A Punch In The Membership Card

Growing up I was never really a part of any clubs.  With the exception of band in Jr. High and Comedy Sportz in High School, I wasn’t a part of any sort of organized group or activity and honestly I haven’t really thought about that fact until this post.  In the grand scheme of things, it rarely matters if you were a Thespian, or a Delegate, or whatever the heck else kids sign up for in High School and identify themselves by.  These sorts of groups may be good for honing skills or amplifying a side of your talents and personality, but at the end of the day they’re not the clubs that matter.  The ones that matter are the ones that are lasting – the ones that form who you are – but don’t end up on a resume.  The Married Club.  The Parent Club.  The Adoptive Parent Club.  The College Graduate Who Doesn’t Use Their Degree Club.  Whichever.

I have several memberships to Clubs of this nature, but it’s the other category of membership that weighs a bit heavy at this moment – the memberships you don’t sign up for, but that recruit you anyway.  These are the Clubs whose members are never voluntary.  The ones whose numbers climb tear by broken tear, and diagnosis by diagnosis, or accident by accident.

Diagnosis by diagnosis.  Surgery by surgery.  And they are never.fair.

My family have recently been inducted into the Cancer Club.  None of us signed up.  None of us expected it really, but here it is.  We all now carry the cards of ones who’s loved one has a diagnosis.  She now has a new member of her team of Doctors – one who is now with us for life.  This man is one who will operate, who will test, who will give the phone calls bearing what we want to be hope.  He is the one who guides her treatment and tells us what to expect.  He is the one who punches our cards.

Melanoma.  Punch.

Lymph Nodes.  Punch.

Operation.  Punch.

Punch.  Punch.  Punch.

And like a two-year old, I want to thrash in the corner and kick and scream about how it isn’t fair.  But of course, it’s never fair.  It’s never just.  Cancer doesn’t choose its victims based on merit or judgement of life choices.  It doesn’t discriminate.  It is an equal opportunity destroyer.  My mother is one of the best people to ever grace this earth.  She is incapable of unkindness.  She is incapable of being unloving, or unforgiving, or any of the things where I fail miserably.  She loves, OH, she loves – and we scarcely muster enough to reciprocate to that which she deserves.

We are fortunate.  Her prognosis is good.  Her surgery, completed just hours ago today, was best-case-scenario and successful.  We caught it in time.  But still…

Punch.

And we can do nothing but pray and scream and plead with a God who ultimately may be in control, but who’s methods I can’t possibly understand.  I don’t understand.

The Blog On Day 279

I have been meaning to sit down and write for ages now but, just as the remaining thank-you notes stacked on my coffee table go to prove, I am a master at forgetful procrastination.  Unfortunately, at D-minus 1 day, it seems that our daughter may well follow in my procrastinating footsteps.

There have been many things learned during the last nine months – some of them positive, some amusing, some moderately horrifying, and most that have been quite unexpected.  Whatever classification I would file these experiences under, they’ve all been a part of a journey that has felt equal parts sprint and wounded crawl…and that should hopefully all pull together to form an end/new beginning this weekend.

For the most part (minus a brief stint in my 19th year) I’ve always wanted kids, and often daydreamed about the idea of being pregnant.  From my late teens onwards, I would imagine from time to time what it would be like to be expecting my first child.  Most of these scenes, though played out without the specific face of a companion (because I certainly was NOT that girl who pictured her wedding or who she’d marry, nor committed myself even in thought to the idea of marrying whoever happened to be around at any given time), were happy and bright and filled with attention focused on ME.  I loved the idea of getting physically bigger with justification, and pictured myself being the quietly graceful and loving wife of a man in the church, and blah blah blah…you get the picture.  On the flip side, in complete and somewhat incriminating honesty, there were also the daydreams that weren’t so cheery.  My lingering angsty teenager-ness would also conjure the less glorious visions of child incubating.  Everything from surprise pregnancies, to trauma, to tragedy involving myself, the faceless (or in these cases, sometimes with face) companion, or imagined child themselves was pictured and dwelt on with what I see now to be an odd sort of need for attention stemming from tragedy.  Maybe it’s the wiring from getting myself into moronic situations growing up, or a perceived lack of care unless things were in dire straights, but now that I’m realizing it – I’m not particularly fond of the fact that my most dwelt on daydreams were of awful things happening to me.  What.  The.  Heck.

Anyway, as is often the case (and it can’t just be in MY case, because statistically that’s just crap), I present a real-time example of “careful what you wish for”.  This pregnancy has been physically easy, but on every other level it has been a collision of sorts with elements of both my happy fantasies and my tragic daydreams fusing together to form what is quite a colorful story.  There are quite a few subjects I would love to cover, and maybe someday there’ll be the time and place for that, but for now here’s a few thoughts.

One of my biggest observations, and what has turned into my present soapbox from which I occasionally rant, is that pregnancy is one of the very few medical conditions wherein the general public feels the need and right to comment upon every facet of your physical being.  Seriously.  I cannot tell you how many random strangers (and very well-meaning, I will acknowledge) have approached me and made completely unsolicited comments on everything from my size and appearance to how their neighbor suffered an infant death due to the cord being wrapped around the child’s neck.  At times it can be comical to observe the irony of something that was conceived quite ahem, privately, become something so public, but most of the time it breeds for me a certain kind of frustration and awkwardness.  As it turns out, that want for excessive attention exists mostly within the confines of my imagination.  With the obvious exception of family, close friends, and other half, my physical being as a topic of discussion I rather distant.  My former boss used to make comments to guests in front of me about my size or state of “glowing”, and all I could do was politely smile and offer my most fabricated thanks when really I was fighting the urge to comment on the direct opposite condition represented in HER.  I happen to be tall and proportioned with a longer torso, so I don’t show nearly as much as those shorter or with more leggy proportions.  I can’t tell you how many people have accused me of having the dates wrong, or how I should be eating more because I can’t possibly be getting the baby enough if I’m THAT SIZE.  Clearly, people (and, hate to say it, mostly women who have yet to lose what they still term “baby weight”) would rather see you resemble a heifer and thereby “normal”, than normal sized and thereby “abnormal”.  But really…what gives people the permission to comment on my weight, size, appearance, and forecast my immediate future simply because I’m pregnant?  If I did the same thing to people who weren’t pregnant, I’d probably be in for some rather unpleasant reactions.  Why does incubating a baby make your physical and emotional self public domain for discussion?  Even if it CAN be perceived as flattering or positive?

In my case, it’s not just the physical side at play, and maybe that has something to do with my observations above.  For me, as most are aware, it took a while to be happy about anything involving the pregnancy.  That fact incurs a huge amount of guilt.  I feel guilt that the child we’re soon to meet wasn’t at first entirely welcome.  I never rejected her, but I definitely felt trapped at times because of the lack of control I had over the circumstances of her timing.  I feel guilt that she wasn’t planned, and I have incredibly dear friends who have been trying to have babies for anywhere from a couple up to over ten years.  For me, there were many, many, MANY, emotional and psychological factors to work through both in myself and in my relationship to get to a place of being happy about all this.  Thank God we are (mostly) at that place, but it certainly wasn’t automatic…and the commentary offered by the unsolicited general public certainly didn’t help.  I can’t even imagine what it must be like for women in worse situations than mine, because I am by no means under the delusion that I have it bad.  I don’t.  I am blessed.  I am beyond blessed by a supportive family, amazing friends, and a man who loves me.  We are more than provided for and compared to the majority of the world, we are rich on every level.  We have our own place to call home (and a very nice home it is, too), we have the luxuries of two cars, cable and internet, iPhones (these, though I at times like to think so, are not necessities.  They are almost obscene luxuries, in light of the majority of the world – not America – the WORLD’s economic status), even down to our ability to be picky about not just food but what food we want on the table.  We.  Are.  Blessed.  It is the situations that are all too abundant where people are not quite so blessed that have me shaking my head at society’s seeming need to comment on those of us who happen to be pregnant.  Unless the facts of a happy family are present and obvious, I can’t help but question the fairness of bombarding a woman with congratulations (You don’t know her situation.  She may not be ready to hear it…I wasn’t at first.), or questions (Weight gain may be a sore subject.  It was for me, even though in comparison to the vast majority, I didn’t gain much.), or even personal stories depending on the tragic components they contain…it’s all a bit much.  There seriously isn’t any other medical condition where so many of the general public feel the automatic permission to talk about something so personal.  I wonder at how this affects a potentially already traumatized woman – the one who’s pregnant by unfortunate circumstances, or who’s guy is no longer in the picture, or who’s planning on giving the baby up for adoption, or who knows there’s a health complication with the baby – really, the possibilities, though I realize a complete bummer, are endless.  How about waiting until the woman mentions it, thereby granting her permission, before commentary?  What about waiting until she mentions her dietary plan, as many women will on all ends of the spectrum, before commenting on her weight gain or lack thereof?  Why not wait for her to ask how your delivery was before offering that you nearly died on the table?  Even encouragement can be hard to hear when you’re not even ready (as I wasn’t) to hear that you’re pregnant.

I did mention that this has become a soapbox from which I rant, didn’t I?

In recognition of that, and on a gentler side, I do know that most people mean well.  I know that most people genuinely have the best of intentions and are more focussed on the excitement that babies bring than on the emotional stability of the woman carrying said baby.  I know.  I understand.  I even agree to some extent that pregnancies and babies should be treated with excitement and that this excitement is society’s natural welcoming process of a new life into the world.  I realize that I have, perhaps, an over sensitivity to this.  But…I also think that I can’t possibly be the only one…becuase statistically that’s just crap.

Aside from my soapbox, or the realization that perhaps excessive attention is not really my thing, or the unexpectedness of my reality, I really do know that I am incredibly fortunate and am excited for what the future has to bring.  God doesn’t make mistakes, and this is something I am only barely beginning to try accepting.  This pregnancy has brought many people back into my life in a more stable and frequent basis, and for that I am overwhelmingly thankful.  Unfortunately, it has caused one or two to exit stage left – something that honestly still hurts – but for the most part, I have never felt so supported or aware of being loved.  It is quite humbling.  Though I am scared to do so (because a cynical mind is a terribly difficult thing to reprogram), I do look forward to what we are about to experience with this new life.  I know that this baby was no accident, in some ways not regardless but rather especially because of her timing.  I also know that no matter what it is that I’m still afraid of, everything is still ok and under control.

We have quite the adventure ahead of us.

The Blog That Starts The Story

Somewhere within the first week of February, one of the guys who works in my building came by for a visit.  He’s our resident Eye Candy – one who my boss mentioned the first day I started here over 18 months ago and who was described just as “you’ll know when you see him”.  True enough.  The moment the man who we shall refer to as J walked in the door, I knew this was our resident hot guy.  As it turns out, J’s also a remarkably fun and overall fantastic person to match.  He married last year and somewhere during conversation we discovered that I also went to school with his half-sister back in the day.  Anyway, the relevance of this person was pretty trivial upon meeting and up until the day of his visit in February.  That day in February, however, is a day that will always be highlighted as the start of a different chapter in my life.  No, this probably isn’t going where some might assume.  It’s way more interesting than that. 

The day in question, he walked into our lounge and sort of lingered for a minute.  He was looking at some of the product, but in that not really I’m just wasting time sort of way.  I was standing by the desk and he caught my attention and sort of gestured for me to follow him.  We walked to the other side of the room, where he stopped and said “I had a dream about you last night.”.  Now, this is random for many reasons.  We don’t often see each other – we only really talk when he stops by my office for something.  He’s married – so obviously there’s the “what are you doing dreaming about ME?” question.  And other than that…I dunno.  Just random.  Anyway, he continued to tell me what the dream was about. 

“I had a dream that you were pregnant.”

He continued, and yes I’m paraphrasing some because it’s been a while.  “I had a dream that you were pregnant, and A (his wife) and I had got you a gift.  So, I went by your house to drop it off, but you weren’t there so I left it at the door.  I drove away and then remembered that you hadn’t told your boyfriend yet and was like CRAP I just messed up!” 

apparently he told his wife, which is something I was completely stoked to hear (because men being honest with their women even about trivial nonsense earns huge respect points with me) and she also thought it was a bit odd that he dream about something and someone so random.  I didn’t quite know what to say.  At that time, I think I was about two days late (an overshare, perhaps, but relevant to the story) which really is nothing of marked interest based on my track history.  Even when he told me about the dream, I didn’t think for more than a second that he could be right.  After he told me the story, he asked “So, there’s nothing I should know about, then?” to which I laughed and responded with “Not that I know of, but if there is you’ll be the first to know!”. 

Fast forward a day or two, and I’m in that same office preparing for an off-site event.  We had set aside a large amount of product (I work in a large medical company who also sells high-end skin care products – most of which are liquid based and therefore heavy) to be taken to a meeting we were supposed to be present at.  My perpetual want to be buffer than the average chick caused me to overload a massive plastic storage bin with product and proceed to lift it in a really awkward manner which caused an instant pull in my back.  Go.  Me.  I spent the rest of the day, not in excruciating pain, but being careful none-the-less.  Thing is, this was a work-related injury…which means workers comp.  To make a longish story short, my company dragged its feet on the paperwork process and it wasn’t until a full week later that I went to see a doctor.  Honestly, there was little need to do so, but in light of minor seeming injuries propensity to become major pains later I thought it best to err on the side of caution.  I made it to the doctors, where they did all the normal range of motion tests and endless amounts of questions.  Near the end of my visit with the doctor, he mentioned doing X-Rays and prescribing muscle relaxants and pain killers.  He was just at the door when he asked:

“Is there any chance you’re pregnant?”

In truth, I was at least 10 days late at that point – something that was NOT overtly normal for me.  Still, though, I thought there was little chance.  I figured if I was I would just Know.  Somehow, my intuition would have told me, right?  I hadn’t been feeling super sick in the mornings, nor was my chest any more sore than it’d been in the past.  Sure, there had been some unusual pains in my abdomen - but I was late, so I hadn’t thought much of it.  I answered with “Well, I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t think it’s likely”. 

“We’ll need to check and make sure.” was his reply, and I followed him out of the room and across the hall where I was to leave a “specimen” for them to test. 

I returned to the room and sat there playing out what was about to come in my head.  Neither sets of words would have been overly surprising at this point, but neither one I found preferable.  In the past, I’ll admit there were errant thoughts that had thought the “What If” of finding myself in this situation weren’t too unappealing.  The picture of babies and families and fuzzy warm thoughts had far outweighed the obvious down side of doing things out-of-order.  In times past, I had thought the guy I was with was upstanding enough to be able to get by with and the scenes I entertained in my head were mostly that of happiness.  This reality had (obviously) never been the case, and for the most part I’d eventually been thankful that each cycle came and went on schedule.  This time, as I was faced with the possibility that this time might just be it…I wasn’t filled with happy fuzzy warm thoughts.  I was blank.  Equal elements of tepid okayness and mild horror played at the periphery of my heart.  See, this time around, I wasn’t in a happy romantic bubble – my bubble had been popped.  The person I thought had matured enough to not be what he was in past years had turned out to be EXACTLY what he was in past years.  He lied to me.  Repeatedly.  About things that were not small, or trivial, or inconsequential.  They were things that hurt like flaming swords plunging through my chest.  My little world of trust had been shredded and I no longer pictured the same things I once did, and much much worse – I no longer trusted. 

I sat there in on the cold, hard, black plastic of the chair and waited.  The top I was wearing was one of my favorites – a long fitting, charcoal and black top from Express with wide horizontal stripes.  From the front I was shocked it didn’t make me look chubby, and from the side it made me look impossibly thin.  My elbows rested on my black slack encased thighs, and I watched my toes tap from side to side in my heels that desperately need either replacing or repair.  About five minutes passed before the doctor gave a quick knock and opened the door. 

“Well, we got a positive test result.”

Blank.

“We actually re-did the test three times, and as you can see here…” he said, while lining up each telltale strip next to each other along with the guide for reading them, “they’re all the same.” 

He must have observed my obvious blankness, because he then proceeded to check the expiration dates just to make sure they really were saying what they were saying.  Sure enough, they were current.  And sure enough, it woudl seem I was pregnant.  I remained in an odd state of blank, and the doctor became increasingly awkward as he backed out of the room.  He mentioned getting it confirmed by a blood test, and how he couldn’t advise me on what to do next, and probably some more stammered things that weren’t overly surprising given society’s tendancy to “choose” the fate of their unborn children.  They changed the prescriptions to merely Tylenol while I sat in a similarly cold and hard chair outside, and called my family doctor to order blood tests to confirm. 

I’m not sure if it was while I was in the room or while I sat outside, but the whole scene playing out suddenly became remarkably familiar.  Then I remembered why.  A week earlier, I’d dreamt that I had to go to the doctor.  I didn’t know why I was there, but for whatever reason, they were forcing me to take a test.  I told them they were crazy and that they were wasting their time – there’s no way I was pregnant.  Even so, I dutifully took the test and minutes (well, seconds in dream time) later I was looking at three lined up positive tests. 

Dreams are funny creatures, aren’t they? 

The moments that followed – leaving the doctor’s office, sending my friend a SOS text, arriving back at my office, telling my boss (through a numb face and an abnormally high-pitched voice), then leaving for the blood test, being evasive with the boyfriend on the phone, speculating the odds of a false positive with myself and my boss, scouring the internet for the likelihood of a false positive, still not admitting that it really was positive, meeting my friend for dinner, and driving home…all lead up to the final home pregnancy test that I watched turn to positive on my bathroom floor.  I took a picture. 

The next day, I took the day off work and called my mother.  She was about to take the dogs out walking but agreed to wait for me to get to the house.  I sat on the floor of the Quiet Room, while she remained on the sofa. 

“Yeah, um, I’m pregnant.”  I said, while looking at the fascinating green-ness of the sofa material. 

“I thought you might be.”  was her reply.  We talked for well over an hour.  The details, though important to me, aren’t necessary for sharing here.  Suffice it to say, my mother is amazing.  She wasn’t surprised because Mom tends to just Know things – she always has.  It was a remarkably inconvenient feature in High School.  But this time, I was glad.  It paved the way for the love and acceptance that came.  And it paved the way as she told my father and brothers later that day. 

I had wanted to tell Brian in person, but his work schedule had thus far prevented it.  That night, I debated with myself and with the previously mentioned friend about the appropriateness and timeliness of possible information telling.  I didn’t want to be overly dramatic and “WE NEED TO TALK NOW!”, but my friend assured me that an impending child probably warranted a bit of justified urgency.  I waited until I knew he would be well into work and not around his phone before sending him a text: “Hi luv.  Regardless of how late you’re off (and I know it’ll be past midnight at least) please give me a call.  I need to see/talk to you tonight.”

“K” was his response, about three hours later.  At around 1am that night/morning, I sat cross-legged facing him on his bed.  In much the same way I articulated it to my mother, I told him.  His expression was unchanged from the same understanding look he had had from the moment I arrived. 

“I thought you might be.”, was his verbal reply.  I don’t remember what those first words were that we exchanged, but I do remember that it was a few minutes later when he said “I guess we’re having a baby, then.” that I cried.  I folded in half, my head resting on his  knee, and cried.  He held me for a while and said all the small worded things one is supposed to say.  When I recovered, I sat up and wiped my face on my sleeve, aware that my face was probably a world of melty by now. 

“Funny how one day can turn your whole world upside down, huh?” I said.

“Maybe it’s not upside down.  Maybe it’s the beginning.”

The beginning it is. 

On Saturday, we’ll be at 12 weeks.  I’m not sure what things will look like down the road, and there’s much more here to be shared and discussed, but for now…this is the beginning.

The Blog That Reeks Of Humanity

On several occasions, I’ve given a disclaimer at the beginning of a blog.  Some warn that what follows will be an overshare, or that there’s a chance of strong language, or that I know sense will no be made follows in what, or that the subject matter may be such a bummer that the reader be advised to remove all sharp objects or strong drugs from immediate reach, or the latest previous disclaimer that I know what I going to write be wrote bad.  Like woah.

Today, it’s a disclaimer that what follows is likely to be overly honest, overly personal, and probably not too uplifting.  That said…

I’ve held off on writing anything that means anything for a while because to be perfectly candid, life hasn’t been so great.  I realize that in the wake of the Haiti Earthquake, my problems really are quite pitiful compared to the gravity of their situation.  Still.  Being able to see that someone is struggling in ways that I can’t even comprehend doesn’t mean I don’t struggle.  Knowing that the hurt and devastation they are going through certainly far trumps my own, doesn’t make mine cease to be.  With few other outlets, this is the one I usually turn to when things go pear shaped.  I’ve avoided writing because things have been messed up under the surface, even when the surface has appeared happy.  I’ve avoided writing because I’m afraid of talking about being happy and having it taken away.  I’ve avoided writing because my pride exists and this need to appear put together and polished still exists too.  Today, I’m writing because regardless of the surface or whats underneath, or happiness, or pride, or needs, or whatever – I’ve always valued honesty above all things.  So, in all honesty, here it is. 

I’ve been in an odd limbo with the guy I’m currently with since we officially broke up back in September.  We were really only apart for a week, then were together occasionally, did REALLY badly during October and when I left for my trip to Minnesota that same month I sincerely thought I wouldn’t talk to him again.  He went on his own trip to South Carolina the day I returned from mine…and when he got back…things were different.  Things were awesome.  In truth, they’ve been awesome ever since.  There’s been moments of hurt and frustration, but for the most part – he’s been amazing.  All that said, we haven’t officially been back “together” since the original break.  We’ve been heading in that direction, but haven’t put a title on it for one reason or another…reasons on both my side and his. 

That’s a brief (and incredibly edited and abridged) overview of Us.  Now flash back a few years and we’re back to a younger, dumber me.  This topic is probably going to seem a bit from left field, but it’ll all come full circle and make sense shortly, so bear with me.  Back then when I met a guy and he was spoken for, I didn’t purposely persue him, but I didn’t do anything to prevent it either.  Yes, it bothered me to be in morally questionable and socially unacceptable (though, it breaks my heart to see how near-acceptable these things are becoming) circumstances, but it was usually the result of my over empathizing with some guy’s sob story that got me hooked and then stuck.  I found myself often listening to men talk about how unhappy they were in their relationships and how they weren’t appreciated, and were nagged, and didn’t love the girl they were with, and this and that and whatever, and each time I saw something redeeming in one of them, I automatically looked down on the supposedly at-fault-female and sided with the guy.  On two occasions, this sort of misguided affection led to relationships with men who I had no right to call my own.  One was married.  One was not.  I was clearly at fault along with them, and there are no words adequate enough to express my remorse and sorrow over the pain I know I caused all involved. 

At the time, once I woke up and saw the guy for the selfish douche he really was, I was out and done with contact.  When I heard that the women stayed with or went back to these guys, I looked down on them and often saw them as fools for staying with men who didn’t value them enough to stay faithful.  Like I said…one was married and had no excuse.  The other, he pursued me while in the relationship and then things reached their height when he and the girl were “on a break”.  Both, I left.  Both women I resented for their attitude towards me, feeling that their anger should have been aimed more at the asshats that put them through hell in the first place.  And both men I was bitter at for “getting away with it” and seeming to still win in the overall picture. 

Over two years ago for one, and a year and three months later for the other…and my feelings are rather different – because now I get to be one of those women. 

Ever since I walked away from that sort of stupidity, I’ve feared for any relationship I may enter in the future.  I’ve felt like karma (because “you reap what you sow” is more wordy, not because I actually believe in “karma”) was lying in wait to kick me in the ass.  Do I deserve it?  To some extent, probably.  Did I expect it?  Yep.  But did I think better of this guy and hope he wasn’t just like them…yeah.  I did.  As it turns out, I’m the girl who’s guy went gallivanting while we were technically broken up.  Of course, he had the right to do whatever he wanted – of that I’m not arguing.  That doesn’t change the fact that this feels shitty.  It also doesn’t change the fact that he lied about it…and that’s the big issue. 

A friend of mine told me about his actions, and as a result I felt it necessary to have a conversation about it and right the heck now.  That was Monday.  We talked about it.  We talked about us.  In the end, we finished the conversation as something we haven’t officially been since September – Us. 

Yes, I’m that girl that still stays with the guy.  Whether it’s misguided or foolish or not, it is what it is.  If the last few months of awesome hadn’t happened, there’s no way in hell I’d have stayed.  I hate that it took going through the same thing to understand her – but the girl I looked down on – I get it.  I understand not wanting to give someone up simply because they proved to be human.  I understand loving someone enough to forgive (even when the wrong really wasn’t directed at you) and move forward.  I understand the kind of love that looks at the good in someone and sees it as worth holding out for.  Girl I met once who understandably hated me – I get it. 

So here we are, full circle.  I’m in an odd place with this, really, and it shifts from hour to hour.  I know I’m quieter.  I know a large part of me is sad.  It’s another part of humanity that I hoped was less consistent across the spectrum of men and women.  The neat thing about this is something that I know few will understand…and that’s simply understanding.  Seeing another facet of life, going through something that grows and changes you as a person, and something that has completely lifted any lingering (of which there was little, really, but knowing what it was at the time…) animosity towards those people from my past…I’m almost glad.  I’m not glad for what he did, but I’m glad for the timing of finding out.  If I had known immediately, then I’m quite certain he would no longer be in my life.  If I had found out even a month or two ago…probably the same thing.  Now, in this time, with everything as it is – it’s different. 

Sometime it takes horrible things in life to understand the people around us – to understand life.  And sometimes it takes horrible things to realize another level of love – the kind that lets go of the past, and embraces the future.  I don’t know what tomorrow looks like, and a part of me is scared.  God is still God.  We’re still here.  And somehow, things won’t always feel this way.

The Blog That’s Angsty and Soused

It’s 10:37pm on a Tuesday night.  I have a glass of orange soda and citrus vodka on my nightstand.  My eyes are killing me because I have been putting off going to the Doctor for new lenses for probably near 4 months now.  Oh, and the Angels just got their asses handed to them in a 10-to-1 loss of which I was present to witness.

Rock on.

For several reasons, the above paragraph (not the sentence immediately below it, just to be stupidly clear) has material that is likely grounds for concern.  For one, it’s nearly 11-O-Clock and I should probably be sleeping since I do have work at some point tomorrow.  Two – the whole procrastinating on taking care of ones eyesight thing is pretty lame when considering the simplicity of such an action and the immediate gratification that said action would cause by not feeling as if there was a coral reef lodged in ones eyeball should be motivation enough to take care of the situation…and yet…?  Three should have been two by chronological order but I felt it best to leave the random fact that there’s not only alcohol on my nightstand (wierd), but that it’s mixed with…orange…soda…what?  Really?!

Four: I’ve never commented on the outcome of an Angels game, but this one was horrific and to be perfectly honest, I’m beginning to take their loses personally when I’m present to see them.  I’m not even going to go into the ratio of losses I’ve been present for…it’s just depressing and makes me self conscious.

It’s been a strange day, and before that a strange monday, and while we’re at it a gruesome weekend to match.  To be fair, Saturday was amazing for the most part – it was my own idiot self that decided that too much truth serum (read: C₂H₅OH) was reason enough to open my mouth and let words pour forth, thereby slicing my awesome day into bloody ribbons.  Oh, we still made a good night of it in some regards, but the next morning is the state of mind I have been having trouble departing from.  It’s not even that I said anything so terrible – it’s that awful feeling of being exposed and since the conversation was interrupted and never resolved…exposed is where I remain.

I don’t like being transparent, really.  It’s a horribly vulnerable place to be when you leave yourself from your very core at the mercy of another human being’s reaction.  For this one, I have done this on many occasion and rightly so up unto a point.  Now…I’m not sure what to make of things and instead of fostering intimacy (not like that) I feel like I’m gutting myself and then quickly building up walls in its place where before there were none.  Perhaps it is right that I feel this way…perhaps not.  The problem really isn’t this person or the circumstances of the weekend or the past two days or any of that – it’s the all too familiar place I have found myself in, only this time, I don’t have the “well, obviously” way to find my way out.

I feel like I’m floundering.  I’m trying to hang on to two very obvious things that I am anguished to let go of.  One of them I’m not willing to let go of ever for any reason, but that isn’t making me feel any better.  The other…well…that is what it is and I have little control over its outcome.  Half the time I don’t know which way is up and when I do, I never feel like I’ve reached the surface of the water under which I’m drowning.  I’m tired of feeling disappointed and let down – both my man and God.  I hate that I have had expectations exceeding anything more than what I have experienced so far and want to punch every specific hope for the future in the face for having the audacity to present its self to me.  My mind can spew forth answers that have been ingrained in me since childhood, but my heart can’t find the strength to latch on and go with it.  I hate that I let myself think that situational anomalies meant anything more than random chance in their timing.  And I hate that I have to censor the specific content here so that few if any will grasp what I’m getting at.

My reality at the moment is rather humbling.  I have again found myself in a place that I once pitied in another…a trend that is strikingly consistent in my life.  With that realization there comes little more than sadness.  There’s no “ah ha!” moment, here…but as much as I hate to hope, there has to be hope for one soon.