Category: Ponderances

For questions I can’t seem to find the answers to.

The Crack You Hear

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Somewhere between yesterday and today I got OLDER. I am not a big fan of my birthday. Petty I know but it has always been one of MY things. Something I refuse to believe in. I refuse to believe that it can be wonderful and amazing. In my mind I have allowed this birthday notion to GROW into a WILD HAIRY BEAST who’s only goal is to make me rue the day of my creation.

This year Birthday caught me off guard and surprised me. This year Birthday WAS wonderful and amazing and we had the best time ever = ) I put no pressure on myself this vacation. I try too hard sometimes to have a good time. When you force yourself to smile, that smile has little to no value to yourself or the person you just tried to make happy with an empty gesture. I allowed myself to be free from my own expectations. Guess what? By taking that attitude to heart I let the sun shine in.

I spent quality time with my hubby and our friends. My Dad remembered that I was born around the fourth of July. The first time in years he has even come close to wishing me a happy birthday. I cried, Yes. They were tears of happiness and amazement. I had an adventure with my bestie and my husband at the same time. Never thought I get that one off the bucket list ; )

Getting older I am learning to be kinder to myself. Me. myself and I have been going steady for a long time. It is high time we learned to be accepting of each other. Be happy with the who we have become. Sounds strange doesn’t it? Most people fight with themselves about some aspect of their wants or needs. It is hard to strike a balance. Know balance, know happiness. What a great idea.

My Soul Music

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I have never tried to write my blog while listening to music before. I thought I would give it a try. I am listening to In Blue by The Corrs. I love this CD. It helps to put me in a better mood when the thick fog of funk rolls in. I have the sound turned down a bit so I can process my thoughts. It is true that you never forget a good lesson learned. I used to sing, listen to music in high school to help me prep for tests. Feels like home, who knew? I switched to my go to gal…Streisand. Her music gives me something no other music has ever given me, the ability to believe in myself.

Lately, ok maybe that is a bad reference for time. I have not been getting along with myself for a few years now. This rift in my being has caused me turmoil and self-loathing. One would think that I would have learned to set myself free from that bullshit already. I think I have finally realized it is part of the mystery I call me. I lost faith in myself. I got lost on my journey. I am in the deep woods surrounded by mosquitoes and other wild life with no FECKING idea how to get back to the main road… except, I know the way. I have been unwilling to “fix” my course. Listen, I was in the middle of a first class pity party. I had balloons and snacks and more snacks and more snacks, well I think you get the idea. Eventually it was time to crawl down from my perch in the tress and rejoin the world around me.

I choose my life. Every crappy, wonderful, screwed up minute. I want to be healthy. One of my mother’s last wishes for me was to be well. She knew she was fading and her time was drawing to a close. She gave me one of her best Junie hugs. “I love you, Trish. I know you will take care of Daddy but I worry you won’t look after you. Don’t become me. I can’t walk. I struggle for breath. Someone has to help me with every small thing. Do you want to end up like me? unable to live like you want?” I brushed it off at the time. Mom being dramatic with all the trappings. She died three months later. I started WWs March 3, 2007. My mom passed away June 11.2007. In that short time I lost 50 pounds. I continued to lose for her, for me until I left behind 145 pounds. Hold your applause. Yes, I lost all that weight and then I walked away.

Funny thing about grief after awhile your mind softens the sharp edges so you can move on with your life. Unfortunately, I chose to move in the wrong direction. I had my reasons; ill conceived most of them. Shortly after my Mom’s passing I began taking care of my Dad. In the beginning he only needed gentle reminders and help with his shopping. I was on course. I managed to lose 145 pounds. I was 6 pounds short of reaching lifetime goal at WWs when my Dad had a cardio-vascular accident that changed our lives. He nearly died on me. I was thrust into full time caregiver with part time hours. Where was my rock? Suddenly I felt so useless and small. Dad got better physically but his dementia…well, that is an ongoing adventure = (

I coped the only way an addict knows how. I FELL off the wagon. No, that’s a lie. I JUMPED. It has taken eight years to regain most of the weight I lost. I didn’t want to deal with all the sadness, disappointment and loneliness that comes from taking care of an ailing loved one. There is no one to blame. It is what it is. I allowed myself to fall short on purpose, fulfilling my own doom theory. Well guess what? Screw that shit. I have things I want to do. Things I need to fix. Adventures to take. People to love. I accept I will always have to fight my need to “fix” my problems with food. Food is the worst friend, ever. I can’t live without her. She won’t change so I need to learn to give her space so my soul can have peace.

Parting Ways

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It is difficult to be “in” everyday. We all do it. Walk through a day instead of being in the day. Maybe it happened the last time just a few days ago when you had to sit through a work meeting or maybe it was at a function you didn’t want to go to like a graduation or a wedding. My point is we all do it. I do it as a way to preserve my sanity; play along to get along. I hate that about myself. Every time I walk through a day I lose a tiny piece of myself. I am tired of giving me away for no return on my investment.

I find, for myself, that every time I do this my ANGER grows. I become less happy. My resentment level builds to a point where I feel like a cat whose fur has been rubbed the wrong way, putting me on edge. I feel boxed in with no hope for escape. It needs to stop. I am letting go of my anger, again. I want Anger to leave and take her nasty friends, Fear and Loathing with her. Whenever we hang out together I am the one who suffers. I start to question all of my life choices. I am 50. Let’s be honest my anger about wrong path taking should have been set on the right road along time ago. I didn’t follow my dreams because I was afraid. Afraid to live.

I hold a grudge against myself for letting myself down over and over. Self-loathing doesn’t change anything. The only thing I accomplish by being angry with myself is fulfill my own prophecy about not amounting to much. Hold a person up to high expectations and the common man will do whatever it takes to rise to the occasion, to prove his worth, to be given the chance for better and bigger things. I just want my chance. I know in the depths of my soul that I am capable of being so much more than I allow myself to be.

I need a positive change. I will post at least one positive thing a day. I will make it about something that I do or accomplish for me. I am worth the time. Today I made the choice to be happier with myself just the way I am. All my flaws and all the things I like about myself; the whole package = )wpid-20141101_172457.jpg

She

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She used to be here. Now she is not. She used to love me; now her love lives in my heart. With her I never had to be anything more than who I already was. She never wanted anything from me other than myself. She was my biggest fan and my best friend. The youngest of three. She was known as kid sister to me.

One might think that eleven years later my sister’s death would be easier to live with. I move through life. I am still waiting…for the pain to be less, for the sting to fade but it lingers.

I am that favorite vase. Shattered and cracked. Fused back together with Superglue and good intentions. Like the vase I look ok but if you get close enough things might let go and spill its contents over the floor.

She had a way about her. She was so shy almost timid when she was a little girl. Fragile. I always felt like I had to protect her. She got hurt anyway. I couldn’t save her from that. People played on her vulnerability. She knew how to be defiant. She would fight with her whole being to suppress a tear if it meant she held the upper hand. When she would allow herself to cry it was usually in my embrace. Me, her safe haven.

The saddest thing? She never understood what SHE was worth. I know what she was worth. My time, my life, my joy, my laughter was better with her in it. She is still missed. I still look for her in a crowd, certain she is out there somewhere just out of reach, waiting for me.

Wish You Were Here
Wish You Were Here

The Power of a Hug

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I have never put much faith into a hug. Confining in nature almost claustrophobic for me. I do not have a great personal history with hugging. In fact, I would say it is one of my greatest weaknesses. My kid sister was the only person who’s hug I would accept. She had a way about it. She’d hang onto me like our lives depended on it. Almost as if she knew there was a storm coming. Her hugs meant the world to me because she put so much of herself behind that embrace.

Something has changed in me lately, perhaps it is because my Dad is in a nursing home. I have had a change of heart about hugging. A true hug should be given free of will and with a depth of meaning to it from you for the one you hug. There a few residents where my Pops now hangs out that feel the need to hug me. I hug them willingly. Like small children these souls hug from their hearts. Overflowing with love for someone they once knew. Some days these people think I am their loved one. They ask me about children I don’t have; husbands and grandchildren that are not mine. I go along with their alternate reality the best way I know how by not rocking the boat. People with dementia or Alzheimer’s are still who they used to be somewhere in their minds. Everybody needs love and affection.

My Pops is the same even if his memories falter or the endings to his stories change. I try to hug him more than I have in the past. I think we both need it more. I miss him. I never realized before how much power comes from such a little thing. A hug makes the weary less tired. To the sad it lends hope. To the loved it spreads an untethered joy. To the lonely a sense of inclusion, that someone cares. To the lost a ray of light showing a safe way. Hug someone today.

Because I AM HAPPY

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Spring is the time of renewal. I love Spring. The longer days, the warmth of the sun, the budding of the trees and the blooming of the flowers put me over the top HAPPY. Yes, I do happy. My life sometimes brims over but who’s doesn’t? Winter this year seemed to be so drawn out. Cold and dreary, difficult times not to sink into a withdrawn emotional state. I am grateful for so many things. I have a job (even if sometimes I hate working). I am loved. My hubby understands me in ways I don’t.  My Dad is being taken care of and despite my misgivings he is doing okay. I have a home with my hubby that we love. I have friends that I care about who care about me in return.

I started blogging as a way to vent things out I felt I couldn’t control or change or sometimes as a way to let myself know I am ok; that things are normal. Everyone struggles with life and the things that make life worth getting out of bed for. I would be worried if there were no bumps in the road. I have learned that I am a lot stronger than I give myself credit for. I have a capacity for love I never knew lived inside me. I live my life for me and the people I love.

Feeling happy is a state of mind, a personal journey not a destination. Life is in the taking of risks. Living each day you are given. I used to wonder what “waiting to exhale” actually meant. I get it now. It is that feeling you get when someone startles you. It is the quick draw of breath you take in and are afraid to let go of. Like somehow holding your breath will keep you safer. After a near lifetime of holding my breath I exhaled.

I am OKAY. My life has not always progressed the way I have wanted it to but I march towards a better day, a life worth having. I hope you always have love in your life and people who are wise enough to love you for what you bring into their life YOU.

Pop, Dad, Old Man, mine <3

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Our relationship has once again repositioned itself. I tread unfamiliar ground. How childlike my Dad has become in such a short span of time. I was growing so weary in my role as primary caregiver. I never had any real amount of time off from my duties. Dad was ever needy. On his good days though what fun we would have. I like to believe that he looked forward to seeing me everyday. We had a routine. I would come home from work, start coffee, hit the bathroom and get ready to go out the door to Dad’s. Some days Pop even waited long enough for me to be almost done with my afternoon prep before he’d start ringing my phones. He would sometimes call every thee minutes, not absorbing enough info from the first six calls. Some days I would find it amusing, others infuriating. I could always hear the angst in his voice when he was feeling afraid or uncertain. I looked forward to the calls where he would call jovial and mischievous.

Christmas time is not easy for me. I feel alone in the world, without a connection to the family I once had. I felt even more off balance this year with my life and Dad’s being set aflutter on the winds of change. I know in my heart of hearts he is being looked after and taken care of but I miss the old goat. I thought that when the time arrived and the day passed when my phone no longer rang, I would finally know peace. Why don’t I feel that way? Why? I am sad. I am angry. I am suffering from decision remorse. I am having regrets about doing the right thing. You know they say you can’t unboil an egg. I might as well come to terms with what has happened.
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I try to go see Dad every night and help him with supper. His face lights up when I enter the room. He always thanks me for coming, like I have been away on a long voyage. I greet everyone with the warmest hello and smile I can muster. The conversation I have with Dad is generally the same every night. How is your old man? How is everyone else? How is work? When can I live with you? Why can’t I go home? Am I sleeping here tonight? How long have I been here? Do I have to sleep in the attic? Do they have a bathroom in here? I reassure him the best I can but I see the pain in his face. I feel he is nervous almost afraid. It is hard for me to cover my own misgivings about this new adventure we are on. I sing for him. I hold in my tears. I joke with him. I owe him so much. I love him. I give him what I have; me. I hope it is enough.

Turns Out…

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it was never about the food. All these years I have held myself separate from all of the things I wanted or needed or cared about. It is not the story but the telling of the tale that matters. I was never taught how to manage my feelings. I was raised to believe my feelings had no place. My wants, needs, desires were of no consequence. I was supposed to learn how to table them not handle them. I think that is one of the reasons that I grew up feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. I was a fraidy-cat when I was a kid. No adult ever explained to me that a human body goes through many changes as it develops and grows. I was so fearful I often obsessed with my own untimely demise. My mother just called me ‘Camille”. I was overly dramatic and needed to get a grasp on reality. If it had only dawned on her that I was apprehensive about the changes I was experiencing maybe she would have been gentler with important info, maybe. I taught myself to eat instead of feel. If I eat I won’t need to be in my moments. I won’t get hurt. Turns out the only thing I taught myself was how to buy a bad lie.

Have you ever stood in front of an audience and spoke at great lengths on a subject only to realize that no one is listening to you? Story of my life. I have always felt invisible yet I am not Trish alone. I have my constant companions Fear and Loathing. They seem like nice girls but one never wants to do a thing outside of her comfort zone and the other; well, she just hates everything. It is tough to get one damn thing accomplished. These two scream in my thoughts for attention. Thank Gawd for that ray of sunshine called Hope. I love her. She makes everything seem possible. She speaks quietly, determined to be heard, she lurks in the background waiting for her moments. Her moments are the life changing ones. That voice in your head that says, “I can do this!”, ” I am worthy.” “I crave acceptance not food.”, “I am somebody.” I wish I could learn to listen to her more. hope

When you take Hope by the hand and embrace all that she has to offer, the possibilities seem endless. Live in the moments that make your life better.
Today I took Hope to a WWs meeting. It’s time for her to make another appearance in my life. I lost my way. I tabled the belief I had in myself because my life got hard. I have taken care of my Dad for nearly eight years. He lives with dementia. Over the Christmas holidays my Dad was placed into a nursing home. For the first time in a very long time, I can relax a tad. Enjoy my moments, have some Hope that tomorrow will be better. I learned a lot about myself in those eight years. I am stronger than I thought I would ever have to be. I can be tough. I am a loving person. I learned how to hug. I lied to myself for years that I was unhuggable. Hugging someone means being so close to a person that you share the good vibe, exchange chakra. There is a warm glow sensed between the hugger and the huggy. A good hug equals total acceptance from me. The person who I am hugging has earned my respect, my trust. I also learned that sometimes when you hug someone you give them a little of your Hope. In the giving of a small part of yourself you make someone else’s battle seem worth the fight.

Just a Number?

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As people go I am not a big fan of being thought of as a number. Counted, sorted, relegated to a pile. I am not Borg. Seven of nine or any other combination there of. Having said that I can’t help but wonder about all the ways that we as people put numbers on things to give importance to events, people, places. Is first place all that there is? The end all, be all? There is something to be said for the one who sticks in there and crosses the finish line last. Perseverance, pride in accomplishing a task that one has started but was afraid to undertake. I would much rather have the last slice of cake than the first but that is just how I roll. Last piece for me means there is no way I can keep eating something that I shouldn’t have tasted in the first place. = )

Trying to be that number we set for ourselves can be a scary, daunting task. I have been a WW for seven years. I have been close to my “number” only once. I try not to let the scale define who I am or who I think I should be. The scale only really measures the pull of gravity on your body. We all joke that Gravity is not our friend. She causes wrinkles and sagging. We say Karma is a bitch, go figure.

Inspiration

I hate judgment days. Weigh in days. Tipping the scales or whatever other dreaded name this event has. It is a necessary evil. It can help a person to be brave enough to continue but it can also dash your greatest hopes and make you face truths you just don’t want to see. I am the one responsible for my own success not that scale. I put in the work, or some days not. I am the one.

I am more than a number.

I am trying to make peace with a bad coping mechanism that I foolishly taught myself. Feed a hungry child? Yes, but NEVER teach someone to soothe bad feelings with a cookie. It is a BAD idea. A hug, a real hug and some encouraging words take a person a lot farther than a chocolate cake ever carried anyone. My greatest hope? Some day I will wake up and live in my moment. Enjoy every wonderful and horrible thing that comes my way without THINKING about eating a bag of chips “to take my mind off” the unpleasantness of my moment.

The Girl at the Bottom of the Bed

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Have you ever woken from a nightmare not certain that you are alone? It happens to me all the time. I dream I am running away or trying to get away from some unseen bad ass behind me. The terror I feel takes my breath away. I cast a look over my shoulder, my breath catches in my throat. I am compelled to yell out. Suddenly I am aware that I am sitting up in bed, in the middle of the night, surrounded by my fear, my heart beating fiercely in my chest. I reach for the bottled water I keep at my bedside. Out of the corner of my eye I see her as I uncap the bottle to get a drink.
I have never been able to catch a glimpse of her straight on. Pigtailed, wearing a striped jersey, she is the girl at the bottom of my bed. The ghost of Trisha Past. She wants to be reassured that things will turn out OK. I have nothing to offer her. Life is not a sure thing. The answers she seeks only come with more questions. That is just the truth of it.
How do I tell her that she will have to grow up before she is ready? How do I prepare her for the emotional baggage she will never be able to walk away from? I have tried to make her go away but she always comes back pleading, “Please help me, save me !?!” I can’t help myself. What makes her think I can help her?
I rush off to the bathroom whispering to myself. She is just my imagination screwing with me. It feels real. I am uncomfortable making my way to the bathroom. I feel panic trying to force itself on me. I stop, look around and make myself take a deep breath. I search for a distraction to divert my mounting thoughts. I flip on the light. I pick up my latest book trying to read without my glasses. I am to afraid to pee. I need to calm down before I start to cry. Too late as the tears stain my cheeks. Down the book goes. I cry as quietly as I can so as not to disturb my husband sleeping just a few feet away.

The life I have, the job I work and the things I surround myself with don’t fit me. I have become something smaller than what I set out to be. I can remember being timid as a child. I was nervous to the point of illness the first day of school every year until I entered eighth grade. High school brought other problems and I soon came to realize that the first day of school was by far the least of my worries. I don’t know how to acquire the things that I so desperately am sure will make me content. I only know that I am as empty as that mayonnaise jar that sits in a back corner waiting for the recycle man. Did I ever have a purpose? The meaning of life is to fill the life you have been given. Mine is empty.
All of my days start out exactly the same. I awaken to the blare of the hated alarm clock. Instant dread sets in. I am not happy to greet the new day. I am pissed off. Am I stuck in a time loop? Destine to repeat the same day again and again until I have paid for crimes past? I have so many other questions that seem to have no answers.
Sometimes you can’t quite put your finger on it. There is just something wrong. It is 5 in the morning and here I am in front of the bathroom mirror contemplating checking out of my life for the day. I am weary beyond belief. My eyes are puffy and red, my body aches; I feel like I’ve survived the roller derby. I hate what I have become.
I am not certain when the awakening began. I just know that one morning I woke up feeling different. How did I get here? What indecisions brought me to this point in my life? The last thing I remember was sitting in my fifth grade language class daydreaming about being a grownup. I am not sure how I got to this place but I am here. When did I give up? What was it that made the pile spill over into the well of “I don’t want to try anymore.” I wish I knew.
Why is there no happy ending? Why do we as people try so hard to acquire stuff in a short span of nothing more than a bunch of years? Is it really done in the quest for the happy ending or is it a personality defect? An inner voice driving you to prove you are as worthy as the next fellow in line?
I feel my youth is transforming into middle-age where everything seems old hat and tired. The face I catch staring back at me just couldn’t belong to me. When did my youth leave? Is everyone just as disillusioned as I am? I have spent a lifetime in pursuit of the next best “whatever” and I still haven’t gotten there. I can’t help but wonder if I am emotionally strong enough to leave my life behind. Do I have what it takes to walk away from the unhappiness I have lived with for so long? Can I finally be at peace? If I have spent so much of my energies on a battle I can’t win what is there to say about the war? I want to feel alive again. I want to be able to smile and mean it. Not just have it sit as a fixture to be applied whenever the cue card prompts me. How many people really have the guts to leap from their ledge of comfort out into the blue?

My life at least to me is about as ordinary as the next gal in line, which just sucks. I wanted to be the one. You know what I am talking about. The one that breaks free, the one who makes themselves a legend in their own time, the one. Truth is I am a discarded lotto ticket; all of my glamour and potential has been rubbed off. I find myself not caring about what is next. I feel cheated; left holding the burning end of the stick. I don’t like feeling this way. I have held secret resentment most of my life. Somewhere in my childhood someone made me feel like I was worth less. Less important than those around me, less pretty, less wanted, less everything. I decided one morning that there just wasn’t enough in my life. Enough love, enough respect, enough peace. If truth is to be told I felt like I had put up with enough. Enough bullshit, enough loneliness, enough anger, so I walked away.

I have never had a firm idea about what it IS that I want to do with my life. I can do many things rather well. The real problem; I can’t do any ONE thing well enough to make a sound living off of it. I have wasted most of my life trying to figure out the next move. I envy single-minded people. Pick the thing that you are good at and make it your life’s work.

Someday I will break free from the things that I allow to keep me prisoner. Someday, just not this day.