When I first moved out at the end of December, a good friend told me I was rushing the process of getting on with my life too much and that I should just “do nothing” for a while. I didn’t want to feel what I was feeling going through this separation and divorce so I was looking for the next person, place of thing that would numb the pain. “Michele, you just need to do nothing for a while.” That was sound advice that I didn’t heed and am finally in a place to admit that I should have. Over the last month or so, I’ve made some bad calls and rushed my heart before I was ready. I have lost my way and made decisions that are contrary to who I am at my core. Specifically, I gave away my trust way too easily, my bad. The truth is, I’ve had brief moments of peace in the last seven months, peace I haven’t felt for the last 23 years, and those moments of peace only come when I’ve been working on accepting that I will never be in a relationship again. I’ve been getting “don’t give up on love” a lot lately from well intentioned friends that really care for me, but I have to. I have to give up on love and the thought that I might actually find someone that I want to say “yes” to someday for my own well being.
Sometimes the third base coach is waving you home and you get thrown out at the plate. Sometimes the best call is to stay on the bag. Sometimes the best call is to do nothing and wait for the perfect play. But bad calls are a part of baseball and the best you can do is brush off the dust from your uniform, head for the dugout and wait for the next inning.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
It’s all about Bob…
Earlier this evening, I had a gut wrenching conversation with my soon-to-be-ex-husband (let’s just shorten that to STBEH from now on) that left me wanting to crawl into bed and watch surfing movies all night. The problem with that plan was that I recently went back to my former AA home group that meets on Thursday nights. Needless to say, that was the last place I wanted to be, but I went anyway because they say if you don’t want to go to a meeting, you should get your ass to a meeting. The conversation was about how he doesn’t want to get divorced and the gut wrenching part was about me wanting to honor his feelings and not cause him any more pain than he’s already feeling. So this is how things went, I got into my Escape (fitting name for a vehicle I own, believe me, the irony is not wasted on this girl) pointed it toward Bloomington and drove, all the time saying to myself “don’t think, it’ll only hurt the ball club” (which is my all time favorite movie line because it works in so many different situations, try it, you’ll see).
I made it to the meeting and felt better just walking in the door. Afterwards, I spent some time catching up with an old friend and getting to know a new friend. During the meeting I had shared about how that was the last place I wanted to be because of the conversation I had with STBEH so this friend kindly reminded me that while I am fantastic, I am not responsible for STBEH’s feelings in this situation. My part is to take the 10th step of AA seriously, “continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.” In other words, my part is to make sure I treat STBEH with dignity and respect and be done with it. In other-other words, it’s not my part to ruminate over his pain if I’ve treated him with dignity and respect, which I feel I did tonight.
Here’s where it becomes all about Bob. My old friend introduced me to a new friend (Bob) and during the course of our conversation, Bob made a comment that alluded to his desire to believe he’s the center of the universe and I, in my admittedly wiseass way responded “Ya know, I’ve heard it’s all about Bob” to which both friends laughed and said “yep, it’s all about Bob.”
On my way home, it hit me that this seemingly casual conversation had much deeper meaning, which often times happens when you throw drunks together and get them talking about life. I realized that the gut wrenching part of my evening was not caused by STBEH, or his feelings, it was caused by me making it all about me. It was all about me taking responsibility that isn’t mine because, as a general rule, I like to make it all about me. Long story short, I will definitely get my ass to a meeting the next time I don’t want to go to a meeting…and for today, I’m going to make it all about Bob because I’m kind of over myself and don’t want it to be all about me anymore…
I made it to the meeting and felt better just walking in the door. Afterwards, I spent some time catching up with an old friend and getting to know a new friend. During the meeting I had shared about how that was the last place I wanted to be because of the conversation I had with STBEH so this friend kindly reminded me that while I am fantastic, I am not responsible for STBEH’s feelings in this situation. My part is to take the 10th step of AA seriously, “continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.” In other words, my part is to make sure I treat STBEH with dignity and respect and be done with it. In other-other words, it’s not my part to ruminate over his pain if I’ve treated him with dignity and respect, which I feel I did tonight.
Here’s where it becomes all about Bob. My old friend introduced me to a new friend (Bob) and during the course of our conversation, Bob made a comment that alluded to his desire to believe he’s the center of the universe and I, in my admittedly wiseass way responded “Ya know, I’ve heard it’s all about Bob” to which both friends laughed and said “yep, it’s all about Bob.”
On my way home, it hit me that this seemingly casual conversation had much deeper meaning, which often times happens when you throw drunks together and get them talking about life. I realized that the gut wrenching part of my evening was not caused by STBEH, or his feelings, it was caused by me making it all about me. It was all about me taking responsibility that isn’t mine because, as a general rule, I like to make it all about me. Long story short, I will definitely get my ass to a meeting the next time I don’t want to go to a meeting…and for today, I’m going to make it all about Bob because I’m kind of over myself and don’t want it to be all about me anymore…
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
...ha, ha. I don't think so...
My therapist isn’t your typical headshrinker. First, her name is the same as my soon-to-be-ex-mother-in-law (which I initially took as a sign from God that this process would not be a walk in the park). Name aside, she’s a tiny little thing with amazing tattoos on both of her arms, a nose ring, and purple highlights. She’s a fan of hippiesque flowy skirts (and yes, I know neither hippiesque or flowy are real words, spellcheck, which incidentally is also not a real word, has already alerted me to that fact, what with it's squiggly red lines and all) and black tank tops. She is, in a word, FANTASTIC.
Today, I was debriefing on a conversation I had with a friend about my inability to say “no.” I have difficulty with this word in a variety of situations…when my parents want me to come down for Thanksgiving, which is, in fact, the anorexic’s equivalent of Hell; when my son wants anything from the endcap at Target when we’re checking out; when those kids that are selling newspapers, magazine subscriptions, candy bars, you know the drill, to support their class trip to fill-in-the-national-treasure here; or when any guy, nice or not, asks me out. The truth is, Thanksgiving is not healthy for me, period; my son has broken more toys than I ever owned growing up; maybe I should give to those kids but I just don’t want to; or, and this is the most important one, I’m not ready to date anyone at present, and may never be ready.
Because I’ve recently taken a blow to the heart, I’ve been thinking a lot about the choices I make, either with intention, or by default, so today my therapist insisted we talk about my biggest default choice, my inability to say no. If you’ve never gone the therapy route, here’s the drill…
Therapist Chick: How does it make you feel when you say yes and you mean no?
Me: Angry, sad, sick…mostly sick.
Therapist Chick: What do you think would happen if you said no?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. What do you think would happen if you said no?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. What do you think would happen if you said no?
Me: I wouldn’t be listened to.
Therapist Chick: Why don’t you think you’d be listened to?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. Why don’t you think you’d be listened to?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. Why don’t you think you’d be listened to?
(sidebar, we can play the what-do-you-think/I-don’t-know/yes-you-do game for entire sessions)
Me: Because I don’t deserve to be listened to.
Therapist Chick: Why don’t you think you deserve to be listened to?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. Why don’t you think you deserve to be listened to?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. Why don’t you think you deserve to be listened to?
Me: Because I wasn’t listened to the night I was raped?
Therapist Chick: I knew you knew the answer.
It was at this point today when the requisite tears that always seem to work their way into our sessions made their appearance and I got yet another opportunity to sit with the pain and shame and grief that also seem to come along with unpacking this, well, crap for lack of a more precise term while Therapist Chick watched me. That’s what she does, she sits and watches, until I’m ready to talk some more. There are no words of comfort, but that’s part of the rape trauma process. In order to get past this, I have to fully feel every crappy feeling without any intervention. It’s part of the deal. The journey from victim to survivor needs to be a solitary one when it comes to the feelings thing. While we’re still in survivor mode, we spend all our time avoiding our feelings because we think we can’t survive feeling them. We numb out by starving, drinking, drugging, you name it, if it can mask feelings, we do it. As part of our recovery, we must feel the feelings fully, without anyone or anything to soften the blow because when we finally stop crying and are ready to talk again, we realize we lived through it. We realize we’re still alive.
Now, back to my friend, whom I will cherish forever because he’s still my friend, even though I’m difficult and complicated. As we talked about my latest heartbreak, somehow our conversation turned to my inability to say no. He said, “here’s what we’re going to do, I’m going to ask you out and you’re going to say I don’t think so in that way you have of laughing while you talk, you ready?” He then proceeded to say “hey baby, you wanna go out” to which I responded, “ha, ha, I don’t think so.” And a new mantra was born. I may not be there yet and who knows how many times I’ll stumble before “no” becomes comfortable again, but I’m told I’m right where I’m supposed to be and while it’s uncomfortable a lot of the time, I trust that the payoff will be worth it in the end. And also, I'm pretty sure that will make a fantastic t-shirt.
Today, I was debriefing on a conversation I had with a friend about my inability to say “no.” I have difficulty with this word in a variety of situations…when my parents want me to come down for Thanksgiving, which is, in fact, the anorexic’s equivalent of Hell; when my son wants anything from the endcap at Target when we’re checking out; when those kids that are selling newspapers, magazine subscriptions, candy bars, you know the drill, to support their class trip to fill-in-the-national-treasure here; or when any guy, nice or not, asks me out. The truth is, Thanksgiving is not healthy for me, period; my son has broken more toys than I ever owned growing up; maybe I should give to those kids but I just don’t want to; or, and this is the most important one, I’m not ready to date anyone at present, and may never be ready.
Because I’ve recently taken a blow to the heart, I’ve been thinking a lot about the choices I make, either with intention, or by default, so today my therapist insisted we talk about my biggest default choice, my inability to say no. If you’ve never gone the therapy route, here’s the drill…
Therapist Chick: How does it make you feel when you say yes and you mean no?
Me: Angry, sad, sick…mostly sick.
Therapist Chick: What do you think would happen if you said no?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. What do you think would happen if you said no?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. What do you think would happen if you said no?
Me: I wouldn’t be listened to.
Therapist Chick: Why don’t you think you’d be listened to?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. Why don’t you think you’d be listened to?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. Why don’t you think you’d be listened to?
(sidebar, we can play the what-do-you-think/I-don’t-know/yes-you-do game for entire sessions)
Me: Because I don’t deserve to be listened to.
Therapist Chick: Why don’t you think you deserve to be listened to?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. Why don’t you think you deserve to be listened to?
Me: I don’t know.
Therapist Chick: Yes you do. Why don’t you think you deserve to be listened to?
Me: Because I wasn’t listened to the night I was raped?
Therapist Chick: I knew you knew the answer.
It was at this point today when the requisite tears that always seem to work their way into our sessions made their appearance and I got yet another opportunity to sit with the pain and shame and grief that also seem to come along with unpacking this, well, crap for lack of a more precise term while Therapist Chick watched me. That’s what she does, she sits and watches, until I’m ready to talk some more. There are no words of comfort, but that’s part of the rape trauma process. In order to get past this, I have to fully feel every crappy feeling without any intervention. It’s part of the deal. The journey from victim to survivor needs to be a solitary one when it comes to the feelings thing. While we’re still in survivor mode, we spend all our time avoiding our feelings because we think we can’t survive feeling them. We numb out by starving, drinking, drugging, you name it, if it can mask feelings, we do it. As part of our recovery, we must feel the feelings fully, without anyone or anything to soften the blow because when we finally stop crying and are ready to talk again, we realize we lived through it. We realize we’re still alive.
Now, back to my friend, whom I will cherish forever because he’s still my friend, even though I’m difficult and complicated. As we talked about my latest heartbreak, somehow our conversation turned to my inability to say no. He said, “here’s what we’re going to do, I’m going to ask you out and you’re going to say I don’t think so in that way you have of laughing while you talk, you ready?” He then proceeded to say “hey baby, you wanna go out” to which I responded, “ha, ha, I don’t think so.” And a new mantra was born. I may not be there yet and who knows how many times I’ll stumble before “no” becomes comfortable again, but I’m told I’m right where I’m supposed to be and while it’s uncomfortable a lot of the time, I trust that the payoff will be worth it in the end. And also, I'm pretty sure that will make a fantastic t-shirt.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Why I’ll Never Do Stand-Up…
I’ve been told by a few people over the years that I should do stand-up and my answer has been and always will be “I’m not going to do stand-up.” While I appreciate the suggestion and will readily admit that I’m pretty quick with one-liners…and well, that my smart ass reputation tends to proceed me wherever I go, my humor, like my gregarious exterior (and yes, I’m hoping that’s the first time you’ve ever seen the word “gregarious” in a blog entry so I feel like those student loan payments for my English degree are paying off) is all smoke and mirrors. Call it a defense mechanism, a mask, body armor…it’s a way of hiding the real Michele from the rest of this big, sometimes bad world.
A few entries ago, I mentioned a traumatic event in my life when I was a teenager but that was a story for a different day. Well, here it is folks, today is the day: I am a survivor of acquaintance rape. When I was a freshman at the University of Minnesota, a friend of a friend held me captive for a night in his dorm room and sent me down a rabbit hole that I’m still trying to find my way out of. The thing about rabbit holes is that they are dark, dirty places that are fit for, well…animals, not a place fit for a human being. Dark, dirty places will warp you, trust me on this one.
I’ve always had a sense of humor (my mom blames my dad for that). Over the years, in order to combat the darkness and dirt in my life, I’ve honed that sense of humor…to make myself laugh (yes, I crack myself up and always have. If you doubt me, look up my senior yearbook quote)…to deflect the hellish feelings that come along with the trauma of rape…to protect the real me from being seen by the rest of the world.
What I mean by that last one is that as long as I’m fake, funny, disingenuous Michele, no one, especially me, gets hurt. My biggest fear in life is that if I open up to anyone about those battle scars I received that night that left my spirit battered and broken, I will be rejected and all the horrible things I think about myself as a result of my rape will be validated…and I will be found guilty of someone else’s crime. The crazy deal is that if I had reported this crime at the time and if he would have had to answer for it, he would have completed his time long ago, while I will be doing time for that experience for the rest of my life. Fake, funny, disingenuous Michele doesn’t do hard time down the rabbit hole. She lives in the light…above the dirt. She’s also, well, fake, there’s no getting around that one. So therein lays the paradox, I don’t get hurt, but I’m also not known, by anyone. Whether I’m in the dark, dirty rabbit hole, or in the light, I am alone.
So, the next time it’s suggested to me that I should give stand-up a shot, I will say, like I always have “I will never do stand-up.” Why? Because while I can appreciate a good sense of humor (believe me, I’m my biggest fan) I don’t feel right about seeking the spotlight (even if it’s just at a crappy comedy club in Minneapolis)for my body armor. It has kept me closed off but it has also kept me safe…and that needs to be honored.
Life is a series of tradeoffs so I’ll keep my humor and leave the stand-up to others.
A few entries ago, I mentioned a traumatic event in my life when I was a teenager but that was a story for a different day. Well, here it is folks, today is the day: I am a survivor of acquaintance rape. When I was a freshman at the University of Minnesota, a friend of a friend held me captive for a night in his dorm room and sent me down a rabbit hole that I’m still trying to find my way out of. The thing about rabbit holes is that they are dark, dirty places that are fit for, well…animals, not a place fit for a human being. Dark, dirty places will warp you, trust me on this one.
I’ve always had a sense of humor (my mom blames my dad for that). Over the years, in order to combat the darkness and dirt in my life, I’ve honed that sense of humor…to make myself laugh (yes, I crack myself up and always have. If you doubt me, look up my senior yearbook quote)…to deflect the hellish feelings that come along with the trauma of rape…to protect the real me from being seen by the rest of the world.
What I mean by that last one is that as long as I’m fake, funny, disingenuous Michele, no one, especially me, gets hurt. My biggest fear in life is that if I open up to anyone about those battle scars I received that night that left my spirit battered and broken, I will be rejected and all the horrible things I think about myself as a result of my rape will be validated…and I will be found guilty of someone else’s crime. The crazy deal is that if I had reported this crime at the time and if he would have had to answer for it, he would have completed his time long ago, while I will be doing time for that experience for the rest of my life. Fake, funny, disingenuous Michele doesn’t do hard time down the rabbit hole. She lives in the light…above the dirt. She’s also, well, fake, there’s no getting around that one. So therein lays the paradox, I don’t get hurt, but I’m also not known, by anyone. Whether I’m in the dark, dirty rabbit hole, or in the light, I am alone.
So, the next time it’s suggested to me that I should give stand-up a shot, I will say, like I always have “I will never do stand-up.” Why? Because while I can appreciate a good sense of humor (believe me, I’m my biggest fan) I don’t feel right about seeking the spotlight (even if it’s just at a crappy comedy club in Minneapolis)for my body armor. It has kept me closed off but it has also kept me safe…and that needs to be honored.
Life is a series of tradeoffs so I’ll keep my humor and leave the stand-up to others.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Lucky Pennies
Little known fact about me, I collect lucky pennies. It was something I started after I moved out of our home and I’m not sure why. Maybe I felt I needed all the luck I could get, maybe it was because I was anxious about being my sole source of financial support, or maybe it was because for the first time in 16 years, I began to notice things around me in this big world of ours. When you’re wrapped up in work, raising kids, paying bills, keeping the house clean, and trying to get a marriage on track, that well, let’s face it, was never on track to begin with, you don’t notice much beyond the periphery of your circumstances. When the first real test of our marriage came 10 years ago, I reacted by staying in bed, in the same pajamas, for three days straight. I was a stay at home mom so I would get up when Kelly needed me, but as soon as I’d get him settled, back to bed I went. It got ugly toward the end, figuratively and literally. I’m sure I would have stayed there longer, in those red plaid flannel pajamas, listening to the Williams Brothers “Can’t Cry Hard Enough” were it not for a small miracle (and yes, I realize how pathetic taking to one’s bed to listen to sappy music on repeat sounds). On the third day of my self-imposed exile from life, Kelly wasn’t having any of it anymore and insisted on moving us to the living room in his one-year-old way. So I took to the couch while he walked around the coffee table over and over again, a practice he had recently started. Lying there, I contemplated moving back into the bedroom. We had baby gates and there wasn’t really anything he could get into. I wasn’t sleeping during that three day stint of Tennessee Williamsesqe depression so I knew I’d hear if he was in trouble…but then it happened, a small miracle that broke me out of the small world of my heartbreak: Kelly took his first steps. He had been leaning against to coffee table watching Arthur when he let go of the table and just walked over to the TV. Once he got to the TV, he must have realized he had done something pretty amazing because he turned around and smiled a smile at me that said “check me out, look at what I just did!” Had I moved back into the bedroom, I would have missed one of the most amazing experiences I’ve had as a parent. I’d like to think that was a lucky penny moment, a moment in which my heart was quiet enough to notice the amazing things going on around me in this world that really is so much bigger than I am. So maybe I collect lucky pennies because I feel like I can use all the luck I can get these days, or maybe it is a type of financial security (albeit a pretty poor type if that’s the case, just sayin), but today I choose to believe it’s because my heart if quiet enough these days to notice the lucky pennies when they appear.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Round One...and so it begins...
We had our first meeting with our lawyer today…I’m pretty sure that in the history of the world, no good has ever come from a sentence that starts with that statement. The lawyer seems like a nice enough guy, in his my-job-is-to-help-you-two-identify-what-you-want-this-to-look-like-in-the-end kind of way, but at the end of the day, we aren’t in this together. We’re on opposite sides of the table negotiating how we’re going to divide up the life we’ve shared for the last 16 years. We might smile at points, and I think I may have even laughed once, but at the end of the day, we’re on opposite sides of the table. I moved out on December 26, 2009 and it took everything I had that first month to not call him and beg to come home because I was afraid I’d made a horrible mistake. I’ve come to realize that just because I was in pain so profound that sometimes it felt like I couldn’t breathe, that didn’t mean I had made the wrong decision. I’m still very much in love with my husband and I’m not sure I’ll ever get to the point where I don’t love him anymore. We just don’t work as a couple. I thought I had made strides in the last few months. I thought I was through the worst of the pain. I was wrong. The pain is still here, in fact, I’m pretty sure as it was waiting for me, it was doing push-ups. What I came to realize tonight as I was curled up in the fetal position listening to Pink’s “Who Knew” was that I’m hurting because my best friend in the world, the man who knows me better than I know myself, the one man that I can’t fool, doesn’t have any faith in me. My character is a question mark in his mind. That stings. How did I get here? When I was a little girl, my dad would tell me I could do anything I set my mind to, and I believed him. How did I become this morally suspect woman? I’ve been known to say that my gregarious exterior is simply smoke and mirrors because I’m actually a very shy person, but is my character all smoke and mirrors too? If he knows me better than I know myself and he has no faith in me, what does that say about me?
Monday, July 12, 2010
Who gets custody of the dreams?
A person can create a lot of dreams in 16 years and if you get a couple that has similar interests and sensibilities, I think the number of dreams you can dream is exponentially more. When I first met my husband, I was up for adventure, I just didn’t really know how to dream big anymore. I think trauma at 19 took the ability to dream big right out of me, but I digress, that’s another story for another day.
Over the last 16 years, I did learn to dream big again thanks entirely to my soon-to-be-ex-husband. The girl that refused to scale the ladder for the high dive has climbed Taylors Falls, Barn Bluff, and countless indoor routes. I’ve fallen, I’ve gotten scraped, I’ve twisted body parts that the good Lord never intended me to twist…and I’ve loved every second of it. I’ve parasailed (refer back to the high dive comment) and I’m not ashamed to admit that I tried to talk the 8 year-old-boy in our tour group that was a little tentative into letting me go up again in his place (ok, maybe I’m a little ashamed of that, but it didn’t work anyway, he went up and had a ball). I’ve also jumped into camping with both feet with my inaugural camping experience being nine (count them, 9) days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (yes, my husband planned the trip, and no, that’s not when things started to go South in our marriage). Believe me, you don’t know what personal empowerment is until you’ve built your own latrine. While I’m on the subject of camping, I’ve also winter camped, and you really don’t know what personal empowerment is until you’ve built your own latrine in -10 weather. Not bad for a girl that doesn’t come from a camping people. I may not be able to make fire by rubbing two sticks together but I have learned that I have a knack for finding even the most camouflaged portages and I can haul a food heavy Duluth Pack with the best of them.
But now I find myself in a quandary. There was one dream we had together that we didn’t pursue, we were going to go kayaking with killer whales. We’re working through dividing assets, building a parenting plan that works best for our 11-year-old son, and figuring out who gets the ashes of the two dogs we’ve lost in the last year, but who gets custody of the unrealized dreams? Is this an adventure I can strike out on, on my own? I’m really not sure. Part of the dream was to have a once-in-a-lifetime adventure together. I guess what I’m realizing as I think about making plans for this adventure solo is that it’s not the same dream if he’s not along for the ride. That’s not bad, but it is a little sad to me. I will always be grateful to him for giving me back my ability to dream by simply having dreams himself that he pulled me into. Maybe we can split custody of the dreams…
Over the last 16 years, I did learn to dream big again thanks entirely to my soon-to-be-ex-husband. The girl that refused to scale the ladder for the high dive has climbed Taylors Falls, Barn Bluff, and countless indoor routes. I’ve fallen, I’ve gotten scraped, I’ve twisted body parts that the good Lord never intended me to twist…and I’ve loved every second of it. I’ve parasailed (refer back to the high dive comment) and I’m not ashamed to admit that I tried to talk the 8 year-old-boy in our tour group that was a little tentative into letting me go up again in his place (ok, maybe I’m a little ashamed of that, but it didn’t work anyway, he went up and had a ball). I’ve also jumped into camping with both feet with my inaugural camping experience being nine (count them, 9) days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (yes, my husband planned the trip, and no, that’s not when things started to go South in our marriage). Believe me, you don’t know what personal empowerment is until you’ve built your own latrine. While I’m on the subject of camping, I’ve also winter camped, and you really don’t know what personal empowerment is until you’ve built your own latrine in -10 weather. Not bad for a girl that doesn’t come from a camping people. I may not be able to make fire by rubbing two sticks together but I have learned that I have a knack for finding even the most camouflaged portages and I can haul a food heavy Duluth Pack with the best of them.
But now I find myself in a quandary. There was one dream we had together that we didn’t pursue, we were going to go kayaking with killer whales. We’re working through dividing assets, building a parenting plan that works best for our 11-year-old son, and figuring out who gets the ashes of the two dogs we’ve lost in the last year, but who gets custody of the unrealized dreams? Is this an adventure I can strike out on, on my own? I’m really not sure. Part of the dream was to have a once-in-a-lifetime adventure together. I guess what I’m realizing as I think about making plans for this adventure solo is that it’s not the same dream if he’s not along for the ride. That’s not bad, but it is a little sad to me. I will always be grateful to him for giving me back my ability to dream by simply having dreams himself that he pulled me into. Maybe we can split custody of the dreams…
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Acceptance
“…and acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing or situation-some fact of my life-unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.” The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous
So after another sleepless night, I find myself battling with acceptance. There are many things I need to accept about myself. For instance, I’m smart but I have a knack, dare I say a gift, for making poor decisions almost every time; I quit taking mathematics classes as soon as I could in high school but I’m obsessed with numbers…what does the scale say, what does the tag on my jeans say, how many calories is that, how many calories did I burn, how many miles can I run…you get the picture; I fall in love too quickly and get bored too easily; I’ve constructed an elaborate fortress around my heart to protect myself, but since I’m little more than a Tool Time girl, nothing is level or square or to code so the structural integrity of this fortress is compromised constantly; I’m a neat freak and life, well, life is just plain messy. So today I’m working on acceptance: I’ll probably continue to make bad choices, but I’ll try to learn from those choices; I’ll start weaning myself off numbers by putting the scale on a high shelf (of course I’ve got a harness, rope and some kick ass climbing shoes so I may never be able to move it out of reach); I won’t fall in love…today; I’ll either apply for a building permit and bring in some expert contractors to reconstruct this fortress right, or I’ll tear it down and work without a net (mixed metaphor, I know…go back to the first sentence and reread the part about the sleepless night); and I’ll focus on keeping clean what I have the power to keep clean in my life…and maybe pick up a new vacuum.
So after another sleepless night, I find myself battling with acceptance. There are many things I need to accept about myself. For instance, I’m smart but I have a knack, dare I say a gift, for making poor decisions almost every time; I quit taking mathematics classes as soon as I could in high school but I’m obsessed with numbers…what does the scale say, what does the tag on my jeans say, how many calories is that, how many calories did I burn, how many miles can I run…you get the picture; I fall in love too quickly and get bored too easily; I’ve constructed an elaborate fortress around my heart to protect myself, but since I’m little more than a Tool Time girl, nothing is level or square or to code so the structural integrity of this fortress is compromised constantly; I’m a neat freak and life, well, life is just plain messy. So today I’m working on acceptance: I’ll probably continue to make bad choices, but I’ll try to learn from those choices; I’ll start weaning myself off numbers by putting the scale on a high shelf (of course I’ve got a harness, rope and some kick ass climbing shoes so I may never be able to move it out of reach); I won’t fall in love…today; I’ll either apply for a building permit and bring in some expert contractors to reconstruct this fortress right, or I’ll tear it down and work without a net (mixed metaphor, I know…go back to the first sentence and reread the part about the sleepless night); and I’ll focus on keeping clean what I have the power to keep clean in my life…and maybe pick up a new vacuum.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Girl on a Mission
Please indulge me for a minute while I back my story up a bit. I am many things, I’m a mother, I’m a daughter, I’m a sister, I’m a friend, I’m a long lost friend, I’m an ex-friend, I’m an ex-wife, I’m a soon-to-be ex-wife. I’m a student, I’m an entrepreneur, I’m an activist, I’m a pacifist, I’m anorexic, I’m a clean freak. I’m a runner, when I’m on the treadmill, sometimes I wish I could stay there forever, kinda like Forrest Gump (although, I’m probably more like Tom Hanks’ character in Castaway...and yes, I’m pretty sure that will be fodder for therapy soon). I’m a rock climber, an aspiring stand up paddle surfer, and a future snowboarding goddess. I’m a recovering alcoholic that has more 30 day medallions than should be allowed, but they told me to keep coming back, and I did. And I’m also apparently, “a girl on a mission.” This last one is in quotes because I was told that last night by a long lost friend and can now add it to my many other “I am’s”. I can be labeled in many ways, but today I think I’ll stick with “girl on a mission.”
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
FSG...Future Snowboard Godess
Late in the evening on February 19th of this year, or maybe it was early in the morning of February 20th, it was a rockstar kind of night that way, I stood at the bottom of a hill in Wisconsin, looked up at the black night sky and thought “so this is what it’s like to breathe again.” What had begun as an off handed request to a friend made in a spontaneous moment spurred on by the kind of existential dread that seems to come along with separation and divorce, landed me at Trollhaugen with a group of people I did not know, except for the aforementioned friend, in the middle of the night, having just made it down the hill on a snowboard for the first time in my life. Now, granted, there was no style involved, unless you count laughing and falling simultaneously as a style, but I did make it down in one piece and made some great new friends that night. The next Sunday, I took my first real lesson at Hyland and was hooked from the word go. I’m not sure why, other than that for too long, I’ve been listening to people tell me what I can’t, shouldn’t or couldn’t do and snowboarding was right up there on the top of that list. So I’ve decided this is the year to test my metal. Next up, paddle surfing at Lake Calhoun, who’s with me?
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