When It Doesn't Let Up

I haven't written much because I'm annoying even myself with the drama and seemingly never-ending angst that has become my life. It's pointless to get on here and drone on and on about it all.

The level of frustration I feel about not being able to have more control over my life is at an all time high and it feels insurmountable. I'm a proactive person and believe in doing for myself and not whining.

But what do you do when it won't let up? What do you do when things aren't getting better no matter how hard you try? Life just keeps throwing crap at you and the only choice you have is to juke and jive in an attempt to dodge bullets. Crappy bullets. Bullets full of crap. CRAPTASTIC BULLETS FULL OF CRAP.

It's awful. I'm tired. Exhausted. To the bone exhausted. There are times lately that it doesn't even seem worth it. What's the point if life is this hard for this long?

No, I'll never kill myself. Not my style. But I sure would like some relief. I would like to rest my mind and my heart. I would like some spiritual and emotional respite.

I would like to be happy.

Content.

At peace.

That's all. Just some peace-of-mind...

It was 91 degrees in Georgia today. We had a 40 minute drive this afternoon during the highest heat of the day – IN A BLACK CAR WITH NO AIR CONDITIONING. (Don’t even get me started.) We stopped by Publix to get something for dinner. Greg drops me off because I’m cranky with sweat. I go inside and am grateful for the cool air. I thought about going to the freezer section to sit myself in with the frozen corn dogs. Refrained. I stood there behaving myself waiting for Greg and Emma to come inside but only Greg showed up…

Me: Where’s Emma?

Greg: Out in the car.

Me: WHY?? It’s too hot!

Greg: I have no idea. That’s what I told her but she didn’t want to come in.

Me: (thinking) WHATEVER. Crazy kid…

We finish up our shopping and head out to the car. (Greg had found a good spot after he dropped me off! Right by the door. He’s good at finding prime parking.) I get to the car and there is Emma: wilted, sweating, forlorn with the hardship of baking in what was essentially a really big oven for the previous 15 minutes.

Me: Emma, why didn’t you come in? It’s too freaking hot out here!

Emma: (Long, deep sigh…)Because I didn’t want to walk.

Me: What are you talking about??

Emma: I didn’t want to walk from the car to the store.

Me: You didn't leave the sweltering car to travel the 15 feet to the cool store because you didn't want to walk?

Emma: Yeah, I just didn't feel like it.
 

Me: That's what's called CRAZY LAZY, Emma.

Emma: Ugh, MOM!

(She deserved to bake.)

Brokenhearted

Right here. This is the moment. The moment when our innocence ended.

When we knew.

Knew that this wasn't an accident, but intentional.

And that thousands would die. Innocent people just doing their jobs.

It's when we knew that nothing would ever be the same again and that life is largely out of our control.

I am praying today. Praying for those left behind without their loved ones. Praying for our country. Praying for my daughter and the world she's growing up in.

Praying that someday our hearts will be mended.

I'm Almost "Done" But I'm Still Learning

I'm learning, after 17 long years of parenting, that parents don't feel guilty because they can't solve their children's problems. They feel guilty because their children have problems in the first place. If I had been a better parent, she wouldn't have this problem. If I had been a better parent, she would have more friends, better grades, not have this illness, wouldn't have had sex so early, wouldn't be addicted to (fill in the blank), would keep his room cleaner, would love herself more, would be healthier, happier, more successful, richer...NOT SO FREAKING SCREWED UP.

That's a heavy burden.

We lose before we start because everyone has problems, but we somehow think we can - or should - protect our children from them. That somehow, if we do a good enough job, get it just right, then ours won't. So, when, OF COURSE, they do have problems we are so taken aback. So surprised. And left feeling so inept.

I've been feeling inept lately. So lost and incapable. So bewildered and alone. A failure.

But...I'm also learning that what I've told my friends when they're feeling lost as a parent, is also true for me. That a good parent isn't someone who has all of the answers for our children when they struggle. It's someone who's willing to look until he or she finds them. Someone who helps their children navigate and discover and learn - so they can face their life - no matter what it brings.

Someone who loves them unconditionally - even when they have problems.

I'm 47 and Didn't Know I Could Shriek Like That

Discovering a big bug with a lot of legs during your morning shower - but halfway through your shower - you know, when you're right in the middle of shampooing your hair...let's just say that I'm glad that Fatso was the only one there to witness what happened next.

He has lost all respect for me.

Love

It's the topic of nearly every song ever written. Every poem ever recited. Every movie ever committed to the reel. Every novel ever published.

I've been thinking a lot about love lately. Lots and lots of thoughts swirling about my head. I see a movie and the two lovers overcome great odds and still find their way to each other. I read a book and a pair of unlikely people end up together in the end. I listen to songs and wonder at how a whole love story can be written in a four minute set of lyrics.

I look in my own life and the lives of the people around me and I have inevitably come to one conclusion: love is a complete and total, unequivocal, without a doubt, absolutely unavoidable, big fucking pain in the ass.

Full Circle

My daughter is seventeen now. I cannot even begin to tell you how weird that is. When I had her all of those years ago, I wasn't happy. She was a surprise (I was on the pill) and one that I wasn't at all sure I wanted. There are all sorts of reasons I felt that way that I'll get into at some point maybe, but the bottom line is that it was very difficult for me.

I would hold her and stare at her and wonder how I was going to raise her. How I would do right by her. How I would love her the way she deserved to be loved. How was I going to do this for eighteen years? It seemed an eternity when every hour was a struggle to get through.

But hour-by-hour, day-by-day, week-by-week, month-by-month, year-by-year, I did it. Sometimes plodding with the heaviness of the responsibility, and sometimes going at the speed of light trying to keep up with her ever-changing needs.

And now here we are. Looking at colleges and getting a driver's license and debating the pros and cons of getting a tattoo (God help me). She is growing up - almost there - and I just can't believe it. When you're in the throes of parenthood, whether it's the snotty little mean girl in first grade or the utter cruelty of middle school or that first real heartbreak in high school, it feels like this will be your life forever. You acclimate to it and just get on with it every day. Then "suddenly" they are approaching that magic age of eighteen when you're supposedly off the hook as a parent. That moment that you've looked forward to - and dreaded - all at the same time, is finally arriving.

Your child is grown.

And your heart is stretched and tugged and tested. Both from the heartache of losing her to adulthood and from the unbelievable excitement about the next phase of your life finally arriving. That phase that you daydreamed about on the really hard days and dreaded on the really good ones.

It's then though, that you realize that life has come full circle. Sixteen years, two months, one week and six days ago I was driving in my car with my two-week old baby and realized with some dread that while I love this child more than I ever thought I could love another human being, I would never really be mentally free again. That terrified me. I had the gift and privilege of raising this beautiful girl, but with it came the burden of worrying about her until the day I died. There was no getting around it.

And worry I did! Hand-wringing, gut-wrenching, hair-pulling worry. But I've also laughed a lot. And beamed with pride. And reveled in her accomplishments. And she has filled my heart over and over again with her sweet personality, great sense of humor, intelligence and strength.

So, as I dropped her off this past week for a week-long test run at her dream college, my car was empty of her and her stuff and that long ago car seat and baby paraphernalia. But my mind was not empty of her. She remained in my thoughts. And I realized once again, all of these years after that moment in the car with my newborn, that she always would. She would be ever-present. I would always worry about her. I would always love her. I would always parent her. She would always have my heart.

Evil. Pure Evil.

I've been married for nearly 24 years. We dated for four years before that.

28 years. Twenty. Eight. Years.

That much time in a relationship does something to a person. Sometimes, it does good things to a person. Like polishing a rock over time making it smoother, more refined and even shinier on occasion. Being with the same person for 28 years forces you to work together, cooperate, compromise, negotiate.

But sometimes...sometimes...yes, sometimes it just makes you pure evil. Drives you mad and takes you to the brink of sanity. You want to kill that person. But you know you can't. So the evil takes other forms. Less deadly ones. Ones that don't put you in prison but still reflect how homicidal you have gotten.

Yesterday was one of those days for me. My husband was being a jerk. Just a jerk. We were talking about something innocuous, but I was annoyed with someone who had repeatedly dropped the ball for the last week-and-a-half on a simple task. I was more than annoyed. I. was. PISSED. Venting about it with Greg (not AT him) and he wasn't being empathetic or understanding of my feelings at all. Quite the opposite in my opinion and it was hurting my feelings and making me madder.

Add to the mix our two-year-old German Shepherd dog continually sniffing my butt as we were "discussing" the matter and I was about to go nuclear. She requires a lot of  patience.

I wasn't patient.

While I wasn't yelling at my husband, I was having unkind thoughts about him as we talked, and trying my best to prevent my brain from exploding all over the living room walls.

At one point, my husband, turns his attention to his computer to look something up and I see our dog out of the corner of my eye and turn my attention to her to see what she was up to since she had finally stopped sniffing my butt. She had discovered the Pop Tart. My husband had left a blueberry Pop Tart beside him on the couch where he had been working and the dog had just found it. It had the white frosting with sprinkles of little, blue sugary sugar crystals.

I don't know why I didn't jump into action. A dog. A Pop Tart. It was inevitable. She sniffed and then sniffed some more and then...LIIIIICK! A big wet one all across the frosted top of that Pop Tart.

I chuckled inside but didn't have time to do anything about it as my husband turned away from the computer and back to facing me. He then promptly picked up that Pop Tart and started eating it.

I just stood there and watched. Never said a word. The expression on my face didn't change a bit. Just stood there and watched it happen. No intervention whatsoever.

I DIDN'T STOP MY HUSBAND FROM EATING THE DOG-LICKED POP TART.

And I enjoyed every. single. second.

EVIL!! Just pure evil.

The satisfaction I got from that moment was scary. Wicked. I feel it even now as I write this. Just absolute contentment that he got what he deserved. Be a jerk to your wife, you get screwed with the dog-saliva pseudo-pastry. That's how it works. That's the risk you take in life.

So THERE.

Facade

I was cleaning the bathroom the other day (shocking, I know) and was looking out the window at our neighbor's back yard. Then I looked at ours. Both of them were in pretty bad shape. Tall grass overrun with weeds. Sticks every where. Dry, dirt patches where there should be grass. Dirty swing sets. I kind of laughed about it because earlier in the day I was admiring both of our front yards when I went out to get the mail.

It got me thinking about the show we put on for others. The facade we build around our lives to look put together in front of others when, in fact, we may be falling apart inside. I'm just as guilty of it as anyone else, and the older I get the more it bothers me that so much of my life is spent pretending. Pretending that I'm okay. Pretending that I'm happy. Pretending that I'm put together and that my life is in order. Pretending that I don't miss my dead family members. Pretending that I'm not worried. Pretending that all of this pretending doesn't hurt.

I had a friend say to me recently, "I have to play this role, Rachel. I HAVE to." The role of happy husband, father, son, brother, neighbor, friend - when in truth, he's pretty unhappy. The life he lives day-to-day is not what he would choose for himself if he felt like he had the power to choose. I knew in that moment that he just needed to say it and just needed me to listen and not judge or even respond. But I wanted to scream at him, "YOU'RE 50! IS THIS HOW YOU REALLY WANT TO SPEND YOUR LIFE??? AND FOR WHAT? WHY? WHAT'S IT WORTH IF IT'S NOT REAL???" But I didn't. It's not what he needed from me in that moment so I just continued to listen.

I realized later that I was smart to withhold verbal judgment because I'm playing a role too, every bit as much as my friend is. Every single day I am. I smile when I should and laugh when I should and shut up when I should and get serious when I should and DO and BE and LIVE like I should - when the truth of the matter is that if I was being completely honest with myself and others, I would be a MUCH different person leading a MUCH different life.

That makes me so sad. I'm not living in a genuine, honest way and it's an exhausting, heavy load. But how do we get out of it? How does a person pursue a life that is more authentic to be who they really are and who they really want to be, when they have a marriage and children and a job and mortgages? How do so many of us end up sitting on our couches one night somewhere in our mid-40s and wonder, HOW IN THE HELL DID I END UP HERE??
 
And then, HOW IN THE HELL DO I GET OUT??

I've felt guilty for feeling that way. I've felt like a bad person. What kind of good, decent human being wants out of their lives? Wants to run away on a fairly regular basis? I've come to the conclusion that feeling way doesn't mean we don't love our spouses/children/homes/careers. But it may mean that we don't love our lives. I know that seems counter-intuitive and contradictory on the surface, but I believe we human beings are complex and can feel more than one emotion about the same thing, at the same time. Individually, there are many things that I love about my life, but as a whole, I really hate my life.

One of the things that I'm wondering is if maybe I love some of the key components of my life but that I feel like so much is missing from it? That I'm not experiencing and achieving and LIVING all that I want in the way that I want. Maybe I don't need to run away thereby eliminating things from my life, but simply need to add more things to my life that are more meaningful to me.

I really don't have an answer. I guess it's good that I'm at least mulling it over though. Right?

Tick Tock

Sometimes it IS too late.

What a discouraging realization. The older I get, the more acutely aware I become that life is passing me by - and I'm letting it.

I'm starting to rack up a list of dreams that are just never going to happen. Things I'll never get to do or see or experience. The depression that is bringing on is crippling and I try to keep it at bay. I try to remember the here and now - this moment right now - and appreciate it for what it is. Appreciate that I have air in my lungs, a beating heart, a home, a child, people who love me.

But...the anxiety I feel about time passing is extremely overwhelming. About all that I'm missing. About how my life is such a disappointment to me and how I let it get to such a bad place.

So much of it's on me. Squarely on my shoulders. The weight of my failure is knee-buckling.

Boston Strong

I have some great memories of Boston. I've had several girls' getaway weekends in my life but my weekend there back in college was one the funnest I've ever had. What happened there shall remain there, but needless to say, it was, ahem, an ADVENTURE.

I also had a weekend there with my husband (then boyfriend) that was awfully nice. The beautiful streets, Copley Square, good restaurants, lots of history...lots to do and see.

I enjoy the grit of the city. It's just as much a part of the area and the people that live there as anything else. Being a New Yorker, I appreciate the tenacity and rough edges that living in the Northeast brings. Spit and polish may be pretty but it's not going to get you through life. In my more philosophical moments I wonder if that's cosmically why that area of our country is so often targeted by others - because we can withstand hard times and come out better in the end.

When I heard about the bombings in Boston my heart broke. Knowing, as I do, the devastation wrought from suddenly losing a loved one...well, it's a hell that I wish on no one. And even the violent loss of a limb inevitably wreaks a whole load of pain and grief that must feel insurmountable to the victim at times. My brother lost most of his hand violently when he was young and I saw what it did to him and my parents as he struggled to heal physically and emotionally.

But, while I was heartbroken for the victims of the bombing and the people of Boston, I wasn't worried. I knew immediately that they would find a way to be okay. They would rise and thrive in spite of this vicious assault on them. These Bostonians are not weaklings. These are people who are strong. So very strong.

Boston strong.

Peace and prayers to you Boston.

Gee, What a Load of Crap (At First Glance Anyway)

I just logged onto this blog to see what it looked like to a new reader and burst out laughing when I took an objective gander at it. There is the header with the title "Laughing Eden" in large font and then the first sentence in my last post is, "I keep crying."

Wow, talk about a bait and switch. With a blog title like that you'd think you were going to be in for some pretty good times on here. And then...NOT SO MUCH. Lately anyway.

When I named this blog I thought about the things that were most important to me or the things that I enjoyed. Family, friends, love, compassion, kindness, baking, art, movies, books, creating, writing; all a very big part of my life. But laughter, well laughter is what has helped me survive all the heartache that life has brought me. I'm so grateful for laughter. So indebted to it. The gift of it is priceless to me. This blog is intended to pay homage to it - a way of thanking it for helping me stay alive in some of my darkest days when all I wanted to do is disappear.

I'm in those dark days again. I will admit that laughter isn't coming easy. That I'm struggling in ways that I have never struggled before. And that I'm scared about it.

I cry way more than I laugh, and when I do laugh, it's usually a mere chuckle that is short lived. My ironic blog title made me laugh harder than I have in a while.

I'm trying though. I'm trying to find joy. Opportunities to laugh come every day and I grab them greedily, desperate to be myself again. To feel something other than sadness. And anger and frustration and discouragement and hopelessness.

Maybe that's a good sign - that I want to feel something other than all of that negativity. I imagine someone who is truly hopeless doesn't even bother trying anymore. I will always try. I have a daughter. She deserves at least that from me.

So I get up every day and shower and put on some make up and take care of my daughter and putter around the house and work and interact with people and try to serve and love and yes, laugh. The beat goes on and I hope to dance to it again one day.

Always Looking For Excuses

I keep crying. I'll be driving down the road and start crying. Or take a walk and cry. Or surf the internet and cry. Or mop the floor and cry. Watch TV and cry. Organize a cabinet and cry. Pet the cat and cry. Listen to music and cry. Cry, cry, cry.

When I'm not crying I have a constant lump in my throat and I know that with just one wrong move,  I'll start crying all over again.

I hate crying. Mostly because I know that it will bring on a sinus headache from hell the next day that no painkiller can touch. But also because it seems weak. And pathetic. And pointless. It doesn't ever solve anything (and with that headache it seems to only make things worse). It doesn't seem to propel me forward in any way or give me any relief. I end up in a big, sad heap of mush wishing that I could just disappear.

I find myself excusing the tears. That song was sad. That movie was a tearjerker. That floor was really dirty. That cat was really shedding.

I do the same thing with my feelings and emotions too. Always trying to explain them away. Always trying to talk myself out of them. Always berating myself for feeling them. Always telling myself that my period must be coming or that I need to get more sleep or eat better or exercise more or BE STRONGER RACHEL.

Here's the truth though. The truth that I don't want to deal with. The truth that I don't want to be true. The truth that brings me to my knees...

My heart is broken.

It is utterly, miserably, irrevocably broken. Just...broken. Shattered. I am someone who is heartbroken.

And I don't want to be heartbroken. I want to be whole. In one piece. Strong. Above it.

I'm not.

I am heartbroken. For some of the obvious reasons that anyone who knows anything about me, knows about. (The deaths or impending deaths of many loved ones will break your heart - OBVIOUSLY.) But also for reasons that I can't discuss here. Or anywhere. That are locked inside of me and that I am alone with. Not because I want to be, but because that's my only choice. There are some things that cannot be out in the open and the isolation of them makes me feel completely hopeless and adrift.

So, I cry. And try to make excuses for all of the crying - to myself mostly. And I try to take that next breath and that next step, and hope that each time I do it, it will bring me closer to putting one piece of my heart back together at a time. I don't have a lot of confidence though. I don't think it's possible. But I'll keep breathing and walking and trying.

It's the only option there is.

Sunday Blessings

I'm grateful.

1. The beautiful weather for the last few days.
2. Elmo.
3. My long legs that carry me through life.
4. When Harry Met Sally.
5. Nail polish.

The Problem With Radio Silence When You're Me

As part of my radio silence decision, I deactivated my Facebook account. I've also cleaned up my e-mail account by unsubscribing to most of the sites that send me so much junk mail every day. (I'm so sick of people trying to sell me stuff.)

I figure that this is a good time to take a step back from things, streamline my life a bit and spend some time thinking and hopefully figuring a few things out. My husband is out of town indefinitely for more storm work so I have a lot of time to myself.

I was just talking with one of my best friends, T. We've known each other since sixth grade and our primary activity together is laughing. I treasure her for that. Also for her kindness and compassion.

At some point in the conversation she asked me if there had been any fallout from deactivating my Facebook account.

Uhhhhmmmmm...

Now that you mention it, NO, there hasn't been any fallout. AT ALL. In fact, I don't think anyone has even noticed that I'm missing. That's the problem with being a 5'9" invisible woman. No one notices when you're there, and no one notices when you're gone. You think you're making some dramatic statement when in fact no one is even listening.

No wonder I'm depressed. I've got a lot to figure out. Who are these people in my life? These so called "friends" - whether in the ridiculous world of Facebook, or in my (equally ridiculous) real life. Why do I continue to engage with people that really don't seem to give a shit whether I engage with them or not - EVER??

On the other hand, what did I expect? I mean, really. What did I expect? That people would fall all over themselves missing me and then beg me to come back into their lives? History has taught me better than that and I really need to start paying attention to those lessons.

People, in general, are rather self-involved. And I include myself in that group of people. It was rather self-involved of me to think that I would disappear and that it would have any real effect on anyone. Everyone has their own lives and whether or not I'm on Facebook anymore, or whether or not I am texting/e-mailing/calling/IM-ing/Skyping/tweeting anymore is really of very little concern to anyone.

Geez, it's overwhelming.

What I've concluded in the last few days is that if I'm going to take a step back for a bit to figure some things out, then for heaven's sake RACHEL, go figure some things out! Stop worrying about if anyone is noticing you figuring things out - JUST GO DO IT. The story here shouldn't be about who noticed you disappearing for a while to figure things out. It should be about WHAT DID YOU FIGURE OUT??

And always, always remember: radio silence doesn't work if no one was listening in the first place. The key is to figure out how to say something worth listening to.

Radio Silence

I was watching some mindless show the other day with an interview between a pseudo-celebrity entertainment journalist and a pseudo-celebrity reality star. (Actually, the pseudo-celebrity entertainment journalist is also a pseudo-celebrity reality star herself. Oh, Hollywood...what a tangled web...) They were discussing the reality star's earlier courtship break-up with her now husband and what a tough time that was in their relationship. The journalist said to the reality star, "Did you go 'radio silence' on him?"

I honestly don't remember what the reality star's reply was, but I couldn't stop thinking about the idea of "radio silence." Of just...disappearing.

I need to disappear.

I want to disappear.

I don't want the life I'm living. No matter how much I try to keep my head in the game and stay on top of my life, my thoughts have become consumed with running away. I keep trying to shove these thoughts away because I have too many people counting on me right now, but they creep back in almost nonstop.

And it makes me feel guilty to think this way - about my marriage, about my daughter, about the rest of my family and friends. How hurtful would that be for me to just pick up and leave?

But it's all I want to do.

I want to live in a tiny house and create. That's all I want. I don't want to see anyone. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want anyone in my life.

I know this sounds absolutely ridiculous. And over the top. And over dramatic. And selfish. And mean.

And I could psychoanalyze the shit out of all of this because I'm really good at psychoanalyzing the shit out of things: I know that I've been hurt by the deaths of so many people I love and the rejection of so many others that are living. I know that part of my wanting to disappear is a way of protecting myself against more loss and rejection. I know that I'm facing a time of huge transition (empty nest, marital shifts, more losses from that bitch that is cancer, a probably move, huge career decisions). I know that it's mentally unhealthy to want to shun other human beings in your life. I know that I need to hold on. I know that I just need to get up each morning and put one foot in front of the other and breathe in and out and GET ON WITH IT. I know this. I know all of this. But knowing all of this doesn't make it possible to do. Doesn't make the unending, paralyzing, gut-wrenching, grip-my-heart-and-tear-it-out-of-my-chest pain, go away. The weight of that pain is getting heavier and heavier - and I'm buckling.

I want relief. I need relief. I want freedom. Freedom from the grip of pain that has owned my heart and mind for so long and is only getting worse. The pain is stealing more and more of me and it's threatening to consume me completely. The fight I've fought against it for nearly thirty years is a losing battle it seems and my knees are giving out. Feels like it's time to surrender. To escape. To go silent. To just go.

Radio silence.

Notsomuchste

Emma cracks me up. She doesn't usually have much to say, but when she finally does say something it's usually funny or clever or interesting or wise. I admire that about her. She doesn't have a need a fill the air with too many words like so many people do. She's content in her silence and confident enough to not babble away unnecessarily.

Emma and I often go to yoga class together. (If you knew me at all that last sentence would have made you laugh. I'm not athletic or flexible or physically strong. I am a bit of a spaz and am never quite sure how to coordinate these long limbs of mine.) We've been going fairly regularly as a way to get out of the house, do something physical and spend some time together - but mostly to escape from our broken hearts for an hour.

The teacher is just what you'd think a yoga instructor would be. She fits all the stereotypes you might have about someone who spends a great deal of her time trying to "find her center" and "achieve inner peace" while she "connects with her true self." Petite, fit, soft-spoken, meditative, very little make-up, bare feet.

I struggle with the movements and poses because of my bum hip, twice-broken foot and old age. But I get out there and I give it a go, which I'm proud of. Emma is much better at all of it since she is young and a dancer.

At the end of class the teacher always says, in a very soft-spoken manner, "Honor others. Honor yourselves. Honor your teacher. Namaste." And it always makes us giggle. It just seems SOOO new age-ish and I'm afraid we're too sarcastic and cynical to take it all that seriously.

The other night, we were in class and the lights were dimmed and the room was quiet as we followed the teacher's instructions...Warrior's Pose, Tree pose, and then Downward Dog. I struggle with Downward Dog because my arms are not strong and my hip always wants to give out. Oh, and I struggle with vertigo too, so having my head down lower than my torso always creates dizziness. It takes a lot of focus for me and I work hard at it. Towards the end of class, we were in our Downward Dog pose while we all listened to some very bizarre, obscure, new age musical number with a lute playing and I believe what was the slow beat of a bongo in the background. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Emma loud-whispers to me, "Mom!" I didn't answer - I was too busy focusing on my arms not giving out as my face turned beet red and sweat formed on my upper lip with the effort. So she said again, in an even louder-whisper, "MOM!" Annoyed, I loud-whispered back, "WHAT?!" Then she said, "This is my favorite song."

Hahahahahahaha!!! I collapsed into a Laying Down Dog Flat On My Mat pose in a fit of giggles. Soon to follow were glares from my fellow yoga-mates and the teacher, oh the teacher did not look pleased at all. Emma just shook her head at me as if she were just an innocent bystander and all like, "It wasn't THAT funny, Mom."

LOVE her!

Words Cannot Suffice

Heart-bro-ken (adjective): Crushed with sorrow or grief.

Yup.

Bigger Than A Train Wreck

I had an upsetting dream last night. Typically when I have dreams, whatever happens in them can be traced back to some concrete reality from the previous days before I had it - just with a bizarre twist to it. Like, say, I drink a can of soda in real life (unusual for me) and then I'll have a dream about drinking a can of soda and blowing up like a balloon and floating off into the sunset. Or, I'll watch a documentary about Kennedy's assassination and I'll have a dream about jump-roaping on a grassy knoll - in Thailand. Totally bizarre.

But last night I had one that I can't seem to trace back to anything concrete from the past few days, but that I know for sure is symbolic of how my life is going lately. In it, a space shuttle had just launched and I was watching it from a high floor in a high rise building. People were cheering and in awe as they craned their heads skyward to watch it disappear into the atmosphere. As it got further into the sky, but still quite close to earth, there were suddenly orange flames flashing out from the bulbous nose of the spacecraft that quickly made their way on down the rest of the body of the shuttle, swallowing it until it was engulfed and coming apart. The separate pieces were falling to the earth onto the busy street below the building I was in and crashing into cars and greedily swallowing those up in flames as well. I looked up and the largest shuttle piece remaining was hurtling towards earth and I watched as it crashed into a building across the street and exploding causing utter and total devastation. I knew that in that second and the ones before, many people - innocent, good people - were killed, or maimed or burned. That their lives were destroyed or forever altered.

It seemed so real in my dream, so vivid, that I woke up from it thinking that I should turn on CNN to get more information about what was happening. Then, as I became more awake, I realized that it was just a dream but then I instantly realized somehow that that space shuttle bursting into flames and destroying so much around it was a clear symbol of my life at the moment. I started crying. That space shuttle was me and it fell apart and by falling apart it hurt what surrounded it - it hurt people's lives by not holding up and doing what it was supposed to do. By not being stronger. Something inside, deep within its being - a faulty wire, a weak bolt, a crack in the metal innards - gave way, and tipped the shuttle over the edge of what it should have been able to accomplish and manage until it just exploded and fell apart, taking down many others with it.

I, and my life, are way beyond a train wreck. We're an exploding space shuttle.

New Lows

I found myself on the bathroom floor tonight, crying my eyes out. That was after crying my eyes out this morning on a bench on a public mountain trail. I am being brought to my knees and I keep trying to figure it out. I keep trying to make sense out of things that will never make sense. I sat on that bench and stared at the magnificent morning sunrise with things swimming around in my head grasping, reaching, praying for answers. For ways to fix or heal or answer or DO ANYTHING about any of it.

Then tonight I lost it in front of my daughter. I found some things out from her that just...buckled me. Like a bat to the back of my knees, I was emotionally down - surrendered against my will to the reality that is my life. I have no answers. I can't fix any of it. I'm not sure if I'll ever heal.

I'm scared and I'm sad and I feel hopeless.

!

I've noticed something! Something kind of funny! Something that would be a pretty cool trick if it all weren't so sad! When I am texting or e-mailing someone in response to their questions about how I'm doing, and end sentences with an exclamation point, they believe I'm okay when I say I'm okay! They suddenly move on and ask no more questions about how I'm doing!

Isn't that the oddest thing? And pretty shady of me if I'm being totally honest. But, it wasn't something that I did with purpose at first. I didn't even realize I was doing it at all for a long time. But in the last few weeks, I started noticing it and decided to test it. Someone would ask me how I'm doing (crappy) or how my sister is doing (crappy) and I would talk honestly about how (crappy) we were were doing and I could tell the other person would begin to feel stressed that we're doing so crappy. OR! I would evade their questions and they would notice that I'm evading and call me out on it. Then I would send a response with an exclamation point on the end and they would immediately believe me that I was fine and I could tell their stress level would diminish significantly.

For example:

Them: "How is your sister doing, Rachel?"
Me (option 1 - no exclamation point): "She is struggling quite a bit, but managed to be able to take a shower today."
Me (option 2 - using exclamation point): "She is struggling quite a bit but managed to be able to take a shower today!"

See the difference? In option 2, the reader would take it as good news and be able to move on to talking about other things when, in actuality, it kind of sucks that the standard of what my sister can manage in a day has become so low that being able to take a shower is newsworthy. But, frankly, it is often a relief for me to move on to another topic, and here is why...people just want me to be okay. That's all they want. They care about me and my family and want to help but know they can't and that's stressful for them. They want to fix, but they can't. They want to solve, but they can't. They want me not to hurt, but I can't stop hurting just because they want it so much for me. Intellectually, everyone involved knows this, but human nature dictates that they at least try. My exclamation points let them off they hook. They asked, I answered with enthusiasm, we can all move on to the next topic. I can pretend to be okay and this is comforting to the other person.

I learned years ago that my not being okay is a real hardship for the people who care about me. When Joanne was killed I was SO NOT okay and I walked around obviously not okay. It was hard for people to be around me. Not because they didn't love me or care about me - but because they did. I soon realized that the more "okay" I was, the more people were comfortable with my situation and with being around me. I needed people around me. Grief is such an isolating journey and I was desperate for friendship and companionship so...I adjusted. I smiled and laughed and pretended to be okay.

The problem with this, of course, is that it'll come back to bite you. All of that pretending will eventually catch up with you and suddenly you feel like your going to have a nervous breakdown out of pure exhaustion with all of that Oscar-winning acting you're doing. I've learned this the hard way. So much so, that I was eventually diagnosed with PTSD and suffered a severe depression.

But, here I am, pretending again. It's taken on a new format with technology creating even another layer of removal from others - texting and e-mail give you a safe cushion from your tone of voice or facial expressions giving you away. A simple exclamation point is all that is needed and your scott free.

I know in my gut that all of this exclaiming might be a big mistake, but I honestly don't know any other way of handling it. They want me to be okay, I will be okay, and it doesn't really matter that I'm not okay. Give the people what they want and the truth won't matter.

Except...it does. I'm NOT okay. I am hurting and I am scared and I am desperately sad. And I am alone with it because that is what's necessary to be able to get on with your life day-in and day-out. And to have people in your life. And to just get the hell on with it. There doesn't seem to be many options here.

Smile. Nod. Evade. And if all else fails, exclaim.

The One Left Behind

Long hiatus, folks! It's been a while since I've been writing on here. I don't know why I do that. I know I hate it when other bloggers do that - just disappear. I'm at an advantage though because I don't have any readers (At least I don't think I do. Please let me know if I'm wrong.) so I imagine that my absence has offended no one.

I'm going through some things. Some hard things. I'm used to hard things but that somehow doesn't make hard things any easier. This is unfortunate. What good is all of that "hard stuff" life experience if it doesn't make the next hard thing any easier to go through? It makes one feel rather foolish and ripped off for all of that endurance displayed, grit proven and lip stiffened.

In a nutshell, I have a very ill sister, an ill father, an anxious daughter, no money, no job, a 24-year marriage, a messy house and, well, a pretty messy life. I've had the urge to write about these things and hope that, by doing so, I'll remember what all of this felt like. I'm hoping that this time, I will not shove all of my thoughts, feelings and emotions so deep into the caverns of my heart and mind that they serve no purpose but to eat me alive, body and soul.

You see, I've already lost a sister, two brothers and my mother. And I've shoved and I've swallowed and I've endured and I've forged on. But I have not come out unscathed. I am damaged. More than most I would guess. And with all of that shoving and swallowing I am not able to help others as much as I'd like. I want to help others. It's the only thing that helps make all that my family has gone through make any sense. It seems selfish and wasteful not to serve others during their hard times.

My goal is to "go there." To let myself feel it all through writing about it. And hopefully, by letting myself feel it all, I can learn and pass on what I've learned better than I have in the past.