Reflections On a Chicken

When my grandmother was a young teen in Poland, she was rounded up like an animal and thrown in a cattle car. They stopped at Auschwitz, which in Polish is known as Oświęcim, and were all commanded to disembark. There were two lines. One to the camp, one to the showers.

 For some inexplicable reason, my grandmother was told to get back on the cattle car and they went over the border into Germany.

Hannah, now known as 'Anna' was sent to a private farm which had been seized by the Third Reich for its produce to feed the troops. Grandma was assigned to be a field hand. This didn't go over well because her job was to walk a giant picnic basket for miles to a specific field for lunch and then return and repeat it for dinner.

 She spent so much time meandering through woods and on roads and then talking with the boys and men in the fields that they never got dinner and she'd return home after curfew which put the farmer and his family in jeopardy because spies, officials, and officers were always around.

They tried to put her in charge of the chicken coops.

 One day an official demanded they all line up outside and she was to count all the chickens and return to him, waiting there outside. Each chicken, you see, was also a displaced worker, of sorts. Any that didn't provide the expected number of eggs would become a meal for some soldiers or officials. Either way, work or die.

For all the chickens this farm had, the family, and none of the workers were able to enjoy eggs much because everything went to the military.

My grandmother had to learn how to do two more things at once: ride a bicycle, and go into town with it, with all the day's eggs in a basket to be relinquished to a military depot.

So Grandma began counting chickens and reported back to the official (who also served as the telegram messenger) and the farmer, who had an affection for her because she was quite young and he had only sons, both of whom were serving on the front lines.

She told them there were so many chickens and seven roosters.

The official asked her why were the roosters not counted as chickens and it was explained to him that roosters could not lay eggs, only fertilize them to make more chickens, so they served a different purpose. He was satisfied, told the farmer how many eggs were expected daily and departed.

Soon after he was out of sight, the farmer said, Anna! Why did you tell him we have seven roosters! You know we have only two! She told him since the official didn't know the difference between roosters and chickens, they could now have more eggs because five of those roosters were in fact, chickens. So they got to eat eggs, albeit clandestine, after all.

The farmer's wife grew to love Anna. The woman had a seizure disorder and was homebound. She asked her husband if  perhaps my grandmother could be like a nurse to her. He was afraid of spies, and initially and reluctantly denied her request.

Anna, meanwhile, was learning to ride a bike. And carry an open basket of around a hundred eggs in it.
The first day of her several-miles long trek, she fell into a ditch and arrived at the depot covered in dirt with nothing but eggshells and tears. They let her go, and the farmer decided they might want to rethink the nurse thing.

However, there was another snag. No one was allowed such a luxury and this family had no influence. So they came up with something else. They would make her a kitchen maid and teach her to cook (and speak) German. This worked out splendidly and she enjoyed cooking and serving their meals while tending to the wife, who she called Mother. My grandmother's own mother died in childbirth along with twins, when my grandmother was only three, and was tossed between sisters not much older than her, her father having died of tuberculosis, so she had no mother-love, except from the farmer's wife.

Grandma ate at table with them. The telegram messenger spy arrived one evening at dinnertime and he was stunned to find her sitting there. He raged and demanded to know why she wasn't eating in the barn with the other animals (commonly, barns were connected to farmhouses) and the farmer explained that she didn't even understand German, so couldn't know what was discussed, plus prepared all their meals, so it was only fair.

He was reported and had to go to town to pay a fine and receive a stern warning.

He did it again when they discovered five roosters were indeed chickens.

Eventually the war ended and my grandmother was invited to stay with them. Their son who was against the war but drafted anyway had wanted to marry her but he was and would remain MIA. Their other son who was a hardcore nazi survived and made life hell for her, whom he called an outlander. She had met my grandfather by then, a casanova from another farm, and would marry him and find their own way, so they all parted tearfully.

When the Red Cross appeared to find new homes for all the displaced workers, they discovered that all the countries required the men to go first for six months to a year and then could send for their families. My grandfather was all for it but my grandmother, now a mother of two little girls, was completely against it and she sabotaged his every attempt at going to Australia, New Zealand, and Canada. Finally, a country opened up that would take entire families, even those unsponsored, and that's how they found their way to the United States.

Grandma could grow anything. Out of necessity and at times in Europe when she was starving, she would go down to the river and eat weeds to fill her stomach, so the moment they were able to, she planted a small potted garden and then after saving money, they purchased a house where she grew a larger garden. I would see her take a snipping from any plant and it would flourish with her love.

Many times when money was tight  my siblings and I would eat sandwiches made with white bread and beefsteak tomatoes grown in her garden. In the city she could not have a chicken, so she was content with dogs and two cats, both named Peter.

Many years later, she was a great grandmother, three times over, and the military base where my mother worked, closed. She was transferred to an army depot in Pennsylvania which delighted my parents and my grandmother. My parents bought a small house and hired a contractor to make half of it a studio apartment for Grandma. She had her own little place, separated from my parents by only a door, and a beautiful garden to grow and spend all spring and summer in and that's where she would be found whenever I'd visit.

She bought a poly-resin chicken and painted it yellow and sky blue with red polka dots and proudly displayed it in the garden.

My father was fined, received a stern warning about distasteful garden ornaments, and we all went to the administrator to fight for the chicken.

The chicken stayed.

Now Grandma is in a nursing home. After my dad's stroke, I was unable to take care of his needs, hers, and my own. I barely took care of physical needs like her insulin injections but was emotionally drained and she had no one to talk to all day except Wonton and my dad's cat, Schnookie. She watched a lot of crime shows and Walker Texas Ranger. I knew she was lonely. I knew I was fading away myself and was too isolated and after coming up with no help from state agencies, decided I had to leave.

My uncle got involved and he and my aunt found a nice assisted living facility and once again she flourishes. I asked her for the chicken, and she said, of course, but there was a lot of family drama and I needed to make a quick getaway with Wonton. I packed everything I could into my Outback wagon, my aunt and uncle took Schnookie and Grandma's parakeet, and Wonton and I took off for a 4000 mile roadtrip.

That was in July.

 In October I returned to another area in Pennsylvania on another lake and am unspeakably happy except making ends meet financially is a challenge. In some ways I love the challenge. And friends upon friends upon friends are helping out in so many creative ways.

 Nothing I do or have experienced hasn't been an adventure but there are days that I won't eat not because there's no food, but because I'm so afraid there won't be food in the future or my electricity will be shut off so I meditate and take deep breaths.

 I call my dad in his nursing home and we chat. I call Grandma sometimes when she isn't socializing in the lounge. I text my aunt and uncle and thank them for taking care of things. I thank God a hundred times a day and chant, I am grateful, I am grateful, I am grateful and I am.

But still, no matter how positive your outlook, or looking back you see your mistakes and vow to never make them again or give yourself a break and say, those weren't mistakes, those were lessons that needed to be learned, you sit down and weep over some colossal losses. And loneliness. And are you ever going to make good on your debts.

You hear the couple upstairs making love and you aren't jealous at all but happy that there is love in the place you dwell but you ask God to wrap His arms around you just this once as you cling to a stuffed black lamb and fall asleep with tears counting your blessings and telling yourself tomorrow is a new start. Look what Grandma survived.

Yesterday I could clearly see my little dieffenbachia is not doing so well. I talk to my plants and tell them they're alive and flourishing but this one is feeling a bit down. No matter what I do, it's fading. So I do some research and the experts weigh in: immediately re-pot in good soil.

Only problem is, I'm days away from having my electricity cut-off. I have one emergency gift card I'm saving for gas for the car, and a Starbucks card. I'm not asking my friends for another penny, they've given so much and have their own needs. I'm screwed. Think, think, think.

I drive to the area I lived with my dad for something and make a call to a friend who owns a garden center on the off-chance he can spare some potting soil and two little pots (the pothos needs re-potting too), I don't care if they're cracked, I'll take them, but I just get voice mail. And then I think, the chicken.

I'm in the area. It's time for me to go back to the house and get that chicken. I don't care who the hell thinks it's an ugly lawn ornament. It's taking a place of honor in my living room because it represents determination and endurance and GOOD that it's flamboyant and plastic! I don't care if I have to dig under six feet of snow, I'm getting that chicken and I drive through security and pull into the driveway and sitting there in the sun is the chicken. And a bag of potting soil. And two flower pots.

Picking up one of the pots, I see that it was one of the centerpieces from my wedding reception. I painted over thirty with my sister-in-law a few nights before my wedding and I took them to my grandmother and we bought flats and flats of impatiens to fill them with. On each pot I painted the words, Let Love Grow.

And I bought stones to scatter around the tables at the reception and painted words on them too. And in that one pot was one of those stones and it said, Reflect.

My eyes filled with tears and I thought of the promise of love and a new marriage and where it all went horribly wrong but I knew with all my heart I had tried my best. And now, starting over was the hardest of the hardest things I'd ever done in my life and I realized that 'reflect' wasn't just about looking back.

'Reflect' is also about looking at myself and seeing how far I've come and what is yet to come. Promise, and joy, and yes, love, real true love. 'Immediately re-pot in good soil' is excellent advice.

And the funny thing is, that my prayers were answered that I got that potting soil and two pots

And Grandma's chicken.

Guilty Pleasure Confessions

As a card-carrying second-generation Italian-American raised ten years in an old neighborhood where everyone married everyone else (my dad married the girl across the street, my aunt married the guy who lived next door to my dad, etc.) and then raised in another town with a very large Italian population, it was a very big deal who you went to for your beef, pork, sausage--oh the sausage wars, and my dad's side of the family owned a chain of butcher stores, so woe to the neighbor who shopped anywhere else---canned crushed or whole tomatoes (Tuttoroso if you knew what was good for you) and God forbid if you EVER were seen in the supermarket with jarred sauce in your cart or at the cashier. You were a BAD ITALIAN. 
 
I didn't know what the inside of a McDonalds was until I was 10. I didn't even know what Spaghetti-O's were until I was 15. My Irish best friend would eat it everyday for lunch where we'd eat at her grandma's a block away from school. I'd sit there with my pb&j which I guess is universal. 
 
My saving grace is that my mom was Polish. They never let her forget the shame of not being born Italian, but she rebelled in her own ways and with her mother's help, because her parents owned the house we lived in, across the street from Italian Nonna. So yeah, Mom learned to shop right, and cook Italian like an Italian but we got lots of Polish food too and my Polish grandma could strike fear into the heart of grown men (and did) so no one would stand up to her. Mom just was being a good wife in those days. 
 
Story is getting long so I'll wrap it up--I had my first can of Spaghetti-O's when I moved into my first apartment at the ripe old age of 32, swear to God. With meatballs. The first time I tasted those fake meatballs, that fake sauce, those little rings of sketti, I thought for sure I was going to hell AT 32! But...it was delicious, delicious hell. 
 
Yeah, I make my own sauce. I also buy Prego. Fuck anyone who doesn't like it. Still, I use Tuttoroso tomatoes. Some habits are hard to break. 
 
And I keep six cans of Spaghetti-O's with meatballs in the back of a shelf on my baker's rack/pantry. It's like candy to me. Comfort food to the nth level. If you touch them, I'll break your effin' fingers. 
 
THAT'S Italian.

The Lamb

An excerpt from a letter to a friend:

You said to pay attention to signs as they would be very strong. I think I told you that while I was neglected and abused, I had a younger brother who was weaker, so more of a target, and as he got older, he turned to drugs to feel numb. We were very very close and things had turned well for him for some time when he put distance between himself and my parents and other brother. 

He got married, a good job, and an apartment. Then, he was in an accident and very injured and lost his job, his apartment, and his wife worked many many hours and wasn't home for weeks at a time (although the love was real) and he had to return to my father's home because he had nowhere to go. 

My husband wouldn't allow him to live with us, and I told him that he would have to give up drugs or go to rehab and I would take him anyway. By that time he was too addicted but I would let him stay at my house for a couple of weeks at a time, then go back to my dad's, then return back to me to some peace again.

 He died accidentally in his sleep from the drugs. They all believe it was suicide but I don't. He was too good for this world, too sensitive in a world that devoured him.

 When I left my husband, I begged my father to take me in because I had nowhere to go. My brother was dead only a few months. I felt as if my father was a main cause of my brother's death and in anger I told him that, during a verbal attack by him.

 I slept in my brother's bed, on his pillows, under his blankets, in his room. I held his things that my other abusive brother hadn't already picked through like a ghoul. I asked his wife for something, anything, that I could have that belonged to him and she cried and said that my other brother took it all.

 When I had to escape my father's house because my other brother was trying to trap me into staying to take care of my dad after his stroke, I began packing everything I had into my Subaru Outback wagon.

 I looked under the bed and found a plate, knife, spoon, a piece of granite from the World Trade Center, a few photographs and I was so grateful. The night before I left, I reached under the bed one last time and found a stuffed black lamb. It was my brother's and it was meant to go with me. Everywhere I went, I would sleep with the lamb and hold its paw. 

And when I came to this new apartment and I would worry, I would hold the lamb and talk to Donny, my brother. We had the first snowstorm coming and I couldn't locate my shovel. It was a mystery and I had no money to buy a new one. I had only a broom but it was worse. The way my door is shaped, I would be unable to open it if there was more than a few inches of snow.

 I went to sleep with the lamb praying that everything would be okay. I got up in the morning and went to the door to see what I would be facing, but the snow was cleared away from the door, the path and down the steps. Gravel was thrown so I would be able to walk down the incline.

 I was so surprised and I went back to my bedroom to get my cellphone and the lamb was laying not where I left it, on the side, but in the space where I had been sleeping. My cat hadn't moved it because she was in the window watching the snow. I called my neighbor upstairs and asked him and he said, Yes, I did it. I knew it would be hard for you so I did it. I thanked him and started to cry in gratitude.

 Today was another snowstorm. A friend brought me a beautiful new shovel and gifts for my cat and me for Christmas and we had a lovely time, a week earlier, so I was ready but again, I thought, I need to open that door a few inches to get out to shovel. I woke up again, and I heard shoveling and my neighbor was at my door clearing the snow again. He apologized for waking me and I assured him he didn't. I thanked him again, God bless him. I pray always for him and his little family and dog.

 I went back to my bedroom and the lamb again was in the same place in the center of where I had been sleeping, again moved but not by me or the cat. I knew then that it was not a coincidence. It was Donny.

 I was reminded that he was always the one who shoveled the snow at my father's and my father had no mercy for him, that they had a long driveway and my brother had no gloves and his hands would bleed but he did it anyway out of love. And I knew this time that he had been doing it again, through someone else, out of love. Happy New Year. Keep warm, my friend. 

I see the signs.

I see the signs.

Cicada

Last night I heard only one cicada singing its lonely hearts death song and actually prayed it'd find a mate. The rain finally came today and when the pups came in rolling around and delighted, I ran out the front door and down the steps and stood in it, grateful.

It stopped after a good soaking and a squirrel began barking and I realized how much I missed all that. 

And I prayed.

And now the air is filled with a hundred more cicadas; the last one was neither last, nor alone.

 Nor am I.

The Sun In Our Eyes

100 Miles to Lubbock

Wonton spent the entire trip across the country hiding under bags in the back seat. If I hadn't tethered several leashes together to her harness, It would have been impossible to pull her out and sneak her in and out of economy hotels like a furry ten pound pumpernickel. It's very difficult to convince a terrified cat to act like a loaf of bread. I admit I didn't know what I was doing. I was 'chicken-winging' it. I had always wanted to roadtrip across country but never dreamed my only companion would be a cat.

I'm 46 years old and I still don't know what I'm doing. And it's not just me to fuck up my life or be like a dandelion seed blowing in the wind. I have to take care of her, think of her always, first, because she is little and she may be ferocious at times, but the world will devour both of us if we aren't guarded, and even if we are and that was a lesson I'd been learning my entire life and would come to a head over and over again like increasing larger crashing waves until it was sink or swim. No indifferent floating for me, ever.  The analogy is ironic considering how little water there actually was in the town I was in on the outskirts of Lubbock, Shallow Water.

Although I couldn't see Wonton, I spoke to her all the way. I would call out and she would answer a quick meow from the depths of the car, or if she was in need, a howl and come out and I'd have to figure out what was going on. I stopped on the shoulder somewhere on a toll road in Oklahoma because she was yelling and discovered a throw pillow in her water bowl. As far as I could see, she wasn't eating, drinking, or using her litter pan all day long, but was offended that she didn't have the choice. Thinking about it, so would I be, considering how little room she had to navigate.

I'm glad I got the air conditioning fixed because in retrospect, we would have both died in the heat. We were traveling in July and like a bad luck lottery, hitting hundred degree weather in every state we crossed. Even with it on full blast, it wasn't circulating well into the back because the car was packed to the ceiling and when I saw Wonton mouth-breathing, I was filled with guilt, I pulled in early for the night. She didn't volunteer for this shit.

I saw my first tumbleweed 99 miles in. There were three, to be truthful, and ridiculously tiny but so delightful, I pulled over to announce it on Facebook. I was so full of enthusiasm and gratitude and love. And stupidity. But that's all I want to say about that.

Things I won't forget about TX:

The kindness and hospitality and good manners of strangers

The wide open sky

Breathtaking farmland where even shacks were glorious in ruin

Super cell thunder clouds, purple skies and formations with lightening sandwiched between them while boiling on the edge of a clear starry sky 

Ungodly 'dry heat' that made me wither the moment I stepped outside

Fluorescent sunrises that lasted forever

Cap'n, the orange and white cat, an underdog which stole my heart and would have taken with me, had there been any room left in the car

Feeling more alone and isolated than I ever have been in the worst times and places in my life but at the same time, thankful I had someone to take me in for 37 days. 


We were not a good fit. I kept her in the bedroom 24/7 and she was lonely, and there were days I stayed in the bedroom or alone for long periods of time and we were lonely together. When I saw the cut on her ear, I chalked it up to cats being cats. When I saw the cut on her neck, and she ran from me, I knew it was time to go and we went.

This time, she perched on a bunch of pillows and stared out the window the whole trip. She saw the first armadillo, before I did. And the second, and tenth. She liked buzzards and eagles. Horses and cows were boring to her but I liked them, the different species, markings, colorings, sizes.

We stopped for the night in Paris, TX. The nicest motel room of the cheap chain I was favoring. We got two beds because the singles were taken and she took the one closest to the door but she spent the night sleeping on the floor between the beds next to me, and as we were leaving caught and ate the biggest roach I ever saw in my life.

Everywhere we stopped, for gas or snacks or potty breaks for me, she stood and yelled for me and when we crossed the state line in Arkansas, she stood up on my shoulder and I felt genuine relief as if a giant burden had lifted. As we came off the highway and into the city, she put her paws on the dashboard and meowed at the windshield as if to say, WE'RE HERE! WE'RE HERE! and the energy shifted again.

When we pulled into the driveway, my friend was on her way home from work so I texted her that we would wait out on the deck and I saw four giant quartz crystal clusters glowing in the sun and I sat on a rocker and felt at home and when she pulled up, we pulled Wonton out from behind a rolled up Oriental carpet and she took her in her arms and coo'd and Wonton let her love her and I knew it would take time but everything would be okay.

And I burst into tears and am still crying as I type this.

It's not easy to leave an abusive marriage. It's harder still to turn away from an abusive family. It's even harder when you're homeless and have few choices and have to leave someone who invited you to stay but you knew you were never going to belong. Everything feels like a long series of goodbyes. Everything is temporary and you don't know who your friends are anymore and you're suspicious of the ones who are generous and loving and are exhausted trying to figure out how to appease the ones who aren't. You burn bridges when you think you're building them. You burn them because you want some fucking respect to make your own decisions without their permission because they don't ask for yours. You burn them because you don't want to be enslaved. You constantly look over your shoulder wondering what's next. You pray for relief and mercy and forgiveness from God and all Creation. And you wipe the dust off your sandals of the ones who drove you away and you don't look back and you don't go back. You move forward, keep going,  brush the tears away and take care of you and if you're blessed, a little cat or dog that you know loves you when the rest of the world has cast you out.

The Great Escape Pre-Takeoff Log

'When people say you've changed and they can't talk to (yell at) you anymore, it's because you no longer fit their demands of who THEY think you should be.'

*******

Tonight I stepped outside for some cool air and saw that the big pot of purple petunias was exploding with lush blooms. My grandmother was outside and I took.advantage of the opportunity to give her insulin then and we chatted peacefully. I looked down at the petunias and noticed the most beautiful gray moth I'd ever seen. It was big and fluffy and I could see the patterns and striations in its wings and body. It stayed with us for a few minutes while I talked to it and thanked it for its very meaningful visit.
The significant visitation of a moth means transformation, new direction, finding ones way in the darkness, spiritual and psychic growth, attraction, unexpected messages and joy.
It also represents letting the scaffolding in our lives that imprison us to fully collapse for us to take flight and folliw the light and not fear the darkness.

*******

Wonton was microchipped, inoculated and given flea and tick treatment without much fanfare.  She got lots of toys and treats. I got the bill. When we arrived at home, her top-of-the-line kitty kadillac stroller had arrived along with various accoutrements. This cat will eat better than me. In fact.....

 *I* was admonished for Wonton being ONE POUND OVERWEIGHT. I said she was genetically predisposed to being spoiled rotten. 

We protested by eating a container of Philly smoked salmon cream cheese. And by 'we', I mean, she let me lick the lid.

*******

It's pouring outside, I'm lying in bed in the dark listening to the soft white noise of the little table fan and a lone firefly is giving me a light show just outside my window.

I've started saying goodbye to everything here just like I did to my own home for a year before I left the ex. 

Most of my stuff is in storage but I still can't fit two years of living in this little room in my car, plus I'm saying goodbye to people I may never see again, some of whom I'm very glad to be leaving and some whom I'm heartbroken about. But I have to do this for me, even though I don't quite know what 'this' is. 

I guess that's part of what I'll figure out when me and my feline co-pilot are in a safer place.

*******

I think I'm going to bite the bullet, have faith the money will come from somewhere and get the a/c fixed. I can deal with heat but even if I make her bed in an ice cooler, I don't want to put Wonton's life in danger. We went out for a short trip which included highway and she was wilted when we came home. 

Thanks to friends donating to my Paypal account. If anyone else wants to chip in for the great escape, mrpeachycat@yahoo.com is my Paypal account addy. 

I've called the National Domestic Abuse Hotline, Travelers Aid hotline and local domestic crisis and women's centers. None if them have any resources nor even want to hear anything. Unless you're in immediate physical danger and then they tell you to dial 911. 
 
I asked all of them, So if a person finds the strength to leave a bad situation and has somewhere to go but needs help getting there, there's no organization or structure within one to help them? They all said, nope and two actually laughed. 

*******

Inaugural walk on leash with Wonton: dismal failure.
Inaugural drag on leash with Wonton: FIVE STARS!!!!

*******

 Omg omg omg I'm sitting in the back of my car, door open, one leg out, cleaning, and s black bear just walked up to me. Right up to me. I'm yelling at it to go. It's a yearling but it keeps coming back. It came up to me the moment I said, You're coming with me Donny. He always shows up as a bear. It touched me! Kept coming over even when I closed the car door and said shoo shoo!

 I've spoken with shamans and bears don't appear anywhere in my totem. Bald eagle is my main spirit animal, with ravens appearing a lot and ravens are shape-shifters....
 
I've been told I'm shamanistic since I seem to attract so many animals in significant ways but a bear always appears when I'm praying and thinking about my brother Donny, even when he was alive. As I prepare for this roadtrip to TX alone, I'm having dreams about my sister Lisa and Donny and others who've passed over but seem to be wanting to make the trip with me.  I'm not joking when I say this bear seemed gently persistent in getting in the car WITH ME.

*******

As my date of departure is nearing, I'm getting more signs dreams, closure and confirmation. I am surer and surer I'm doing the right thing.

*******

I haven't slept all night, not at all. Had 'racing thoughts', an anxiety thing. Add to that, bone-tired hypothyroid, and chronic fatigue. I just got up to give Gran insulin and I'm thisclose to hallucinating from being so fatigued and sleep-deprived that I had to beg off hopeful Gran who I'd promised to take on errands today. She took it like a trooper, thank God. An angel calls and says, So and so will be there Fri AM and they can take you and Gran everywhere and you can leave your car at the mechanic, so go get some sleep.

 I'm looking at piles of packing that needs to get done and laundry too and the clock is ticking.....but I'm taking something to knock me out cos I can't even stand. Please send lots of positive energy and prayers. I need lots of energy to make this journey. Thanks. Now going to snooze on the couch (cooler room) in my Hello Kitty panties and hope no one shows up at the door.

*******

 Today my gran found the nursing home she'll be moving to soon. We were sitting outside talking about it, (she's optimistic) while saying goodbye to her parakeet and my dad's cat who have found sumptuous new digs. 

My horoscope said an unexpected windfall would occur, and I've been finding loose change and bills, I'd mislaid and friends are still contributing to my Psypal account, so everything is falling into place.
As we were talking, I noticed a large bug headed for me, buzzing loudly and got up snf went into the house. 

We continued talking inside and I felt something crawling on my bare back and grabbed a hairbrush to push whatever it was off. Five full minutrs later, the same giant bug buzzed past my face and landed on the window screen beside it. Wonton and I investigated. Gran asked what it was. A giant beetle! (not cicada...they've come to me as well). Soon Wonton and I lost interest and we both decided to take naps. I sat up from the couch and found the beetle headed straight for her on the floor as she regarded it with as much interest as drying paint. 

I got a cup and saucer, scooped it up and set it free outside. 

Many many big changes going on. For the most part, it's being accepted and even embraced.
The significant visit of a beetle (which was evidently the stowaway in my dress) means RESURRECTION. It signifies transformation, change, needing new sunshine and leaving the past behind.

And so, we do.

*******

 Today I'm spending Sunday inside, kinda resting. I'm in this hot little bedroom but thankful I had a roof over my head for nearly two years. I had blankets and a little heater to keep me warm in winter, and two little portable fans and a lock on the door so I could sleep with as little (or no) clothes on as possible in the summer. The view outside my window was always breathtaking and every morning I woke up and said, Today is a beautiful day before I began my affirmations.

Sleeping in the room my baby brother died in, indeed, the bed itself, is bittersweet. I feel him with me frequently, especially during prayer, meditation and when I can't sleep at night, but at the same time, know he is happy and in a safe place where there is no pain and he is loved by all. I believe when we shed our our physical forms, we can travel at the speed of thought so when I need him and Lisa and others who have been perfected or are working it through, they communicate to me that they're around and they're helping. I know angels both human and supernatural are at work.

If not for the donations to my Paypal account, I would be unable to make this journey on the day I MUST go. If not for the encouraging emails, IMs, PMs, calls, messages, gifts and discounts, dreams, cards in the mail, prayers, positive healing energy, love, and support from human, animal and spiritual beings, I would be frightened and unsure.

I am sure.

Universe tells me every single day and proves it.

So today I was determined to retrieve things that had fallen between the headboard and the head of the bed wedged tightly against it. I couldn't physically pull it away. It was stuck by a piece of loose baseboard heater. But I found a pair of tongs and was able to maneuver things and pulled bits out piece by piece. I found papers, both mine and his, and photographs which I know his widow will appreciate. I found a plate, bowl and spoon which may have been from his last meal. I'm taking the spoon with me. I found two things I'd lost, one which I'll mention here; a piece of clear kunzite.

Kunzite is a crystal which helps adjustment and allows healthy functioning. It calms, comforts and cleanses negative energy and traumatic energy. It helps stressed out and sleepless or overstressed children and animals, so Wonton will benefit too while traveling. It also softens the mood while traveling to avoid road rage and calms difficult passengers (not that the Ninja Pirate Pimp Diva Warrior Princess will be 'difficult').
It increases intuitive powers and helps repel negativity and harmful spirits.

Another thing I found is something Donny lost. I was quite surprised to find it. It was a stuffed black lamb. As some of you might remember, Donny's favorite color was black. People often think 'occult' when they see black, but occult means hidden, which is not bad. It means the unseen and if we have faith, there is nothing to fear, even in total darkness. There's also another meaning overshadowed by the first. Black also means 'to trust' and I'm taking this as a message from Donny again, since he's sending me all these black animals, mice, a squirrel, yearling bear and now the stuffed lamb, to trust. Trust God, trust him and those guiding me, trust Universe, trust the friends who are opening their home to me, and trust myself.

Sheep often indicate timidity or followers. Anyone that knows me knows that I'm neither but I did toe the line for most of my life pleasing others who could never be pleased and always wanted more, rarely giving or with unreasonable illogical strings attached. Lifetime grudges held and conditional love or what their idea of love was and is.

Donny, on the other hand was introverted and more reserved but he had many friends who adored him. He was loyal and loving. The black lamb also has another meaning. In our family, Donny and I were treated differently. I've touched on that here and there and feel no need to repeat it, nor defend it, as I embark on a new life, but black sheep we indeed were. Unwanted, undesirable, not up to expectations.

One lesson sheep offers is that you if you are wishing to move past your poorly choose actions, you can. A sheep's coat is sheared away and it is later cleaned and spun into clothing which offers warmth to others. You too can shed away any dirtiness you are feeling and begin anew with a scrubbed clean slate. You are not worthless just because you made some mistakes or believe you made mistakes people assigned to you which you are innocent of. Sheep medicine teaches that all experiences have value. You can use your mistakes as teaching tools to assist others not to fall into the same muck you did, or to offer a helping hand to pull them up out of their personal muck.

Because this was not a sheep but a lamb, it also teaches us to quiet ourselves, listen, and reserve our energies because we are growing. And indeed, I am.

Donny is coming with me and Wonton. So is Lisa, so is my mom and my grandparents that have passed over but have contacted me. So is Chris Ranski, Scott Butler and Mr. Peaches. Everyone who felt imprisoned is hitching a ride, whether they passed on or not. Their chains are broken, were broken when they left this earthly plane, but they are my fellow spiritual travelers, partners in crime, and guides, on my karmic journey which begins very soon.

The oracle cards I keep pulling are Freedom, On Target, and Blossoming. 

I think that says it all. And I am grateful.





 

Independence Day

Although I sincerely wish I could be enjoying some crunchy grilled hot dogs, a cold beer and fireworks, I'm spending the day packing my belongings into trash bags, Ziplocs, boxes and luggage. My Independence Day will be a week from today so I've got to get moving. I haven't bought any food for the house since I'm leaving but a can of SpaghettiOs will do just fine.

Last big BBQ I attended was my own. Planned for months, shopped and prepared for weeks, cooked three days non-stop. As soon as over 50 guests began arriving, ex-spouse disappeared only to reemerge much later with his 'friend' beside him. It was lonely as hell. Today, in this little room by myself,.sorting stuff, somehow I feel less alone than when I was surrounded by friends, family and neighbors, but rejected by my own husband. Now I'm shedding the old. Ruin is indeed the road to transformation. Hope all this stuff fits in the car. 

Happy Independence Day, USA!

The Psychics

They all told me he'd contact me again. Many said in two or three days. Many said in two months, no longer. Time would pass by and it would still be two days, two weeks, two months, this or that holiday and I waited and wouldn't exhale. One or two said it will take a long long time. I don't remember any of them saying never. I do remember wasting a fortune on such a fool's errand.

Some of them said there was something wrong with him. Some said family troubles. One in the very beginning called the color of his eyes before I knew what they were and then one in the end described him to a tee but told me nothing of any other use than picking him out in a lineup. Most of the rest were more adept at picking up my verbal cues and breathing. I've read articles on this stuff, since I've invested so much in it and so many of them are such good actors that they'll have you believing he still loves you after all this time. And then others confuse his very specific characteristics with someone else's very specific characteristics and you put down the pen you've been writing copious notes with and wipe your eyes and say, 'Enough.'

Eventually.

Or you keep trying and keep spending money because you have no closure. And your friends (including the psychic ones) berate you for sloppily mopping up the chunks of your heart all over the floor as you slip and slide all over your innards and you mentally send him a message that evisceration would have been more merciful. And a follow-up message to wear a sweater when it's cold and a follow-up follow-up fuck you I hope you catch pneumonia.

But then one morning (okay, early afternoon)  you wake up. And you see the same view out the window that you've always seen (seasonal changes aside) and you stop hearing and seeing synchronicities and cease feeling that feeling you get in your heart whenever you think you feel he's with you even if he's never been in your presence and you begin to breathe again. You don't cry anymore when you hear something similar to something he'd often say and you don't fall apart when you see something he's said somewhere that obliquely references you in front of dozens of mutual friends and while it's subtlety disparaging and typically arrogant, you feel this sense of nothingingness except maybe the guilt you feel when a friend says, Okay, enough with the bullshit while the dozens of friends stand idly awkwardly by and that friend feels guilty for being reactive and the ones who had the option to act didn't and there was even one or two who would have disappointed you six months ago and now you just say whatever, I'm over it and you almost....just almost...are.

I'd still call a psychic every now and then and ask. And then over time, I'd stopped or it was in fits and starts and strangely they'd ask me, strangers I'd never spoken with before, but perhaps they have a database, about him. 'Your heart is still connected to his.' 'Like hell it is.' 'Well, I understand you saying that, but it's connected and only time will heal that.' I've had plenty of time. I'm done. What's next? Who's next?' and then they'd talk about karmic debt and I'd hang up on them.

I'd feel so sorry for myself I wouldn't get out of bed for days. Days. I would look at the shower and my pores would moan in protest, 'wash me', and I'd crawl back into bed and cover my head with a pillow or four and every occupant in the house would stand outside my door and draw straws to see who'd ask me when was the last time I ate and 'Look I brought you a sweet tea from McDonald's just like you like it!' and I'd be filled with self-loathing and revulsion at the shadow of the person I used to be and look in the mirror and say, 'Who's fearless now, chickenshit?' and spend another day in bed and look forward to the one day where I could spend an hour and money I didn't have crying to my therapist.

I don't know what day it was. I know there are people who can pinpoint the exact moment they fell in love or what they were doing when JFK died or 9/11 happened but I began to have less months, then weeks, then days, then hours of misery and decided I wanted my life back and it wasn't him who took it from me. And it wasn't that I gave it to him. I took it from myself and was fully responsible and like all the variables and accumulative factors and shit that contributed to me weighing 700 lbs. at one point and realizing that it would take as many variables and factors and shit to lose it if I wanted to be who I wanted to be, I realized that  it would take that much energy to take my life back from numb oblivion.

First and foremost, I'm a fighter. It's immaterial that I've lost most of the fights of my life. The point is that I keep getting back up and fighting. Which is good. Because the alternative is to lie there and continue to be pounded by whoever sees an opportunity to spit or kick you in the ribs or be run over by a UPS truck because time and life waits for no one and no one likes a victim and since when did I become a victim? What the fuck was I doing being a victim? And did I always always *have* to fight? Why couldn't I just walk away and say, 'Fuck this shit. It's/he/she isn't worth it.'?

I had that moment before. A few times. The most significant being the time I chose myself over a bottle of narcotics. Yay me. Well twice or thrice, so Yay me cubed.

So, I began to make a few changes. Like fill up my life with meaningful things. And remove from my life meaningless things, things that no longer served a purpose. That included some friends. That included Facebook, at least temporarily. That included me bitching and whining about being wronged. No more sad or angry or defiant jpgs and song links unless I really liked them and they weren't passive-aggressive messages that only I and a few friends in the know would get but the real recipient wouldn't because they didn't have access to my 'stuff' anymore. That included liking guys who reminded me of that guy and then liking all their stuff and hoping they'd like my stuff and making excuses for them when they didn't and then hating myself for repeating the pitiful cycle. So...out with that bullshit.

I made a lot of changes. I still have a way to go. And I still have a shitload of stuff I need to address, big stuff, not little niggling things like should I wait two weeks to get nail tips so they're fresh for court but now wondering if guitar lessons will be cheaper closer to home and does a Hello Kitty guitar really HAVE to be my first one? And Tae Kwon Do versus Karate......and hey, I can cross my legs now and what's the first thing I'm going to knit when I start taking lessons I signed up for and who's going to be my guinea pig as I learn Reiki energy work and I think after all the freakin boxalopes that Amanda sent me from the Land Down Under with their ridiculous postal costs, isn't it time I sent her at least one freakin thing especially since I shit all over her every time she encouraged me when I was being a whiny snot-nosed brat and Lara and Kitty and Angie had their own crap going on and still touched base and Bridget and Lissa ALWAYS knew when something was wrong and reached out to me and nobody promises you tomorrow. Nobody. There are no guarantees. I won't tell you what to do but I will tell you what I did, which is I had to stop whining and start doing.

So I gave myself a concussion at the gym. Someone who doesn't yet know that he's going to teach me how to drive a stick shift pointed out to me that at least I went and I'll walk six miles this time on the treadmill before I throw up and I'm fucking awesome and brilliant and YES someone is going to adore me and love me and cherish me and be my soulmate. But first, I have to be my own. And that's what I'm doing.

If you see me in a little cafe eating stuffed clams or a Cuban sandwich or some onion rings with a double whiskey straight, you might find me jotting down some thoughts, comparing notes with a server who recommended the mussels marinara or flirting with the guy next to me who just bought me a Belgian White because I really love the orange slices that come with it,  you're not going to see me crying, unless it's for you and you need a hug and a friend.

I'm done wasting time and energy and I've moved on. And you don't have to be psychic to know it.

I Slept In This Shirt

My recollection, though hazy, is that my sister took it off her warm body and because I was too weak to lift my arms, put it on my shivering body, at my hospital bed.  I treasure it particularly because it came to me at a time of great turmoil in my life and she was one of the few constants. While I was dying, she took care of me. And then she died.

My dad insists angrily that she gave him the shirt and he took it off and put it on me, but the rest of the details are the same. I don't talk to him about how I recall it because he doesn't have much and to discount what he thinks he gave me when he's still putting a roof over my head while I go through this hell (Churchill said, 'Keep going.') and I'm not one to tend to bite hands that feed me although I confess to a nip here and there when someone is spiteful or cranky and take it out on me because I'm in the general vicinity.

Either way, someone who loved me very much gave me the shirt and put it on me.

Also, I remember barely being able to walk, but home from the hospital and going to the wound care center at least twice a week and I was losing weight so fast and in so much pain that it was basically the only article of clothing that was so big it didn't rub me anywhere and it's made of the thickest, heaviest weight cotton and it's got a giant hood and kangaroo pouch and is a pullover, so no zippers to irritate my injuries.

 It was then that people began referring to me in it as a bell, because it was past my knees and I wore black leggings that could easily be pulled up and down as medical personnel worked quickly to assess, measure, clean, cut, cauterize, disinfect, medicate, pack and bandage the holes in my body being ravaged by uncontrollable MRSA, racing quickly like a NASCAR pit-team before the Fentanyl stopped its magical painless wonderland.

 They would see me walking slowly, using the handrail in the hall or sometimes a wheelchair when I couldn't make it and was loopy from the meds or just too weak. I wouldn't let my family see me because my dad was almost seventy and crying, 'My poor little girl' and at that point had already lost my mother and soon, suddenly, my sister.

I would beg my ex-husband to stay the night with me. The anxiety was overwhelming and often, he did but he was exhausted and had to work or lose his job. Sometimes he had to say no to me and I would cry so hard I'd get sicker. Years later he told me he'd wanted to kill himself. It was too much. He was right. It was.

Then the visits to the center became less common and my visiting nurse along with Spouse took care of me at home. I wasn't very functional but stubborn insomuch as I refused a potty chair and no matter how stoned I was from a cocktail of very powerful opiates and muscle relaxants, I made it to the bathroom, even if I had to crawl. Sometimes, though, I didn't make it in time, but mostly I did. There's nothing beautiful about illness. My hair had fallen out. My teeth were damaged from vomiting, and the few times I'd look in the mirror, I saw a monster.

Still, every time I went out, I wore the shirt, a bright red Dickies hoodie, the logo emblazoned across the chest. Sometimes I only made it as far as the front door because of a long bout of agoraphobia. I would stand in the doorway, holding the doorknob, dressed and ready to go, in fact, having made meticulous plans and looking forward to them but break out into a sweat and vertigo.

 I'd cry and be disgusted and disappointed with myself that I couldn't leave, although the door was wide open and it only took a step over the threshold to be outside in the beauty of the day and my whole body would shake in terror. Often, I wouldn't make it. Sometimes I would. And over time, the 'would' became more common and my desire to be part of the world again overcame the fear.

Right now I'm lying in bed, under the covers, with only the light from the laptop. It's been a horrible day and more discouraging than words can convey. Tomorrow I will try again. But right now, I'm in my red hoodie with my red eyes and wet face in the dark. When I was little, it was a book and flashlight, but time and technology waits for no one.

Half of my bed is covered in piles and piles of books and clothing. I like to lay on my side and pretend I'm a little spoon and the pile is really someone warm and loving next to me. A little bag from the pharmacy slips down the pile and a Twix candybar slips out onto my keyboard. I hadn't bought a Twix in years and it was purely an impulsive buy as I hadn't eaten at all today, in my race to accomplish what I could as time and energy would allow. I took the arrival of the Twix as an omen. I take omens seriously especially since I have some prophetic dreams. We should not ignore them. I should eat this Twix. So I will.

Wonton won't leave the room if I won't leave the room, except to potty when she needs to. She won't eat or drink when I'm depressed and I have to force myself to get out of bed and sit by her china saucer and water bowl so she knows it's okay to eat. I have no child; She's my child. When she's done she looks up expectantly and licks her lips. It's time to go back. I make a quick trip to the bathroom. She sits outside the door. If I spend too much time in there, she lets me know she's waiting with delicate and barely discernible squeaking and squawking. 

I return to my room in the dark. My father calls out to me to please eat something but I can't. I lay in bed and I hear a little bell tinkle and feel her scaling Mt. Books About Zen and Many Marble Composition Pads as she makes her way toward me. It offends her delicate sensibilities to walk on my bare legs so she works her way around my personal K2 until she steps onto my rolled up sleeve and kneads my forearm. She licks my bare wrist and begins to purr a melody. I know in my heart of hearts that it's not just for her. She's trying to heal me too.

She's, as my gran describes, a 'one-person-cat'. This dismays gran because she frequently tries to buy her love and Wonton can't be bought. She may eat the delicate morsels of fresh tilapia, but then she winds her way back to my bedroom or, if I'm not home, sits by the door and waits for me.

One would not think she's an affectionate cat. That's because she only showers me with affection when we're alone. In public (ie, the living room), she'll lay nearby or on the back of the couch or chair I'm on, within paw's reach. She searches my face. My father says she's probably hungry. We've been through this before. She's not. She likes the little snackie rituals we have, but she's worried about me. And so am I.

I have big problems. More people have bigger problems. I don't feel I have the right to complain. The problems grow bigger. They can't be ignored. I feel like I'm going to be covered by a landslide. I've been working so hard to work on everything and still they get worse and seemingly beyond my reach. I wrap my arms around myself and feel the red hoodie and the love that it was given in.

Things I have done while wearing this shirt:

Left my husband.

Sat outside with my baby brother in the woods and watched a bear walk up to us from behind him.

Pumped gas into my car for the first time ever.

Had a pic taken of me with my remaining sibling where he has his arm around me.

Argued with an ex-boyfriend over how he thinks it does 'nothing for me' which is code for, 'I can't see your body' and I laughed while he denied it. 

Was told that my brother Donny had died. 

Was told that my sister Lisa had died.

Held my cat Mr Peaches in my arms and wailed when he came to me to tell me he was going to die and then the following day, wore it again, as he died.

Had an epic meltdown after leaving the ex, that made my doctor confront me with the choice of either hospitalization or to see a therapist now. I chose the latter. Best thing ever.

Joined a gym.

Gave myself a probable concussion in the same gym.

Detoxed myself from narcotics.

Lost 430 lbs. over five years. 

Was surrounded by a gang of wild turkeys. I fended them off by laughing at them. 

Slept for three days straight, got up, put on a pair of jeans and went on errands without even brushing my hair. 

Blogged.

Returned emails and texts to people who care about me.

Carried it back and forth to Kitty's house for weekend retreats.

Learned how to use jumper cables in 15 degree weather.

Sat on the deck in the near dark, not wanting to go inside and saw a solitary deer peep out at me from behind a tree.

Played Angry Birds and threw my laptop across the room in rage and frustration.

Had my heart break into a million pieces by a man from another country.

Got over him.

Threw up a hundred times.

Sat on the edge of the bed and sobbed to my ex boyfriend that I had no hope and listened to him tell me not to worry, stop worrying, I'm stronger than anyone he  knows and it would get better and someone would come along and adore me.

Ran outside and got a hot cocoa delivery from the same guy. Who hates the shirt.

Told my therapist that I asked God to forgive me on the way over in case I purposefully drove over the guardrail.

Decided not to refill my Xanax prescription.

Made appointments and plans to continue rebuilding my life.

Ate a Twix.

Thanked my cat and God. In that order.


I slept in this shirt. It's faded from washing, but it's magic to me and I won't stop wearing it even when it's threadbare because it's full of love and hope and the past and my future. It smells like me. It smells like my dreams too. It reminds me of everything I've done since I first wore it and of the few material things left in my life, it's a simple pleasure, a priceless treasure.

You Don't Know Me

I had spent a lot of late night talking with men online.

I'd been at it for a few years. I was lonely and didn't know what I wanted except that vague, 'to be loved and understood', but couldn't put what were desires of my heart into practice, and words made it worse. I would flounder and end up feeling dissatisfied, hollow and sad.

More than anything, I wanted another human being in the middle of the night to talk to.

A lot of the men were looking too. No...all of them, all of us, were. Are. Why else would we be online if not to connect. Unless....we were doing research. I met a few of them too. They wouldn't admit to it but would slip up somehow...they were doing a paper, they were working on a film, they had a stand-up act, etc.  I was to be their guinea pig or one of several, lucky me.

Thankfully, I caught on earlier so I fucked with them. As dishonest as they were to their motives, they were so superficially comical that I didn't take it personally. It was the friends and potential romantic interests that I felt hurt by the most. People who pretended to like 'my stuff' or worse, tell me they didn't have time or didn't get to it yet but made sure I received multiple notifications and tags of their own offerings. I began to delete with impunity the work of anyone who wouldn't be mutually respectful.

Many of them wanted to talk about sex but sexy talk is so intimate to me that I found it nearly always impossible to interact in this manner with strangers.

Some of them were content to message back and forth on assorted forums and social media. One or two wanted to see me so Skype was the viable option for those I fancied, if distance was a factor. I don't count the streams of men who didn't request but demanded we sex chat, sext, or cam-turbate because I never took them seriously and yes there were one or two I shared a little fantasy with, then logged off and cried, empty, lonely and longing for warm strong arms around me and a kiss.

 How long and how many it took to make me realize the internet wasn't the place for me to find love or even meaningful friendship, not the right fit or medium and the last one in whom I'd seen much more than potential but the genuine admiration and appreciation of his 'now' and he wouldn't be bothered with talking to me without a game or documentary playing in the background or in another window and I felt ashamed and foolish.

I'd broken my own internet rule made after a very public humiliation and had only myself to blame. I cried myself to sleep. Angry that I felt disrespected and unappreciated and undesired by him but enraged at myself for caring what a relative stranger who hadn't even asked me for my phone number, thought.

A few days before, on my late sister's birthday, a holiday, I'd written a letter as a way of getting rid of the old in time for the new year. It was a list of people I needed to forgive, to release and be free myself. My own name was on there. For some reason this man's name strongly came to mind and I couldn't push it away although I reasoned that he hadn't really wronged me. Still, I wrote it down, thanked him for enriching my life and for being a catalyst in revealing further how I didn't want or deserve to be treated, and what I did want in a partner. I prayed and meditated, blessed him and everyone else, burnt it and threw the ashes in the icy lake.

Fast forward a few nights later and we're having our last conversation in which I try one last time to engage him and failed miserably. I finally told him goodnight, that I was uncomfortable and felt bad and I didn't like feeling that way so I'd see him around. He apologized but I knew it was the right thing for me to do. I realized then why his name was on the list. I freed both of us from resentment, guilt or expectation and I was filled with peace.

Two days later, I deactivated my Facebook account.

People will strongly protest that one can only be addicted to a substance that alters brain chemistry and they'd be accurate to a point. However, neuroscience tells us that even our thoughts create neural structures and have the potential to cause (thought into action) bad habits, infinite loops, negative thinking, depressive cycles, etc.  Additionally, our  minds have a built-in negative-bias which means we automatically assume or think the worst and for every negative thought, it must be balanced by five times as many positive thoughts.

Bearing that in mind, my participation on Facebook, was largely positive and I'd chosen over time to surround myself with more and more uplifting, encouraging, positive people and if they weren't as realized as they desired, they were at least trying very hard to evolve into the joyful people they deserved to be.

 I admired their efforts to continue working to better themselves and to do as little harm as possible and they appreciated me. I wanted to attract the kind of person I wanted to be and met via internet, was blessed with, in fact, hundreds of friends and acquaintances, many of whom have touched me deeply with their love and trust, something I don't take for granted.

But I felt taken for granted and unappreciated. Ego aside, we do not live in a bubble of rarified air. We need each other. I felt unneeded, unwanted, unlovable. My friends said, but I need you, I want you, I love you, but they didn't understand that one can feel unbearably lonely in a crowded room.

Part of Zen Buddhism is to let thoughts, ideas and events pass through you, to live in the moment and not be resistant. To even deny a thought was to entertain it, so accept, let it roll and continue to breathe and live and let live.

However, whenever I logged in, I felt shackled to the memory of my mistakes, my flaws and my own hypocrisy. And there were plenty of people who would pounce to remind me of them. Who'd look for any crack in the new person I was becoming. To dissect the hypocrisy in my self-improvement, condemn me for what I'd said and done in the past, regardless of whether I'd renounced or repented.

Reviewing my own actions, I'd noted that every time I felt rejected, betrayed or heartbroken, I'd post sad song links, defiant quotes and inspirational statuses to sooth my wounded ego and I clearly saw the inauthenticity of my own actions and that I was investing too much energy into people or rather the internet persona of strangers who didn't know me any more than I knew them.

Whatever you read here or there (should I return) or in a number of forums, groups and boards, you only see a part of me. What you do see is honest, and funny and yes dramatic and it's all me but not all of me.

If you live with someone for a great length of time like a spouse, parent or child, you'd be surprised if you haven't discovered already by the whole world inside them that you don't know them. You can embrace this truth as something that frees you because it enables you to anticipate learning more, or it imprisons you because you'll never be quite sure and they can always change (or rather, unfold) and that would affect you in some way so imagine what you don't know about the people you interact with in social media and on the internet at large as opposed to people you interact with in the physical world and here I was crying over a stranger's rejection of me.

So I had to stop and reassess. I lessened participation in that which no longer served me. I removed a great deal of what I was able to from those places, like photographs and profile data. I wanted to start fresh regardless of what anyone thought. I couldn't live my life based on the approval of anyone, anymore and that included family, romantic interests, and yes, even friends.

I made lists. What I Love About Myself was a great one. It reminded me of how awesome I am all by myself. Then I made a list of what I wanted to do or at least begin in earnest this new year and then began to act on them. I chose to fill my schedule with as much as time and my energy would allow.

I joined a gym. What a comedy of errors. On the first day after noob class, I got on a treadmill for the first time ever and threw up after five minutes. To my shame I was only walking at 1 mph if my reading the the screen is accurate (very doubtful though). Then, as I was leaving the ladies room, I banged my head on a door and saw stars circling my head and felt the beginning of the lump it would impressively grow to. I left early, making a new appointment for machine training first because I'm driven to keep doing and living even if it kills me.

On the way home, my car overheated. Twice.

I stayed in bed the next day and watched the bruise change colors every time I walked past the mirror next to my bedroom door. I took down the mirror. I felt pitiful and miserable but alive. I'll keep doing because to paraphrase Yoda, '....there is no 'try''.

I miss my Facebook friends. I feel guilty that some have mistaken my account deactivation for unfriending them especially since those particular people who assume are the least likely I'd ever deliberately hurt and I care a great deal about.

There was no big announcement that I'd be leaving because I didn't want it to be perceived as some drama-seeking stunt. I told maybe five people who I knew would physically seek me out, to avoid alarm. It wasn't my intention for anyone to be hurt, to assume they'd done something wrong, because I know acutely what that feels like.

I have to reorganize and take care of myself. There can't be any more tears on Facebook, Yahoo IM, forums, boards and groups, at least, not for myself.

I've overcome a lot in the past two years, and survived a great deal in the past 11. It's no longer a matter of 'it's time' because I've been doing that for a while now. It's a matter of ...Phase II, perhaps. Last year was focusing on inner-health, spiritual, emotional and psychological. This year, that continues but I want to concentrate on fitness, stamina, flexibility, healthy living and participating physically in groups where I meet like-minded people, so I've joined Lightworker groups, meditation groups, am planning a trip to a Buddhist temple, a Universalist church, etc.  I'm picking up guitar lessons and learning to knit and crochet. I want to learn how to drive a stick shift and properly horseback ride. I want to finish at least one book, publish and travel extensively.

I have list as long as my arm and keep finding new things to add. My life really began a year and a half ago. I have court in three weeks and it's going to be a big one and while anxious I also feel unbelievably empowered and it's not just the radiance on the outside. No matter what happens, I'll know that I'm true to myself and growing and changing. I probably will return to Facebook simply because I miss my friends although it's only been two weeks but I had to prove to myself that this is my life and I am what I make of it and not let addictions rule me. I've beaten every single addiction and bad habit I've embraced and won't be enslaved again.

I look at this less as a series of New Year's resolutions that wither when good intentions are forgotten than a period of getting to know me because I hadn't really, for so long.

  This is my life and I'm going to live it.