How did I get here?

I am the face of depression. 

I am the face of mental illness.

I am the face of mental health.

I am the face of recovery.

I am the face of emotion.

I am the face of misunderstanding.

I am the face of change.

I am the face of passion.

I am the face of humanity.
I am the face of generosity.

I am the face of frustration.

I am the face of negativity.

I am the face of a wife.

I am the face of a mother.

I am the face of a sister.

I am the face of a daughter.

I am the face of family.

I am the face of your friend.

I am the face of creativity.

I am the face of a nurse.

I am the face of reality.

No longer can I hide. 

No longer may I crawl away.

I started writing here two years ago, when I felt like I found buried treasure.  My writing voice tucked away and safely stored.  My passion, masked by the veil I so proudly learned to cover my inadequacies.  My feeling, my soul, my longing for more, all gradually reappeared as I looked inside myself, as I honestly asked, and stubbornly demanded answers.  I have some now.  I will hear more soon.  I’m on the path of redemption.  I am serving penance for my missing years.  Years began a lifetime ago this month.  Years I was granted by God and years I lived unconsciously, mind and soul split into pieces, like torn paper floating downstream.  I was lost and now I’m found.  Or something equally dramatic and less prophetic.  How did I get here?

my so called lifeline

October 4, 2010

My doubt, self doubt, grows exponentially with my silence.  When I tell him that I don’t think I can satisfy him, what am I really saying? Am I asking him for help or asking him to bail?  He’s heard this over and over and it’s ingrained in his thoughts of me.  He says he needs me to tell him what I want. Now.  He needs me to tell him that I want him or that I don’t want him.  That I want to fight for this relationship or that I won’t fight for it.  He wants and needs to hear me include myself in the fixing of this partnership. Or he needs to hear the alternative.  He wants to stick.  God tells him to.  

I am confused.  I am hurt.  I am sad. I want so many experiences and I don’t feel close to my partner.  Did we ever feel close?  When did we think the same and dream the same dreams?  When did we share our desires?

I know I am growing and exploring who I never got to be.  I have consistently been the work-on-it gal.  But maybe my work hasn’t been for the good of closeness.  Have I been working toward strengthening our togetherness or our separateness?  What are my goals now?  What do I have the capability of working on?  Toward?  What do I want to work on?

Testing my limits by going to school and listening to him doubt that I made the right choice without him.  
Testing my mental health by submitting to illogical expectations of a psychotic boss and resigning before she canned me.  
Testing my self confidence and if he is right about my nursing ability.
Getting blindsided by my own confidence.
Feeling like a fool at the mercy of strangers.  
Falling into similar traps at a job without foundation.  
Exhausting myself to please and push for more and to fit in.
Ignoring the signals of security as I watch the walls crumble around me.
Running away before the explosion begins, setting myself up for self implosion instead.

How did I get here?  Where did I come from?  Why do I think this way?  Where is God?

I have felt lost in the last year or two, crying because I was hurt when he didn’t think well of me.  I recall the times he told me that my way of thinking is wrong, that my way of expressing my thoughts is wrong and inefficient and is not worth his time.  So I shut up.  I stopped expressing myself to him.  I stopped trying to explain myself and where I was coming from and how I felt and what I wanted.  I gave up.  After all, I did not want to hear that the man I loved thought negatively about me.  I did not need him to reinforce my self doubt.  Why put myself in a position where I knew I would hurt?

Our conflicts became broken records of despair and futility.  One negative word or head shake or rolling of the eyes or fuck you,  and I’m gone.  Out the door.  Out of the house.  Out of the city.  Out of my mind. Out of reality.  Out of myself.  This is the truth.  I’ve been living outside of myself.

Depressed enough to give up my license.  Depressed enough to say I’ll work for minimum wage.  Embarrassed enough to tell him he was right about me being a nurse.  Frightened enough to lie to myself and hide from the truth.  Until the sunshine blinded my insecurities for a brief moment of clarity and WTF-ness.

I didn’t want to be Rainey anymore.  Rainey is not taken seriously.  Rainey is a baby and frail and frustrated and fragile.  Rainey doesn’t know how to stand up for herself and speak her thoughts and commit to decisions or make and pursue goals.  I want to grow up and be L.  I want to make my own decisions and speak my mind and joke in public and cheer loudly at the games and talk about passionate subjects and tell my family what I really mean and not take their shit anymore.  That includes him.  No more shit sandwiches.  No more crybaby.  No more sulking in the corner.  No more caring what they think.

And I landed softly.  I landed safely.  I carefully caress my nursing career in the home of mental health.  And I feel confidence anew.  I am a nurse.  I am helping and learning and teaching and growing.  And God is with me.  The dance of life continues in the next room.  Please join us.  Please take off your shoes and get comfortable for this ride.  We welcome you back.  We missed you. Now get to work.

What I believe is truth in this room are lies inside the other room.  How I perform here is different than what I perform there. The train tracks switch in between and my mind does not always follow.  Which way do I turn?  Which way do you want me to turn?

I’m taking my meds.  I’m writing and sorting and releasing stress my way.  My way may be the wrong way.  Wrong for this family.  Wrong for these kids.  Wrong for my parents and his.  

He tells me the way I should do this.  Live.  Relate.  Speak my mind.  Listen.  Form goals and work toward them.  Parent.  Partner.
He suggests and helps when he notices my confusion and frustration.  He advises me to do what he does, because it works for him, has worked since he was a kid, 12 or 13 or 14 years old.  Good for him to be confident in his habits and confident in his patterns and with his goals reached and processes of getting there.  Good for him to rely on consistency.  Good for him to keep him afloat through the dark ages.

When I was 12, 13, 14, I was watching my parents split up for some unknown reason and placing me in the arms of a stranger without skills to know how to relate with him.  Placing me in a different world, switching scenes without telling me I had to follow.  Changing the expectations and allowances of my pre-adolescent hormonally developing mind and soul and heart.

Choices stripped.  Opinions banned.  Extraction from comfortable and forward momentum.  Forced into unknown and unsupported.  Doubted and divided.  Slapped and insulted.  Stifled and censored.  Ignored and injured.  Where am I going?  Where are you taking me?  What am I supposed to do now?  Who is leading me?  Where am I?

And I ran.  Toward acceptance of the negative sort.  From strangers who barely knew me and who I didn’t have to reveal myself. I didn’t have to hold back my passion.  And I flew.  Into trouble and insecurity of the adolescent kind.  The trouble of who do I like and how do I deal and what if I’m rejected?  Trouble of trying to ignore my home life long enough to feel like I could be happy otherwise.  Pretend to like yourself or don’t and pretend others do.  Release and reject.  Revive sanity temporarily.  Act two roles.  Isn’t that what I was taught?  Be someone you’re not in order to survive?  Be what they want you to be in order to be accepted?  In order not to get hit or hurt or doubt yourself more?  
Don’t ask questions. Don’t lead with ideas.  

 
August 8, 2011  (10 months later)

Full circle.  Right back where I started.  I’m at it again.  The last paragraph is my story.  The only one.  The missing link in my lifetime of sorrow.  No rusted links, only shiny like new, strong as ever sharp, cold metal connections, from my ten year old happy-go-lucky fourth grader to my presently fucked up self.  Breaking hearts and taking names by accident.  The accidental tourist of my own life.  45 years take away ten real good ones and 35 links later, I’m the expert avoider.  Just call me super sucka!

Therapist on board.  Not holding back from the fears thrown at me.  I’m taking strikes until my bat makes contact, until I feel the spark of energy, the mass of force pushing me through the motion by the release of weight off my shoulders.  When I watch the homerun ball soar above us all, it’s arch predetermined by my positioning, and see the open sky smiling, I will know. I will know.

And since I have no idea how that Babe Ruth-esque moment will feel, or when clarification will arrive, I’m grounded in my garden dugout, watching weeds pop up out of nowhere and wishing a giant hand will reach down to pull me up too.  

fyi: my legs are not shaved

Ridiculous I am.  My intent was to write about the positives.  Of my summer.  Of my relationship.  Of my self exploration.  My intentions broke.  Today’s pieces of peace are dwindled to this scene:  out of my bed at 2 pm after lounging with WXRT radio and my increasing dependence on social media via smart ass phone;  led downstairs by our house elder, ginger dog, through tumbleweeds of husky hair and over crookedly placed throw rugs, into 19 year old’s lair of play station and privacy to the box of kibble; with computer, cold coffee, chocolate and cigs, I park my night-shirted, unshowered body onto the shadiest patio chair and begin.  Neighbors be damned.  

Rebellious I am.  Angered by a frustrating phone conversation last night, humbled by the amount of Jim Beam I drank out of the bottle post phone call, unwilling to face the challenge before me, eager to forget.  I walked past the kitchen where my morning meds have yet to exit the cabinet.  I left my glasses encased in my purse on purpose.  My bra is off, my hairy legs are showing, and my phone is unwelcome.  

Relaxed I am.  Humidity absent, breeze welcome.  White puffs streaming over the roof, birds talking, cicadas buzzing.  If only we lived on a street with no name, and no traffic.  G dog rests comfortably on the stained wooden deck planks, in the sunshine of course.  Her hair moves independently, gently swept off her body by wind.  She lays unaware of her loss.  I twinge jealousy.

Relieved I am.  The kids are at work.  The husband is out of town.  I am alone.  My family in Norway is safe.  My father is alive. I have a best friend I can call to invite out tonight.  I have the Band Back Together.  I have a comfortable relationship with a wise woman who counsels.  I write.  I shoot.   I laugh.  I cope.  I have job security.  I am blessed.  

Running I am.  For my marriage.  For my family.  I race alongside my thoughts, the ones I am unable to sort.  I race against my history and hope to beat the demons to the line.  I ruminate why’s and why not’s.  My mind is not a sieve, it’s built of mud and sand and is a bitch to clean.  Every memory encased side by side like ladyfingers lining the tiramisu.  Standing at attention, at the ready, for my consciousness to replay.  During my drives to and from work, I remember.  A song on the radio, a line of trees, the odor of manure, a passing motorcycle…all triggers during a 40 minute commute.  The title of a book.  A cut of cloth.  His glasses.  Her accent.  Memories flood my day as normally as water fills locks.  Sunny or cloudy, warm or cold, winter or summer…triggers.

I remember I am.  My brain hoards memories of aromas inside Grandma’s kitchen, nervous tension with a boy, warmth of Caribbean sunshine on pre adolescent skin.  I  hear the birdsong outside his dorm window as we lay awake in bed one Sunday morning.  I face the fear of death as I sit in a plastic chair while medical professionals run toward her hospital bed and the public announcer states “code blue.”  I see through the unfocus of depression’s dark hole.  I cover my ears to the raging arguments I participated in.  I feel the towels I fold as I receive the role I am cast in their divorce.  I see her unfamiliar face behind the funeral makeup.  I ache from the hours cried.  I feel the sting of his hand on my skin.  I feel comforted by the willow tree’s leaves above  the flagstone seat I have made my private reading spot.  I crave his attention.  I appreciate hers.  I’m embarrassed by my actions.  I’m elated by his offer.  I’m pissed off and betrayed by her accusations.  I’m thankful for her loyalty.  I wish and wonder and weave my thoughts into an afghan of sense.  

Exhausted, I am.  The elephant in the room is sleeping on the couch and we continue to tip toe around the trunk.  Last night's phone call conversation requires a reply.  The week will fly by, filled with tasks I will accomplish and projects I will complete. I excel at avoidance. Out of sight, out of mind.  Wait, the elephant isn't invisible anymore.  I see the limbs twitching and the eyes opening.  We may have movement soon.  This pachyderm may create room on the couch for me after all.   

until then....peace.
~L

I am the face of vulnerability

Outside, listening to U2 and the competing birdsong.  Winds colder than an hour ago.  No one home but g-dog and the neighbor next door.  Even an entire day of alone has rendered me speechless here.  My paralyzing fear of writing too little to feel relief or too much to scare, has ratcheted up my anxiety.   Yes, I am the face of anxiety.  And depression.  And unsure, unbalanced wife and mother.  This is where I tell the truth, here, in these words and commas and incorrect grammar.  Here in my head I wrestle with what should and what wants to spew.  Word vomit.  Shit sandwich.  Cursing.  Pitying.  Streaming my consciousness until unconsciousness takes lead.  I will burst open soon if I don’t confess.  And confessional in catholic church is not my destination. 

I am not angry today.  I am unsure.  I am the face of avoidance.

So much, too much is happening in my chaotic normalcy.  I thank God for the angel I found called therapist.  Therapist knows me,  instant understanding the first meeting.  She asked to read my blog within the first hour…she’s the first to ask to be let in.  How can this be any easier?  It’s hard.  As I’ve said to my clients while psych nursing, “it may become worse before it gets better,” or something versed more professionally.  You get the picture.  I choose to dive into my past to figure out what in the hell I’ve been believing and if I believe it now.  My investigative cap is on and I’m smoking my pipe.  In order to give myself fully to my husband and daughter and son, I choose to give myself fully to me.  I have heard the objections to rummaging in the attic of childhood and parental influence.  I have listened to the ‘today is now’ crew.  I feel both of you.  I feel like living now.  I just don’t know how…yet.  Foreign to some.  Others in my blog community will understand. 

The niche I’m making for myself as a psychiatric nurse is rewarding and fulfilling and vulnerable.  Vulnerabilities are shining in neon purple behind my eyelids.  My doubts are surfacing through the scum covered pond called denial.   With each client I serve, each story they tell me of abuse, neglect, depression, mania, hallucinations,  family issues, eating issues, med compliance, denial….I hear parts of my stories.  Inevitable.  Not all bad.   Not all hopeless.  I find parts of myself at work.  Lost parts hidden or parts unknown.  I am a medical professional.  People look up to me to lead.  People ask my opinion.  People welcome me into closets full of skeletons.  I am humbled, thankful, proud.  My supervisor and I discussed my performance yesterday and I was offered a raise.  I’m here.  I’m at a fork in the road, at the point on my lifeline labeled ‘career.’   Goal set and reached.  Dreamed and lived.  My idea nurtured into my career.  This is a milestone for me.  A first.  Something people around me doubted until recently.  Doubt, the reason I isolate.  The reason I waiver.  The reason I am anxious. 

When I was a little girl I roamed our safe suburban neighborhood with other children.  I enjoyed my sleep-overs and lunches at neighbor’s and sharing our backyard pool.  I enjoyed family time with brother and sister and parents.  I learned to trust.  My mind holds those first ten years as primary colors and pleasant smells.  I remember conversations had with kids and teachers in elementary school.  I remember memorizing Shel Silverstein and cross-stitching patches for our centennial year quilt.  I remember the time my dad took me to school late because he and mom were arguing.  I remember standing in line to see the principal during lunch recess because I was caught throwing a snowball…I feel the nervousness as I stood in line, fearful of being in trouble, yet ballsy enough to walk out of line and back to class unseen.  I was a good girl.  I was a happy girl.  I wore two braids everyday, my mother’s doing.  I held a house key and unlocked the house after school in fourth grade for little bro.  The round kitchen table hosted family conversations of dad’s business and birthday cakes with marshmallows in the frosting.  I liked my childhood.  I belonged there.  I was happy.  I was me.

Depression found me soon after we moved into a different suburb.  Soon after our parents divorced.  Soon after we became dad and three kids.  Soon after I began questioning.  Soon after hormonal changes and scary new school and being teased for braids and crying at school.  Soon after I became best friends with the cool girl who I thought hated me.  Again a few years later when best friend moved out of state.  Again after stepmother number one and step sister number one moved in.  The colors faded and the aromas unrecognizable.  I don’t blame.  I remember.  I have to remember myself.  I’ve tried to forget and avoid and pretend I’m ok now.  That isn’t working well.  I confess.

I’m grown up and responsible now.  I have an obligation to know myself.  I want to know myself.  When my husband asks me what I want in my life, what I aspire to do, what I feel compelled to accomplish and succeed at and share with him and the kids…I cant answer.  I have not allowed myself to explore these answers.  I have not looked inside for answers.  I have used outside influences to right my wrongs and lead my decisions.  I have followed stronger personalities  toward destinations of their choice.  This must change now.  Thus I seek professional help, remind myself to pop that Zoloft pill each day, write to relieve the pressure, shoot photos to expand my sight line, and close my mouth more often so I may hear more life music.

Wilco and I have a strange relationship, speaking of music.  Their music moves me.  The old stuff, the new stuff, it’s all good.  Poetry in motion.  No matter when I listen to Wilco, no matter what decade the writing, I feel connection.  I’m not obsessed, just impressed.  And thankful for each experience to enjoy other human beings’ talent and creativity.  To know that these men write for and share their innermost thoughts with strangers is comforting for me.  The years they practiced playing their instruments, reading music, composing, fighting personal demons, living relationships, feeling tired after touring and recording and transitioning through personnel changes…and helping little ole me feel happy.  Thank God for creative, compassionate souls. 

My turn to give, create, share, add value.   I am the face of creativity.  Peace.  ~L

tired

heard the words, not sure of the meaning.  a decision must be made and I am involved.  cannot be avoided any longer.   what do I think of the idea?  oh, my turn to think?  sorry, not able to form complete thoughts right now.  can you come back when my brain catches up to my heart please?  feel the throat dry and the lungs stiffen, eyes sting occasionally and I keep my mouth shut.  for now. 

I wait to feel. remorse? alleviation?  heavy?  light?  nothin.  cant seem to describe much of anything.  I write about nothin.  like a lost Seinfeld episode.  and I write because the keys feel like old friends and I hope my strangled voice will somehow emerge within this post.  I need old friends.  I'm not ashamed to admit.  even when old friends may seem like false hope, reaching behind my present may help me understand why I need to reach at all.  despite the reality that other people live lives separate and distinct from where I stand, Lord knows I desperately want to be loved.  everyone does.  you do too.

distractions are required and also detrimental to my forward momentum.  my unstructured grace results in misunderstanding and hurt.  my out of focus thinking opens wide the windows to rote and trite dalliances.  and none of this can be explained...verbally.  verbose is my writing style and timid is my tongue.  why release stammered and stunted when expectations demand complete and precise?  just because I know how I feel in my language, emotional and flowery and slightly depressed, and I know the importance of this knowing...does not an orator make.  and occasionally made-up words appear, to keep it interesting.

Editing...a luxury of the typed word.  Not so for the spoken version.  I've lived a life full of uh oh's and oopsy daisy's.  when I was in 5th or 6th grade a neighbor's family experienced a tragic death and I became the bearer of incorrect news and eventual apologies to strange adults.  Learned lesson in humility.  first introduction to grief.  I may listen to your verbal garbage, explore empathic reasons, follow the tin can telephone line to the source, and look inside the horse's mouth.  I once phoned a relative to ask if the family rumor about him was true.  it was.  he was.  end of story.  next!

abrupt, outrageous, nosy, interested.  me.  I'll stroke your arm and hold your trembling hand.  you don't have to ask.  I'll pull you into my shoulder, inviting your tears to fall on me.  I'll sit silently and wait for your cue.  you lead this dance.  I catch you when you fall.  if you let me.  what I offer is not intellectual.  not prepared or managed.  me, I offer me.  what soul I possess is to be shared, releasing warmth through touch and whispered understanding.  tried and true I fall back on my graces and gracefully allow grief.  sorrow.  sickness and health.  When an acquaintance sought me out as springboard for her self doubt, mine suddenly became invisible.  Objectivity on auto pilot, I embraced her story as my own.  embraced her as my own.  calm, quiet, concerned, interested.  me.

I'm tired.  self-analysis tires me, wears me thin and grey.  I really should pay someone to do this for me.  so I may sleep and awaken.  I need a day off from this habit.  off of the merry-go-round of missed opportunities and mistakes.  time to stop spinning the cognitive wheel of misfortune.  my skull hurts. the pressure of self criticism and incessant questioning has overloaded my psyche.  I'm trained to doubt, trained to fear.  convinced to use other's opinions as litmus test of mine.  dangerous responsibility for an overworked mind.  no room for error.  no air to breathe.  no sight of forgiveness.

I'm afraid to stop.  I know no other way.  I trust this method, this process, however insane.  I want to break the chain and free myself from myself.  I will.  with help.  with patience.  with kindness from others.  I am scared...of the decision.

i love you all. 

thank you for listening.

peace~L

cue Johnny Cash...

I thought about this keyboard all day.  Thoughts positive and light, waiting to be pieced together and shared.  Here goes…

Been kinda’ down the last few months for whatever reason or sense of something missing.  Been searching, yearning, reaching…for something undefined and needed.  Overanalyzed everything.  Pushed people’s buttons til they walked away.  Hid from others because they could not see.  Blah, blah…the same old story I tell with every breath I take.  Evolution of L.  Sad saga.  Life goes on.  And WTF!

Pullin up those proverbial bootstraps and beginning again.  I fired and rehired myself.  Not sure when the metamorphosis ensued, or the event that triggered.  Not gonna’ over think this one, just gonna describe the feelings.  Hands inside the car, seatbelts fastened, tray tables set for lunch…I’m feeling better.  I feel good.  Smiling.  Positive.  My thoughts are turning toward the sun and my shoulders feel looser.  Cluttered cobwebs be gone!

So what?  So let’s enjoy, shall we?

I was called to give advice to a friend whom I’m just beginning to know.  The subject matter was only familiar because the problem involved a female, which I sometimes play on TV.  My friend is a man and I have no experience giving this kind of advice to a man. Long story shorter, I found my perspective intelligent and fair and I came away feeling strong and straight and alive.  Although my friend’s situation is heartbreaking for him, a door has opened within my soul and I feel the fresh air circulating in my brain.  Placing myself in another woman’s shoes in order to fulfill his answers, in order to create temporary solace, with hope that he can see the bigger picture before his cliff rises to meet his doubts and fears, wishing I could make sense of the unknown in order for his heart to continue beating…I listened for hours and I played my part.  He claims I helped him.  He thanked me for caring.  He continues to battle against his broken dreams.  And I pat myself on my back.

Something’s shifted.  Energy movement from him to me?  Chakra, karma, ying, yang?  Insert a profound quote.  Re-tweet from Buddha or to write love on her arms (TWLOHA).  Read a paragraph from my nurse’s notes in a resident’s chart.  Clicking. Jiving.  Dancing.  Mentally moving to the beat of another part of myself.  My confident self.  Shit I feel good typing these words.  Thinking this way, claiming this land as my own.  By myself, using my learned skills and practiced talents.  I work my earth to produce more.  More me.  More of my mind.  More to share with you.  If you’ll have me.

I have a garden metaphor pertaining to my growth.  I’ve sprinkled my garden throughout one or two blog entries, hoed and tilled and fertilized over time.  Ignored it too. Today the muddy path and tangled roots are clearing.  My seedlings are planted and  sheltered from the wind and snow that will fall again.  Spring will come, says my French class friend.  From afar I watch his moves.  Learning what he began teaching me last year.  To live today and love today.  To be grateful for who I am and who surrounds me.  Tragedy lurks and fate occurs and only God knows what time schedule we fly by.  No use to worry or ask why.  Create, elate, celebrate! 

Jb, you opened my eyes and pointed my gaze inward.  You encouraged me to bust open my soul’s windows, to enter cautiously into the dark depths of myself, kept hidden and cold.  You reminded me of a lifetime where my heart was clean and fresh and trusting.  You represent a part of myself, of my life, that was forgotten and left for dead.  You revived me without intention.  You assured me by proxy.  You did what I remember of you three decades ago:  shared kindness.  I didn’t realize how lost I was until you helped me find my passions, my dreams, my unanswered questions.  You lit the spark inside of me that I had no idea was dying.  I had no inkling of its existence, of the flames preparing to ignite. 

FIRE!!!!

So I ran.  I ran into my fire.  I’m a slow learner, a procrastinator, distracted and unstructured.  I’ve been running through my fire for months, fanning flames with beer and chocolate, throwing on logs made of restlessness and doubt, walking over hot coals instead of walking with God.  The warmth engulfs me and I become complacent and charred.  Such is life.  Life worth fighting for.  Life lived once on earth and life of grace to live later.  No matter how fast I run, or how hot my soul’s fire, life will lead.  I am life’s follower.  I am part of the massive picture, the one I cannot begin to see unless I believe.  Unless I allow my talents to emerge positively.  Unless I allow others inside, even when I doubt they will understand.  Unless I turn my face to the sun especially during the dark of night.  Unless I forgive myself for my past.  Unless I open my perspective to possibility I fear.  Unless I slow down enough to hear your soul’s song.  Unless I tend my garden and share my laborious fruits.  Unless I look around the blinders and stretch my head out of the sand.  Unless I ask and unless I answer. 

Peace
Hugs
Light
Love
~L

it's 4 am, do you know where you are?

as I listen to the snow plows attack the drifting blizzard, I feel safe and peaceful.  lately, as you can tell from my blog posts, I have required calm and quiet at home.  This quiet is now.  I am writing for me and to you and again I feel like fingers follow meaning and sort thoughts into sentences.  My brain is on overload with what I have not written in the past 6 months.

I found my nursing niche and I'm honing my psychiatric craft.  This job fits me well, like the pair of brown corduroy pants I lovingly lived holes through the knees.  My back aches on this antiquated chair, and I am writing.  My words are stumbling through the portal, chopping onto the keys and into run ons and fragments.  And I'm writing and feeling it again.

clickity clackity

soft black plastic snapping

fingers ready and set in position

typewriter bell is missing, replaced by the hum of the pc's overworked fan

I'm writing.

In blue not ink.

In incorrect grammar and forgotten capitalization.

even as my lungs ache for deeper breaths

and my heavy head leans in the direction of my pillow,

even though my husband may call me crazy for staying up so late

and my dog may beg me to feed her early as I crawl up the stairs,

even if no one reads this post

and I sleep soundly anyway...

breathing in positivity one molecule at a time is good.

is forward momentum.

is what I am about today.

every day.

breathe in, breathe out

inhale, exhale

fill lungs and they will work for you

fill heart and it will beat for you

fill mind and it will think for you

fill life and you will live.

thank you friends and family who believe in the power...together we will fly higher on mended wings and run faster than the snow falls...together or individually, we have positive energy to turn us on, turn us into who we are, turn our hearts toward the sun and turn our inequities into acknowledgments...be...see...free...me.

peace, love, understanding ~L

Thank you Lord for understanding women.

Women hear me.  Women know what I'll say before I say it.  Women move closer when they see tears.  Women touch, distract, remember, realize, and touch again.  Women in my life are special and I hope I treat them as such.

Lately I have not felt like myself, like I should, like I expect to.  The cobwebs are accumulating and cross stitching inside my mind.  No room for additional thought patterns, no open runways to land on.  Clouds hover over my damaged wing.  The wing I repaired over the year is still weak.  Still hurting.  My new feathers wilting under the typhoon of sound.  The carousel's lights flash and I'm blinded temporarily.  All the horses and tigers smile as they circle past.  No open seats for this rider.  The queue for you.

Exit, reads the sign.  Purge and push open that steel door.  Walk slowly down the dark alley.  Don't look over your shoulder.  Keep your eyes on the blue light, gradually enlarging to the rhythm of your steps.  Feel the faint breeze on your cheek, smell the rain and the possibility.  Breathe.  Breathe deeper.  Almost there.  You're so close.  You're going to make it.  Concentrate and keep moving.  Let your soul sense direction and your body follow.  Stop questioning.  Stop wondering.  Embrace the warmth of anticipation manifested within.

walk out into the sunburst street sing your heart out sing my heart out I found grace inside a sound I found grace that's all that I found and I can breathe breathe now breathe (U2)

hoarding hope

giving with eyes open.  seeing the invisible dreams.  holding the hand that clutches hope.  bringing positive energy into negative noise.  making one step at a time move one minute closer.  all done in the name of God and humanity, through on the job training, unanticipated and unrehearsed.

I'm looking for the  litmus test, searching for a clue. am I doing right, giving enough, filling the voids?  what am I missing, cuz I feel a bit askew.  I realize my role is irregular, I realize my audience's diverse.  my heart lives on my sleeve, sensitive to the sounds of breaking beats nearby.  around my neck lies my hot pink stethoscope, an instrument played rarely, unable to measure levels of insight and initiative.  Mental ingenuity drives the assessments now.  Minds reading minds.  My mind peering into yours through conversation and cooperation.  Calm respite invites gradual renewal and gradual acceptance.  I must be patient.  I must temper my resolve.

all these years battling my inner demons and unrecognizable irrationalities have ironically taught me how to help other lost souls walk away from their precipices. One foot in front of the other and one deep breath at a time.  I remind myself to dig into my soul's treasures for lessons learned, and initiate my instincts upon impact.  Slow doesn't count in mental illness.  Horseshoes cannot be played alone.  I am nurse hear me roar!

 After a While
by Veronica Shoffstall (from a friend)   After a while you learn the subtle difference between

holding a hand and chaining a soul, 

And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning and

company doesn't mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts

and presents aren't promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open, 

with the grace of an adult,

not the grief of a child,

And you learn to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if

you get too much.

So plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, 

instead of waiting for someone to bring your flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure...

That you really are strong,

And you really do have worth.

calm before the storm?

brown speckled seagull
fighting warm wind
dancing with the water
in the sunshine's heat
visitors parked at peninsula's tip
fishing poles plopped into the drink
quietly queued sailboats
sunburst sand dunes
protect, reflect, return to home
changing scenery
people come and people go
shadows rotate the horizon
light piercing a hole through my shades
climbing into my mind's eye
winching wider
searching for the light at the end of this tunnel
looking for who I'll be in a few hours
left holding my bag of tricks
talented tricks used only for good
quickly breathe before you bobble
no bobbling allowed
no emotion or opinion
we have all been here before
wait a minute...I get it
boundaries and fences surviving through each blizzard
patterns of building blocks interpreted with care
I may be making this up, self fulfilling prophecy
the brown speckled seagull still sits to my left
returning from sky romping and fish finding
sustainability simplified
securely sound on that faded yellow line
every time the same line, the same curb, the same stance
predictable yet likeable
symbolism sucks.

the more things change, the more they....well, you know.

Here's an older post, from january, a few months ago. My words are rough and my emotion is raw...that's me at my best and my worst. I put this one on the back burner, hidden from readers, saved for future use...apparently my family can't absorb the strength of my soul and when some read of my trouble, I received phone calls and "talks" about my sanity. Didn't y'all know I was crazy? I thought that was a given!
Today I require a revisit and review of this scene. Introspection running rampant in my mind begs for answers to similar questions. I'll fill you in later. Life is calling.
~L

Honesty is the best policy.

So here's the truth. I wanted to run away last night. I drove two hours, stopped to look for a hotel to sleep overnight, and turned around toward home. I'm glad I changed my mind. All I needed was time to think, and sleep. Which I did when I arrived home at 2:30 am.

No one knew I had escaped. My son called me to tell me he was home at curfew and we exchanged I love you's. My husband was in the basement when I left, and when I returned. They still have no clue. Irrational? A little. Necessary? You betcha'.

It's not my first attempt at escaping my reality by automobile. I can drive the four hours to my extended family in my sleep, been traveling that road for over 20 years. Usually I head in their direction. Usually I am guaranteed a soft place to land with one of my clan. This time I wanted to avoid them at all costs. Really, I needed to avoid confrontation. Confrontation put me in my car and pushed me out of town. No, I needed and wanted a reprieve. A respite. I was looking for peace.

Here I sit, 24 hours after my great escape, wondering where I am. I cannot see the forest from the trees. I'm squinting through leaves, standing on my tip toes, craning my neck to look around twisted branches. Too bad the sun isn't shining, I could use more light. Here I sit, 24 hours later, sorting through the underbrush. Shall I gather sticks and start a fire? I may have to stay here for a while. What will I use for cover if it begins to snow? I'm on my own, so I best begin. Begin again. Again.

Lay me down in the cool grass and let me do my stuff (Fleetwood Mac).

My husband and I have been married for 20 years. Well, officially shy by two months, which in the grand scheme of two decades of matrimony, means nothing. My husband and I confronted our demons last night...again. The unwelcome demons that linger here. I hate these demons. I hate them. Hate them. Hate. These fears that paralyze us. The feelings that haunt us. The misunderstandings and miss-communications that fuel our fire. The past precedents of confrontation eat at us, even after we promise them away for good. They tear at our hearts and reveal our weaknesses to each other. The ugly truth rears its head and we talk and emote and engage and stop listening. My husband and I own a pattern and cycle of dysfunctional cooperation. We are not partners. We know this.

We struggle to get along. To like each other. To expect less and receive more. To be content with each other and comfortable together. For twenty years we try. Our history is colorful and checkered. Checkered with choices of circumstance and change. Checkered with unexpected tragedy and unfinished trials. Checkered by the dissimilar expectations we brought with us. Last night I saw, heard, and felt my husband's pent up frustration and anger. Last night was another reminder of our separate lives desperately trying to fit together. I told him my truth and he told me his.

We have all been here before...(CSNY)

Each day I keep my depression in check and my life takes on meaning which he does not understand. I am misunderstood by my life partner and I feel sad. I feel sad because he tells me that I misunderstand him. I feel hollow inside when I see his eyes tear and his voice crack when he tells me that he doesn't know how much more he can take, or give. I empathize. I do. I feel exactly the same honey.

Still we live on. Forging what must be the shape of a married couple's life. Following the bread crumbs we find and praying we found the ones that lead us somewhere...and not back where we started. Last night we came back around, again. We walked onto the path of destruction and started running toward our familiar. Histrionic emotions exited by mouth and entered our storm. Hurt thundered around our heads. Regret gained velocity and pushed the demons closer. And I ran.

a sorry apology

a crowd of people stood and stared...the Beatles are my inspiration this week, this morning, this life.
I love to turn you on.....................
I do
when I feel it
when you feel it
when we are we

so the apology is expected
which one should I use this time? the "I'm sorry" with meaning, or the "I won't do it again" with prayers that I won't, or the "I realize what I did was not the best choice, I'm sorry that I hurt you or made you feel__________, I will think about coming at this issue from a different way next time"...blah, blah, and I'm sick of this shit, blah!

words already spoken aren't accepted; been heard and precedent set.
new words aren't trusted or heard or believed or allowed to leave my mouth in one paragraph.

I think a few of those words are wandering around in my bedroom closet, lost and looking for their landing strip. My clothing, absorbed with spouts and shouts and tears and fears, clinging to the rod for dear life from season to season, without concrete evidence that they will hang in the same wardrobe in the morning. Just ask the broken wine glasses or the dusty turntable or the scratched box of old lady's spoons...memories of nothing but trouble. Purging the past from my memory via material fascination with image. The multiple boxes of amassed utility bills and old loan statements will see their demise later today. Shredding paper can be cathartic.

Do you know it's gonna' be alright? The Beatles told me so. And so do you. I've come here, to my semi-private sounding board, before going there, where the problem lingers and hovers and waves its arms at me in reminder to look up, face it, greet it, deal. Let me introduce you to the great procrastinator at her best. The scared puppy with tail between legs and ears pinned back crouching under the coffee table until the big bad wolf exits. the long and winding road...will never disappear...I've seen that road before...it always leads me here. Yup! why do you think I'm hiding? I know this ending. the story has written itself for years over years. the characters remain the same. the places may have changed, the circumstances tweaked, the provocation adjusted by change...and the hurt still hurts. bilaterally.

reread, rewrite, reuse

~today I felt a bit veklempt (anyone watch SNL in the 80's?)...thinking about friends fighting illnesses and unexpected challenge, a blogger who has to hide her honesty, and how to face my self-doubt and forge ahead anyway...thus I look over my shoulder at my own words, written here several months ago, removed and revamped.  Old words, new thoughts, former feelings, fresh anticipation, cathartic writing serves its purpose twice.  And honors my hopeful honesty.  Food for thought.  

Writing helps center me, whether I’m read or not. Put myself out there in private as a trial run and then approach life with thoughts in order and behaviors tested. I shoulda’ coulda’ woulda’ this technique with past experiences. May have run smoother, may not have. Moving forward is the only direction now. Must I announce this beginning, the new journey I’m traveling? Must others know the details or just give it to them and let them explore with me? I like the latter with one exception…the questions.  The answers don’t come quick. Hell, I don’t even have them yet. I am still unstructured.

Shaped and formed and tweaked and molded to suit my spirit. A friend helps this process and I can’t get enough. I’m set in overdrive…what’s the rush? One day at a time. No one can take this away from you. Your writing, your thoughts, your feelings about everything. But I want more anyway. More of the good stuff, the stuff that gets me high on living. Whatever force lives inside my body right now and has me physically electrified. It’s a new lifetime forming, being born.

Expectations run rampant in my world. I’m still unwrapping the pieces and fitting them together into my puzzle. Let’s start with mine. What’s on that list again? Kindness, service, loyalty, fear of God. OK, sounds reasonable. Is that list the same as my husband’s list for me? Probably. My kids’ list? Maybe. My patients, coworkers, neighbors, friends? Sounds good. So what’s the conundrum?

How is the question. How I think through my choices, how I combat my challenges and question my emotions. How others' perceive me. How I see myself. How I’ve been taught and how I’ve taught others. How my actions affect your actions and feelings and expectations of me…more circles goin round and round and round. I’m dizzy, and that is not a new fact. We have all been here before…

Do you know the impulsive, inconsiderate, selfish part of me who forgets to breathe before I pounce?  The truth is…that’s my truth. The pattern is obvious by the journeys of my past, the turns I’ve taken at each sharp fork have given me the craving for better and the speed to run toward whatever pulls me closer to my truth. Pulls me closer to what I am and not what I should be for others. Pulls me out of one circle and into another. Magnets. Magnets are people too.

 

the seeker

still amazed at the way life changes
you're in my memory
you're in my life
never thought we'd meet again

don't mind being wrong
don't mind one way conversations
just journaling my journey

peaceful easy feeling at 3:48 am

in love with my life now
and thankful for the loves of my life now 

just one thing

Recently a friend asked me what I was afraid of, why I'm not opening my heart and "using my gifts" on my blog, like I used to do...Challenge!  

Well he's not too far from right:  I have held back a bit. Since my words to important people in my life, people of my life, people I live for, set off a firestorm of anxiety. Some people are hurt.  Some are helped and some helped me.  Some wonder and watch.  Some question my processes.  Human beings I love, know more me.

I responded with face to face conversations, more truth, and putting my best work back into 'draft' mode.  Why?  To settle what I stirred.  To see what soup I created out of spontaneous epiphany.  To wait for the dust to settle.  To step back and peer through the window.  To talk to my husband instead of write about talking.  To assess my artistic senses with God's lead.  To watch my world through opened eyes.  

Perspective gained.  Respect delivered and received.  Confidence soaring on mended wings and meaning.  I've found and discovered something new each day since I wrote this piece.  Each moment lived with my blessings and family and friends, lived and loved and longed for more.

Here is more of me...just one thing.

 And I want it so bad, it's the first thing I see when I wake~my morning jacket

 

You may or may not have noticed a change in me. I've made a discovery about myself.   I've unwrapped a few layers and found perspective.  My new view.  My eye for the shot and my feel for the words. Talent.  Art. I am artistic. Two hobbies restarted in the past 6 months for the purpose of sorting and compartmentalizing priorities, goals, and next steps...Poof!  These ARE your priorities, goals and next steps. Really?  Who says?  How do you know?  Do you have proof?

They fit me.  I fit into them.  Yes, like a glove.  The feelings of satisfaction and purpose and knowing...priceless and unexpected and warranted.  You may understand this passion for self discovery.  You may understand how you look in your mirror and congratulate yourself.  You may know feeling accomplished because you completed, finished, succeeded, attempted, adhered.  You may have felt satisfaction and pride.  You may know how I feel now.

I am the lighting for my shot.  I am the thesis for my essay.  My fingers unconsciously moving across the keyboard produce comprehension.  My eyes hunt and search for composition among the mundane.  Naturally talented, gifted, surprised.

And I have proof.  This is not random thought trying to fit into specific challenge.  This is not a whim suggested by behavior of another.  I did not choose these creative expressions.  They chose me.  God chose me.  I accept my gifts and promise to handle them with care.  Thank you.

So now what?  Where to go, where to take my writing and shooting?  How do I use them for the greater good?  Funny how the expression, "starving artist" keeps popping into my mind.  Making money from my recently found completeness may be difficult or unnecessary.  Maybe my talents are not meant for production.  Maybe I should be shooting and writing to spread the word, the news, to educate, initiate, expedite.  This is not all about me.  It's bigger than me.

I am filling with spirit and my soul is awakening. I've worked at nothing purposely.  My work, my creative work, is my purpose.  My meaning.  ME.  I feel defined for the first time ever.  Not labeled with the role I must play or the line I should walk.  I feel discovered and highlighted and glowing.  The cracks of my years are aligning into a supportive foundation.  Goodbye fog, hello structure.  My structure.  This crashing force, energized by fresh purpose, keeps me breathing.  Breathing easier now.  Breathing the breath of my future.

My entire life has been a search party for this very day.  My day of unconditional love and honest acceptance.  My day to prove to family and friends, past and present, that I can do it.  Not just say I can.  Mean I can.  BE I can.  This unconditionality does not originate from the love of a human being as I believed it always would.  Should.  No, this brand spankin' new confidence, joy and longing, grows from within myself.  My soul and mind have enmeshed into a shining colorful aura and has settled peacefully into the chambers of my heart, the recesses of my skin, and rides gently the rapids of every breath I take.

I don't want this feeling to end.  Rough, raw, and rare with a sprinkle of humility.

People who know me and my search history, may think my methods have been haphazardly conducted.   I had to follow the threads, no matter where they went, as long as I felt loved along the way.  Acceptance by proxy.  Patterns formed and habits stuck.  Four decades makes marks and leaves scars and develops self reputation.  Self labels are applied and the consequences are invisibly damaging.  Beliefs form out of fragments of behavior, theirs and mine.  Settling comes with the territory of balance.  Expression dims as necessary and whole pieces break off the core.  My core.  My wishes and dreams.  My wants and needs.  My self, my being, my id and ego.  Cracking up and cracking open.  Investigations initiated and specialists referred.  We can rebuild her.  

Writing sporadically I soothed demons.  Shooting infrequently, I shared love.  Sparks not strong enough to create fire yet.  Keep rubbing those sticks together...you'll get it eventually.  Don't give up.  Keep trying.  You can do it.  Do what?

I don't want to list the ventures, a-ha moments, or sure things that strung me together over the years.  Sacrifices were made for my eventual success and martyrs wait patiently for their reward.  Here it is.  This is it.  I have found what I've been looking for.  I am ready to continue to self-nurture my strengths.  For the first time.  For the last time.  For now.  No more looking.  No more wonder.  This is my talent, my being, my core.  Nice to meet you.

fly on the wall

I know I'm easily distracted.  This morning I presented like a case study of impulsivity and good intention.  Alone in the house with my mental to-do list, it occurs to me and I smile.  Flitting between tasks, making stations of unfinished thinking.  Starting coffee, preparing oatmeal, logging on, shooting the sky, playing fetch with ging, opening blinds and windows...fill the Cuisinart with beans and press start, empty the bottom rack, add raisins and nuts and brown sugar and wheat germ, frame the red leaves with the white cloud, fill the dog's water bowl.  A fly on my wall would be dizzy watching my moves. 

And my mind moves too:  Oh, I forgot to turn on music.  I should start a load of laundry and fold this pile. The sky is beautiful today.  Thank you God for sunshine.  Where is that list I wrote Saturday?  Should check those due dates and send that letter and call that office.   Grrr, I don't want to think about job hunting.  Something's missing...yep, my coffee mug.  There, that's better.  Where to begin?

 ADD, absent minded, flighty, laid back, unconcerned, living in the moment, day by day, one at a time.  I've been described.  I've self-described.  I see me.  No pill will teach my brain to rewire a lifetime of patterns.  No psychologist will succeed in redirecting my cognition.  Logical answers don't exist to explain my reasons.  Or my rhyme.  Fly by the seat of my pants and land softly where I belong.  Here.

Stuff gets done.  Tasks added.  People called, contacted, reminded, and greeted.  Paper pushed and piles pondered.  Lists linger.  Interesting intentions intertwine with exacerbated expectations.  Hardness points inward.  Should, could, would.  Do your best and be honest about the rest.  Deep breaths and gentle stretches refresh body and soul.  Move forward.  Just move.  Outcomes will step offline and results will be reviewed.  Necessary processing done patiently.  Done.  One way or the other, done.

'I see YOU'

my friend @ Mainland Streel has a 30 day challenge of blog prompts...

here's one of my offerings for day 11

a photo of myself, taken recently

(you may have seen this one already)

Chicago
my kinda town
city life
man's making
God's coast
God's people
with and without homes
or names
or numbers on plastic cards
people I talk to
smile with

one man sings to me
makes me laugh
outside the art house
under the lions
on route 66
just up the street
the famous street
named after my favorite
Michigan
my home
he has none

up the street
down the avenue
under the L tracks
above the clouds
inside the window
around the corner
bakery

hidden gems
city sanctuary
shiny sparks
dull dust on the thrift store shelves
black and white framed precisely
 sun stoked brick
bursting freckles
swift steps stalking the shot
one posed, one not
Linclon Park
Paulina
saturday swoon
walked way past noon
 
my home here
and there
and wherever I roam
city or country
I am the mouse
muse
meant for

 music and beauty and sweet smells and sounds
visions of grace and greed and grime
arousing suspicions
reflecting red white and blue
for you
with or without a job
flying high and expecting higher
on the seventh day
scraping the clear sky
 waving at the little people
 below
 with or without homes
the silence of history surrounds
Sunday

alas, the artists speak
in the bulls eye of business
Chagall, Calder, Picasso
mosaic of millions
great orange bird bending
face the music
on public property

see the sights
touch the steel

assess each angle

wonder what he was thinking
feeling and saying
about the people passing
 staring
 loving and learning
 ignoring and inspiring
 taking for granted
 and granting permission
providing purpose
 of puzzle pieces fitting
 where they weren't allowed before
 of childrens' eyes affected
 by their internal light
 never lost
 always found and flourishing
 art

 raindrops and river
rushing to meet the train station
 last minute focus
 last looks
someone else's photography
inside someone's former library
on the famously named street
where I met the man
with no home

full circle
three days
one person
hundreds of views
thousands of thoughts
memories amassed
purpose
point
direction
intention
meaning
of life
in
God's city