I’m “woke,” but not in the way you’d want

I just feel…woken up.  What have I been doing for three years?  Is it culminating to something?

In six days it will be the third year anniversary of the fateful trip “-” took with the woman he married after me.

#metoo Jennifer Willoughby.  Hash-fucking-tag.

It would have also been my 26th wedding anniversary.  And, of course, it’s a lot of other things.  Good people’s birthdays, the day after Valentine’s Day.

Yeah.

I hate being a cliché, but I’m pretty done.  All the books said three years was it.

Am I headed to more commitment with my bf?  Am I ever going to change jobs to something I won’t loathe until I’m 67?  Or 70?

Will I be forever menopausally fat?

I’m engaging in EMDR soon.  I hope this will help, and yet, I hope it’s not just another method I’m going to try to be comfortable in my life and skin.

I get tired.  You know?  I’m tired of “trying.”

And yet, what’s my alternative?

 

 

 

 

Wow…

I feel like I was abroad.

On the moon.

I don’t even remember some of these posts, but I like ’em.

More later.

I missed you, my people of Earth.

 

Infighting, Gin-Texting

My id has a binge mentality — food, alcohol, Netflix — the more the merrier.  I could moderate, but, I can’t ever think of a good reason to, so I just end up doing it.

My super-ego, on the other hand, keeps a balanced checkbook.  Has a budget.  A list of alternative activities to binge eating and/or drinking — take a shower, walk my cat, learn a language.  She believes that one day…maybe even tomorrow…she will convince the id and the ego to take her well-researched-reasonable-practical-rational baby steps.  And she also believes she can convince the other two to take the steps over and over again into oblivion.  The id and the ego think she’s a super naggy constipated bore.

She is delusional, and my id and ego want to throw their beer cans at her.

My ego…I don’t know.  I never seem to be the same person from day to day.

On a related note — gin is my kryptonite.  I try to lay off, because it’s hard for me to just have one, and when I have more than one, I start gin-texting.  Nasty texting.  Or emailing.  For some reason, last night I wrote out a gin-fueled email, the first in a long time, correcting the spelling and getting the jabs just right, and then I deleted it without sending it.

That may not sound like too much of a feat to you, but believe me, it is.

One for super-ego buzz kill!  Way to show up just at the right time, for once.

three things…

1.  Gotta admire those who choose to follow my blog when I’m not writing regularly.  You are a Bad.  Ass.  (Meant to be a compliment.)
2. WTF kind of word is “executrix?”  Actresses should be known as actors.  Executrix-es should be known as executors.  No need to call out genders, especially if the female one contains “trix.”  DISCUSS.
3. And, the new copier at work says, “Recovering from sleep mode,” when it is gearing up from economy mode.  Whoever wrote that, please find me with your technological prowess.  We need to be a couple.  Seriously…”recovering” from “sleep?”  This person gets it.

The end.

w h o o o o o s h . . . . .

DadDadDadDadDadDadDadDadDad

From the daughter:

Dad bought a truck that looks just like your boyfriend’s.

Dad is taking me to Paris on an overnight train.

Dad is doing a lot of biking.

Dad bought a sailboat.

From the old neighbor:

They’re painting your house.  It’s sage.  Looks nice.

From the mom:

I’M FRIGGIN’ FINE!  THANKS FOR NEVER ASKING…

 

 

And letters have half-pints…

There are “capital” and “small,” or “upper” and “lower” case letters — Madonna and son, moms and babies, me’s and mini-me’s, adults and children, pints and half-pints.

I guess numbers have Arabic (1) and Roman (I) versions, but it’s not as endearing.

Letters win again, in my opinion.

 

 

Letters are feminine and numbers are masculine,

Or, letters are cats, and numbers are dogs,

Or, letters are spoons, and numbers are forks,

Or, letters are socialists, and numbers are communists.  Fascists?  (I’m not versed on this…) — the opposite of socialists.

Letters love each other and cluster together — the more the merrier — (See supercalifragilisticexpialidocious).  However, there are certain letters who will only associate with others if their sidekicks can tag along (looking at you Q and U).  Or, they ride in a posse, like the “ing” gang.

In what they are trying to do, however, they are forgiving.  They make words you can string together correctly or not correctly, spelled right or spelled wrong, clear or not clear — speaker’s choice — but they all agree to endeavor to communicate a basic message.

Numbers are not having this nonsense.  There is no “not correct.”   The message is a success or a failure.  They add up or they don’t.  They’ll indiscriminately pair with any other number, and even letters if you’re not careful, but if the outcome is not “right,” the whole equation is scrapped.  Besides, numbers can be so….negative.

 

 

What do u think re this topik?

See, even though the question above should be, “What do you think about this topic?”, you still get the basic message.

That’s why letters can be so fun

and numbers can be so buttoned up…

 

Don’t you hate when the finish line moves at the last minute?

She was supposed to have her last chemo on June 19.  I can’t believe it is here after learning about her diagnosis last Thanksgiving.

But, she has an infection, and couldn’t get her treatment.  She can’t get it until the infection is cleared up.

The cat lady t-shirt and dangling cat earrings I was going to send her as a, “Well you slayed that dragon,” present haven’t come yet, so, there’s that…

She doesn’t Snapchat me anymore with her trademark goofy optimism.  I think I already said that.

I’m copied on group blasts, like the one about the infection, but she doesn’t communicate with me directly at this time.  Does she feel sicker than usual?  Depressed?  Does she need someone pushy to insist on doing things for her?

I’m worried.

Shocker, I know.  Me.  Worried.

She isn’t acting like herself, but let’s face it, she’s a whole new tempered self.

What does a person act like when their marathon’s finish line keeps moving farther away?

 

 

 

Okay, new topic.

I had an energy healing session yesterday.

I thought it might be like a “reading,” with auras, and questions like, “Where does the Q name come in?”  Don’t get me wrong; I love me an insightful reading.  I told her I have a lot of autoimmune issues.  She said she could sense that about me.

It turned out to be so much new, interesting information, that I’m practically speechless.  As she asked a little bit about why I was there, what I wanted to accomplish, I, for the first time, regarded my life through a certain filter.

That filter was fear.

I was surprised I said that.  I grew up in a small town in the middle of the US, went west after college, then east for more college, and lots of other places.  Sometimes alone.  I never thought of myself as fearful in light of the challenges that presented — new cities, new customs, new people, new jobs, new schools…

But, I started kindergarten in that small town where my family and I had just moved.  All the kids seemed to be friends — and largely related.

I remember thinking when I received a sort of an icy reception, that I had to ditch myself, no offense, and do what I had to do to fit in.

This worked pretty well as time went on.  On the outside.  I had friends.  I got good grades.  I was a cheerleader eventually, played in the band, sang in the auditioned choir, had many suitors, and even gave a speech at my graduation.

I married someone I thought I could sit back and watch manage control things for us.  He was VERY good at that, in a VERY bad way.  As you know, if you’ve been here before.

When that all fell apart, all the other issues I put aside, from 6-years-old on, have come back for a second chance.  Not all at once.  More at the pace of a smoothly running deli line.

After hiding my true feelings all those years, and wearing different masks for different people and situations, the energy healer and I agreed that I now had a mess of physical manifestations on my hands — psoriasis, IBS-C, migraines, reproductive problems, weight management issues, low self-esteem, recurring depression (beginning at 9), a crazy sister (sorry sis), an estranged brother (sorry bro), super religious parents who didn’t really know me (not their fault), anger management issues, and on and on.  She told me our cells “remember” how to be liver cells, or brain cells, but they also remember our emotional paths and behave accordingly.  I think.  The phrase “quantum mechanics” was used.  At least quantum something.  It was a lot to take in.  I looked some of the stuff I couldn’t remember up on line.  It’s there.  Where have I been?

The actual healing session was shorter than planned because we talked so long.

All my body did was lie there, but my internal experience was that I was having some creative, exciting ideas, and some new insights.

She asked me a few questions.  She jostled a few body parts around.  She told me a few things my body was saying to her.  She gave me her card.  I paid her, we hugged, she told me I did great work today, and to email or text her with any questions.  I went back to my unfulfilling work.  Another issue.

I was jazzed for a couple of hours after that.  I felt better.

I am hopeful that this tool, like talk therapy, and tai chi, could really help me decide that I’m okay.   I could be myself.  My authentic self, is the buzz phrase.  I’m so trendy.  But, who the F am I?

Turns out, a pretty scared 6-year-old, who is trying to manage my grown up world from under the bed.

I’m trying to help her take steps to grow up.  I’m  here.  I can strive to be helpful.

Because ditching yourself is more than offensive, it’s dishonoring.  It depletes the faith you should have in yourself.

I can do better than that now.