I stare out my window, crying soft in the night
Am I wrong to want you still? Don’t know – am I right?
Thinking over, yet again, what would I exchange?
Of all this I still know, not a thing would have changed
You and I, an explosive pair, completely blew
In a flash, our forever, was finally through
Sleepless yet again, I know, this is my penance
Solitude at night, for me, holds naught but menace
Sun-kissed ballerinas took turns dancing
with the red-brown foliage of the trees.
They fluttered their arms like birds in flight,
dusting the forest below with white and gray.
Blankets in monochromatic shades twisted
themselves between the trunks. With might.
sunsets and sunrises came and went: majestic,
beautiful, romantic with each season, and now
it is winter again. The gold of morning hints at light;
Never truly day, never truly night.
Her head was tilted back, in a vulnerable pose,
waiting for the cold fist of melancholy to come
uninvited, and knock at her door. Love was a riddle
branded to her lips as she sighed his name
one more time, for old time’s sake. She swore and cursed,
as the snow fell outside and her tears, pale and white,
remained. She just wanted to remember how she
hasn’t been able to forget, and forget that she still
remembers. His memory spilled from her lips–spite,
This whispering place between dark and light.
She thought the she could control the sentiments
but they snaked their way to the surface.
A rosary of emotions tumbled forth
from ones time dulled to ones vivid – bright.
One more time her fingers travel paths familiar
only to her subconscious eye,
paths his fingers once gently traveled
across her soft yielding skin.
Experiencing again all his colors with an audible sigh
Living a dream, wishing on a star in the sky.
And not for the last time she’ll wonder what if,
what if all had worked out as once dreamed.
Try as she might, she can’t push them away.
Bead by aching bead all their moments
now only alive in her memories,
pulled so deep to a point even she can’t deny.
She does what she has to; to get past this need,
to return to the more controllable feelings of gray.
Relinquishing the hurt she’s trying so hard to let die,
Surviving this pain, refusing to break down and cry.
My heart and mental health depend on my ability to reduce hurt and anger as quickly and efficiently as possible. I literally forgive or if I can’t forgive (and there are some things that can’t be forgiven) let it go. I try to at least dispense with the destructive anger/hurt that can keep me from functioning. I don‘t want to waste my energies on the negatives any longer than necessary once I deem it serves no purpose. It is an effective method that has worked quite well for me.
Except when it comes to forgiving myself.
Why is forgiving ourselves of our own wrongs so hard?
Oh, the scenarios that play out in our heads from the sublime (well, it is what it is, but we‘re cool), to the not-quite-ridiculous (I HATE YOU AND I NEVER, EVER, EVER WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN *insert string of nasty, insulting and in your head well-earned, hurtful verbiage against yourself here* !!!!), when we know we’ve done somebody wrong.
You make it to your forties odds are you’ll find yourself doing something close to, if not the same thing as, something you’ve actually counseled others to forgive or at least let go in the past. Then again, you weren’t the one doing the wrong when you counseled, were you? That moral high ground is pretty damn nice until it’s our own dirt that muddies it. There are things we can forgive ourselves easily for. There things we can forgive ourselves for, when the injured party cannot forgive us. But what about the things we cannot seem to forgive ourselves for, even if the injured parties forgive us? It’s a whole different ball of wax when you’re the one giving yourself the riot act, huh?
It’s a sick thing we do to ourselves at times. This emotional equivalent of self-flagellation, if you will. “Woe, look at me, I’m such a bad person. No one could punish me for what I’ve done as hard as I’m punishing myself!” Yes, we hurt because we hurt someone else (intentionally or not). But with or without the injured party’s forgiveness, at some point it has to stop. The logical part of us is going to say we are indulging in personal pity party and we need to figure it out if we‘re going to function. But to paraphrase Tina Turner “What’s logic got to do with it?”
I’ve been tryin’ to get down
To the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think it’s about…forgiveness
Forgiveness
–Don Henley The Heart of the Matter
Whether we formally say to ourselves “I forgive me” or at some point “let it go”, eventually , we all have to look in the mirror and for better or worse, learn to live with ourselves and what ever it is we’ve done.
That in and of itself is form of forgiveness…
Okay.
I’m a forty-seven year old widow of five years. I took time to mourn, then I took time to ingloriously fuck. I’ve now cut myself off from all of my “friends with benefits” because. Well, because I don’t see the benefit in it anymore. Until last month, in a moment that will be chalked up to the ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-alcohol (gee thanks Jaime Foxx-NOT!), I’ve been celibate by choice.
I’m looking in the mirror, frustrated, but at least no longer regretting my actions. No, regret is not quite the right word. I do not regret anything that I have done sexually. I’m tired of feeling that something so completely missing once the moaning is done. I know something’s missing, but I can no longer reconcile filling the physical need without somehow figuring out how to fill the emotional one. So I rather just leave it, and them, totally alone. I realize, I’m likely setting myself up for another ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-alcohol moment some time from now, if nothing good happens, but to get a new FWB? No, something in me simply cannot do that any more.
I’m tired of not being satisfied, emotionally. I’m tired of lying that all I wanted was a fuck buddy. The whole thing with NH was ridiculous. Have to break-up with BX was simply too easy for me and too hard for him. He’s a nice guy and all, but I did not and know I will not love him. I couldn’t let it keep going – it only would have gotten worse if I let it drag out. Having now lived on both sides of Unrequited Love Street, I can tell you it really, really sucks either way.
I do not want to be alone anymore. NH (primo conceited ass that he was) did prove the point. I enjoyed him, but yeah – no, the one-on-one of being with that someone special, just wasn’t there and the lack of such hits home. I want to be loved. There! You hear that Universe? I’ve said it.
So… What now?
Reflections on the dire pasts
Learning or stumbling as life so casts.
Today the air is clear of everything
What was, is what was and has little bearing.
Yes, we were there, but we have never been here before
And the here and now is what’s needed to hold in store.
I stand strong, head held high and unashamed
One with myself , my heart and soul unafraid.
I feel inspired, and find myself in a world full of light
Illuminated from within, I find clarity, insight
I have now attended a funeral for the third weekend in a row.
Third weekend. IN A ROW.
This new year is only 22 days old and so far I am not liking 2011 at all.
I walked out during the third or fourth person speaking on today’s dearly departed to go to the bathroom. I had my coat with me and instead of going back into the service I put it on and walked out the door. And kept walking; I just wanted to go home. I was dressed very warm and could only really feel the cold on my face. It wasn’t a deal breaker and i really needed to clear my head so I decided to walk towards home until I became too cold and/or too tired.
That alone should have been a warning bell, but I was in no state to hear it.
As I’m walking I’m going through a tsunami of emotions. I cycle in and out of insomnia, going two-three days without sleeping, then coming home and being out cold before 8pm and not rising until my alarm goes off at 5am. These near weekly snow storms and work related issues have added to the stress. I bury one friend for infinity last week; then in a completely unexpected turn of events a former friendship I had emotionally buried suddenly finds itself resurrected this week, which brings in a whole new set of emotional turmoil as we awkwardly work out trying to find our way back to some state of what was. Add in I went out, got completely wasted and had to go to work the next day with my head all over the emotional scale. And yesterday, I learn another friend has made the decision to move to another state and will be doing so relatively soon. I’ve put up a fantastic front, but I see this past week especially is taking its toll.
I was five blocks from “home” when the warning bell I did not hear earlier went into full on Star Trek red alert klaxon mode. I was heading towards the wrong home. I was heading towards the home I lived in when I was still married. It is in the exact opposite direction of where I live now and had been walking out in this freezing ass weather for a good thirty minutes before I noticed. What the fuck? The enormity of it comes crushing down on me and suddenly I am freezing and exhausted. I hop in a cab and go home.
So here I am. In my warm bed, partially on my lap top typing this, partially gazing at what’s left of the sunlight bouncing off the snow-covered rooftops, trying to defrost from more than the weather that’s left me feeling cold. As I sit here, I realize, with all the emotional turmoil I’ve gone through, I’ve yet to cry. Yes, I’ve shed tears. But I have yet to have that long hard, crawl into a fetal position, full-out, deep ugly soul cleansing bawl. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks hugging people, holding people, reaching out to people giving them encouragement, letting them know they’re going to be okay. Yes, I could go and have been to my friends where I find succor and loving support. But me being me, keep moving on. I’m moving on so well in fact, I head towards the wrong home. Why? Because it was the last place where I was loved.
That no questions asked (because they already know or have a good idea), loved. That pull you into their arms, holding you tight loved. That not letting you go until it’s as out as it can be loved. That maybe it takes a few minutes, maybe it takes an hour, maybe it takes until you fall asleep exhausted loved. That’s what I need. However, only the Powers-That-Be can say when I’ll known such once more.
I know that breakdown is coming, but when? I pray that the tipping point does not occur in the middle of the work week, because that would be just craptacular to fall apart at work.
In the interim, I write and I wait…
Sigh…
Feeling forced into a role of valiance
For my tears seem of little credence
I bear this all in smiling silenceThey say “It’s not for us to ask Him why”
Or the “It’ll get better by and by”
It’s two weeks! I’m not entitled to cry?
I bear this all in smiling silenceTrying to squelch fears in their own attitudes?
Is it for me folks spew these platitudes?
And THEY’RE upset I don’t nod in gratitude
I bear this all in smiling silenceBecause I’m sitting here shattered-hearted
Some take it as permission to get started
On a run of their own dearly departed
I bear this all in smiling silenceTears flow and I hide feeling contrite
Are my tears only allowed in the night
Far away from everyone else’s sight?
I bear this all in smiling silenceI’m not asking to dwell in an abyss
But I’m consoling others – something’s amiss!
Much as I need to give a moment to this
I bear this all in smiling silence
===== <> =====
I initially wrote the above as an angry, sobbing stream of consciousness in my journal within days of becoming a widow. Even, now years later, I sat biting my lip resisting the urge to choke yet another person who says “I’m sorry for your loss”, “It’s all part of a greater plan”, “He needed him more” and other well-meaning but sickeningly trite counsel. Watching a new widow of barely a week graciously handle the condolences that come her way, I can’t help but be reminded of when I was in that exact position.
I can tell by the half-glazed look in her eyes she’s merely going through the motions expected of her and all I can do is watch. One moment she calls me to her, as she feels that I am the only one in the room who really understands exactly what she is going through. The next moment, like the one in which I’m just watching from a distance, she pushes me away as I am a reminder of what exactly she is now – a widow. The stages of denial and anger just beginning their ugly battling. I’m also hoping that she’ll see, though she is far from being able to see and accept it right now, that she also will get through this and will eventually be okay.
I’m headed for home soon. I left a copy of the above poem for her. Just a way of letting her know that this anger at everyone being nice, even if by route of traditional platitudes, is also normal. I’ll happily pay it forward and help her through those clichéd, but so true, seven stages as I was lucky to have the guidance of those who also traveled this road. For as annoying as it is to hear in repetition, the only acceptable platitudes were/are “one day at a time” and “it does get better”.
Because eventually we all learn – one breath, one moment, one minute and yes, one day at a time, it does.
Yesterday morning about 8:30 am, I learn a good friend was killed in a car accident less than two hours previous. Derrick was a gentle giant of 6’8” and 500 pounds and nicknamed Darth. It was a well-earned nickname after single-handedly lifting me from the ground by my neck during a touch football game at a wedding reception (long story, but yeah, I deserved it). Considering I had just spoken to him and his wife on Saturday after the birth of their daughter, shock doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m sitting at my desk when I receive this news, just as someone comes by and asks a question. Before the news can fully process, I shut off and respond to the query, because I don’t have time to give in to it right then and there. It is a useful trait that comes with being one of the strong ones.
As luck (hah!) would have it, Murphy’s Law rears its head in that yesterday was a training day. I’m the instructor; for a training scheduled to begin in less than an hour. 8:40 is about when I’m walking out of the door to go to my regular training venue. At 8:50 I was still sitting at my desk in semi-shock when my boss called about some urgent work related issue. Typical me – I take a deep breath, pull it somewhat together, compartmentalize, charge through and get things done. It is a useful trait that comes with being one of the strong ones.
As I set-out the training room materials, my mask must have slipped for a moment because only one person at the venue noticed I was off my game. I explained the situation briefly and went on about my business. All during training, I’m ignoring my on-silent but constantly blinking cell phone. I know people want to talk to me, need to talk to me. I also know I had a class to teach. A class that any other day would run smoothly, but yesterday had back-to-back technical issues throwing the schedule off by a good forty-five minutes. I spent my lunch hour, not eating but on the phone putting out work and personal fires. It is a useful trait that comes with being one of the strong ones.
I get back to my office and everyone is in a titter over the approaching snowstorm. I quickly realize my original plans to be out the door on time are not going to happen. Nine hours from when I first received the news and an hour past my normal quitting time, I did something I never do. I lost my cool in front of a client. A well-meaning friend and co-worker who I had not had a chance to speak with came to chat and chose the wrong moment to be stubborn when I needed her to go away, while I was on the phone with a client. Let’s just say, not only did I forget about the hold button, but I owe my co-worker an apology. I know she’ll forgive me; because after twelve years of working together, I may yell a lot, but I do not out right snarl at someone, especially at work, without damn good reason. It is a useful trait that comes with being one of the strong ones.
I finally get home at 10:30pm. I am on the phone for another couple of hours, finally dealing with all things Darth. I’m fighting the desire to go and do everything I can to make it better, knowing all too well from personal experience, there really isn’t much I can do. But, I am also the only one in our age group who can provide that experience. The problem with being one of the strong ones is that nearly everyone accepts that of you 24/7/365. Where do the strong ones go when they need to break down? Like when it’s two in the morning, and I’m caressing my neck in memory as I’m sitting up in the dark of my bedroom, the glow of my lap top watching me as I watch big fat juicy snow flakes fall and yet my tears can’t.
It is a not so useful trait that comes with being one of the strong ones.
Happy New Year!!! (sorta)
As much as I love the beginning of a new year, a part of me also hates it. For the months of December and January we (women specifically) are bombarded with weight loss advertisements. Whether it is from a diet program or popular gyms, it is near impossible to go through a one minute set of commercials on television and not see one such during the holidays. It has increasingly been this way since the ’80s when the whole exercise, once fad – now multi-billion business mantra , took off. As always, ordering us to make it a part of our New Year’s resolution to lose weight.
There’s been an amazing fat-lash of sorts these past few years via notable blogs, websites and well known fat advocates shinning a very bright light on how the general public sees and treats (or more specifically mistreats) the fat person. And also what we, the fat people, can do to help ourselves and others accept, live and thrive as people who just happen to be fat.
HAES (Health At Every Size) has a wonderful campaign for January which I took to heart.
The following is my current Facebook profile picture and status update:
“I’m part of the New Year’s REVolution! My profile pic is an image that reminds me to love my body and screen out all the negative bullshit the diet industry tell us how we should feel about our bodies, our beauty, and our worth. Instead of New Year’s Resolution this year, what is your New Year’s REVOLUTION? Join the New Year’s Revolution and visit HAES Inspiration! http://2011revolutions.blogspot.com”
One of my friends bemoaned in a comment how she wishes more people believed in the words of my status. What got to me were further comments on how some of her friends spend so much time in tears during the holidays at the barrage of crap from family regarding their weight. They take what their respective families say to them to heart and begin to believe these hateful things. Having been a part of that myself I fully get it.
Not to mention the non-verbal passive-aggressive crap.
Yes, family can be your best support system, but as every fat kid knows, they can also e the bane of your existence. Friends we can tell where to get off when we don’t like what they say; also we have the option to break off that friendship, if the respect is not forth coming. Even extended family gives us the recourse to simply not be around the more negative ones once we reach adulthood. However, there is no getting away from our immediate family. These very people who should always have our backs are often the ones who hold the sharpest knives in stabbing us in it. If you’re lucky a heartfelt talk may be all that is needed to get on the path to having a better relationship with your family. For others, a complete emotional and physical removal is the only choice.
It is a drastic choice and a hard one to uphold. I remember about three years ago I watched as a friend slowly removed herself from her mother’s arms and walked away in tears saying “I told you never again and I meant it.” And this was at a mutual friend’s funeral. I found out later that in the midst of the hug the mother had made an unacceptable comment on her size. Take into account that the funeral was the time my friend had seen or spoken to her mother in nearly two years, yet even there she stuck to her guns would not tolerate it. It took over three years of estrangement to get there, but the two get along much better now. I have no idea if the mother changed her feelings about her daughter’s size, but she at least changed how she treated her child, now very much a grown woman, and that was enough.
Unfortunately, for most, changing the attitudes of your families about your fat is near impossible. If you’re in a position where you have no choice but to deal with your family just remember the only power they have over your heart is the power you give them. The choice to not internalize the hurtful, and for some out right hateful, things said and/or done is your own. Eleanor Roosevelt said it best “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” If you put yourself through changes to make anyone other than the person staring back at you in the mirror happy, you will fail and likely hate more yourself in the process. Therefore, the only attitude you can change is your own. Accept your size. Love and appreciate the body you have and work with it. Acceptance empowers you to move on and make positive changes FOR YOU, not anyone else.
To paraphrase something I’ve told another friend regarding weight —
What you need to remember to keep in your heart more is that, no matter how high or low the number, that which makes you a person, is never going to be found on your scale.
That’s my New Year’s REVolution – what’s yours?
“And I’d give it all away,
Just to have somewhere to go to,
Give it all away,
To have someone to come home to”My December – Linkin Park
Oh, December in the Raivenne household was always a hoot. The normally wannabe sophisticate, über-urban, gal-about-town, known and be-loathed all over, transforms into this insane “OhMyGAWDCanYouBeliveIt’sAlmostChristmas!” beast. The weekend after Thanksgiving I (and begrudgingly the boys) would start dragging the decorations out and begin the annual tradition of transforming the abode into holiday splendor.
When we were living in an apartment, it was all confined to just the living room. However, once we had a HOUSE, oh good Lord! I spared my family from decorating the bedrooms upstairs, but man did I didn’t vomit the holidays every where else! Each year, I moved the TV because the tree just HAD to be close to the window in order to be seen from the street. The front porch and steps had their own garlands and lights. If you stood on the porch you could see all the little buildings and figures that graced the inside windowsill. The dining room had the Kwanza set. The kitchen and powder room would get holiday colored towels and mini decorations. Yeah, my family thought I lost my damned mind each and every year. And as curmudgeonly as all three males in the house would behave at the start of the process, at least the boys would catch some of my Christmasfluenza and get into the decorating spirit.
The hubby always stayed the Scrooge of the house; right down to his “Bah Humbug” black and white Santa hat, but deep down he enjoyed my shenanigans just as much. One December I was depressed and refused to decorate. I think he thought if he waited me out I would pop into it, how could I not? When it was December 20th and no one iota of holiday décor was up, he got it. Mr. OhComeOnNotAllThisShitAgain? Was the one who got the boys and dragged decorations out that year. Yes, HUBBY went and got the decorations – that is how much he knew this was important to me and what a serious funk I was in to not be doing so. He was that desperate to do anything, even decorate for Christmas, to help me out of it. The guys started to decorate the tree, but were doing such a horrible job of it the Virgo in me kicked in. Still, since my heart was not in it, which was the worst tree I have ever put up, to date.
I had not felt that bad again until the first Christmas after I became a widow. Still, I put up the holiday decorations that first year without him (or the boys, now men on their own, to help me) it was a lovely tree. Christmas 2007 was the last time I all out decorated and put up a tree. I moved in 2008 and all of my holiday stuff, including most of my spirit, is away in storage. Something simple on my front door is about all I have been able to muster doing these past years for decorating.
I’m almost done with filling out this year’s Christmas cards (and man is my wrist tired!). I am thinking about what to put on my door for this year, but that’s all. Still. It is only December 2nd and who knows? After a near three-year hiatus, maybe the Christmasfluenza bug will strike me again; I really do not know. Nevertheless, for right now, this very moment, the above verse from Linkin Park is my holiday song.
This is my December.
Raivenne-lations 