Fixed it

Falling in love...

It's different for everyone.  The first time I was ever really in love with someone, he was six foot tall, had dark hair, beautiful beagle brown eyes, high cheekbones and a runner's physique.  He was 19 and very cute.  He had recently moved to the area to live with his sister and her husband.  The first time I met him, I was working with her at a convenience store.  He had walked to the store to walk her home.  When I saw him, I fell almost instantly.  He was sweet and kind of shy.  I got in trouble for not doing my work because I stood in the far corner of the store, talking to him.  I thought he was precious, and he was definitely good looking.

That was August.  By October, he had broken my heart the first of what would be several times.  I found out that the reason he had moved in with his sister was because he wanted to be closer to someone else.  That someone I would never be able to compete with, because that someone was a guy.  Yep, my first real love was gay.  Over time, he used me as alternating cover with the straight world and fag hag in the gay world.  He knew how I felt about him.  It just didn't really matter to him, I suppose.

There were times I actually thought that I could change him.  I know that's what his family hoped.  I did learn, that wouldn't happen.  I slowly got over being in love and learned to love him as my friend.  It created a huge scar that breaks open, even now, erupting into a round of blues that use to last days.  Every time I have thought I was in love since then has dredged up how badly I fucked up that first time around.

The blues that those memories create, they don't last long anymore.  They still show up, especially in late summer, early fall.  Now, they may last a few hours, if that.  There is always a kind, understanding friend who will try to make that time shorter.  I would be lost without those friends.  Some of my friends know the whole story, some don't.  The ones that don't, just know that something has me hurting.  I thank God that there are friends to remind me that it is the past, and not my present, where those feelings belong.

I've been hurt more times than I care to remember.  There have been several, but the gay guy; the-couldn't-make-up-his mind-guy; a parole jumper and a short guy with a Napoleon complex worse than Napoleon's, they all truly broke my heart.  There was a boy in high school too, with black hair and piercing blue eyes.  I don't usually count him, but if I were to be honest with myself, that case of puppy love has probably played a part in my blues that occur.

I gave up.  It's true.  I've spent a long time hiding from feeling anything like love.  I shoved any and all romantic notions to the bottom left corner of my heart, and locked them there.  I was reminded recently, though, my lack of success in love is just because the right guy hasn't shown up yet.  When he does show up, my heart and my world will change, for the better.  So, I found my hope again.  Is he really out there?  I sincerely pray he is.  Am I going to find him?  Again, that is what I hope.  Will I know him when he makes his appearance?  I don't know.  I've hidden away for so long, recognizing him may be difficult.  I think it will click, if he's patient.  For the first time in years, I'm ready to give my heart away.  I'm ready to take the risk that I could once again be forced to feel that deep pain that seems like will never go away.

That pain goes away, eventually.  For some, it just takes a little longer.  For me, it has felt like forever that I have been in hibernation.  Will I be hurt again?  Possibly.  Does it really matter, being hurt?  Is the
benefit worth the risk?  I have decided the benefits definitely outweigh the possibility of pain.  It's time I learn to keep my heart open and not be afraid of what could occur.  Instead, I will keep to the positive side and wait for what I want: the guy who gets me, thinks I am beautiful (because I am), and who willingly, happily accepts my devotion and love.  In return, I will go through Hell for him, if I must.  I will spend whatever time I have proving that he is the only one.  I will let him know, my love is forever and not contingent upon looks or money but heart and soul.

My heart is ready.  Now, I am just waiting for it's order to be filled.            

Being Red

I am an unapologetic redhead, with the fiery temper and attitude to go along with it.  I was a redhead when I arrived on the scene more years ago than I care to remember.  I have freckles in places seen and unseen.  My freckles think a little sunshine is license to absolutely pollute my pale skin with spots.  Somedays, I start thinkin' I'm a dalmatian!

My red hair and freckles were always a target for bullies when I was in school.  Didn't have much of a choice with either of them so I learned to live with it. I went home crying on numerous days but I think the combination was designed to make me the independent bitch that I am today.  I wear the title Bitch like a badge of honor.  I had to work to get to the point where I didn't care what other people think of me.  Fuck you if you don't like me, my auburn locks or my 'angel kisses'.  Who says I like you anyway?

'Angel kisses'.  That's what a family friend use to call my freckles.  They said that the angels in Heaven must have been very sad when I left to be born, because they kissed me so much before I left.  Each place they kissed became a freckle.  When I was a little girl, being told that always made me feel better when I was being picked on about my 'spots'.

There are hazards to being a true ginger.  I am a perfect candidate for skin cancer.  Back when I was a kid, we didn't worry about sunblock or skin cancer.  I had sun poison more times than I can remember.  My mom kept Noxzema readily available during the summer.  That was what we used to cool the sting of a severe sunburn.  God knows, I still remember what sunburn feels like, even though I haven't been sunburnt in years.  Once we found out about using aloe to help take the bite out of the burn, that is what we used.

Trust me when I tell you, I learned to avoid direct sunlight.  With my sleep issues and the need to stay in the shade, I have gotten called 'vampire' on numerous occasions.  Didn't matter that I actually wore a cross pendant for years, I was convincing (ornery) enough to actually have a few gullible kids believe that I really was a vampire.  I always thought that was funny.  I have been fond of the vampire myth for years, because I felt kindred to them.

Being a redhead also means that as you go gray, your flaming curls (in my case) start to look mousy.  When that began to happen, I introduced myself to Miss Clairol.  She makes sure that my hair stays a wonderful Lucille Ball red.  I love it.  Hated my hair as a kid, love it as an adult.  Funny thing is, there are so many women dyeing their hair red these days.  They don't have the attitude that goes along with being a true red.  They will never get that attitude.  You have to be born a ginger and tortured as a ginger to get that particular attitude.

I am still ghost white pale (well, if you don't count the freckles, of course).  My hair is still bright red, with a little help these days.  I stay out of the sun except to pass from one shaded spot to another.  In the past, these little things would have pissed me off.  They don't anymore.  I revel in the fact other women want something that I was born with, amazing, right?  Guess that makes me special...

...but then, I already knew that.



 

Recollection - My Baby Sister

I was born...

Baa haa!!  Trust me, I don't remember that far back.  Could you imagine the trauma of remembering that kind of an experience?  

         There was this bright light, and some masked creature with cold hands.....

Don't think so!! 

I have many childhood memories.  I faintly recall when my parents brought home the last of their five children from the hospital.  It was my baby sister.  She was my living doll baby for about an hour.  Then, until she got married at age 19, she was a huge pain in my butt.  Though I told her not to, she played with my toys.  She followed me around, till she decided I was boring.  She always ratted me out for the dumbest things and I always got in trouble.  When we got older, before I could, she would wear my new clothes.  I could go on, but I won't.

We shared a bedroom till I was 18.  My sister made June Cleaver and Felix Unger look like slobs.  Guess who was an Oscar Madison extraordinaire!!!  That's right...ME!!!  Once, she even used duct tape to divide our room in half.  No joke!  I had piles of clothes, folded and stacked everywhere but in the dresser.  I had huge mountain of dirty clothes, because I hated to do laundry.  I think I slept under part of it because it overflowed onto my bed.  

One night, shortly before we finally parted ways as roomies, she decided to rearrange the bedroom.  Okay, now this wouldn't have been a problem except she did it while I was work.  I had no idea.  I worked the closing shift at a local convenience store.  By the time I would get home, it was often past midnight.  I would go in the door, not turn on any lights, sit my purse on the table, hang up the keys and go to bed.  Here's where there was a problem.  When I went to flop exhausted onto my bed, I hit the floor.  Yep!!  In the background, I heard giggles from not just one person, but three people, because my sister had also chosen that night to have her two best friends stay over.  While I was spitting, sputtering and beginning to screech, my sister and her friends were laughing their asses off.   I got off the floor and turned on the overhead light.  My bed had moved to the other side of the room.  Meanwhile, I'm loudly saying some not so nice things, and drew the attention of my mother.  She was not happy with me.   Hey, you go to bed and your bed ain't there...how the hell was I supposed to react?  I had bounced my head off what turned out to be my dresser, and my ass hurt from landing on a hardwood floor.  

Long story shortened, my sister had drawn a map, and left it on the kitchen table.  Problem is, I didn't see it because I didn't turn on the lights.  Yes, she was the bane of my existence, until she got married.  Then I realized how much I missed the fricking knucklehead.  I helped my sister arrange and pay for her wedding, including her dress.  Mom and Dad were separated at the time (another story).  Neither wanted her to marry, and neither had extra funds to help.  So I did.  It was nothing fancy.  Between myself, my future brother in law and my sister, it turned out be a nice little fete.  

That was 1989.  She lost babies to miscarriages...multiple babies.  She gave birth to one of the most wonderful  young men I have ever had the pleasure to know.  She has survived the destructive force of an unfaithful spouse, and she's still married to him (that 'for better, for worse' line....he had the 'better', then he got the 'worse'...lol).  My sister actually threatened him with a baseball bat.  They worked things out, and they are better than ever. even with my brother in law's health issues.   As a couple, they work well together. 

My pain in the tookus sister has become one of my best friends.  We talk, laugh, snarl and it doesn't cause a big fight.  I suppose there is something to be said about maturity, though I still kinda think it's overrated.  My little sister is way more grown up than I am.  It has been like that since she got married.  Everyone assumes she is the older sister.  I'm not arguing with them.  


That little living doll in pink, I'm very glad that my folks decided to bring her home.  My life would have been, and would still be, very empty without her.  I admire her strength, her tenacity, her determination, her survival through all of the hard times that she has had.  My baby sister is worthy of every bit of admiration I can give her.  I think she's great, just don't tell her. 

Words

Words can build you up, and they can tear you down.  Words have the power to enlighten, but also to destroy.  Words can make you.  Words can break you.  The old adage "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.", yeah!  Whoever came up with that one was obviously not a short, overweight redhead with a really unusual last name.

When I was a child, I'm not sure what got me bullied quicker: my red hair; the overwhelming quantity of freckles; my stature; my cute chubbiness or my last name.  That was just at school, not even talking about home.  I have four siblings who could be (and occasionally still can be), very sharp tongued.  Being the overly sensitive, heart on the sleeve type that I can be (especially growing up), I spent a great deal of time in tears.

I know now that most people use cruel words because they are the ones who are afraid.  As kid, I didn't know that.  I thought people hated me because I was different.  It had a big effect upon the person I have matured into, but not all of the effects were bad, and not all were good.  I had to develop a very thick skin, and that took years for that to finally happen.  By my own admission, therapy helped.

Some people would refer to it as getting a backbone, my sister's favorite phrase.  Some people would say I learned to pull myself up by the bootstraps, my parent's favorite saying.  I say I learned to stand up for myself.  I stopped being a whipping girl for everyone who had a fit to pitch.  I stopped tolerating being used by family and friends.  I decided that enough was enough.  I became a fully fledged bitch.

I know that there are times that I can be very hostile when I feel cornered.  Most folks never have to see that side of me.  Being that way can tire me out, clear down to my soul.  I prefer to not get that angry.  I've been known to do it when necessary.  I've also been known to throw a punch or two.  That really catches people off guard.  I've gotten into trouble several times for putting a fist in somebody's face.  If you ever get the chance, ask my lifelong best friend's husband about summer between fifth and sixth grade.  He found out that a carefully placed foot across the throat and one firmly placed foot on the chest are not very comfortable.   Most only see my sweet side, which is the dominant side, for sure, but I know how to stand up for myself.

As I have gotten older, not only have I learned to stand up for myself, I have also learned that words do more damage than my fist ever could.  I've become very cutting when needed.  It is a talent that comes in very handy with domineering people.  A few specifically chosen words, and I am no longer a target.  It does tend to upset my mother, but it is a talent I have watched her demonstrate many times in my life.  I was the target on numerous occasions, though not in recent years.

Being a customer service person has helped to hone that skill.  Harsh as it may be, there can be times when a talent for politely rude words is needed.  I understand that everyone deserves to be treated with respect, but you have to give respect to get respect.  If you want my help, if you need my help, then show me respect for the knowledge that I have, respect that I deserve.  If someone calls a customer service phone number, then be prepared to be courteous and polite, or expect the representative to be a bit hostile.  It is truly that simple.

I can still get hurt by words.  It happens, because some people know exactly what words to say to make it hurt.  Not everything goes in one ear and out the other.  Some of it sticks.  I am still a heart on the sleeve type.  I just hide it better these days.

Now, when I hurt, I write.  I vent it to the world.  I figure if I can show somebody else that it can be gotten passed, gotten over or gotten around, then I have done a great thing.  I didn't set out to show anyone my hurts or scars.  I started this blog wanting to share those things that I love: friends; family; pets; Ryback...lol!  This blog has become a record of my journey to the next stage in my life, whatever that may be.  I've opened my heart and my mind without fear.  I want others to know that remembering where you have been and looking forward to where you are going are important, but that where you are right now is the greatest thing you will ever have.  Yesterday is gone.  Tomorrow is not promised.  There is only today...specifically, there is only right now.

Words are a wonder.  Words can take you away, or plant you firmly in the now.  There is no greater power than the words we choose to use at any given moment.  I want mine to count.  Do you?
 

My Pop

My pop was a great guy...my hero.

Thursday of this week would be Daddy's birthday if he were still here.  He would have been 73.  He left me way too soon.

I've been feeling really dark because of this anniversary and a few other things that have happened recently.  In the past, I would've curled up next to Daddy and bawled my eyes out into his shoulder.  I cry alone nowadays.  I don't have a man in my life that I can trust enough to do that with, not like Pop.

I know I should be happy.  He's in a place where he isn't sick anymore, where he's younger, perfectly healthy, with sight in both eyes.  Pop was really sick for the last 2 - 3 years of his life.  He was a shadow of himself.  Even though he was half of the man physically that he was all my life, he was still Daddy.  He was still my rock, my comfort, my protector...the one person I knew I could confidently turn to when I was down and feel comforted just by being hugged.  His deep voice was weak from being sick, but I could still hear it.  Now I can't.  It was taken away.

My mom tries her best to understand me and to offer comfort when I feel like this, but this week is hard for her too.  They had been together for almost 54 years, married nearly 50 years when Daddy left us.  Mom really misses him also but for different reasons, of course.  Sometimes she will look at his picture and say "Damn you for leaving me, Jim!" and my heart breaks, because I am usually thinking how angry I am that he's gone...still very angry.

I know everybody goes through this kind of loss, though it may not be this soon, or it may be much sooner.  Everyday, something will remind me of what I've lost because of the death of my father.  Sometimes the memories are so strong, they nearly knock me over.  Normally I deal with it very well, but occasionally it gets to be too much.  I might seem strong but dealing with this grief still makes me feel weak.  

I am trying to remember he would not want me to go on like this...that I should keep moving forward, enjoying life.  For the most part, I do, but every now and then, the wind in my sails dies down and I'm sitting in the open water wondering "Where the fuck do I go from here?".  It has been one of those days...one of those weeks.

Where do I go from here, Daddy?

Fragile

The last thing I ever want is to say goodbye.  Loss is something few of us deal with very well.  Some say it's a part of life, and they move on.  Most, like me, carry it with them always.  It is a wound that never quite heals.  It is the scar that always requires tending.

I have faced loss more times than I care to recall.  Each loss enlarges the empty gap in my heart, puts a jagged tear in my soul.  I grieve over my losses and try to learn from them.  Each loss expands the barrier I place between me and anyone who walks into my life.  I expect them to leave, not stay.  I prepare, even when there is no sign they are going to go away.  I know everyone leaves me, not always quickly, but they always leave.  

Trusting and opening my fragile heart to anyone new becomes more difficult after each departure.  It reminds me that I will never be freed completely of my negative nature.  I will always expect the worst to occur. The funny thing is, I still open my heart.  I still have hope.  I have so much love and tenderness to give.  I want to be able to share that with whatever special person crosses the threshold into my life.  

As people walk away from me and they leave for parts unknown, they may say it can't be helped.  They tell me it's what must happen.  I watch as they go but long for them to stay.  Friends who have given me no choice but to say goodbye, my eyes bright with tears.  Loved ones who have departed from this world, and forced my tears to fall.  Beloved pets who require I choose to let them go, shattering my pieced together soul. 

I try to stay strong, but each time, I become a little weaker, a little less me.  I build the walls a little thicker.  I retool the armor to hide chinks that have developed over the years of my life.  My warrior mentality tries to stand and fight for what I want to keep, but to no avail.  The tears fall, and sadness pervades, oozing into every aspect of my existence.  Fear replaces courage.  Anger replaces joy.  Anxiety replaces peace.  Comfort is lost in distress.  Darkness hides the light.  Near crushing pain squeezes my heart.  Sleep and rest become a distant memory.   Time passes when, for a moment, things had finally been right in my world.  Then time stops, and I am once again stagnant, caught in a swamp of hurt.

Maybe, someday, I will finally be able to step away from others, before they step away from me.  That will be the point when I no longer exist, only a reasonable facsimile, without the heart that has made who I am.  Until that day comes, I will continue to balance above the bottomless precipice, waiting, till I'm no longer fragile...just gone.

Thinking about Elvis

August 16th, 1977 marked the end of an American icon, an ignominious end for a man who set the world on fire with his devilish good looks and his hips that had a swing to make a clock pendulum jealous.  Of course, I'm talking about the greatest person to happen to American music, Elvis Presley.

It is sad to think back on my childhood and remember hearing the awful news.  In a world where there was not yet 24 hour news channels, the Internet, Twitter, Facebook (the places we can freely find out everything up to the second), the news spread like lightning in a summer sky.  In a flash, a large part of my childhood went away.  As word spread of where and how he died, the memory of this amazing man became fodder for hate mongers and worshippers alike.

I won't talk about where or how, because even after 36 years, that isn't the important part.  It was only the second time I had seen my mother cry.  The first time was the death of my precious grandfather, 3 years before.  When Elvis died, I saw tears again from a woman who had been always a pillar of strength, and often lacking in strong emotional responses (except maybe anger).  My mom was one of a generation who lost a huge chunk of their collective childhood when Elvis died.

I lost something that day too.  My first musical memories are of listening to Elvis and southern gospel.  My parents listened to some other music but mostly Elvis (Mom) and southern gospel (Daddy).  The death of Elvis impacted me almost as much as the death of my beloved grandfather, who was my first "boyfriend", lol.  You know how a girl and her grandpap can be one of mutual admiration, and that's how it was for me.
Elvis' death was as strong a shock to my life at that time as my grandfather's death.  It was the first time it actually registered that those people on the television screen, on the radio and singing from the collection of vinyl were very human too, just like the rest of us.  Movie stars, music stars...they were beyond real up to that point.  They were above the failings of 'regular' people, in my eyes at that age.  Then Elvis died, and I found out how just how human the famous and beautiful can be.

Even now, though not nearly as much as the years directly following his death, people still claim to have seen Elvis.  I was never one to give any credence to the 'Elvis runs a donut shop in Wisconsin' or 'Elvis owns a karate dojo in Los Angeles'.   Those National Enquirer-type stories only served to darken the legend of the man more.  Even after he was gone, he wasn't allowed to rest in peace.  Fans couldn't let him go, and that lessened who he was to our American culture, who he was to the world.

His ex-wife took the reigns of a meager musical legacy and made it an empire, worth more now than it ever was while Elvis lived.  His image has been plastered on anything and everything including the stamps we used at the Post Office.  Even another American musical icon knew how much impact the name 'Elvis' provided.  It's the reason Michael Jackson married Lisa Marie.  Sad really, two remarkable talents lost to ill prescribed pharmaceuticals.

Who is Elvis to me?  He will always be the running musical thread of my childhood and even my adulthood.  I can listen to his music any time, regardless of my mood.  I will smile and maybe shake my hips a little, like I always have.  He was handsome, talented and sad.

No, I'm not one of those fans that has plans to trek to Graceland.  I'm not planning to visit one of the thousands of tribute shows, though we have even had some good impersonators here where I live.  I prefer to remember Elvis with his jet black hair, gyrating hips and marvelous voice.  I'll listen to Elvis music while I work on my own legacy of a college degree.  I will smile and think about the handsome man with the heart stopping good looks and be a star struck little girl again for awhile.

This little Rock-a-Hula Baby is gonna opt for a Little Less Conversation, because I'm a Hard Headed Woman, feel like a little Trouble, so Don't Be Cruel.  I miss you, Elvis!  Hope it's rockin' wherever you are!

Tales of Soloing

I went to high school in town.  Any of the kids that were bused in from the mountain or the rural area (like me), were viewed as being less than worthy by the townies.  There were two very distinct factions in junior high and high school.

The townies stuck together, and the country kids stayed together.  It made for some uncomfortable interactions at lunch or gym class.  Gym class especially if you are a natural born no talent when it comes to any kind of sport.  The only sport where people actually wanted me on their team was during volleyball.  That damn ball never missed my chest!  The 'girls' had better targeting skills than either of my hands!  Might have just been the fact that I wore a D cup in eighth grade too...LOL!!!

Anyway, it took a year or two for me to become something of a bridge between the two groups of kids.  I developed friendships with townies, and they discovered not all country kids were dumb hicks.  I enjoyed the status of being called "mom" by my classmates, or "grandma" by the underclassmen.  I knew the secrets, and I kept them.  By the time I actually made to tenth grade, even teachers had started to call me "mom"...which was kinda funny.

Something else that raised my status with my classmates and teachers was the fact that I could sing, and I was good.  My ninth grade choir director even provided free voice lessons after school.  That was really cool.  He was using his own time to help me become a decent vocalist.  He had me learn old standards, like Moon River, and I learned some classic 70's stuff (he was a child of the 70's, lol).  I even learned to really like The Beatles because of that music teacher, having learned a few of their songs during my voice lessons.  It wasn't all scales and such.

Each year, the junior high school had a spring choral concert.  I would suppose in those years, most schools did, though many schools now don't even have music programs.  I had the only solo.  I probably should have been nervous, but I wasn't.  For our small school, the auditorium was SRO.  I sang a Carpenters song, Bless the Beasts and the Children.  I sang it well, and I loved the applause.  When I was done and went behind the curtain, that's when the nerves hit.  'What and the hell did I just do?'  While my friends were congratulating me and telling they couldn't believe that was me singing, I was bawling my face off.  My choir director hugged me, told me I had done beautifully, and all I could do was cry.  It was worst best feeling I had ever had.

The best part of the night was when I finally met up with my folks and my grandmother.  It was the very first time my father ever said he was proud of me.  That shook me to my very core.  He had never said that before, not that I had given him much reason - straight A's, high honor roll, advanced placement classes, etc..  I was the only one of his children to actually pursue music with any kind of heart or seriousness.  My mother told me I did a good job. (Thanks Mom.).  My grandmother had tears in her eyes.  She sang a lot in her youth, and at that time, still had a wonderful singing voice.  Grandma gave me the biggest hug.  If I close my eyes, I can still feel it, even now 35 years later.

Through high school, I sang numerous solos in our school concerts.  I got to sing solos that upper classmates had tried out for, but didn't get.  My senior year, I got a much coveted (well, coveted by other music geeks like me) senior spotlight during our spring choral concert.  There was always several talented seniors who received that one last chance to show off their ability to sing.

Two of the spotlights were duets, one vocal, one piano.  The other two spotlights were vocalists.  I was a soprano with a spotlight.  A friend of mine, who had a gorgeous alto voice, had the other spotlight.  She sang Memory from the Broadway musical Cats.  I sang something not quite so parochial.  I sang a classical piece by Bach called My Heart Ever Faithful.  It had a complicated accompaniment, so my choir director brought in a ringer to play piano for me.  It was really awesome because the guy that played for me was locally a very popular concert pianist.

If you have any familiarity with Bach vocal pieces (not that many people do), you know that his soprano pieces reach above the rafters.  I did it, beautifully...and collapsed into tears once I was done and behind the curtain.  Many of my choir geek friends knew I could hit high notes, but not like I had when I sang that piece of music.  It was very awesome to see the looks on their faces, because they couldn't believe some hick like me could sing like that.

If I stop for a moment and think about it, I can still remember some of the words and the melody to that piece.  I remember feeling very happy in those moments after, even though I was shaking from head to toe from nervous release.  That night was the second time my dad said he was proud of me.  My mom was amazed by me.  Both of my grandmothers were there, and both had tears in their eyes.  My one grandmother actually had brought a small cassette recorder with her and she recorded my solo.  It wasn't a great recording but up until she died about seven years later, she listened to it often.  My grandfather, who was also there, just smiled and shook his head.  I guess this little redhead surprised him.  He always knew I had a big mouth, just not how big I guess...LOL!!!

I've continued to sing on occasion, but not like I did.  Normally now it is for family and friends at weddings, and my grandmother's funeral.   Mostly I sing for myself, because it lifts my soul to somewhere other than here.  Not that here is bad, because it isn't, but because there are times when here is not enough.

Singing, even for my own enjoyment, is something that makes me feel more alive, more a part of the overall universe.  No, I will never sing on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House.  No, I will never sing in the footlights of a Broadway theater.  That doesn't matter, since they were never really goals of mine.  If I wanted it now, I would need voice lessons again, because time and bad habits have changed my vocal range to 3 full octaves, not the four octaves I had in my youth.  I would have to work for it, not that working for it would be problem.  I've learned recently there is great satisfaction in reaching hard fought for goals.

I have friends that did pursue music in some form after high school.  Several are teachers.  Some even went on to pursue performance careers.  I think they are amazing for going on.  I should have, and could have.  I didn't want to leave home to go to school, and thirty years later, I'm working to get an associates degree in business admin.  Yes, I've kicked myself numerous times.  I might have made it to Broadway or The Met if I had pursued music.

Well, I can have regrets, and I do.  I'm not going to give in to regret.  If the chance presents itself, I might try voice lessons, maybe become a locally known talent again.  Who knows?  I can do anything.  I've already proven that.

Strange Names and 4AM Feedings

I grew up on a small farm.  From 1974 till I ventured out on my own, my life was filled not only with typical animals like pigs, cows, goats (had the 4H Club's reserve grand champion doe), horses, chickens, ducks, rabbits, cats and dogs.  There were some atypical critters too, like an intact skunk named PePe LePew.  (Not very original, I know, but God bless the Looney Tunes) or a whitetail deer named Buckshot, who thought he was a goat.

As a matter of fact, every animal that ever came to live at 7-S Dairy Goat Farm was given a name that suited the specific type of animal, like a pet pig named Pork Chops or a steer named Kobe (yes, as in Kobe beef), or the animal's particular personality, like a grumpy little calico cat named Sweet Pea, her nosy sister Curiosity and their wall climbing brother SureFoot.  Their mother was a street tough feral tortoiseshell named Mugsy.

There was a duck named Harry.  Harry kept us well supplied for several years with duck eggs, because we found out quickly Harry should have been Harriet.  Harry was a domestic white Peking duck, but her man was a beautiful flashy mallard who left every fall but came back to her every spring for about 5 years.  He had a bit of the wanderlust in him.  We had a pet domestic turkey named CT (which was the initials of a neighbor lady with whom CT shared some personality quirks).  That turkey was a better 'watch dog' than any of the dogs we ever had on the farm.

Some of the more unusual names were held by the myriad of cats we had, starting with the very first litter of kittens found in the barn when we moved to the farm in 1974.  Their names were Spike, Tike, Ike and Mike.  Unfortunately, they all got distemper and quickly died.  That little group of kittens started a lifelong love for all of my family with cats.  Even my hard as nails eldest brother softens in the presence of a tiny ball of feline fur.  He was the reason we acquired Moey, which was short for MoTopus Brown.  MoTopus was a combination of
Mont Alto Campus, where she was found in a drainage culvert at about 5 weeks old.  Brown obviously came from her coloring, because that was what my then 3 year old nephew called her.  When Mom and Dad went to visit, and my mom saw that little kitten, my nephew lost his pet, which didn't bother my sister in law at all.

We had cats with regal names like Ebony and Alexander.  There was a gray cat named Rebel and another gray cat named JR (Johnny Reb).  We've had JoeJoe and Bandit, Muffin and Sugar (an all black cat with a very bad attitude), Penny, Tabby, Hickory 1 and 2, Sparky 1 and 2, Garfield, Chance (who is actually DL Chance as in damn lucky chance) and Belle.  My heart belonged to a gray/white/orange tri-color domestic shorthair cat named Sniffles, named after Sniffles the Mouse from the cartoons we watched as kids.  She and her littermates were born under my bed early one morning in 1981.  Some names were not very creative, like KC for Kitty Cat or Callie for a calico cat.  Callie had a son, Ug, which is short for Ugly (my sister named him, not me) and another son named Skunk (yes, he was black and white, with a stripe).

Our dogs didn't get such interesting names, to name a few: Susie; Penny; Freckles; Tramp; Kye; Sandy; Tessa and the latest canine is Diamond.  There were several other dogs, but I am more likely to remember the names of the 75 or 80 cats that were in residence on our little farm, before I would be able to remember the names of all the dogs.  I'm a cat person, and will always be a cat person, much like my mom.

My entire family has a huge heart when it comes to animals of all shapes and sizes.  My one nephew, Jordon, has even tried to rescue baby possums and baby groundhogs.  Neither do well with basic human handling and it is hard to watch a big, burly guy cry because the baby animals couldn't survive no matter how he tried.

Now, don't get me wrong, the farm animals like pigs and cattle, were raised to eat.  It was a horrible irony the first time we sat down to supper to eat pork chops from Pork Chops.  Each spring, after the goat kids had gotten big enough, my dad would take them to a local auction, where they were sold primarily to local Greek families who made them the featured presentation at Easter dinner.  For a batch of rough and tumble farm kids, we hated when Daddy had to make that trip to auction.  Sometimes we got to keep some.  We had decent sized herd of goats for a long time.

The only animal we raised that my dad even refused to eat was the deer, Buckshot.  He had been brought to us as a fawn, because my dad was one of the area's game wardens.  (We called him 'the bunny fuzz'.)  The people who brought him to us thought that his mother had abandoned him, when truth is , she was probably hiding in the shadows not far off, watching, as the humans passed by.  Anyway, Buckshot (I know, an awful name but what do you expect from a family filled with hunters) lived in an appliance size box in our kitchen for several weeks while he gained strength enough to be able to live in the barn with the goats.  That's why he eventually came to behave like our goats, but then our goats tended to act like dogs.  They followed us everywhere when we were in the pasture, playing.

When Buckshot was about a year and half old, and had already sprouted the first buds of his first set of antler, he got his head caught in a keyhole hay manger and broke his neck.  Unfortunately, it didn't kill him.  My dad waited for a agonizing day till we could have the veterinarian come to see if he could help.  He couldn't.  So my dad made the decision to put Buckshot down.  Not being one to waste good venison, and knowing we would never eat our pet, Daddy gave the meat to some family friends who needed the extra as much as we could have used it.  For several years after, anytime those friends visited with a mincemeat pie in hand, my dad would ask if it was made with beef or venison.  If it was made with venison, my dad would not eat any of it...and mincemeat was always one of his favorites.

Growing up on a farm, large or small, is an amazing experience.  It is hard work, but it is fun.  We had chores, morning and night.  During the winter, when the goats had their kids, it was the human kids who got up at 4AM to bottle feed all of the little ones.  I can remember huddling under the heat lamps with the babies, trying to keep warm in a barn during below zero temperatures.  I even dozed off there a time or two, but that was usually because I hadn't slept well, being an insomniac all of my life.  Baby goats are great cuddlers.

Would I change anything about how I grew up?  Probably, if I'm honest.  But then again, growing up like I did has made me the stubborn, determined, driven woman that I am today.  So maybe I wouldn't change anything.  Having such a variety of life surrounding me at all times has allowed me to appreciate the fragile strength of every creature here on this Earth.  It has provided such wonderful lessons in all that it is good and bad about being alive.  Yes, there have been years where that delicate balance between the beauty and horror of living has so overwhelmed that I withdrew from really living.  That was my mistake, and it isn't one that I will make anymore.

There is too much in this world to marvel at, too much to see and be amazed.  I don't want to be tied to the contract of fear that has bound me for so long.  I have taken steps to stop that, and it allows me to finally feel some semblance of peace, like those quiet naps under the heat lamps in our barn.  Life, with all of it's creativity, beauty, and wonder, is meant to be lived.  Maybe it is time I grab the bull by the horns, and hang on.
 
     

Wrestling, Ryback and the Bucket List, revisited

I am a huge fan of the wrestler known as Ryback.  I have been a fan since the first time I saw him on RAW, May 2012.  Some say I am a little 'obsessed'.  I like to think I am a devoted fan, a VERY devoted fan.  I have watched as this wrestler has been sent through the wringer, and back, by those that employ him.  Regardless of storyline, every interview has been nothing but positive feedback about his continued drive for his dream.  He is one of the reasons why I have been motivated to make some of the changes I have made for myself.

The man who is Ryback is a guy by the name of Ryan Reeves.  He comes from a little town out west of here called Las Vegas.  He still calls LV home, though he's on the road most of the year.  Even with the ongoing realization of his childhood dream, I'm sure that isn't easy.  So it makes this already loyal fan even more loyal, to know what my favorite wrestler does to keep his fans happy.  He is 31, to be 32 in November (and yes, I actually do know his birth date, the 10th).  He is currently unmarried, but bloggers seem to have given him a rep for being a bit of a ladies man.

Ryan tried out for and got a position as contestant on a program called Tough Enough, with another wrestler now popular with the fans of the WWE, The Miz (Mike Mizanin).  He didn't win but still got a developmental contract.  He went by several names during that time, including a Terminator like character called Ryback.  Ryan was renamed Skip Sheffield in the FCW, a comedic character created by none other than the American Dream, Dusty Rhodes.  Skip gave him a chance to show his not so serious side, but didn't let him be the wrestler he wanted to be. (Yep! Yep! Yep!  What it do!)  He was chosen to participate in the first season of NXT, which is a television program produced by the WWE to showcase new talent.  The winner gets a contract with the WWE.  In 2010, when he was called to the main roster, he became a part of a stable known as Nexus.  Nexus was made up of the contestants from NXT the season Ryan participated.  That group included some of the biggest superstars in wrestling today.  They wreaked a little havoc on the WWE Universe for a while, causing some issues for some very popular wrestlers.  Personally, some of the wrestlers targeted deserved everything they got, and should have gotten more.

In August 2010, Ryan was seriously injured during a tag team match in Hawaii.  He broke his ankle, but kept wrestling the match.  That created a spiral fracture that went to just below his knee.  Not a good thing to have happen in a young wrestling career.  He spent the next year and a half recovering from that injury including 3 surgeries.  Doctors told him he wouldn't wrestle again.  But Ryan was undeterred.  He was determined to get back to the main roster and become the superstar he knew he could be.  He busted his ass to rebuild and increase his strength.  He devoted himself to becoming who he knew he should be, a headliner.  In December 2011, he was back in a dark match for the WWE as Ryback, not Skip Sheffield.  In April 2012, he debuted on SmackDown.  And in May 2012, I found my 'little obsession'.

I was a fan immediately.  At the time, his primary character trait was to squash whoever was in the ring with him using absolute brute force.  His sheer size was enough to terrorize jobbers, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.  He shouted things like "Wake up!", "Done!" and "Feed me more!" but said little else.  Ryback cut a swath of destruction through the no names and the not quite superstar names of the WWE, beating everyone and everything in his path.  He easily took on two wrestlers at time, stacking them up on his shoulders for the infamous Shell Shock.  Watching him pick them up, and drop them hard is amazing, considering the strength it requires.

He tore through the WWE like no one before, except maybe Bill Goldberg.  Ryback heard those chants often....naysayers calling "Goldberg!  Goldberg!" during his bouts.  It ticked me off.  Goldberg will always be legend in wrestling, but Ryback is his own man.  He is a beast built purely for the spectacle called sports entertainment.

Not wanting to rehash the whole year, I'll give a summary.  In October, Ryback got a an unexpected shot at the title belt, and he didn't win it due to interference from the referee.  He got another chance in November but again, the script said no.  Instead, they had him Triple Powerbombed onto the announce table by the latest heel faction in the WWE. a group called The Shield.  December brought a scheduled then changed match...no again.  January, much of the same, the script writers having too much fun creating havoc for this amazing wrestler.  February...no!  March, though there was no belt opportunity, he ran straight into the path of the World's Strongest Man, Mark Henry, in a setup for Wrestlemania in April.  April saw him lose to Mark Henry at Wrestlemania 29.  May, a loss to John Cena, no title.  June a loss to John Cena, no title.  July, he defeated Chris Jericho to finally get another pay per view win.

Now we are in August, SummerSlam season.  It appears as though the rivalry with Mark Henry has been renewed for a possible SummerSlam bout.  Only now, instead of being the face of the match, Ryback will be the heel.  He went 'bad guy' on John Cena (which makes me grin still!!!).  Ryback seems to have come into his own with the change in his character.  Heel suits him, with his size and look.  He fits the bill of the bad guy.  I like that, setting the WWE on its ear with his Ryback Rules.  Ryan seems to be enjoying every moment of this new character line.  I can't blame him.  He has put up with so much bull since last October: run-ins with The Shield; losing Table Match after Table Match with Cena; belittling losses that should never have happened; harassment by the likes of Y2J (the infamous Cryback nonsense).  Yeah, be the heel, Big Guy!!

It's time that the WWE show some real appreciation of their resident beast.  He's not a part-timer, like Brock Lesnar or Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson.  Those guys are good, don't get me wrong.  They have obligations that keep them from being anything but occasional aggravations to the Universe's world.  I would much rather see Ryback be given a legitimate shot at the championship belt.  He has a whole family of fans that wait for that moment.  We call ourselves Rybackers after something Ryback himself had said of his fans.  We are fairly well versed in Ryback trivia, some more than others.  We search for and post countless pictures from all over.  We wait for each tweet from our hero, impatiently...but as quickly as he sends them, he deletes them because of a single tweet several months ago that caused a ruckus.  Such nonsense, considering the tweet was nothing compared to what others have put out there.  It does keep us watching, closely.  It only serves to make fans as devoted as I am a bit more dedicated to our wrestler.

I still hope to meet Ryan Reeves, Ryback.  It is still the number 1 item on my personal bucket list.  I had hoped to meet him (even briefly) in March, when I went to see a live taping of Smackdown but that didn't materialize.  It was pretty awesome though, just to be in the same building that he was in.  Yeah, I'm a little 'obsessed', I suppose.  I wait kind of impatiently for the opportunity to get to thank him for keeping me entertained, for showing me that most anything is possible with the right attitude and for providing hours of pleasant daydream material (LOL! Sorry, it's the truth!).  I would also like to thank him for being the catalyst for some pretty amazing friendships that I have developed.  He has made a big impact on my life, and the lives others.  I don't know that he realizes how much he has truly done for his fans.  I hope someday, I get to tell him.  Ryback will continue to be the topic of many of my Twitter conversations with my extended 'family'.   So, I'll stay a little 'obsessed'...it seems only right.  

Botox for my Soul

I recently started back to school, after graduating from high school almost 30 years ago.  My graduation doesn't seem that long ago to me, but it is.  Thinking about how long it has been still amazes me.  I don't feel 30 years older, especially not mentally.  I know I am, but I'm not, if that makes sense.

I guess if I had children, I would feel more my age.  I know I don't look my age.  I know I don't act my age normally.  I've matured.  I haven't grown up.

I have surrounded myself with amazing people.  My younger friends, in particular, keep me feeling more youthful than the calendar reflects.  They teach me about what is now 'cool', for lack of a better word.  I find out about new music, new styles, new slang...all sorts of things.  I get to share my stories, my experiences, my knowledge.  I give support and they give it back.  

When I'm 'feeling' close to my actual age, I prefer to be around my younger friends.  They have the ability to snap me out it very quickly.  My nephews and nieces, some of my friends from my old job, a Twitter friend or two...they can work a miracle of time travel for me.  I'm not living in my past, because my past wasn't much fun.  They provide me with a great present, and a fantastic future.

My younger friends made me look at who I had become and made me decide I was not happy with that person.  I wanted to like what I had reflected back to me, not only in the mirror, but also in the eyes of the people around me.  I've been given a remarkable gift of love and friendship that many people like myself overlook.  I don't want to act my age.  I want to feel and be as young as I can be, for as long as I can be.

I do have many friends who are my age.  They are fabulous people, wonderful influences.  My friends in my age group have been supportive of my efforts to become my 'more'.  They are terrific cheerleaders.  They are my sounding board when I need to think or sort out an issue.  They tell me that I have inspired them to make changes which blows my mind.  I never set out to be an inspiration for anyone, but if something I have done motivates someone else...awesome!

My grandmother use to refer to it as counting your blessings.  One younger friend calls it staying positive.  I've commented on this before.  Whether it is my true nature, or learned, I've not been a positive person.  I have come to realize being positive doesn't mean that I'll be that way every moment, of every day, for eternity.  It means that regardless of circumstance, I am going to look for what's good in the situation and not at all the things that make it bad.

So whether it is being positive or being able to count my blessings doesn't really matter.  Either term suits, and suits it well.  I'm going to strive to stay young, work to stay positive, fight to finish eliminating the weight I want rid of and get my college degree.  Somewhere in there, I hope to find gainful employment, and I know I will.  Maybe even, I'll find love.  Who knows?  I'm going to remember that for all the things that may seem to go ass backwards, there are more things that will always be just right.

My blessings are many.  My greatest blessings are my family and friends.  They have been like botox for my soul.  The results are beautiful.

Just Listen

I've always found it easy to listen.  I've made many friends by being willing to let someone bend my ear.  Their stories touch my heart: the good; the bad; the happy; the sad; the risque and the dull.  By taking the time to listen and show some compassion, I have made their day better.  By trusting me, they have made my LIFE better.

We live in a world where most people have little time for anything but themselves.  There's the job, the home, the spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend, the kids, the car, the bills...all the things that place unwanted stress on us.  We rush around and let the pressure build up till we feel like we could burst inside.  When we turn to talk to anyone, it is hard to find someone willing to stop for a few minutes, or hours, to listen to us rant.

That is where I seem to have found my little niche in life.  I guess it is my way of trying to pass along the love and compassion that my friends and family have provided to me.  I find that it is simple to stop for awhile and listen.  I was given broad shoulders for some reason, and I know I have a big heart.  It is one way that I can show how much I love them.  Reaching out and providing care is a way I to reassure myself that my existence matters.  By opening my heart, by taking time to give the hug (real or virtual) that is needed, I remember that I have a purpose besides surviving this world.  I can show love, and in turn, receive the love that I need.  In that way, I know I am very much alive and still an active part of this world.

My family and my 'family' of friends are very precious to me.  With all of my heart, I hope I can continue to be the person they need me to be.  I can be that one person: the friend: the heart; the provider of support and care; the person they know they can always turn to no matter what issue may be.  In this world, where things can go to hell in a handbasket quickly, I can be that calm place they can go to for a moment of peace and comfort.  I can be the one person that gets the joke, shares the pain, understands the frustration.  

I want to repay some of the love I have been shown in my life.  I want my family and my 'family' to know how much I love them.  I always will, with all of my heart.  All I have to do is just listen.

Talking Pennsylvanian (author unknown)

Totally loved this and had to share it.  I have no idea who wrote it but they nailed "PA" completely.



TALKING PENNSYLVANIAN

For those who think we Pennsylvanians 'talk funny' or use 'big words'...

Once a Pennsylvanian, ALWAYS a Pennsylvanian!

About Pennsylvanians: You've never referred to Philadelphia as anything but ‘Philly’ and New Jersey has always been ' Jersey .'

We don't go to the beach -- we go ‘down the shore.'

You refer to Pennsylvania as 'PA' (pronounced Pee-Ay).  How many other states do that??

'You guys' (or even 'youze guys', in some places) is a perfectly acceptable reference to a group of men and women.

You know how to respond to the question ‘Djeetyet?' (Did you eat yet?)

You know that the Iggles play football and so do the Stillers.

You learned to pronounce Bryn Mawr, Wilkes-Barre , Schuylkill , the Poconos, Tamaqua, Kutztown, Tunkahannock, Bala Cynwyd, Kishacoquillas, Duquesne and Monongahela, also Conshohocken.

And we know Lancaster is pronounced Lank-ister, not Lan-kaster.

You know what a ‘Mummer’ is, and are disappointed if you can't catch at least highlights of the parade.

At least five people on your block have electric 'candles' in all or most of their windows all year long.

You know what a 'State Store' is, and your out-of-state friends find it incredulous that you can’t purchase liquor at the mini-mart.

Words like 'hoagie,' 'crick,' 'chipped ham,' 'dippy eggs', 'sticky buns,' 'shoo-fly pie,' 'lemon sponge pie', 'pierogies' and 'pocketbook' actually mean something to you. (By the way, that last one's PA slang for a purse!)

You not only have heard of Birch Beer, but you know it comes in several colors.

You know the difference between a cheese steak and a pizza steak sandwich, and you know that you also can't get a really good one anywhere outside of the Philly area. (Except maybe in Atlantic City on the boardwalk.)

You know that Blue Ball, Intercourse, Paradise, Climax, Bird-in-Hand, Beaver, Moon, Virginville, Mars, Bethlehem, Hershey, Indiana, Sinking Spring, Jersey Shore, State College, Washington Crossing, Jim Thorpe, King of Prussia, Wind Gap, and Slippery Rock are all PA towns ... and the first three were consecutive stops on the old Reading RR! (PS - That’s pronounced Redd-ing.)

You can identify drivers from New York , New Jersey , Maryland or other neighboring states by their unique and irritating driving habits.

A traffic jam in Lancaster County is 10 cars waiting to pass a horse-drawn carriage on the highway. (And remember ... that’s Lank-ister!)

You know several people who have hit deer more than once.

Driving is always better in winter because the potholes are filled with snow.

As a kid you built snow forts and leaf piles that were taller than you were..

You know beer doesn't grow in a garden, but you know where to find a beer garden.

YEAH! THAT'S GOOD OL' ‘PA’ AND WE LOVE IT!

420am

Alright...it's 420am.  Guess who is still awake?  Puzzled?  Let me give you hint: has a thing for wrestlers, especially big, bald beasties; cat loving; loud mouthed; weight losing; gym loving; redheaded; bad attitude....okay, so it was more than one hint.  Give up?  You got it!!  It's me!!!

I have a friend or two that find it very disturbing that I have one of the most fucked up circadian rhythms on the planet.  I mean, I know I'm not the only person on the planet that has trouble sleeping.  Otherwise, there would be no need for sleeping medications, over the counter or prescription.  In my family alone, all of my siblings have sleep issues.  Of course, I'm the one who tends to go for days with little to no sleep.  My sister usually gets about 3 or 4 hours a night and it is the same with my 2 older brothers.  My little brother never seems to be able to stay awake, but then he has some serious health problems too.

I can remember teasing my dad about having a button on his ass cheek that would be pushed to "on" every time he sat down, because he always seemed to doze off within half hour of getting comfy in his recliner.  I found out later he had pretty much the same kind of sleep cycle that I did.  The weird things that make you feel closer to a parent, right?

I have times when I'm like that too.  Unfortunately, not often enough, it seems.  I am kinda like an Energizer Bunny.  I go and go until my brain says "Nope!".  (My non-stop, always firing brain is a big part of my lack of sleep.)  I crash and it could be for 5 or 6 hours.  Once, I slept for over 24 hours straight, but that was after being awake for about 96 hours.  That's 4 days, folks.  It's been longer than that a time or two.  When I had to have my 3 year old cat, McGraw, put to sleep, I went for almost 2 weeks with no sleep.  Every time I tried to sleep, each time I would lay down to rest, I could feel his gentle jump up onto the bed.  For a moment or two, it was like he was back again.  I would open my eyes to look for him, remember what had happened and start to cry.  It wasn't too long after that episode that I finally got some serious counseling and found out I was bipolar.  Depression can be a killer of more than just the physical body...way more.

I haven't gone that long without sleep in years.  I know it can happen, especially when I'm stressed.  I work hard to not get stressed anymore.  I try to avoid the things I know can cause me stress.  I changed my diet, my life habits, made a wider circle of friends...some of whom have become very precious to me.  I learned to speak my mind.  Yes, there was a time, in the not so distant past, when I would rather have imploded than to explode on someone who had upset me.  I haven't quit smoking, but that in itself can create stress.  It's coming, just hasn't happened yet.  My mom would love to see me quit.  I told her "But I don't like being known as a quitter!".  She didn't think that was funny.

I don't mind seeing the sun come up most mornings.  Right now, being out of work has been good for me at least picking up a few hours of rest.  I use to go for a few days without sleep just because I couldn't sleep at night and still had to go to work.  That made my weekends sacrosanct for sleeping.  Talk about a 'do not disturb' sign on your life.  I could occasionally be one of those surly customer service reps we all hate to get on the other end of the line.  I suppose not working is good for something, LOL!!

It's not easy being alone at 420am, but that is how it is.  The cat will sometimes stir and reposition herself closer to me at that hour.  It helps to not feel so alone.  I'm not complaining about being alone.  God knows, I am incredibly independent.  My grandmother use to say I was as independent as hog on ice.  She didn't mean that I was fat, just that I was stubborn.  I am very stubborn.  In recent months, even more so.  When you have a goal, you have to be willing to put in the work to reach it.  If that makes me difficult or contemptible, then that is fine with me.

420am is when I do much of my thinking, and my writing.  I write most of my blog entries in the middle of the night.  It is when I'm most creative.  I follow the stream of consciousness and ride the current to wherever it takes me.  I would much rather be creative in other things at that hour but, for now, that isn't happening, so I write.  It amuses me, and a couple other people in the world.

I think 420am is a good time of day.  It could be
worse...I could be boring.  Thank God I'm not!

A Little Broken

There are things I have discovered about myself in recent months.  Some are good things, like I can be very determined and driven about reaching goals when I want.  Some are not so good, like I can become overly negative about myself and the world around me very quickly.  The biggest thing I have discovered (I know I already knew this) is that we are ALL a little broken.

I try to surround myself with friends who bring out my good qualities.  I constantly battle against being negative and feeling lonely.  My friends, near and far, have to remind me that I am a wonderful person, that I am irreplaceable.  I can dwell on the more awful aspects of being me.  Occasionally, I need my ass kicked.  Luckily, I have some really great friends who are willing to do that for me.

It has made a significant difference in my life.  During a time when many folks would find it very hard to see anything positive (unemployment can do that), I have found that I have much that I can do to improve my life.  Yes, the job searching and waiting can be annoyingly slow.  I could sit back and boohoo about how nothing seems to be happening for me.  Instead I decided to go to college and get my Associates degree.  I could complain that I am fat (and in my mind, ugly), but I would rather join a gym and enjoy it.

I have worked hard all of my life at many things.  Being healthy was not one of them.  I said goodbye to processed foods, white sugars, white flour based products, too much sodium and too much fat.  I have embraced eating vegetables, fruit, whole grains, complex carbs, etc.  No, I am not a vegetarian.  I still eat meat, just not red meat (well, about once every two months, I will treat myself to a steak).  I also started moving.  First it was just walking, now it's an honest to goodness exercise program at the local Gold's Gym.

Do I feel better?  Damn right I do!!  Do I still feel negative?  Now and then, but that is where my beautiful friends come in.  They have truly supported my efforts.  They keep me headed in the right direction.  There are one or two of them that even have the same issue with lack of sleep.  It's a great thing to have someone to talk to at four in the morning.  At that hour, a person can feel very lonely.  I am glad I don't have to feel that way all the time.

Will I always struggle against feeling lost and alone?  Probably...but I have found that nearly everyone feels that way at one time or another.  It is nice to know that I have not been singled out to feel that way.  Everybody has something about themselves that has left scars and made them who they are.  Can those scars be healed to the point of disappearing?  Absolutely!  Some of my wounds have been healed by the beautiful people I have come to know and love as my extended family.  Do I want to help them heal what has broken them?  Definitely, and if I can, I will.  Maybe we won't find all the pieces.  I think with time, new pieces can be made to replace what is now gone.   But...if we can't find the pieces, and if the parts cannot be fashioned to fix what is gone, that's okay, because we are all a little broken.    

Somewhere on the Road to Crazy

Kinda sounds like a song title, doesn't it?  Somewhere on the road to crazy...

Been traveling that road for a long time, it seems.  Somedays, it is hard to tell the difference between living in the sane world and reveling in utter madness.

I was diagnosed as bipolar over a decade ago.  It has been interesting.  People that are bipolar aren't actually crazy, but dealing with it, especially if you are alone, can make you feel that way.  To be bipolar is to have a chemical imbalance in your brain.  Medications have to be tried, sorted out, combined, sorted out, increased, decreased...  The whole process can make you feel mad as a hatter, especially if you have a bad reaction to any of the meds.  I've had hands that shake uncontrollably.  I've wanted to do nothing but sleep or not able to sleep at all (which is fine, considering I've dealt with insomnia my entire life, till you don't sleep for 10 days straight).  Then there was the medication that made it feel like I had bugs crawling around under my skin.  Now that was fun...not!!

When I was diagnosed, my family didn't deal with it very well.  It's not like they hadn't accused me of being nuts for years.  Having an official diagnosis...different story!  Then, as if they weren't already traumatized enough, I actually talked about it.  I don't know how many times I heard "I wish you wouldn't say that." over the years.  They were horrified that I was relieved to know there was something wrong, and that something could be done about it.  They would have been okay if I had actually had the brain tumor I underwent testing for a year after my bipolar diagnosis.  That I could have talked about with ease.  Lucky for me, it was not so dramatic...instead it was another issue...thank God!  I knew I had too many people to aggravate, agitate and irritate, so I am very glad it was the something else.

There are days the meds don't work well but I keep taking them.  I have yet to figure out why some people stop taking them.  I have a cousin like that, and she makes me sad.  I remember hearing a story of how my aunt received a phone call in the middle of the night from a police department out west.  They had my cousin in custody for walking stark naked down a main street in their city, stoned on LSD.  She had decided to medicate herself.  My aunt had to fly out west, collect my cousin and then fly back to NYC, where my cousin was supposed to be living.  My cousin spent multiple weeks in the hospital while they got her clean and then got her properly medicated again.

I never could understand why she would stop taking her meds.  I hate how I feel without them, because I am usually miserable.  Manic episodes are awful, because I am hateful, aggressive, and spend money I don't have.  Depressive episodes are so low that I literally want to die.  I truly do feel wicked insane at those points.  So, I take my meds.  They don't work perfectly, but then nothing is perfect.  I deal with it.

My family has come to grips with and now have no problem with me talking about my 'issues'.  They have learned that me on medication is significantly better than me not on medication.  Me freely talking about how I feel now compared to the past has helped some other family members to decide to get some help for themselves.  They aren't bipolar, but have other issues that meds can help.  Now they realize that the world ain't such a bad place, since their brain is able to operate more clearly, properly.  It is amazing what legal pharmaceutical help can do.

There are days I still get a little off kilter, but they are rare.  Typically they follow a long stint of little sleep and a lot of stress.  Then I hide till I catch up on my sleep and reduce the stress.  Since I have started going to the gym, the stress leaves much more quickly...YAY!  Sleep will always be an issue, apparently.  I do what I can till I just plain can't anymore, then I crash.  It's not a good pattern, but it is my pattern.  I do what I have to, to survive.  It's during those times, that I get really close to being truly crazy that can get interesting.  Being extremely tired can make me very goofy, and supremely sensitive.  I will cry over things as stupid as a Hallmark commercial.  I will start laughing about something innocuous and then keep laughing.  It's really embarrassing to start laughing at funerals...trust me!  Wedding ceremonies aren't a good place to catch a laughing fit either...LOL!!  Folks really do think I am mad at those times.  Thank God they haven't happened often, but they have happened.

It is definitely a fine line between sane and insane.  I walk that line often.  I like walking that line most days...because somewhere, on the road to crazy, I found myself.  I'm happy about that, and that's what counts.

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