I don't want to be me.
I need a vacation. Some time away. I need a break from all I should do and be and want. I need time away from the noise and mess and rush. I want to turn off my brain. Turn off my heart. Step away from my guilt and conscience and memory.
I want to escape responsibility…reality…redundancy.
I want to stop the voices in my head.
I want to stop trying to please the voices outside my head. The ones that say try harder, work more and be better. I want to stop trying. I want to stop wasting effort.
I want to experience peace….calm…nothingness.
I want to hear the ocean. I want to feel the breeze. I want the sun to warm my face.
I want my heart to beat slowly. I want my mind to feel calm. I want my body to feel rested. I want to be glad. I want to be real.
I want to me.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Dream On
Last night I dreamt about an old boyfriend. John Beard. He was the first boy who ever held my hand. He made fun of me once for picking my nose. It was fifth grade. I haven't seen him in over twenty years.
Yet, in my dream, he was a man. I was me. Not a younger or better looking version of me, but the same strung out, mini-van driving mother of two young boys who didn't shower this morning person that I am. And, he was okay with that. He was still interested in holding my hand. He had every intention of being with me, despite the fact that I had food stuck in my hair.
In my dream, I kept wanting to steal away for a few minutes to shave my legs. I felt desperate to ensure that, even though I had stretch marks and wrinkles and mom underwear, my legs be soft and hair-free.
That is, of course, when the dream morphed into a strange mountain climbing/mall shopping trip scenario that definitely did not involve my fifth grade, now manly, boyfriend.
In the waking hours since that dream, my mind continues to find his face. To relive the moment when I asked him how he kept his car so clean and the realization that this neat-nick, handsome man was actually in love with me despite how far I have fallen from youthful grace.
What do you make of that, psychiatrist sam? Does it mean that I need more spice in my marriage? Or, perhaps just better hygiene? Does it mean that I long for a distant past? As long ago as my upper elementary years?
I probably won't share this with my husband. I mean, what would I say? "Hey honey, you won't believe this crazy dream I had last night." Doesn't seem like the kind of thing I he would even be interested in hearing. Oh, right. Maybe that's the problem.
Yet, in my dream, he was a man. I was me. Not a younger or better looking version of me, but the same strung out, mini-van driving mother of two young boys who didn't shower this morning person that I am. And, he was okay with that. He was still interested in holding my hand. He had every intention of being with me, despite the fact that I had food stuck in my hair.
In my dream, I kept wanting to steal away for a few minutes to shave my legs. I felt desperate to ensure that, even though I had stretch marks and wrinkles and mom underwear, my legs be soft and hair-free.
That is, of course, when the dream morphed into a strange mountain climbing/mall shopping trip scenario that definitely did not involve my fifth grade, now manly, boyfriend.
In the waking hours since that dream, my mind continues to find his face. To relive the moment when I asked him how he kept his car so clean and the realization that this neat-nick, handsome man was actually in love with me despite how far I have fallen from youthful grace.
What do you make of that, psychiatrist sam? Does it mean that I need more spice in my marriage? Or, perhaps just better hygiene? Does it mean that I long for a distant past? As long ago as my upper elementary years?
I probably won't share this with my husband. I mean, what would I say? "Hey honey, you won't believe this crazy dream I had last night." Doesn't seem like the kind of thing I he would even be interested in hearing. Oh, right. Maybe that's the problem.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Kitchen Sink Conversation
“You’re right, you know.”
Startled, she glanced up at him. The dish slipped from her hand and clunked heavily back into the soapy water.
“You were right about the old man. He had been in prison. Thirty years.”
“I knew it,” she said. “He just had that look about him. Nothing wrong or sleazy, but. Did you say thirty years? Shit. That is a long time.”
He reached over her for the dishrag. “Yeah, well. Thirty years for murder. Or, manslaughter. Or something.” He grabbed the dripping plate as she handed it over. “It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to ask details about.”
“Oh, my God.” She stopped her hands and stared at her husband. “He killed someone? And now he lives next door?” Her gazed wandered across the kitchen. “I don’t know. I don’t think I like that. Who told you?”
“Well, like it or not, he’s our neighbor." He flipped the plate and started drying the other side. "I heard it from Steve. He has a connection at the D.O.C.”
“I don’t know. I need to meet this guy. I need to look him in the eye. Manslaughter is one thing, but murder?” She reached down and unplugged the drain. “I’ll get a feeling from him once I talk to him.”
“Don’t talk long.” He smirked. “You never know when those old murderous tendencies will strike again. Young woman like you. Might be too much for the old geezer.”
“Stop.” She smiled lightly back at him. He laughed as he turned to leave the room. “Jerk,” she added just before he was out of earshot. He laughed again.
Startled, she glanced up at him. The dish slipped from her hand and clunked heavily back into the soapy water.
“You were right about the old man. He had been in prison. Thirty years.”
“I knew it,” she said. “He just had that look about him. Nothing wrong or sleazy, but. Did you say thirty years? Shit. That is a long time.”
He reached over her for the dishrag. “Yeah, well. Thirty years for murder. Or, manslaughter. Or something.” He grabbed the dripping plate as she handed it over. “It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to ask details about.”
“Oh, my God.” She stopped her hands and stared at her husband. “He killed someone? And now he lives next door?” Her gazed wandered across the kitchen. “I don’t know. I don’t think I like that. Who told you?”
“Well, like it or not, he’s our neighbor." He flipped the plate and started drying the other side. "I heard it from Steve. He has a connection at the D.O.C.”
“I don’t know. I need to meet this guy. I need to look him in the eye. Manslaughter is one thing, but murder?” She reached down and unplugged the drain. “I’ll get a feeling from him once I talk to him.”
“Don’t talk long.” He smirked. “You never know when those old murderous tendencies will strike again. Young woman like you. Might be too much for the old geezer.”
“Stop.” She smiled lightly back at him. He laughed as he turned to leave the room. “Jerk,” she added just before he was out of earshot. He laughed again.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
My Brown Eyed Girl
She is tall, super thin, but beautiful. Her skin is the color of creamy mocha coffee. She wears her black hair short and glossy. Her glasses are modern and big for her fine features. The left lens is cracked from a fight. She refuses to get it replaced. She has on skinny jeans and a tight t-shirt. She walks slowly in her high top tennis shoes. She is not in a hurry to go anywhere.
But when she speaks, she is thoughtful, witty and sharp. She listens to everything I say, taking it in and turning it over in her mind. She responds confidently to my questions. She does not hide any piece of herself.
She believes in the rapture.
She is in a gang. They are her family.
She could do anything she wants with her life. She could go to college. She would excel in law school. She would be a wonderful, wise mother.
When she walks into the room, I pray for her. Open your eyes, I say. When she leaves, I pray again. Don’t go, I say.
But when she speaks, she is thoughtful, witty and sharp. She listens to everything I say, taking it in and turning it over in her mind. She responds confidently to my questions. She does not hide any piece of herself.
She believes in the rapture.
She is in a gang. They are her family.
She could do anything she wants with her life. She could go to college. She would excel in law school. She would be a wonderful, wise mother.
When she walks into the room, I pray for her. Open your eyes, I say. When she leaves, I pray again. Don’t go, I say.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Certifiable
Depression. It’s what my doctor calls it. Weakness. Lies. Laziness. Others have called it these things. I have been depressed since I can remember. Each day I am sad, impulsive, tired and weak. I am trapped in a body with limitations. My better judgment arrested. My heart vulnerable.
My mind is convinced that these limitations are of my own doing. I can overcome them if I try hard enough, it says. Do more, act happier; be more dedicated, it commands. I try and try.
My body laughs at my mind for thinking such foolishness. There is nothing I can do to overcome the depression. It weighs me down like a two ton anchor. It lassos my brain and chokes it. I cannot reason the depression away. I cannot will it to end.
I see doctors. More doctors than I care to admit. I pray that the next one will know what to do. They are kind, honest people, who cannot help me. I hope for a magic drug that will restore me to a proper and functioning adult. I hope and hope.
No one believes me. Not my husband. Certainly not my bosses. Not my friends. Sometimes not even myself. No one knows how desperate I am to be believed. To be cared for instead of criticized.
I have children. Beautiful, lively, innocent children. I want to be more for them. I want to offer them all I had as a child. But, at times I am trapped, too burdened, even for them. My body is gelatin. My energy drained. So, I watch them play. I hire help. It is not enough.
I am left to wonder: will they know this illness, too? I pray not. The thought haunts me. Do these genes course through their veins? I pray and pray.
My mind is convinced that these limitations are of my own doing. I can overcome them if I try hard enough, it says. Do more, act happier; be more dedicated, it commands. I try and try.
My body laughs at my mind for thinking such foolishness. There is nothing I can do to overcome the depression. It weighs me down like a two ton anchor. It lassos my brain and chokes it. I cannot reason the depression away. I cannot will it to end.
I see doctors. More doctors than I care to admit. I pray that the next one will know what to do. They are kind, honest people, who cannot help me. I hope for a magic drug that will restore me to a proper and functioning adult. I hope and hope.
No one believes me. Not my husband. Certainly not my bosses. Not my friends. Sometimes not even myself. No one knows how desperate I am to be believed. To be cared for instead of criticized.
I have children. Beautiful, lively, innocent children. I want to be more for them. I want to offer them all I had as a child. But, at times I am trapped, too burdened, even for them. My body is gelatin. My energy drained. So, I watch them play. I hire help. It is not enough.
I am left to wonder: will they know this illness, too? I pray not. The thought haunts me. Do these genes course through their veins? I pray and pray.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
power of positive thinking
I am strong. I am confident. I am talented. I am popular. I am content. I am beautiful. I am successful. I am alluring. I am bold. I am wealthy. I am satisfied. I am a magnet for good things. I am lucky. I am jovial. I am creative. I am rich. I am blessed. I am admired. I am resourceful. I am trendy. I am stunning. I am fortunate. I am tough. I am positive. I am at ease. I am triumphant. I am free. I am interesting. I am outgoing. I am adventurous. I am chic. I am capable. I am powerful. I am witty. I am well-traveled. I am intelligent. I am crafty. I am smooth. I am worldly. I am mysterious. I am conscientious. I am brave. I am accomplished. I am loved. I am loving. I am generous. I am faithful. I am kind. I am sweet. I am saucy. I am exotic. I am…
Saturday, August 28, 2010
The Higher You Climb
Yesterday, I would have told you I was blessed. Today, it occurs to me that I am cursed.
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