"even if it is teeny tiny. write. :) love you." --my sister
The truth is, I love to write. I love to write lists. I love to compose hand written notes of any kind. In middle school I wrote the name of the boy I (thought I) loved for hours and hours. I wrote his name in cursive, in different colors, in bubble letters. I filled in the big block letters with colors and patterns. I wrote his initials, his full name, his first name and middle initial, etc. I wrote all of the versions of what my name could be when we married. Every possible combination, I put it to paper. Heck, I even changed my own penmanship style to see how it looked written differently. I was a late bloomer. (By late bloomer I mean that I still haven't fully bloomed.) He was at parties while I was home, or babysitting, and writing his name. Man, I had it bad for him. He didn't write my name anywhere. In fact, he later married a classmate and they have five kids. I saw him at Target last month. I didn't tell him about the writing his name thing.
I love to doodle. Pen to paper. Sharpie to paper is about as good as it gets for this girl. I bought a doodle book a while back. Yes, I know I can doodle on a blank piece of paper or in a journal. But this book has cute little doodles you can copy or that may give you inspiration. A couple of the pages have a half picture on one side and you are encouraged to draw the other half. It is now my book so I can draw the other half any way I want. I love pencils. I love colored pencils. I ADORE Sharpies.
I collect greeting cards. I have hundreds of them. And, truthfully, that is not enough. I buy nice card stock because it is pretty. Paper stores for me are like shoe stores to some women. You want to see my dirtiest look? Talk on your cell phone in the greeting card section while I am there. I have the power to will you a nasty paper cut. Beat it!
I think a magnetized shopping pad should be on every refrigerator.
The experience of holding the pen or pencil (or Sharpie!) is my favorite. 2014 dictates that I must also write by typing...which works just fine most of the time.
A good friend introduced me to Penzu. It is an free, anonymous site where you can journal. I sometimes get stuck writing because I don't feel ready to share it with anyone. Penzu solves that problem. It is the place where I can write ANYTHING. No one sees it but me. (I do sometimes imagine that some lucky dog gets to sit in the bowels of a some ugly building in Des Moines and read all of the anonymous journals.) But, I even created an email account that is only for using Penzu. Can't be too careful when confessing the good stuff. It is as anonymous as an online journal can be in the digital age where nothing is really anonymous or deletable. If I let my paranoia get to me, I wouldn't write at all. So, if the guy in Des Moines is entertained by my secrets, I am OK with it.
Yesterday cracked open something for me. I wrote by hand and then tore up the paper. But the words are still poking at me. Jerks.
They came from conversation with someone I love. He said something that, on another day, I may not have even heard? A simple statement with no mean words. An observation, really. But I heard it. Loudly and clearly. It felt like a slap. I couldn't say anything at all. I am the talker in this marriage and I couldn't speak.
When I am afraid, I do one of two things..retreat or attack. At this moment, I retreated. Deeply. The rooms was mostly dark and I was grateful that the fear I felt could not be seen. As I play it over and over, I suspect that he didn't see my fear but felt it? There was a shift. Did the shift come because he put it out there and is waiting for my response? Or is the shift an internal one because I have conditioned myself to expect failure as a given?
I spent years in a
relationship where words his words were cruel and punishing. Even the
ones that were kind on the outside were thinly disguised. Not
surprising, really, that for a long time I have been in a place where my
own internal dialogue sounds like the mean girl on the playground.
(My therapist says I am supposed to befriend that mean girl and invite
her to have tea. It is supposed to disarm her. Most days, I let her
win. Yeah, I know, I can go well past the 40 day project.)
Anyway, as I replayed the statement for hours and hours afterwards, this is what I bounced between:
1. He didn't mean anything at all by it. YOU are the one that says crazy stuff. NOT him.
2.
He said it. And meant it. And is now acting strangely because it is
out there. He wants you to ask about it. C'mon...ask what he meant!
I
went back and forth between those two sides all day yesterday. And in
the dark last night. And, this morning. The truth is, it may not be
either one of those? But, I panicked when I heard them.
I fully understand that the only way to fix this is to ask the question of what he meant. The truth is, I am more afraid of the answer than the question.
To disarming mean girls and to just asking the question.
She was so excited to be noticed. The restaurant uniform was khaki pants and a short sleeved madras shirt...not her (or anyone's) best look.
"Let me cook for you," he said.
"I can see if my friend can watch my son. I would love to have you cook for me."
"I am a good cook. Really. Is there anything you don't like to eat?" he asked.
"I like almost everything. Except green peppers. Oh, and corned beef. Rye bread. Sauerkraut. In fact, if you put green peppers on a Reuben it is pretty much everything I won't eat together on one sandwich," she said.
"Shut up about green peppers," she told herself. Geez. He is going to take back the invitation. Act like you have been her before.
He laughed. "No Reubens with green pepper. Got it. Friday night. Can I call you and give you the address?"
She pulled the top sheet off of her order book and wrote down her number.
"You still have to pay your check, though," she teased.
She went to the back of the restaurant and couldn't stop smiling.
"He is cooking for me!" she squealed. Randy looked up from the kitchen helm.
"He asked?"
"He did!"
"Crap." was all Randy could mumble.
"What? I like him," she said, trying to sound stronger than she felt.
"I will tell you this. If he hurts you, I will hurt him. I am going to tell him the same damned thing."
"He is cooking for me? No one is hurting anyone. It is dinner. Jeez."
Randy returned to the tickets hanging in front of him and barked out an order. His normally happy demeanor was stormy.
She went through the rest of the shift and felt so excited. She felt excited just to be excited! She would find a way to buy something new to wear. Hmmm...
That afternoon she picked up her son who looked pale and felt warm. He reached for her and lay his head on her shoulder when she lifted him. The sitter said he hadn't eaten lunch and was clingy. The two went went the short distance to their apartment. It wasn't big. It wasn't beautiful. But it was home and they loved it there. The neighborhood was safe. The streets were tree lined with parks nearby. It was the two of them and they had a routine that was good. She had found someone to love completely. Someone who loved her back and needed her. She found herself completely in love with this boy and most days, that was enough for her heart.
That night, the boy got sick. Really sick. Fever. Vomitting. Unable to sleep. He was miserable. Limp and exhausted. Whimpering. The only thing she could do was hold him and rock him. She could sometimes lift him off of her in time to not get covered in puke. She would clean him up. Try to cool his hot skin with a washcloth and rock him again. He even managed to drift off briefly only to wake himself up with another awful round of it. This went on all night. And all of the next morning. She called the doctor who said to bring him in if he can't keep down a bottle. He couldn't. She bundled him up and he got sick all over himself on the way to the doctor. She was crying. He was crying. The doctor diagnosed it a stomach bug and prescribed medicine. Since he couldn't keep anything down, the medicine had to be a suppository. It officially got worse as she found herself having to torture this poor, sick little boy with that remedy. It did help with the nausea after an hour or so. But he was so weak. He was exhausted. They stayed together through the rest of the day and the night in the rocking chair. She rocked and hummed. He slept and moaned. He fought the bottle with water in it...knowing what would come if he caved to the thirst. He eventually was able to take a swallow. And another. He slept without whimpering. His body cooled. The worst had passed but he was still pale and weak when morning came. She would take another day off of work to be with him. He slept next to her on the rug. His toys were scattered about but he didn't have any interest in them. The hours passed slowly that day. They just lay still, waiting for his smile to return. He looked at her when he wasn't sleeping. A serious look that spoke without any sounds. That night, he slept in her bed. She couldn't leave him in his crib in the dark. Not until she knew he was better. He was still sick enough that he didn't even seem to notice that he had never been allowed to sleep here before. It was cool and dark in her room and both slept deeply in short spurts.
When the sun came up that day, he was almost back to the easy going happy toddler he was before. He still didn't want much to eat but the fever was gone and his color was returning. She couldn't afford another day off and the sitter promised to call if he weren't well.
It wasn't until she got to work that she realized that tonight was dinner. He had called the night before and left a message on the machine while they slept. She was tired. But she was also excited. The shift passed without a call from the sitter. Her sweet boy was better when she picked him up. But as the day progressed, she found herself thinking of reasons not to go.
Her son had been so sick.
She shouldn't leave him with a sitter.
Yes, the sitter was like an Aunt but still... Part of her knew the excuses were the same ones she made to herself when she was doing something for her. It was not something she did well.
"You are going on this date" her girlfriend insisted. "I have been looking forward to staying with him all week. You go have fun. We will too."
" I don't have anything to wear," she argued.
"Nice try. I will bring over something great. See you at 6:00."
She arrived, as promised, on time and with an armful of great clothing. Her son was thrilled to see that he had a playmate for the night. He didn't even notice when Mom slipped out the door.
She was shaking as she got into her car. She hadn't remembered being this nervous in forever? She made the drive to his house with the music up loudly to distract her. Her stomach was in knots. She hadn't gotten the bug but was not feeling great. Am I getting sick? She convinced herself it was just nerves. This guy is cute. And he cooks. He knows I have a kid and he doesn't care.
She parked and walked up the walk to his door. He answered as soon as she rang and had the sweetest smile on his face. He barely moved out of the doorway so their bodies touched as she entered. As soon as she hit the stairs, it hit her. The unmistakable smell. She stopped and he walked into her from behind. "Sorry. Sorry," was all she could say.
"No worries. C'mon up. Are you hungry? I know you will love dinner. One of my best dishes. Stir fry," he boasts.
She didn't have to ask. She already knew. Stir fry with green peppers. LOTS of green peppers.
Saw a story this morning on how our reptile brain grabs the negative and holds onto it. This comes from our primal need to protect ourselves in order to make it to back from the hunt, or through the night, or to survive a long winter. Something bad=danger. Use the instinct to protect yourself to stay safe. (Or, more simply, stay alive.)
Fast forward to today and the fact that we aren't hiding from large predators anymore. I mean predators like dinosaurs. There are still plenty of things to be afraid of but my conspiracy writing can be saved for another day.
So, all day this idea has been poking at me. We hear something bad or mean or hurtful. It sticks. We hear something kind or sweet and it doesn't stick. The reptile brain is wired for protection. The stuff that hurts or scares us is burned into our memory. It even feels just as painful as a memory as it did a moment. Years later I can replay a single statement or moment and still have a visceral reaction to it. It was my turn at charades at a birthday party in third grade. I had way too much juice and had to pee. Even when I was in the group shouting out guesses, I was crossing my legs. Then, I was up. I tried to pass my turn but the girls were yelling that I couldn't because that was cheating. Terror kicked in as I walk to the front of the den. I turn to face them. Standing in front of a dozen girls, I peed my white tights. Not just a little bit...but full on way too much juice for my little bladder pee. Puddle at my feet. Soaked tights. Squishy shoes. It felt like I peed for twenty minutes...all while standing and being watched by girls in party dresses. They screamed and pointed and laughed. I ran to the bathroom and cried and cried. I pulled off my clingy wet tights and threw them in the garbage. I made toilet paper mittens and wiped my legs. Tried to dry my shoes. I stayed in the bathroom until the party was over. It could have been 20 minutes or two hours? I was in third grade. I went right back to that very moment today and felt the same hot shame. I didn't feel the hot pee because, well, I didn't have too much juice today. All day I do this. Replay snippets. Feel the sting. Feel the shame. Each time I am surprised by the power still wielded by the negative. And? I have hundreds of them to view. One after the other. This is an awful exercise.
In between, I try for the opposite. I remember something good. A sweet gesture. What is so weird is that I have to dig much deeper to remember the good stuff? So, my powerful reptilian brain holds onto plenty of unpleasant memories and is ready to cue them up for me. The happy storage part of my brain? Not so cooperative.
As I play my twisted game of strike up another shitty memory, I realize that what I am consciously doing today, I have unconsciously done my whole life? Is my reptilian brain some kind of masochistic piece of shit brain that gets off on drumming up the muck? Or have I just allowed it too much power? I should note that I really am not a fan of any reptiles. They scare me and give me the heebies. Maybe, my reptilian brain is something I should work on being less afraid of? Bring it you scaly, cold-blooded creep. I can take it. Especially since I am now aware that I can take it. So, reptilian brain, I appreciate your job is to help me survive. I am good. No dinosaurs around. I know fire is hot. I have food and shelter. I divorced the clubbing caveman years ago. Don't be offended that I am going to work to make sure that the other non-reptilian brain gets to do its job as well. Happy thoughts. And, the red carpet. And Ellen. Deep dish nachos. A guy who said on his way out of the house today, "I think you are beautiful." Take that, reptile brain.
I am not alone in thinking that I can't commit to 40 Days of writing. Shit.
Shit!
Wait...I am so in need of 40 Days of writing. Pause. Increased heart beat. I am no good at this.
I am good at this.
We discover the gifts left for us if we pay attention. 40 Days is a gift and I am going to accept it.
The darkness has been again present for weeks. Crippling darkness. It has never fully been gone for years now but does retreat to the corners...sometimes. I have been trying to pay attention to when it comes back in its full strength. But, like all shadows, it is only visible when there is light.
Nighttime is awful because the nightmares are something I cannot avoid. I wait for the dark because the world gets quiet and eyes stop looking. But, when it is time to sleep, the terror takes over.
Daytime is the time when it is harder to hide. The light reveals the truth. It is much harder to hide the dark circles under my eyes. The fear inside of my eyes. The shame I can't seem to keep down. The exhaustion. The sadness. The unending trip on the hamster wheel of anxiety.
So, I will write. For 40 days. Hopefully, not sad and depressing writing for 40 days. Unless, that is what I need to do. 40 days to chase the darkness. Maybe embrace the darkness? Find the light? At least take time each day to do what feels right.
