Rememberances

When I was a child I lived all over the United States. I say I have lived from Maine to Mexico and everything in between. The first place I ever had roots was with my Grandparents in the wild woods of Pennsylvania.

 

Sometimes in a mixture of teenage angst and my Grandparents natural disposition there would be disturbances in the house that would cause me to run to the woods and disappear. I spent a lot of time eating berries for lunch and drinking spring water. I ate my first boiled crawfish in those woods. They were gross. But I caught them and I cooked them and then I left them for the raccoons.

 

I would build dams and bridges out of fallen trees and logs. I would sit in the old graveyard on that huge fallen tree and read and write for hours. It was a beautiful, mystical fabulous place. I miss it. I miss being able to walk out my backdoor and disappear into a contained wilderness. To not see or talk to another person all day if you choose not too.

 

Here, in my little suburb, in a muggy state with red dirt, I can never escape. There is no where to go. Even the “wilderness” has been turned into campsites and parking lots and walking paths. The sound of everyone closes in sometimes and all I wish for is 50 acres, tall trees, and a valley to hide in.

 

I remember taking blankets with me and taking naps in the forest. Climbing trees and reading in my Grandfathers tree stand. Eating a sandwich and throwing the rest to the forest floor as my contribution to the place that loved me so.

 

Here, I barely go outside.

 

I want a garden. I want to keep bees. I want my dogs to be able to run and not hit a fence.

I want a goat. And chickens.

I want to be a self sustainable hippie.

Not a spinster living in a low income suburb.

Veni.Vidi.Vixi.Vici.

I am going to be 33 on the 18th. My dear friend Erika informed me that the double number years are the luckiest (ex., 11,22,33,44,55, etc.).

I am not sure I believe her but I am holding onto that!

Every year when I am about to up my count it always causes me to reflect on where I have gone and what I have accomplished.This year hasn’t been that great. The last six have been pretty bad but the last three have been really rough. Having a disease isn’t fun but especially not fun when no one can figure out what is wrong with you. It has been a long hard road but I finally have my hair back and the medication seems to be keeping me pretty well off.

On that note, I am ready to live again.

Yes I have some extra baggage since I got sick. Not only the physical but mental kind. I weigh more than I used to and I plan to try to rectify that. But more deeply I admit I am wounded a bit. And angry. From employers, to friends, to family, these last few years of illness have taken their toll. I have lost friends and jobs and for a while there I lost myself.

But I feel like that is over. Not that I will never feel bad again but I feel that just KNOWING what it is and how to fight it makes a big difference. That it will pass. Before I felt like I was swinging in the dark fighting an unknown enemy that no one else believed existed.

I hope this upcoming year brings happiness. New experiences. Health and strength. A wonderful job. I hope I read a lot of wonderful books. See and meet a lot of fabulous people. Sing good songs. Hear great music. Maybe get a tattoo. Visit my family. Take a trip. Ride on a train. Sail on a boat.

I am excited. For the first time in countless days I am excited to be alive.

I feel like I am about to embark on a very important stage of my life.

Facebook is Funny

I post tons of pointless and ridiculous things. I have a lot of free time, think too much, and enough of an ego to believe that everyone is interested in what I have to say.

I mean why wouldn’t they? I am damn fascinating.

I haven’t really paid too much attention in the past but lately Facebook has been cracking me up. Off to the right there is a sidebar where it recommends pages that you may “Like”. These suggestions appear to be based upon whatever post you are writing at any given moment , which leads to all sorts of ridiculousness.

There are pages you can LIKE for sleeping, eating, pooping, jelly, and socks.

Seriously? I mean who DOESN’T like to sleep or eat. Seriously? We need a page for that? What about breathing and other autonomic functions.

Maybe a meth addicted anorexic wouldn’t, but I am sure there is a page they would like.  Such as Emesis or Insomnia.

Every time I post anything random words are chosen for my liking. Pages to like about muffins, ketchup, blankets.

I just wonder, does anyone, without the assistance of Facebook, ever say:

“I REALLY REALLY LIKE JAM! I WONDER IF THERE IS A PAGE ON JAM THAT I CAN LIKE?”

And if there is such a person, if they have ever, ever in their life been laid.

AND – more to the point – what about the person who MADE the jam page? Huh, HUH! What about that poor sap!?

The Truth Is….

The truth is that none of us really know one another. We think we do but inside each of us is a secret garden. Walled off from our family; disguised from our friends. Within it grow the tangled vines of our demons, insecurities, and hidden longings.

All our lives we plant things there. Things we have done, said, seen, and wanted.

All our lives the key stays safely under the welcome mat.

Pruning shears oiled and at the ready.

We are all little mysteries hidden in the dark.

Eggshell Satin

Somewhere along the line I lost myself. I am not sure when it happened. I think it was in 2006. My health started going downhill. My personal life imploded. My Grandmother died. I quit my job. Everything that up until that point had been a given disappeared. And I did not take it well. And it never got any better.  I have yet to recover. I am a slow healer.

So now here I sit. This beige non-person. The boring color of every empty apartment I have ever seen. I have no job. I never see my friends. The only friend I ever do see is practically a recluse and I can never get her out of her damn house. All my other friends live 40 or more minutes away and I can’t afford to go see them.

I don’t have anyone in my life that is in the same spot anymore. Everyone is married or has kids and I have nothing in common with their lives. I don’t know how to make it work. It just feels awkward and uncomfortable, like my shoes are too small and my pants are too tight. There is nothing to talk about and it all seems forced.

All I want is to move forward. I am stuck in this place and I have no idea how to escape. I tried church. I tried school. None of it hit the spot. I know these things aren’t a substitute for what is empty in me but I thought meeting some new people would be nice. But nothing and no one stuck. It was all passing in the night.

What I need is some damn therapy but I don’t have insurance. Damnit.

I am not sure what I want to do and at the same time there are so many things I want to do.

When I die I don’t want the story of my life to be three chapters long and say “I stayed at home a lot”.

I want adventures. And love. And friends. And passion. And laughter. And good food. And good health. I want to hike mountains. Have my pilots license. Maybe  have a kid. I don’t know.

So where does one start?

Who knows.

Self Defense

I grow weary of defending myself. I have done nothing wrong. What is wrong lies within my bones, blood, cells. It was gifted me upon birth. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t buy it. I didn’t grow it and ingest it. It simply is. And now here I am fighting it. And you. And the world.

Love me or leave me be.

Hard Knocks, Soft Head

There is a lot to be said for recognizing ones limitations.

To not be a pie in the sky dreamer.

To not have your head in the clouds and believe that you are going to be the next American Idol, movie starlet, million dollar basketball player, or president.

But someone has got to do it.

Some part of me admires the fearless and deluded individuals that get on the Idol auditions squealing out Aretha Franklin standards and rap songs.

So maybe, just maybe, I can graduate from school. Maybe just maybe my rickety sick self can pull this through. I have done it before perhaps I can do it again.

I won’t lie. I worry. What if I end out $40K in debt with a license in a career I can’t do because of arthritis. If I feel like this now what will I feel like in ten years when I have to stand all day and work with my hands 24/7.

What do I do then?  Is this a waste of time? A waste of money?

Will this ever end? The constant barrage of things I have to deal with?

No.

Because that’s life. Grow up and come to terms with it little girl.

A Horse is a Horse of Course of Course

Back in those halcyon days of youth before you realize the price of bread or that you have to pay monthly for a place to live, I had a horse. He was gelding the same color as the red in my hair. His name was Copper and he smelled of dust, hay, and horse. We couldn’t afford to feed ourselves so the horse was bad timing but to me he was magical.

As my childhood fell apart I frequently went out to the barn and sat on the rough edged wood with my arms around his horsey neck as far as they would go. He would nicker into my ear and nibble me with his soft nose. He knew my problems and loved me with no judgment.

I’ll never forget riding horseback through wild fields. Walking alongside him, barefoot through the woods. He is embedded within my heart and I still occasionally dream of him.

It was a long time ago that Copper was an old horse. I am sure he is running through a pasture in heaven now. Yet I wish I could reach out with a crab apple and let him know I never forgot. I hope I have one in my pocket when I am sent to pasture too.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.