Ah happiness! I caught a fleeting glimpse of it yesterday and it was sublime. Short-lived, but oh so incredibly wonderful.
For a few shining moments I remembered what it had been like to have someone love me. And it was amazing. In a span of 20 minutes I was 20 years younger.
I’ve decided I’m going to hang on to that feeling just for a little while. Maybe just a week or two. Just so I can say I remember. And smile when I think about it.
God I hate cliches. They are so, I don’t know– cliched?
As I try to reshape my life into something that makes me happy in every possible way I keep running into these obstacles. Hurts. They are old ones– from a time before I was who I am now. Unfortunately they linger. Maybe because they have helped shape who I am now.
Let’s visit a few of them.
1) I have an attraction to some male person. He ALWAYS liked one or another of my friends. While this wasn’t necessarily their fault, there were several occasions when it could have been handled better than it was. One friend just didn’t care. She generally ended up going out with the guy. I have actually gotten over that. What I haven’t gotten over is the feeling that I’m mostly being “tolerated” or “humored” because others want to spend time with a friend of mine and many times we are a package deal.
2) I swear I have a compulsive fear of being talked about behind my back. If it’s “behind my back,” you say, then would you really know and why do you care? Perhaps it’s irrational. However, in the wonderful world of cell phones we have people who text each other across a dinner table. It makes you wonder what it is they have to say to each other that can’t be said to everyone at the table and why it can’t wait until later.
3) Trust issues. Yes, I have them. I know. Who doesn’t? Every time I think I’ve topped this hurdle it flies up and hits me in the face. I’ve been cheated, been mistreated (thanks Linda Ronstadt for covering that for me!) and I’ve been lied to. A LOT. It’s a constant battle for me to remember that not everyone I meet is a sadist who is completely devoid of moral character. It just so happens that I attract those kind of people like manure attracts flies.
More about the cliches. “Heal the hurt.” “Get past it.” “Move on.” “Learn to love yourself.” It makes me want to gag. How in the world am I expected to heal a wound that is so deep that it has grown great big, gnarly roots in my soul? Is there medication for this? How should I keep it from rearing its ugly head when I am confronted with a situation nearly identical to the one that caused the pain to begin with?
I seriously am NOT bitter. I just have these nagging few things that still bother me even though the pain should be long past its expiration date. The truth is that wounded hearts take an incredibly long time to heal and there is no expiration date on pain.
I’ve been deluding myself for awhile now. Somewhere over the last few months I have managed to convince myself that I was capable of attracting a man. Let’s take a moment for everyone to snort. Done? Okay, moving on.
A while back a person of the male persuasion expressed an interest in me. I won’t lie. It was nice. I’d been divorced for over 2 years and really hadn’t bothered with dating. He seemed like a nice enough guy– the kind who likes children and puppies. I won’t bore you with the gory details of what happened between us. Suffice it to say that he just wasn’t that into me.
However, for some stupid and God-only-knows-why reason, I kept talking to him and in the process convinced myself that maybe I could attract someone. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. This is the moment when I take a break from writing to hit my head against a brick wall.
It would seem I have learned nothing from past experience. I contemplate a tattoo on my wrist that says “no man has ever really wanted you and no man ever will” just so I don’t forget this fact again.
“Back up the train,” you say. “You were married. You dated in the past.” Yep, I did. It was just that those guys used me for what they conveniently needed at the time. Sex? Yes. Money? Possibly. I know one just wanted a girlfriend with a good job and once he found a girl with a better job than the one I had he was gone. I’m pretty sure my husband married me because both of his parents had died, his sister had moved away and he didn’t want to be alone.
I check myself out in the mirror. Shiny hair. Good teeth. Wait, this isn’t the American Kennel Club, but maybe it should be because I’m obviously a dog. No man ever looks at me or expresses any kind of interest in me. It’s abundantly clear that I am hideous in some way. Whether it’s outside or inside, I don’t know. I’ve tried fixing both parts of me, but nothing changes.
Okay. I’m done with the pity party.
No, I don’t need a man to complete me or validate me, but I’m lonely and sad because I have no one to talk to or share with. And I have no one to hold me when the going gets rough.
It’s been really rough lately.
It’s your big sister. There doesn’t seem to be much point in writing to you since you’ve been gone for 10 years now, but I’m going to anyway.
You see, I’m all about making 2011 a better year in my life. I’ve set a monster list of goals to achieve and one of them is to forgive myself for things I’ve done wrong whether they were really wrong or only imagined.
This is where you come in. For the last 10 years I really haven’t been able to forgive myself for not being able to convince you that I would have made a great sister.
I know that you didn’t want to talk to me– to get to know me. I think that was unfair on your part. There were rough places in both our lives. Yes, I got adopted by a wonderful family, but you got to keep your mom. No one gave you away.
Maybe you were worried that I would somehow take her away from you, but you shouldn’t have been. She was only the vessel that gave me life. My mother is the woman who has loved me and supported me for 42 years.
Then, before I could let you know that I loved you just because you were my sister and we shared the same blood, you were gone. In a heartbeat, you were gone. 23 is too young to die. It was too soon for your sweet baby girl to lose her mama. And it was much too soon for me to lose the sister I had never met.
It is so hard to forgive myself for not trying harder to get you to talk to me, to listen to all the reasons I wanted to have you in my life. But I can do that now. Time has passed and I realize that as much as I wanted you to hear me, you might never have come around.
The problem I have with losing weight is that I want it to all disappear, oh, say in about a week’s time. I can do anything for a week, right? It’s after the first week that I start to fail miserably. It is that way with most of the things in my life that I want to change. The reality is that this journey is going to take much longer than a week. I’m going have to learn patience and perseverance if I want to succeed at anything. The ADD isn’t on my side in that respect, but I’m working on it, honestly I am.
In regards to the weight loss, I’m following the 4 Hour Body plan. Check out the book by Tim Ferriss. It’s exactly what I need with my sugar/insulin issues. I like what I’m eating. The food is relatively easy to prepare. It’s just not chocolate chip cookies. *sigh*
The good Dr. Oz (or his organization, more specifically) offered a free bracelet awhile back that says “Just 10.” It’s a reminder that even losing just 10 lbs. can be beneficial to your health. I popped it on when I started this journey and now when I am tempted to stray from the path of diet righteousness I just look down and my wrist and remember why I am doing this.
Something else I wanted to do better in 2011 was parenting. I wanted to spend more time with my kids and I wanted that time to be quality time. That is also an excellent reminder for me to get the weight off and keep it off. Being healthy means I have more energy to spend on them. What better reason could there be?
I also want to be a better writer and a more prolific writer. Doing that, I have discovered means writing something every day. Whether it be a blog post, an article or working on my children’s book, if I don’t write it, it will never happen.
What I’m learning is that you don’t eat the whole sandwich/cake/pizza in one bite. You take small bites and chew slowly and eventually you get it all down. So I will continue taking it one day at a time and being proud of each day’s accomplishments because it is the little things that make a difference.
Today’s exercise in change: self-examination of why I can’t stand to be in the same room with myself.
I’ve already done a brief sketch of my mother and her “helpful” suggestions. My ex referred to her as the Diet Nazi. And he only knew her for the 16 years we were together. I had a whole 26 years of experience with her before I ever met him. I have never been what one would refer to as “skinny.” Even to call me “thin” might be stretching it, but I am 5’11″ for Pete’s sake. Since I refuse to give up food entirely or stick my finger down my throat after every meal I’m never going to be supermodel skinny, but I digress.
Once upon a time when I was much thinner than I am now, (read that as before children!) I had a few dates. One or two might have actually qualified as boyfriends. It was hard to tell between all the backhanded compliments that were thrown my way. Here’s a random sampling for your consideration:
“You are going to be so beautiful when you are done losing weight.”
“You would be so beautiful if you would just lose some weight.”
“If you and I stay together you will lose some weight because we will start hiking.”
“Well, I like you, but my buddy and I think that [insert name of my best friend here] is better looking.”
Are you seeing a trend here? There are more, but that would just be overkill. Yes, apparently I attract asshats like manure attracts flies.
According to at least one person, the only reason any man would ever go out with me would be because I would have sex with them. (Believe me I wasn’t getting *that* lucky) It certainly wouldn’t be for my beauty, charming wit or sparkling personality because I lacked those in abundance. Yes, another asshat.
I just want to give a big shout-out to the asshats of the world. I want to thank you for reducing me down to what I truly am– an imperfect human in a world that values perfection of body over all other characteristics. It doesn’t matter that none of you were Mr. America– at least 2 of you were chubby with thinning hair– that didn’t matter to me. I liked you. It only matters that you made me feel inferior. It doesn’t matter that I am intelligent, witty and occasionally fun to be around. It only matters that I wasn’t a size 6.
And so asshats, I bid adieu to all of the horrible things that you made me feel about myself. I will no longer fall into a pit of self-loathing when I remember what you said to me because I know now that I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and doggone it, people like me.
Please read this link for the REAL truth on this subject. http://www.snopes.com/politics/obama/photos/prayerday.asp. There is no “Islamic Day of Prayer.” Someone independently organized a prayer service for Muslims on Capitol Hill.
Obama never “canceled” or “declared” there would be no National Day of Prayer. He just decided that there would not be an ecumenical service in the White House. The National Day of Prayer was established by a congressional bill and I am guessing, could only be changed or removed altogether in the same way. That has not happened. President Obama issued a proclamation about National Prayer Day, but chose to pray in private, as so many of us do every day. Ever pray alone in your house, while you were in bed, making dinner? I knew a lady with several children who used to lock herself in the bathroom to pray just to get a moment’s peace. It doesn’t matter where you pray or if it’s done on a National Day of Prayer. God is still going to hear you. He also hears you when you profess to respect the office of the President of the United States, but then only do it if your man wins.
Americans are still welcome to pray, hold National Prayer Day observances, etc. (and I assume, do it on Captiol Hill with the proper procedures, just like the Muslims did) Nothing has changed. There just won’t be a prayer service held in the White House. Which, when you think about it, is keeping it equal. There won’t be Muslims, Jews, Protestants or anyone holding a special religious service in the White House.
If we are truly a free country where everyone is free to worship as they like, or don’t, why can’t our President? When George W. Bush was in office, everyone was all about how we should be respectful of him because he was the President, whether we agreed with him or not. Now, those same people are the ones acting in complete and total disrespect of our current President. If you can’t practice what you preach, you should give up the pulpit.
If we are truly a free country where everyone is free to worship as they like, or don’t, why shouldn’t our President recognize it? He is the political leader of our country, not our religious leader. We should look to our pastors, deacons and church elders for that kind of leadership.
I am a Christian and I’m just asking everyone to be respectful of the President of the United States as we were all asked to do when GWB was in charge.
This was actually a comment left in response to another comment left by someone on Facebook. Let’s get this straight once and for all. THERE ARE UNINSURED PEOPLE WHO WORK FOR A LIVING, HAVE BEEN DENIED COVERAGE BY INSURANCE COMPANIES AND ARE NOT JUST RESTING ON THEIR LAURELS WAITING FOR THE GOVERNMENT TO TAKE CARE OF THEM.
Okay, now for my commentary.
Are you serious? I work as an editor for a 2 person company. There is no group coverage. My co-worker is fortunate to have insurance through her husband. I lost my insurance when I got divorced. I am SO sick of people saying they are going to be paying for the uninsured who don’t work, blah, blah, blah. I work for my living just like many other uninsured people. I make a house payment, buy my own groceries, pay my utility bills– all without gov’t assistance. I am not uninsured because I don’t work. I am uninsured because I have been refused coverage by insurance companies due to a pre-existing condition. I have no sense of entitlement. I just want to protect myself from financial ruin should I (God forbid) become seriously ill.
In the time it took you to write your patriotic, great American diatribe about what a fine, upstanding citizen you are, you might have taken the time to look up the real facts on healthcare reform instead of listening to what the talking heads are telling you.
In this current economic climate, I can’t imagine that there is anyone who is immune from the possibility of unemployment. We are all just one day away from being unemployed and uninsured. What would you do then? Spend $1500 a month on COBRA? Sure, until your savings run out. And if you are still unemployed after 12, 15, 18 months? Would you give up your home to continue to pay for insurance? Eventually, the insurance will become secondary to your family’s other needs. What if you, your husband, or a child needed extensive medical treatment? Would you want someone to step in and help you out? That’s what healthcare reform would do. But you know, if you don’t want to be a burden on the rest of American citizens like all us uninsured people are, you can always refuse treatment.
A friend of mine is watching a friend of hers die of cancer because she is uninsured and can’t get the treatments she needs. Meanwhile, people down the hall from her in the hospital are getting the treatment for the same type of cancer because they are insured. One can pay, one can’t. That is the real death panel. And it’s happening right here in the greatest country in the world every day.
Several years ago there had been a rash of vandalism in the city, with car windows being shot out. Late one night my parents were awakened by a loud pop and the sound of breaking glass. My father grabbed the night stick he keeps by the bed (what good that would be against a gun, I don’t know) and crept stealthily down the hallway. When he got to the front hall he put his USAF basic training to work and did a belly crawl toward the living room. He found no damage to the front of the house, so he decided to crawl to the kitchen– and what to his wondering eye did appear?
Some lunatic (that would be me) had given my now ex-husband a “Mr. Beer” for Christmas. Why? I thought he would enjoy brewing his own beer. It seemed simple enough. You put everything in the cute plastic keg and in short order you had beer.
(Let me backtrack now and tell you that my father is a connoisseur of weird things that other people get rid of, so of course, he was in possession of a bottle-capping contraption. )
So, Scott is happily brewing away and had some moderate successes, so he decided to expand his repertoire to include a fruity beer. Cherry to be precise. He brews it up and using my father’s bottle capping machine, INSTEAD of the plastic caps that came with the kit, caps it off and leaves a few bottles with my dad.
When my father finally managed to drag his nearly 70-year-old body to the kitchen he found UN-capped bottles broken on the floor, the glass in a picture frame had been shattered and cherry beer was dripping everywhere. It looked not just a little like O.J., Nicole and Ron had been there.
He gave up home brewing after that, deciding it was best to leave it to the experts. but every once in a while my mom will look up at the kitchen ceiling and say, “is that a piece of cherry up there.”
Sure, he looks all cute, sorrowful and snuggly laying there on my (oops!) unmade bed, but don’t be deceived– he was sent by Al Qaeda to terrorize my home. He has earned the nickname “Osocksma bin Beagle” for his efforts.
He belongs to my ex, but spends an extended amount of time here since an apartment is too confining for his nefarious activities. At this point I should mention that the doctor said it would be great for my ex to have a dog– it would get him out walking and getting exercise. He has gained 8 lbs and cracked 2 ribs while chasing the runaway beagle boy.
In the time Socks has spent here he has managed to chew up 2 of my Christmas Santas and a tree ornament. He has destroyed countless wrappers, containers, a sturdy plastic bowl, and several treat bags the kids got from school– including the pencils! On my dining room table was a box of peanut crunch awaiting gift wrapping. Socks looked at it as an afternoon snack, pulled it off of the table and enjoyed it, box and all.
Unfortunately for Socks, he isn’t the brightest light in the harbor. (But he is a shining beacon in the bay of stupidity.) He pulled a glass baking dish off the stovetop and proceeded to try and eat the meatloaf off the broken glass. He has eaten numerous things that would have done a lesser dog in, including a large bag of Splenda. This was a meal after his previous week’s appetizer of a partial bag of Splenda brown sugar substitute. We have learned now to put these things back in the cabinet immediately, or at least push them far enough back on the counter that he can’t reach them.
Socks did show a moment of brilliance on Monday morning. He managed to escape through the garage door and head out for a neighborhood adventure. I was willing to let him go, but I had a very upset little boy, so we headed out to look for him. When we finally caught up with him, he was following the barking of some fenced dogs. Z11 hopped out to get him and he started to run, but wait, there was a standard poodle that had to be at least 4 foot off the ground, staring him down. Socks contemplated this marvel with the big, fluffy ball on his tail, then looked at Z, looked back at the Amazon-sized dog and practically leapt into Z’s arms. Good going Socks!
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