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Catabolic hearts and Candy Corn pencils

I spent last night with a few tears – and like a child in need of comfort, I also grabbed a blanket and my bear.

Yesterday brought joy and sadness, love and aloneness, hope and fear.  And sometimes, it’s all just too much to process.

It wasn’t due to any one thing in particular – things build over time to overflowing and when there is no outlet – blanket and bear come into play.

I joke about saying too much – about not editing myself.  But the fact is, I keep so much inside that it hurts sometimes.

You know when someone notices that you’re out of sorts and hugs you?  That dam that bursts because of that hug?

I feel like life (and, yes, me too) constantly plugs up my dam with no relief in sight.

When I desperately need a hug.

And to be heard.

And seen.

I posted this on my Facebook wall this afternoon – after a day of feeling unwell physically, but mostly overwhelmed emotionally.

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I did this because I felt safe putting it there, I am very selective about who my ‘friends’ are on Facebook.  People that know me and ‘get me’ are privy to my mostly quirky, sometimes funny and often odd status updates.

I don’t have friends I don’t trust.

What I really wanted to do was write about it here though.  So I’m going to.

I have a lot on my plate and on my mind.  A lot weighing on my heart also.

I find it necessary, again, to reiterate that I am a happy person – and a grateful person – and a loving person.  And I know what is important in life.

But I am also a human person.

I used to think it was not okay to permit myself to feel my sadness.  That I was somehow being ungrateful by doing that.

I know not to wallow in it – not to become melancholic – but it is necessary to feel.  Denying myself permission to acknowledge sadness or fears is not healthy.  And there is no growth when one does not acknowledge, assess and address a feeling or emotion.

Still, lately I’ve pent everything up.  Putting one foot in front of the other and plugging away at life, while I tackled real and imagined problems alone.

The soul has this amazing ability to take a lot of crap from us – but has its limit.  I reached mine.

Then I came home to mail.

Real mail.

Not just an envelope either – a small package.

It was from a dear friend in California (she actually taught me how to do what I do for a living over 14 years ago!)

Inside – was this letter, the sweet pencil and a bag of Halloween candy:

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Here I was questioning whether I am worthy of love – and I receive this sweet, sweet gift.  That she knows me so well – that something reminded her of me – that she made the effort to go the extra mile and purchase the item and tell me that she thought of me … such love.

And to want to feel connected to me.

What a blessing to have such friends.

I’ll take the pencil to work with me tomorrow and put it somewhere I can look at it as a reminder.

And because it touched me so – my heart can’t possibly be in a catabolic state.  It’s still capable of processing love.

It’s just scared.

Musings from the Laundromat – Giving and Receiving

First I’d like to thank Butters for only waking me up 4 times in the night.

Then, I would like to thank my weekend alarm (set when Nic was still a young school boy, you know … a few weeks ago) that went off at 2:16 am.

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It had been set for something he was going to that I had to wake him up for. What was it?? … I can’t think of it.

Anyway, in trying to turn off said alarm, I:

1) woke the rare sleeping dog

2) knocked my phone off of the nightstand, and

3) sent my glass of kiwi-watermelon drink flying – only to land in between the bed and the wall.  A nice tight space for cleaning up.

I don’t know if that is the actual flavor by the way … I’m guessing based on the portion of my carpet that is now a lovely kiwi-watermelon color.

Heard my son up several times in the night too – and when I left the house this morning, he was rocking moves like Jagger.

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A sleeping Jagger, but moving like him none the less.

Speaking of moves, yesterday I modeled a dress for a good cause.  CASA is a program that benefits abused and neglected children in the area.

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It was a lot of fun to meet the other models and attendees.  

It was also a little hilarious to be half-naked getting ready in a room closed off from the event, whilst facing a huge, wall sized window facing the river.

I don’t think any of us really cared.  The people going by on their jet skis probably were going by too fast to notice.  (Not sure about the people on the beach.)

I noticed some things though.  

I noticed that I didn’t have the fears I had in my 20’s or 30’s to stand in a slip and a bra in public view.  

And I noticed that I thought the other ladies,  in all shapes and sizes were beautiful.  Just as they were.

They were even more beautiful to me because of why they were there.  Women giving their time, wanting to do what they could to help such an amazing non-profit organization.

I refer to my growth again as a lot of things are changing.  44 has been pretty amazing so far. 

It’s so wonderful to be comfortable in my skin, comfortable in my head and full of hope and joy and promise. 

Life is amazing.  And if you’re patient enough, and do the next right thing, it turns out life has gifts you didn’t even know were coming.

I’m still processing  this.

But, as someone very special to me said recently, it is nice to sometimes  receive after all the time we gave. 

Yet, I can never forget that there is nothing worth receiving unless I keep giving.

Writers Remorse

I’ve been pretty careful about skirting around some issues for the purpose of respecting people in my life – or protecting people in my life.  This has been a little frustrating, but par for the course of ‘going public’ with my blog.

Originally I wanted a spot I could write anonymously (other than my journal). A venue where I didn’t have to edit myself.  I had hoped to share and help others with some issues I haven’t addressed yet.  It is what it is though, and I do have to edit myself. 

Yesterday, after my post about my son I felt pretty rotten.  I shared my concerns with a writer friend who told me not to edit it – to stick with what my gut told me to write.

And he was right.  I wrote from my heart and from the place I was in right that second.

So consider this an amendment of sorts.

My son is kind-hearted, funny, loving, intelligent, and good.

My frustrations yesterday had to be looked at.  Examined.  Because the fact that I was having a physical reaction to something that wasn’t even intended to piss me off, definitely deserves to be contemplated.

If I have learned anything in the past few years, it’s that most emotions stem from fear.

I am scared. 

I am fearful that I haven’t done enough, taught enough, instilled enough and the clock is ticking on my sons childhood.

He will be 18 in March of next year. 

I want him to say ‘thank you’ when people do kind things for him.  I want him to see someone obviously up to their elbows in work and offer a helping hand.  I want him to be aware of his surroundings and make sensible choices.  I want my son to know and show gratitude.

I can want these things for him until I’m blue in the face – but I can’t make them so.

I have tried to teach by example.  When I missed his first step, his first laugh, a school assembly, I hoped at least he would grow up knowing the importance of hard work. Knowing that providing for your family is important. 

I’m demonstrative with my gratitude, my love, my compassion.  I want him to see those things in action and have them become a part of who he is.

I’ve never beat him, never told him he was less than and never has he gone without a meal or an article of clothing that he required. 

My son has had the best of me and my time is almost up.

He’s going to be in the worlds kitchen while it’s population is carving, cleaning, juggling tasks.  And I don’t want him behaving the way he did in mine.

I tell myself ‘God doesn’t have grandchildren’.  I also remind myself that it took me a long time before I knew half of what I know today. 

I guess it all boils down to that age-old wish.  I don’t want him to make my mistakes.

But this isn’t about me. 

I could have handled yesterday a lot better. So obviously, at 43 I still have a great deal to learn.  Why be so hard on a 17-year-old?