Raindrops keep fallin'

Tonight I went to G’s house for dinner. Warm food, kind conversation. I love her house. G is understanding and empathetic, having endured a painful breakup several years ago herself, from the father of her children. In some ways, it was comforting. She has confirmed it: I am not insane! The crying, the stomachaches, the mind-carousel of thoughts, the crying over Norwegian goat cheese in the grocery store—these feelings, these physical manifestations of heartbreak are normal, expected parts of the healing process. And even better?  They are time limited. Eventually, as G and so many others have proven, we humans establish equilibrium. Although I may never look at goat cheese the same. 

On the other hand, it was painful to be out of my cave,  enjoying time with others, seeing a person on the other side of pain. Lately, when people talk, I struggle to comprehend. My face is pointed in the right direction.  My mouth smiles.  I laugh—…ha, ha, haaaa!!-. Perhaps an imperceptible beat too late, but still fairly convincing. But in my mind? I am thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking. What should I have done differently? What have I done? What can I do to fix this? What will the coming months be like, looking at the Autumn leaves alone? What could I…woulda, shoulda, coulda…I can fix this, right? No, I need to let it go. Why won’t he call? And when will this person stop talking so I can escape to my car to cry?

 

After leaving Gaby’s (how long was I there? I have no idea) I park and walk to my apartment. The rain has stopped and I breathe in the delightful scent, so clean and new, so full of memories…damnit. An exquisite sadness twists at my heart. The lonely feeling again. Like an adult-sized version of the homesickness I used to feel at summer camp, like everything familiar is out of reach. And everything familiar is so much better than what I’m experiencing now. The unfamiliar. Nothing will ever compare. Noth. Ing. 

Look, Lady. I think to myself, trying to be stern. The glorious scent after rain? It’s glorious because it is. Yes, it reminds you of him. Yes, so many of your tender, happy memories are swept up in the scent of this rain. But even without him…doesn’t it smell ok? It wasn’t your relationship that made it smell sweet. It was the flowers, and the grass, the clean air. 

I try to think of another time I’ve enjoyed the rain. 

I am 8 years old and Mom and Dad say they will buy me a toy. With wide eyes, I look and look, wandering up the aisles, pushing my glasses up my nose, wringing my hands, filled with indecision. Dad suggests a stuffed squirrel. Cute. I think. But not what I want. Should I choose it so Dad will be happy? Will he be disappointed if I choose something else? Will it hurt his feelings?  Guilt squirms in my tummy. I’m such a worried kid! No…I calm down. He won’t mind. He said choose anything I want. So I continue to look until I see her—a doll! A baby doll that smells like baby powder. I put my nose up to her and breathe in her sweetness. I admire her delicate blue dress. This is it. My baby. Mom nods in approval. Dad pays for her and it’s raining as we walk side by side to the car. As Dad drives, I hold my baby and watch drops trickle down the windshield, the windows. It’s gray and wet outside and inside, I feel a little sad. I’m not sure why. I’m just that kind of kid! Maybe I wish I picked the squirrel? Maybe I’m feeling excited and worried about it being over too soon? I look down at my doll. I remember to be happy again. Dad smiles at me in the rear view mirror, and I feel safe. 

The same mixture of emotions, the same worry about pleasing others, the same existential crisis. God, what kind of kid was I?? What kind of kid worries about the impermanence of things?? The kind of kid that turns into a serious, dreary adult! 

Or you know what? Maybe I’m coating my memories with the colors of my current misery. I probably went home that night, watched TGIF with my siblings, ate a Kids Cuisine, and stayed up late to play with my doll. Even as a melancholy-prone person, I still know how to have a good time. 

Ack! -Your life is not over, Melbot. The rain still falls, the sun still rises. Your life will be filled with sadness, but it will also be defined by joy, forgiveness, and light-- if you let it. The rain keeps falling no matter who you know, who you love, and who loves you back. It keeps falling and it keeps smelling clean and fresh and sweet. You are going to be ok. You both are. 

Now check out this awesome video.

Cave Dweller

This past month has been a lonely one. To make a long (and personal) story, short (and impersonal), I did something that very much hurt someone I love. It's been a little over a month, and I am reeling from the aftermath, struggling with self worth, and attempting to put the pieces back together.

It's been a lonely journey. When you are the victim, you feel justified in seeking help and friendship. But when you are the offender, the fiendish orchestrator of your own woes, reaching out feels like permissive bullshit. Why should anyone feel bad for me? Why should I receive love and care? I deserve every ounce of pain that I feel.

Plus, it's shameful. The shock of possible rejection in my diminished state feels like too much. I already feel bad about myself. Why open up so people can make me feel worse? So I turn inward. I know there's a certain selfishness in this act. Darkness is what led to bad decisions, and dwelling in darkness is certainly not the way out.

Earlier this week, I was sitting at Greenlake when a friend called. Crying and overwhelmed, she said that she felt she would take a risk and reach out, hoping I was a safe place to land. This friend, by the way, has been one who has listened and supported me throughout this whole ordeal. I didn't know her well at the time, but I had taken a risk in reaching out, and now she was doing the same.

Something strange happened when I heard her voice. I was immediately knocked out of my insular funk. I tend to get tunnel vision, thinking only of the primacy of my problems, dwelling on their ultimate importance. But hearing the suffering of a friend, I snapped to attention. I'm not the only one in pain.

 As I gathered my things and walked to the car, I moved with more purpose than I had in over a month. Even shopping for groceries had more meaning--I prayed that the food would nourish us, both body and soul. Later, as I hugged my friend, entered her home, sat at her table, I felt welcomed--not just into her life, but into the human family.

Pema Chodron writes,

"In cultivating compassion, we draw from the wholeness of our being--our suffering, our empathy, as well as our cruelty and terror. It has to be this way. Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It's a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity."

Boy, do I know my own darkness. I have spent the last weeks indulging it, swimming in it, letting it own me. Like many, I always considered myself to be a "good" person. Realizing that I have the capacity to wound and hide and wound again was frightening. But even in darkness, there are odd lessons to be learned. Coming into such intimate contact with my own terror has opened me to misery, yes,but also to a new and generous compassion. I can sit with a friend in her moments of despair as an equal, a partner, and a fellow seeker. Both of us are the wounder and the wounded. And because of this, mutual healing can occur.

Sitting across the table, looking into her face, I felt a peace I haven't felt in much too long. Maybe I'm not alone. Maybe I'm not only defined by the darkness I sometimes fall into. Maybe there is room for both, for the darkness and the light, for the terror and the love. Maybe I am just me. Maybe you are just you. Maybe that's what it means to be human. 

I left that evening without all my problems solved. They weren't in tight boxes, ready to be packaged and tucked neatly away. They were still spilling over, messy and unforgettable. In fact, the next day brought more pain, deeper sadness, more acute loneliness. But there was a balm on my heart. The feeling I was not alone, that all around, human beings suffer and love and cry and rejoice in tandem. And I felt hope. Not hope like a thrilling expectation, like things are going to be great, swiftly and suddenly. But instead, hope felt like a gentle tug, a patient endurance. I'm going to keep going. It's not only me who soldiers on, but everyone. I'm not in this alone. We're in this together. 

Peace be with you!

I rise.

Truth time: I've had writers block for three, maybe four years. Maybe even five. When was the last time I wrote something fantastic? Something I dreamt about and awoke in the middle of the night, jotting in a blurry fever? It happens on rare and inspired occasion, but, sadly, "rare" is the focal word.

I remember in college, walking along the ship canal on the way to Fremont, writing in my head about rivers swelling into monster heads, gaping mouth ready to swallow me into darkness. I loved to write then, the burning in my busom a constant warmth. But I was also lonely then, and sad.

Jen, my roommate, had a lot of friends in college. The kind of friends who had bonfires on the beach at Golden Gardens, who snuck champagne into the dorms and took camping trips on Labor Day weekend. I, on the other hand, had boyfriends. One at a time, of course. It's not that I'm needy or that I even particularly like romance (in fact, I dislike it, but that's another issue). Moreso, I am a "best friend" kind of gal. In elementary school, I always had one friend, one great friend, who was with me all the time. The same went for college, except that in college, girls were more interested in dating boys and having tons to girlfriends to be my bestie. Jen was a friend from elementary school, and while we loved each other dearly, college meant the natural growing apart from our childhood selves. So in lieu of a best friend scenario, I chose boyfriends.

Having a boyfriend was a new thing for me--I didn't really date in high school, and I definitely wasn't one of those kids who "dated" in the fifth grade. But in my desperation for a daily buddy, my boyfriends sufficed in the best friend role. And it was a good thing. I'm still fond of the people I dated.

All this to say, I was pretty lonely in college, but my loneliness fueled creativity and creativity somehow gave way to a subtle pleasure. I loved writing. I love the idea of creating something out of nothing, of leaving something behind, of imprinting your thoughts into something tangible, readable.

This kind of sad, melancholy-driven artisanship, is not sustainable, however, and after I graduated, I found my own group of bonfire friends. And as I grew happier, and as I glowed in the light of new adventures, I began to fear writing.

It's a chicken or the egg situation with me and writing. Does the "sad" come first, or the writing? Or does the writing induce the sad? For years, I didn't want to find out. I was happy being happy, and I didn't need writing bringing me down, emo-ing me up, and bringing darkness into my new-found light.

But this kind of light--the light of experience and newness and novelty--is also not sustainable. And over time, my heart has felt the gap where writing used to be, the deep-dark glow of the long-sad nights of laying it all out on paper. And once again, I grew lonely. And once again, I wanted to write.

Writer's block, however, is a bitch. And the pressure of writing, just like the pressure of trying to recapture some past and sacred emotion--like romance--is heavy and impossible. How can I get back to that place of blissful writing sadness, that pandora's box of weird emotion and creative energy? Do I have to get all "thinky" again? Do I have to tap into my inner goth-child, my tired angsty teenager? Or is there a new fountain of creativity--an adult kind, a confident kind, a kind of creativity that is compatible with the woman I have become. A creativity that recognizes my growth, my healthy passion, my fear and persistence?

I hope so. Because I miss this. And wan, lonely me from college yesteryear needs to meet the woman she will become, just as much as who I am today must reconnect with her roots, find her glasses, and get her nerd on.

I like to think there's a happy medium.

Whirlwindenstein

This has been the wackiest year.

I started grad school. I became a social work intern at a non-profit here in town. I watched Boys Don't Cry (and cried) I learned what "gender identity" really means. I became a teacher and a student and a new friend. I started training for a half marathon and I ran 14 miles for fun. I, the ever shy flower, sang a LOT of karaoke. I reconnected with old friends. I lost touch. I regained focus. I ate Ramen and salad and felt sunny and sad and every gradation in between.

And let's face it. Everybody in my life is facing crisis. Divorce, death, illness--you name it, someone I know is going through it.

And (surprise), it all has me a'thinkin'.

How do I want to spend my life? Like so many quarters and endless vending machines, I am faced with this quandry: time well spent, is spent...where? How? And with whom?

I used to be the kind of gal who hoped to meet one guy, marry one guy, and that was that. Any additional relationships would sully my innocence and take away from the magic. But now I'm not so sure. Can I, at 26, really know what I want? Will want? Or is that just my Generation-"Y"-ness talking? You know...the part of me that was raised in a quick-fix/internet/tv-on-dvd world and can't stand the thought of doing the same thing for 20 minutes--let alone a lifetime. At the same time, I am goal-oriented by nature (perhaps to a fault), and the thought of wasting my time with someone who is going to be a mere memory in who-knows-when isn't that appealing either.

On the other hand, I can't stand to think of anyone as a waste of my time.

On the other hand, I can't stomach being with someone who is biding their time until the next best thing comes along. Which is, historically, how I end up feeling when I make the mistake of over-thinking (which, historically, I always do).

I am the next best thing, damnit.

And yes, I am dwelling too much on the past. As much as I don't like to admit it, my past relationships have taken their toll on me...and here I am again, late at night, rememory...izing.

Memory is an odd thing, the way it lopes and shifts and splits apart with the telling. Memory in my head is entirely different from memory spoken aloud, and still even more different from memory written down. When I write a memory, I alter it indefinitely--it is no longer the innocent memory of old. It is reshaped, formatted by that all-knowing entity called retrospect.
Hindsight is 20/20.
Take relationships for example. At the time, mine all seemed good and well, lovely even. Eventually though, these relationships faded, became marred by cynicism, by the simplest things--a misplaced word, a misread look--any combination of things that signalled the inevitable beginning of the end, tiny infractions that converted the "what could have beens" into the "what never was". Goodbye. Farewell. Nice knowing you. All that work for nothing.
It is odd the transition from seeing a person every day to never seeing them, to move from sharing everything to sharing nothing.

Frankly, it has left me a little disillusioned.

And yet not, in retrospect, I can see that mistakes that were made. I can reread the misread tone. I can reinterpret the "he said, she said". If love is blind, retrospect has x-ray vision. I can safely say that most things I did to end my relationships I would never have done again...in retrospect. I can see my mistakes and mentally I can repair them, reposition my relationships, gather the fragments, and put them back together again. Hypothetically.

But what does that mean? The hard truth is I can't go back. And if I could, would I? Would I want to come back with the proverbial "knowledge of good and evil"? Wouldn't that ruin the innocence of my memories, sour my experiences by intellectualizing them?

Because really, there is something to be said for mistakes. For taking chances and failing. Sorely. For realizing through experience that you were wrong, you can be an asshole, and that not everything you say gets interpreted how you intended it. Maybe it all happened for a reason. Maybe you needed to learn a lesson. Maybe you needed to fail.
Maybe some things were just not meant to be.

Or were they?

What do I do with the things of my past? The people of my past? The feelings of my past? It seems odd to be able to discard human emotion so quickly, as though it were nothing, is nothing. Became nothing? How can emotion evaporate completely? Or can it? Is it always a part of you somehow?

I apologize for this infuriatingly sparse and random piece of writing. Lately, I have been increasingly lost in thought, caught within the cyclical maze of memory and rememory, of past and present. I am where I am supposed to be. I know that, and that should be good enough. But as wonderful as the present may be, I cannot seem to escape the sneaking suspicion that the past has never quite left me, that it is always skulking somewhere along the periphery of my psyche, waiting for its second chance to shine.

And really? Where do emotions go when they die? Do they die? Or are they just reinvested into something else? The big question is, how divorced are we from our pasts? Can we ever truly move on, or are our past always a part of us?

I think so. In a noncreepy way. I think our pasts help create our present, that our mistakes and triumphs help mold us into who we are today. We can transform, but we can never discard the elements that compose us. Once we experience something or someone, it becomes a part of us forever. In a noncreepy way. We can change and mold and adapt, but we are who we are.

...We are who we are who we are.

Running, dying, and everything in between

I haven't written for awhile, and I have some excuses.

One is that I got depressed. I interviewed for and subsequently failed to get a writing-related job-of-my-dreams. This failure, punctuated by two months of unemployment and living off savings, led to many days spent eating Top Ramen and contemplating my existence. My caloric consumption and mental gymnastics made writing much less appealing than sleep.

The other excuse is that my dog died. No, not Hondo, but Chopstick, my dear pug of 13 years. In what can now go on record as the Worst Day of my Life, Chopstick went from a happy-go-lucky, snorting mass of food-begging happiness to a stiff, seizure stricken old dog, and finally to a soft, lifeless lump of fur lying on a sad carpet in the vet's office.

I wasn't really prepared for how awful the death of a pet could be, nor was I ready to be faced with the notion that it was my fault--we had her put to sleep. Grief, accompanying guilt (for having killed my dog) and shame (for being so sad about a dog), caused me to once again refuse to write. In addition, I felt like I needed to write something epic commemorating the life of my dog. Of course, never having been much of a clutch player, I cracked under pressure and instead of writing, resumed my life of Ramen consumption, minus the contemplation plus reality t.v.

And now, a couple of months later, I find myself not only employed but also registered for grad school in the fall. The thought of Ramen makes me want to vomit and reality television has somehow lost it's appeal (who knew...?). I am also running again, which takes up a lot of my time. I think it's safe to say I am sane again, at least for the time being, which means it's only proper to resume the writing life (hopefully Hondo will be up for a blog or two now and then as well...did I say I was sane?).

So yay for me. I'm back.