personal

Contemplating life outside my control

/ autumncircles / 3 Comments

I can’t help it.

I’m a thinker.

I visualize.

I ponder.

I consider the grand ideal.

I mentally investigate the minutia.

Let’s face it, life inside my head is much more fascinating, intricate and possibly agonizing than life outside.

The subject matter makes no difference as to the level of thought traffic speeding recklessly through the pathways of my brain.

If each one of my thought patterns was issued a citation for every time it raced through my head, the stack of tiny tickets given to the quest for the perfect handbag purchase would reach the sky and might very well equal that of the contemplation of my marriage and relationships.

In the past, some, including myself, have referred to this type of thinking as being “selfish and self-centered.”

After award-winning and meticulous mental analysis, I have come to the pedantic pronouncement of, “So what?!”

As a human animal, my primary directive is to survive. Granted, I am not having to elude any ferociously hungry lions, but my DNA is hard coated to out-dash, out-smart and out-live the other creatures surrounding me.

Does this make me heartless and a conceited bitch?

On the latter, sometimes. On the preceding – never.

When my child is sick for a week, like he has been this past one, I will do everything I can to wash my hands constantly, make sure the folks at work are appeased so that I don’t lose my job and pitifully ponder the fact that I am stuck at home because I have to take care of a sick kid.

Does that mean I do not hold his head when he throws up?

No – held it every time and wiped his forehead with a cold cloth.

Does it mean that I do not comfort him while he sits in a tub full of lukewarm water trying to break the fever whilst wearing his bathing suit out of modesty?

Nope – I held his hand and washed his hair and took in every moment of my “grown-up” little nine-year old who still needs his mommy.

Could my selfishness prevent me from apologizing to him when I get overly exasperated at his inability to take medicine without building it up into a psychological frenzy?

Nearly, but not in the end. I walked away for a few minutes, vented my overpowering annoyance outside of his ears and immediately marched back to his side, told him how much I loved him and how sorry I was at letting my frustration get in the way of taking care of him.

How about for my daughter? Is there anything my exceedingly pensive posture can do to prevent or eliminate the attacks of a seriously misinformed little second grade boy who called her “hairy” and the fall-out of attempting to secretly shave her legs with one of my old disposable razors resulting in a nasty cut on her shin?

Not at all. But I took that sense memory rushing back into my body like a tsunami of the same insults incurred when I was her age and used them to not only console her but as an opportunity to teach her about life and it’s strange, sometimes hurtful occurrences that we all live through and come out stronger on the other side.

Last one.

Most recently, what about my husband and my best friend and their singing partnership? Do I allow my fears of being left behind to take care of the kids, not interesting, talented, witty or beautiful enough and singularly separate-from take over and obstruct my happiness at the success of the two people I love most in the world?

Not anymore. I opened the underbelly of my soul and expressed myself wholly and honestly, believing in the trust of our universe which, in turn, has empowered my true joy for their individual and combined gifts to bubble over the shallowness of my funk to be genuinely excited and thrilled for them before and after a great performance.

The conclusion I draw from all of my mindful, occasionally mysterious meditation on my life (and yours) is that we are blessed, bonded by mutual love and admiration and in this tricked-out, souped-up and totally-kickin’ Starship Enterprise-style-RV of life together.

And then I think:

Engage.


I am an Open Book

/ autumncircles / 1 Comment

This is not a news flash to me.

Or to you, either, if you regularly read this blog.

It was however, a mild revelation as I nearly told my entire nerve block story to a clerk at my local resale shop.

It’s almost like I’ve lost my filter to a certain degree.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not seeking out people to narrate my life story to. In most cases, I have somehow stopped answering “fine” when things are not “fine.” I can still buck it up and, in appropriate situations, i.e., the office and other pertinent places, pull from my inner abilities to act the “part” and smile as I say, “I’m okay, and you?” All the while, barely under the surface of my skin, I am trembling in pain and fear and anguish praying I make it through the bold-face lie without breaking down into a sobbing pile of human flesh.

I don’t consider that a lie by omission. I consider that common courtesy to not inflict my wounds onto another’s being.

In some cases, I have taken that too far. This is where we return to the nerve block story.

I know I have written about my surgeries before, so I won’t regurgitate them now. I have mentioned that I was left with some chronic pain as a result. Unfortunately, about six months into the pain, I stopped keeping those closest to me abreast of the situation. Truthfully, I stopped listening to my own body and managed to lie to my own darn self.

Suddenly, an additional year had passed without me telling the truth about the level and/or consistency of the pain. It took a random excursion to the bowling alley which adversely impacted whatever previous surgical injury occurred, amping up the pain level to near “ripping-my-skin-off” on a scale of “hangnail” to “fourth-degree-laceration-labor-trauma.”

[May I interject here that for some I thought it would be a good idea to listen to the Rocky soundtrack while writing this. I spent a considerable amount of time trying to locate the tracks as they had been moved off to a DVD to save room on my computer. Honestly, with the exception to the Fanfare that we all know – there’s not much else about the album I like. Think I’ll switch to a tested and true stand by for motivational music – The Bourne Identity Soundtrack by John Powell. Also, a great addition to your iPod for a workout session. I lost fifty pounds to it a few years ago! See? No filter…]

Subsequent to the bowling incident, a cartoonish lightbulb went off in my head.

light-bulb

“I am only 41. My Nana is 96 and going strong. Do I really want to live another 55 years with this level of pain in the area of my body where I spend approximately 75% of my time – seated?”

The answer was a resounding, “hell no.”

I placed a few calls, had some much delayed second consultations by fresh doctors and the result was medication (which, honestly, only makes me not care as much that I am in pain, but does not take the pain away) and a nerve block in the pudendal nerve. (Google it. I dare ya. It’s a fun nerve to have f’d up for the rest of your life, huh?)

I won’t go into the TMI details of the procedure here only because I have rehashed all or parts of it more than even I care to – Best Friends, Sister, Mother, Co-workers, Cousin, Facebook followers, and nearly the innocent by-standing resale clerk.

(SHOUT OUT ALERT – Hubby was there through it all and, I must share – TOTALLY AWESOME for me. Couldn’t have asked for a better Man to help me through this. Thanks, babe!)

Why am I writing all of this?

Oh, yea – I’m an open book.

I am in a blessed place where I can no longer live multiple lives – co-workers see me one efficient, organized way; best friends see underbelly and internal organs; husband sees only the parts of me that I think won’t make him want to leave me; family of origin sees grownup, finally put together adult; and I get left with compartmentalized heart muscle and brain tissue that is getting increasingly difficult to keep track of without slipping and allowing some crossover.

It has taken quite some time to take action on this knowledge, yet I believe I am there.

Mostly.

Let’s just say that my filter used to be constructed with low-grade, gray granite. Now, it resembles tye-dyed mosquito netting.

Quite an improvement, I think.