This is how it started

It often starts by starting over.

I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to connect with myself throughout the day in a better way.  I’ve tried to…well, I’ve tried nothing else really.  I text and email myself.  That’s my current and only mode of communication.  It hasn’t ever really worked.  Most times I wish that I could remember what in the hell that text or email meant, but I can’t and then I’m pissed off and determined to find a better way to talk to myself.  The reason the note taking sucks is because I have a full time job.  I’m also a single mom to three daughters.  My note taking sucks because it’s much like my life- random moments of awe and epiphany coupled with places to go and things to do.  You can’t imagine how often I try to convince myself that I can live on even less than I have now if it meant not working at all or at least part time just so that I can write…unless you’re a writer, in which case, you do the same thing.

I also spend an inordinate amount of time trying to be more like anyone else but me…or thinking that I’m so much like someone else, like every author I read, that there is absolutely nothing unique and special about me, let alone anything worth writing that anyone wants to hear from me.  Especially when they can buy it in a book and get a cup of coffee too…Still, this writing thing persists.  It haunts me.  Writing and reading.  Learning.  Absorbing.  Relating.  Validating.  I feel most me lost in those books and writing these words.  The writing is harder.  I read somewhere that when we write, we sit down and bleed.  It’s like that.  Not bleeding like a tiny little spot that follows a paper cut, but like the gush of blood that follows the amputation of a limb.  Though I speculate at that.  Sometimes writing is like skinning myself alive to reveal wounds that have to heal and all I can do is trust that they will heal in some authentic way that only real and authentic people will love because it may not be pretty when I’m done.  I imagine that there’s lots of blood involved in skinning.  So I bleed.  And I start again.

I have countless messages and emails in my phone right now.  Today was an emotionally taxing, screaming match at God, down, out and then back up again, process of a day.  I feel like breaking.  Writing makes that break seem less needed somehow…writing is like salve on the wounds.  Starting here-

“I have this fear of being like everyone else- nothing new.  And then this horrible sense of not belonging.  Like I’m different than everyone else.  Where’s the balance in that?”  Text one to self

Carry On, Warrior: Thoughts on Life Unarmed

I’m currently reading Carry on Warrior- Thoughts on Life Unarmed by Glennon Doyle Melton.  Of course it’s a huge hit with me.  I have no idea how it came to be with me.  I was obviously on Audible getting ready to use my free credit that I pay for every month, and there it was.  That’s how it works for me.  So I used my credit and this morning, settled into the day with it.  It’s worth mentioning that last night ended with a bit of a rough spell with Chris.  So I’m emotional for two reasons- Because hormones and the collective woman universe is six days away and because life in all of it’s routine and take-for-grantedness, took over my relationship.  I had a bad day.  What do you do with those?  I don’t have a cheery and happy answer to that question.  I have an answer, but it’s further on…I think.  Jesus, where am I in this mess?

Oh yes- same but different.  Where I am I indeed?  This reason, above all others really, is why I don’t write.  Because you’ve heard it.  It’s been written.  It’s already in a book, thousands of them.  These thoughts most often occur to me when I’m reading or listening to a book.
“Crap- I’ve said that!  I said that before I ever read this book!  How do I know this stuff?!  Man, I should write a book!  I should tell my story!”
And then the Queen kicks in and says, you’re reading that book.  Someone else wrote it already.  No one wants to hear the same old story again and again…
That’s my conundrum my constant issue with separation.  I don’t want to be like everyone else but I desperately want to belong.  I know that community is the key to happiness and love- to life, yet here I am.  Secluded, isolated, putting the roles of the masses onto four people- three of them children and one of them Chris.  Occasionally God, lately when I’m good and pissed off.

Where is the balance?  I have this feeling that it lies within my story.  Within being me.   But, I’m so confused inside.  It’s an internal battle between being alone and wanting it and being a part of something and wanting that too.  I don’t have friends.  Not friends like that.  I don’t do coffee with anyone anymore- except Chris.  I don’t go out with the girls…I don’t know where we’d go if I had girls to go with.  I don’t work out at a gym or have a book club, or even a therapist anymore.  I don’t read the paper or even have cable.  All of my favorite authors talk about these things…friends, clubs, regimens, politics, etc…I have none.  I feel less.  Yet, most of those things, I don’t want.  It’s like my obsession with family- I don’t really have any outside of my girls and yet, I act as though I want it more than anything.  I think that’s because I’ve never had it.  I never will.  If I did have it, would I like it?  People always up in your business and telling you how to do you better?  Damn it.  I hate projecting.  Let’s start again.

“I thought seriously about killing myself that morning.  Suicidal thoughts are a neon flashing sign that you are using the wrong hole filler.” Glennon Melton, Carry on.

“Help yourself.”  Chris

Alone these two things had nothing to do with each other until they came together in my life.  The first quote is how I lived my life for over 25 years.  Monthly I wished for death- for God to strike me dead.  For the strength to die because sometimes it takes strength to die- And it’s a sad place in life when you don’t feel like you can go on but you can’t end it either.  Somehow God finds you in the bathtub that you are in and just says, “Cry it out Missy because you aren’t going anywhere.”

Last night when Chris said this, my heart broke open. It hurt so fucking bad that I thought my chest caved in and my heart actually exploded, spraying shrapnel that was somehow trying to escape through my lungs in sharp, heaving, breathless gulps and sobs…
Text two;
There are these times when I just know.  And it usually pisses people off.  My “just know energy” seeps out of me and I can’t stop it.  They can feel it.  For reasons I can’t explain, I have to express it and because I have no problem saying, “Whatever it is about you that I know right now, I’m okay with saying is also about me- BUT that doesn’t make it NOT about you.”  It pisses them off because a day, a week, month, a year from now, they’ll know again that I was right.  I feel like right should feel better and that being right for MYSELF should mean more.  It should carry a parade with it, there should be streamers, confetti, and applause.  The Mayor of Validation should hand me a key to my own life- or at least the door I’m standing in front of and say,
“Congratulations!  You are getting you right!”
And he probably is.  He’s probably standing there right now at the podium, with the crowd and waiting…The band has run out of songs.  The clowns are out of tricks.  The Mayor is making excuses like, “She’s probably just caught up in traffic…” Which I am.
I’m caught up in the traffic of someone else’s life at the intersection of You and Me in the city of Us.  I’m caught up in the wreck of punishment caused by the breakdown of communication, following an accident of right.  But it was a hit and run.  It feels like it’s just me here in the wreckage and the other injured party is out there somewhere, around the block, trying to walk it off and not realizing that he’s only making the injuries worse…Causing both of us to have to help ourselves instead of helping each other.
Help yourself.
It’s so cruel, that statement.  That accusation.  That demand.  That truth.  Sitting here in the silence of my phone- knowing what he’s doing and why…Leaving the phone in the truck.  Rehearsing the parts where work and life got in the way and that’s why he didn’t respond…though I suspect we are past those niceties now and that if, IF, I choose to acknowledge this gap, he may just say something worse.
I didn’t want to talk to you.  It isn’t better.  I was ignoring you.
And what then?
All day long I’ve been listening to this silence.  Listening to a book that somehow heals me, but noticing that in some nagging way, that they are starting to hurt me because they remind me that I have a story to tell too and it’s mine.  That I may have to stop hiding behind theirs.  Stop saying things like, “That’s so my story!” When in truth, it’s theirs and I should WANT to be me.  That I have to pick myself.  Be interested in myself.  Help myself.  In the midst of his silence, that I know is a form of punishment- it follows the Golden Rule- Do unto and so it is done unto.  I broke down in sobs and thought, Help yourself.  Perhaps it’s a question worth asking- How can you help yourself?  

Start again.

A person can’t do what they don’t know how to do.  Me

“Enlightenment is seeing one thing through, all the way to the end.”  Carry on Warrior

What do you do when you want to see something through that maybe can’t see itself, or worse yet, doesn’t want to be seen?  What do you do when you’re going by leaps and bounds and the only time you stop is when you stop for someone else?  What do you do when you find yourself able to connect so deeply and passionately in the midst of earth and life shattering moments, but then falling apart under the weight of just boring old, routine life?

I resent inconsistency.  I resent it in the outside world because I absolutely loathe it about myself.  I think that this is what drives me crazy…and forces the leaps and bounds.  I know that there is nothing in another that is not within myself.  Good and bad.  I want to let him off the hook.  Let him be who he is which has taught me, TEACHES me, so much about myself…and I love him.  You should know that.  I love him.  Love isn’t all black and white.  People say that true love is just “I love you”.  It isn’t.  It’s “I love you, but you make me crazy.”  “I love you, but I don’t want to hear about the book you’re reading.”  “I love you, but I don’t care anything about what you’re carrying on about.”  It’s “I love you, but you touch on every weakness, insecurity, rude, secret, instinctual, habitual act of behavior that I have and it scares the shit out of me!”   It’s “I love you, and all of that is true, BUT, I’m willing to see this thing all the way to the very end.”

A person can’t do what they don’t know how to do.  So, the question begs, what if they don’t know how to see that far?  Wanting to do something means learning to do it.  There are plenty of things that I want to do and yet, I’m scared to learn.  What if I suck at it?  What if I don’t?  The fear of the latter is what pushes me past the former.  But the truth is, I am different.  It’s a community of people who aren’t like everyone else.  We have friends that think we are crazy and would do anything for us despite time and distance…but they aren’t like us.  Maybe that’s my problem.  I’m so afraid to be who I am that I can’t stand to be around more people like me.

Start again.

Here we are, here I am, at the end of this little rant.  In the end, no matter how many characters are involved, and as my life has proven, no matter how much has been done by the masses of people in and out…In the end, it’s always about me.  About what I will do next, whether it be different or the same.  It does matter- those questions that I ask, those fears that I have…those uncertain scenarios that dance within me, but none of them matter as much as what I will do in response to them.  How I can help others is often on my mind.  How can I help them see?  How can I help this situation, this relationship, this love?  I can start by seeing that Chris was right,
Help yourself.

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