I realize that I’ve been repeating various patterns throughout my life — patterns with relationships, patterns with self esteem, patterns in general.  Bit by ever so slowly bit, I am making progress.

Some things about me are always changing.  My hopes and dreams today may not be the same hopes and dreams I had yesterday, a month ago, a year ago, five years ago, or twenty years ago.  I am the same, insomuch as the core of who I am remains the core of who I am.  But what I want for my life, or what I think I want for my life, is an abstract concept that remains in constant flux and has yet to take form.

I love my country home.  There are so many trees surrounding me.  It’s peaceful here.  While it’s a bit frightening to be so far from the security of family and conveniences, it’s tranquil and private and comfortable.  I hope we learn to weather the winters well.  Last season was uncharacteristically mild, so I don’t know what to expect for a representative winter.

I’m battling with some anxiety, recently.  I’m not sure if it’s the gloomy weather (rain, drizzle, more rain, lightning, thunder, rain, and more rain), if I’m picking up on someone else’s anxiety, or if it’s something inside of me.  Most likely it’s some combination of all of these things.

I sat outside on the balcony for a few minutes.  It’s such a treat to sit outside and breathe the outdoor air, with the comfort and luxury of a roof over my head.  I was quite content until I discovered a huge spider, some sort of larvae, and a large empty cocoon tucked into one of the lounge cushions.  I’m not particularly interested in sharing my space with creatures of that nature.  Just prior to that, as I was semi reclined with a cup of tea, the image of Jabba the Hutt flashed through my mind.  It’s always interesting to me, how one’s self-image can be so far from one’s true image.  I *know* I look nothing like Jabba the Hutt, but for some reason, I felt as though that is how I looked.  I’m fairly certain that it’s because I was feeling gross after making some poor food choices (i.e., ramen noodle soup).

There are so many changes taking place at work.  People who I’ve known for decades are retiring.  Others have passed away.  Massive organizational restructuring is underway, but there is very little being said about it.

I think I’m going through a life storm right now, and all I can do is try to hold on as best I can, keep my head above water, and take deep breaths.  I don’t want to swim against the tide, and I don’t want to drown.

Womp.  There it is.

Actually, that brings something else to mind, in which I might have found some additional closure.  I discovered that an ex from long ago is playing guitar in a Neil Diamond cover band, of all things.  That relationship ended badly, and of all the relationships I’ve had in life, that is the only one for which no friendship remained once the dust settled.  I have absolutely no interest in contacting him, but I am glad to know that  he seems to have made some sort of life for himself.  It’s taken a very long time for me to forgive myself for the years that I spent with him.