More Radical Acceptance of Reality

I’ve always wondered why beauticians seem to wind up putting their breasts right in my face.  Now, as I contort my body to keep from suffocating Jim in my bosom, I get it. To cut his hair would be easier if his head was situated to the right or left of center, but that would make him look very odd.  I step around my son, trying to reach to shave the crown of his skull, watching the chestnut clumps fall around my feet and between my toes.  On tiptoe I buzz away, doing my part to get him ready to go back to his unit.  I cannot refuse to help him, but I feel anxious enough to want to toss a few locks over my shoulder for luck.

A day later, tufts of hair remain on the rug around the dining room chair, and I cannot bring myself to vacuum it away. It is evidence that I am this soldier’s mother.  I allow myself to think it sucks that he is going back to Afghanistan but that’s as far as I will allow myself to go. I refuse to think in sad, dramatic terms about this deployment.  I tell myself I will not scoop up a bit of hair and sleep with it under my pillow as a talisman against bad luck.  I will not sit on the sofa, bury my head in the coat I gave him for Christmas and cry.  Okay, maybe for just a minute, I will indulge my emotions, but that’s it.  After all, I promised myself this leaving would be different. I have been practicing.

Just a year ago, there was no end to the anxiety and self-torture I inflicted on myself.  I convinced myself that Jim joined the National Guard just because I told him to pitch in around the house or move out.  I memorized every small scar on his hands in case I ever have to identify his remains.  I tried to prepare myself for the loss of my son by forcing myself to imagine it over and over again.  I did not know then that there is no way to prepare for any the agonies I fear might come to pass. And in the meantime, the pain of the imagining is as real as it can be.  I robbed myself of the present while experiencing loss that might never happen, over and over again.

Today, I imagine him on a plane, safe and sound, listening to his mp3 player and thinking about the adventures he had over the last 2 weeks.  His will be the first new stories to reach his unit in months.  He will entertain and bring fresh perspective.  He will continue to do what he is best at, shooting at the bad guys and living in the present.

I vow to do the same.  Well, except for the shooting part, that is.

It goes on.

How does this make sense?
My world opening up, deep breaths coming easily when I could not even skim the surface
just two weeks ago.
Just two weeks since my heart broke wide open for dozens to see.
Comfort comes two arms at a time, embraces around my shoulders,
my unworthy shoulders.
Still, comfort comes.
And tagging along, comes guilt.  How dare you be happy?  Are you so casual as to
forget to worry about your son?  Your only son, I might add.
How is it you can eat and sleep and laugh when he is in peril?
How can you have joy?
The arms hold me up and I say, I have to have joy or I have nothing.
Joy in the past, present and future ties us together.
And we are forever.
That is how it all makes sense.

Ode to an Otocinclus Catfish

Oh, Oh, Oh, Otocinclus Catfish friend,
you munched on algae 'til the end
your little tail so wiggly wild,
I loved you like a fishy child.

I didn't see you Wednesday,
looked under rock and plants and
pirate chest with bubbles where
you oft' times stray.

And then I spotted you, pale
and mushy under yon' Anachris bushy
where you didn't move or play
you looked just like a fish fillet.

Oh, Oh, Ewwww, Otocinclus Catfish, dear
I flushed you down a toilet near
and sang you "Taps"
you will, perhaps,
be food for other fishes who will
never shed a tear.

Being Ableable

It's out there.  Sometimes I can feel it, soak it in, revel in it.  Sometimes it is elusive, fluttering just out of reach.  Lately, I see it through binoculars, enjoyed by others. No matter how hard I try, I cannot pull it in, can't touch it and certainly can't feel it.  This is the real disability that comes with depression and anxiety, the inability to feel what is real. I want to be able to do, to feel, to hope.

Love surrounds me, but I don't feel lovable.  Worthiness is embedded in my every cell, but I do not feel valuable.  I know I have a purpose, but I can't for the life of me remember what it is.   I feel expendable.

Even those closest to me do not understand how I can go from capable to inconsolable in a few minutes' time.
At this moment, I am well.  I still feel a little shaky, still have minutes when anxiety hobbles me.

I've read so many books on spirituality, on managing anxiety and depression and in my studies have found some ways to cope that don't include the use of medications.  That is not to say that I never use Xanax; there is relief, at times, in a tiny fragment of a pill.  But I have also learned to use guided imagery, hypnosis, my limitless imagination, to find relief.  The same creativity that fuels the dire visions I have of my future also helps me to conceive of a lighter, more carefree life.

I am able to embrace my future.  Life and I might just be ableable.

You're Mean, and That Sucks.

After spending a few perfectly good days trying to make sense of a colleague’s bad behavior at work, I find myself coming back to the same set of solutions.

1. Arrange to have her struck by lightening.

This is impractical, because I do not have lightening bolts in my fists, and even if I were to scoot around the house in my socks for a few hours, I would probably not be able to keep the static charge long enough to blast her out of her faux Reeboks.  At best, I might accidentally shock my dog while kissing her on the nose. At worst, I might forget I have an electrical charge and decide to put gas in my car.  Kaboom.
Also, there is the karmic damage I might incur by wishing ill on this walking, talking snotrag.  I don’t have to like her behavior.  I don’t even have to like her.  But wishing her ill would make a serious dent in my Karma bank account, and I really don’t want to spend my cosmic brownie points that way.

2. Tit for Tat, butter for fat.  You kick my dog, I’ll kick your cat.

 If I thought giving her back what she sends my way would do any good at all, I’d do it. After all, I’m way more clever than she. I can  pronounce words like “picture” and “cat” and “heinous bitch.”  But she has 50 years of bitterness and consummate evil on her resume, and I can’t possibly outlast her in a battle of nastiness.   She oozes hostility; straps it on and violates others with it. I don’t have to stoop to her level, any more than I have to bend over and take it.

3.  Ignore the Behavior, Extinguish the Behavior.

This seems more the tack to take, but some tweaking is necessary.  After all, ignoring a snapping dog hurts like hell for awhile.  That’s why shock collars sell so well, (see above discussion of static charges) because they Make It Stop. A bark collar might do a world of good, but getting her to wear it won’t be easy.  So, simply ignoring her isn’t going to work.  I must use my wits to distract her, or find a way to respond that doesn’t require me to amp up emotionally.

4. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message…

So, I have come up with a list of stock responses to her verbal attacks that will confuse her into temporary silence.  If I am really good at anything, it is confusing others.
“Wait, hold on, I need to write that down.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that. What did you say?  (Repeat until she stops talking.)
“Oh, poor you!  I hope you feel better soon.”
“I wish I could fix that for you.”
“Wow. Wishes do come true.” and my stepmother’s favorite line:
“How embarrassing for you!”

If you have other suggestions, send them to me at beaglefish@live.com.  I’ll let you know how they work.

When a Rose is not a Rose

I thought I was ready to start again, ready to share light and life and beauty with another from the depths of my heart. Unflinchingly honest, I explored every furrow, fertilized with hard-won self knowledge. I planted the seeds of cautious optimism and watered the ground with genuine interest and attention. I knew, positively knew, that I could be part of growing something beautiful.  And I met Rose.

Rose’s air of accomplishment almost scared me off at first.  I wondered what someone with her self-described strength, joy and intelligence would see in someone like me, someone who has admittedly struggled to survive and grow in a lifetime of inhospitable conditions.  I calmed myself with the thought that I have lots to offer, that the shit I’ve been through would make fabulous fertilizer.

So I reached out to Rose, and Rose reached back. But, oh, the Rose that grew took hold like kudzu, grew fast and choked out the sun, the air and whatever sexual interest I had at the outset.  She chased and spread and just scared the bejesus out of me.  I wanted so much to stick it out, stake it up.  After all, we barely knew one another.  Try to allow time to grow us roots, I said.  Growth takes as long as it takes.

I know I tend to be hard on people and that I really could benefit from being more trusting. But I would have to really deceive myself to convince myself that I love her, that I could love her after so few days together.  I told her that last night that all I could feel were a few moments of tenderness toward her.  I reminded her that I want to date more than one woman at a time.  I stressed that we had discussed all of these issues at the outset.

She needed reminding. Not because I think she is that into me. She is into her idea of me, and that is sad at best and delusional at worst.  She sees my humility as a lack of confidence.  She sees me like most people see a shed that requires improving.  My life needs tweaking, she is just the woman to adjust the dials. Openness is dangerous in that way.  I say I want to make some changes in my life, she sees me as a lost soul, a hopelessly confused spirit.  No.  I am an expert at living with the consequences of my actions, and to be honest, I wake up each morning feeling pretty okay about my world.


She wants answers now, answers I gave her before cutting her out of my life, answers she chose not to hear.  Like how, outside of a hostage situation, three or four dates is not enough to decide that you know someone.  Oh, be quiet…I know…crushes happen and hormones happen.  There is, however, a huge difference between what we want to believe about someone and the reality.  The potential for misunderstanding is mammoth.

If I am the only woman who feels insulted by the pressure of false intimacy, then shame on me.  To be subjected to terms of endearment from someone I hardly know causes me pain.  I want a vote when it comes to the number of sexual references I endure in the course of a day.  And when I summon the courage to ask for what I need, for my air and my own patch of soil with room for my roots, I want to be respected.

We all takes risks when we open our lives to a possible friend, an eventual lover.  If we are smart, we talk things out and make sure we share the same expectations.  I will not ask you to move to Buenos Aires, you will not ask me to role play in a bunny suit and allow you to videotape us.  There are many negotiations, and when entered into honestly, they help us build trust and leave us free to be romantic and maybe, just maybe, fall in love.

Not this time, though.  As I strip the kudzu from my body one vine at a time. I fight the urge to return to the shadows. Rose sends out shoots; email, texts and mail, and I steadfastly spray defoliant in her direction. Respect my garden patch, I say, and I mean it. A Rose by any other name?  Well, she can be a real pain in the ass.

So the road to hell really is paved with stupidity...

Twice before, I have seen her, and twice I have thought she is adorable.  Kim.  She is just sweet.  And not sweet like “nice” but sweet like a Mini Cooper with the British Flag roof or a pair of front row tickets to see K.T. Tunstall.  Suh-wheat.

She has the athletic body I love and have no right to desire, mine being more of the round and plump variety.  I can’t help it, she does it for me.
This is the third time I have come here with one woman and found myself looking at another. She smiles at me and makes an excuse to come over to my table, at least I like to think she wants to talk to me.

Tonight, I am here with Joyce, a long-time friend who is straight but supportive of my “difference.”  She sees me looking at Kim and wants to know what’s up.  I tell her that I have a crush, a real live schoolgirl crush on this woman in the khakis and the striped sweater. Her body is slim, her breasts small, her butt, tight.  She wears no ring, but that doesn’t mean she is available.  I don’t even know for sure she is a lesbian, but a girl can hope.

I tell Joyce I want to talk to Kim, to let her know that I think she’s amazing.  I think I might give her my number and ask her to call me.  Joyce calls my bluff and gives me paper and pen, and I write the note.  “Kim,” I write, “I think you are adorable.  Call me if you like.”  I sign the note and add my phone number, then fold it, embarrassed that someone else might see it.  Now, I have to find a way to give it to her.

I wait until she is alone at the counter, and pass her the note.  I bashfully book it to the door and look back at her from the safety of outside, only then realizing that she spells her name with a “y”.  Oh, shit.  She is Kym with a “y” and I have written “Kim” on the note.  Crap.  Crappity crap.  Well, I have again shown my imperfection, worn it on my sleeve the way some women wear their hearts.  If I were she, I think I would forgive me.  I hope she does.  And, I hope she calls.

I can’t help it, she does it for me.  *Sigh.*