Really?

I could swear I posted something here since January. Absolutely. Perhaps it was something I wrote in my head while driving home from work, or during a meeting or when trying to fall asleep. Must remember to write those down. Must find the bits of scraps of paper and such on which I have jotted down epic poems and first lines to award-winning novels.... This girl is all potential; so long as it is never realized I can maintain the fantasy of "coulda been...."

Q

Tear along dotted line....

I have discovered that leaving home is the same whether 17 or 43...it sucks. Saying goodbye to mom---no matter that a lifetime has been lived in the interim--is heart-breaking. Driving away, mom waving at the window, is like pulling oneself from the womb, grabbing and fighting the urge to return to the warm safety. The incessant "this is a good thing, right?" reverberating through the mind...What have I done? What have I become? Is it all enough?

It's the double-edged sword of a good family...you love them so much it tears you apart to leave. And in that pain is the confirmation of a job well done.

Q

Glory Days

Back in 1982, when I was 17, I entered a city-wide Christmas story contest in the local newspaper. My English teacher was a great help to me, editing, suggesting, etc. Turns out I came in second in the contest. Went to get my prize and get the photo taken with the other winners, and only then found out that my English teacher had himself entered the contest, and he came in third. He was not in the least dismayed to be beaten by his student. He was proud and handled the inevitable ribbing with good humour. Good guy. First prize went to a retired teacher in the district, a local legend who has a school named after him, so I was in very good company. Anyway, every Christmas my mom trots out the story and foists it upon those few people in this area who have not read it. I'll admit, it is a source of pride for me. The idea, not the writing. In typing it out today, I cringed many times and fought the urge to re-write.

So, basking in some stray rays of former glory, I give to you my Christmas story, for your reading pleasure.

For Tradition’s Sake

The man helped his daughter with her boots. “Daddy,” she said, “I like Christmastime!”

Smiling, he agreed and hurried her out the door. Cold, crisp air introduced itself to their noses and ears. He took the axe off the front porch, felt its blade, then tossed it in the back of the truck.

“What’s the axe for, Daddy?” she asked.

“To get the tree with, silly! Now let’s hurry up before Mom finds out we took all the shortbread for lunch!” She giggled while he lifted her into the truck.

“Where are we going to get the tree?” she asked as she settled into her seat-belt.

“Oh, down near the lake, Amy. Not too far away.” The truck started immediately, as if it were eager to go. Sounds of “Jingle Bells” spilled out of the radio.

He looked in his rear-view mirror at the house they had just left. Memories of years past filled his mind. He thought of the small apartment, with its injured heating system and rice-paper walls. Of the table-top, artificial thing they’d called a Christmas tree…

“Daddy, how come we didn’t go to get a tree last year? We’ve never had a real tree before, have we?”

“No Amy, we haven’t. Last year our house was just too small. We’ve never had room for a real Christmas tree before. But this year, with our brand new house, we can have a gigantic Christmas tree!”

The truck’s engine roared over her giggles, as it turned down the road leading to the lake. Branches crackled under the tires and brushed against the windshield. “Daddy, tell me again about how Christmas was when you were a little boy”.

He smiled. “Well, we lived in a really big farmhouse. Every year Grandpa and I would go out and get a big, bushy tree, just like you and I are doing now. We’d hang strings of popcorn on it, and candy canes too.” He stopped in mid-memory, still smiling. “Yes, it was really nice. We always had a big tree then. But the one we’re going to get today will be just as great, Amy!”

The truck crunched to a stop in the snow. He helped her out and they started on their search for the perfect tree. Dustings of diamond-snow fell on them, both from the sky and from overhanging limbs. They walked through the forest together. She led the way. Although thick, majestic trees stood everywhere, she decided on a small one. “Look, Daddy! A baby tree! I want this one!”

“Are you sure, honey? There’s a nicer, bigger one over there.”

“No, Daddy. I want this one. He’s little, just like me!”

Deciding to abide by her wishes, he picked up the axe and moved closer to the tree. “Stand back, Amy!” he said. He swung at the little trunk.

She looked at him questioningly. “Daddy, how are you going to put the tree back if you cut it down?”

Surprised by the question, he turned from his work. “No, Amy. We don’t put it back. We take it home and it stays there.”

Her eyes lit up. “You mean I get to keep it? I get to have a pet baby tree?”

“No Amy, you don’t understand. After Christmas is over, we don’t keep the tree anymore. We use it in the fireplace to keep our house warm.”

A horrified expression came over her face. “But Daddy, if we do that, then the tree will…die!”
“Honey, when we take the tree home—when we cut it down—it will die then.”

She looked frantically at him. “No Daddy! We can’t do that! We can’t kill him! His friends will all be sad. He has to come back to the forest, Daddy! Please!”

“But Amy, thousands of people do this every year. Everybody has real trees at Christmas.”

A painful expression filled her eyes. “But why? Why do we have to kill it, Daddy?”

Frustration spoke for him. “Because it’s tradition, Amy. Don’t be difficult. People always kill—cut down—trees at Christmas! Now be quiet and let me finish so we can get home!”

An angry taint to his voice stopped her plea. She moved closer to the tree. “I have to say good-bye to him first, and tell him not to be scared about what’s going to happen.” She hugged the fir and began to whisper. After a few moments, she stepped back, looked up at her father with teary, confused eyes and said, “Okay, Daddy. He’s ready…”

That Christmas their house was lovely in its decorations. Wreaths hung on the doors and the presents were mounted around…the table-top artificial thing they called a Christmas tree.

Strange days

Merry Christmas

I could use the excuse that I am trying to reduce my carbon footprint, to be more eco-minded and save some trees by not sending out cards. The truth is I have just been so crazy busy, this is the best way for me to send out my sincere Christmas greetings and to update you on a very intense year.

As you likely know, in early December last year, A left me to return to Scotland for good. To say I was devastated would be putting it mildly. I stumbled my way through the holiday season last year, with the help of friends, family and the pharmaceutical industry. Since then, LOTS has happened….

Upon reflection, I can see that my year was divided into thirds, though by accident or divine intervention, not by design. For the first 4 months I was pretty down. I did my best to not be home, spending weekends in Vancouver with my best friend J and her husband E, who kindly provided me with shelter and refuge. Lots of the usual stuff people do when they’re in shock and sad, you know, sloppy, sappy, messy stuff. My family, friends and coworkers were wonderful, but I am a bit like an injured cat, just want to go into the corner and lick my wounds alone.

Around April I decided to try out living again. To my surprise I found that it could still be interesting and fun, and there really might be a future. Spent the summer in total distraction—lots of trips to Vancouver, some time at Whistler, neglecting all responsibilities (well, not the important ones like work, paying bills or feeding the cats) and just enjoying myself. In August I suddenly made some decisions—cleared out all of A’s stuff and put the house on the market. Was very fortunate to receive an offer after 3 weeks and closed the sale Sept. 15. I spent the next few months selling off furniture, purging all my material goods, sorting through all I have accumulated in the past 7 years.

I applied for some jobs in Vancouver and was offered a position as Clinical Supervisor with Vancouver Coastal Health at the Richmond Child and Adolescent Program. It is a great position, although it means leaving the government, with whom I have been for 20 years. A bit like leaving home, very scary to leave the security of seniority and “the known”. But my pension is transferrable, the benefits are about the same, and although I won’t have any seniority, I still start at 4 weeks vacation, and the pay is substantially better. It is an exciting challenge, as it is a whole new system to learn, new people, a new community. I will not have a case load; I will provide clinical supervision to 10 therapists across 3 teams, and be involved in training and program development. I start this new position on January 26.

So, where will I be living? Well, I bought a condo in Vancouver a couple weeks ago. The subjects were removed the same day the sale of my home completed—December 15, my 43rd birthday, and 1 year and 1 week since A left. It is all I wanted, and just happens to be in the same building as my best friend, so that is an added bonus. It is downtown, right near the future Olympic village, on the edge of Yaletown, east shore of False Creek. The building is 4 years old, has an indoor pool (which I am SO excited about) and is very secure. My apartment is two bedrooms and two bathrooms, just over 1000 square feet, new hardwood floors, gas fireplace, balcony and lots of windows. I am very excited! I move in on January 16. In the interim, the cats and I have bunked in with Mom, and I am back in the same bedroom I was last in when I was 17. It’s all good though.

What else is new this year? Deciding to go all the way with the “out with the old” theme, I traded in my 1998 Ford Escort for a 2009 Ford Escape, candy-apple red and so sweet! Also consoled myself with lots of retail therapy while at the same time selling off household possessions—kind of in one door and out the other. I renewed an interest in creative writing and have been getting some encouraging feedback. I started an angst-ridden, anonymous blog and ended up with a bit of a readership. As a result I am currently co writing a play with an actual writer who has made a living as such and has written and directed several plays across the US. Weird stuff.

So, it has been a very strange year. The best of times and the worst of times. I have learned a lot, about others and about myself. My family has been incredibly supportive, obliging my request to not speak badly about A. You see, despite what he did, I have not been angry with him. I want only the best for him, and truly hope he can find the happiness that has eluded him. My friends know me so well, they support me when I let them, leave me alone when I need to be. I have met some amazing people over the year who have been encouraging and provided me with an optimistic alternative to what I had previously thought would be my future. It is comforting to know that others have “gone before me” in terms of this particular life crisis, and have survived. And in the midst of this historic downturn in the world’s economy I have bought a condo in downtown Vancouver, a brand new vehicle and am starting a job that pays more money. I’ve always been a bit out of sync with everyone else…

With that, I would like to thank everyone for their support, love and friendship, and to wish you a very happy Christmas and an amazing 2009. I, on the other hand, am wishing myself a comparatively calm and unexciting New Year.

Love Susie (and Peaches & Cromwell)

The Dance

Breathe...2...3...
Sigh...2...3...
Start Again

Once was a woman
wished that she wasn't
welcoming wisdom
through failure.

Up...2...3...
Down...2...3...
Begin

Mention the moment
it all came together:
It's All come apart!
He's fleeing the scene!

Left...2...3...
Right...2...3...
Rewind

Lost in the loss.
Absence of gravity.
No connectivity;
Living offline.

In...2...3...
Out...2...3...
Breathe

Fleeting fidelity,
Forced into maturity
What can the matter be?
Find a new tune.

Start...2...3...
End...2...3...
Begin.
Again.

Home sweet...gone

Sold the house. My house; our house. Signed the papers the other day, without any consideration of the implications. Just another signature, same one I use to sign for a parcel or a leave form at work. So, as of December 15, my birthday, I will be homeless. Oh, I know I am not REALLY homeless, as I appreciate how blessed I am compared to many. But let me wallow for a moment without being an understanding, left-leaning, social worker; I WILL NOT HAVE AN ADDRESS. For the first time, ever. The plan is thus: if I get a job in Vancouver prior to that date, I will be moving to Vancouver. Buy or rent, not sure--depends on what the market is doing (and I soooo don't understand anything related to economics. I am still at the "why don't they just print more money" stage.). If nothing comes up in Vancouver, then I and my two best furry friends move in with Mom (they know her as Granny). This is a place I last lived in when I was 17 years old. In December this year I will be 43. Not a bad thing, I mean, I LOVE my mom. She's awesome, a peach. But somehow the idea of waking up in my old bedroom, which has remained the same as when I left it (complete with Wayne Gretzky posters on the wall---I was a Canadian teenage girl after all, of course I was in love with a hockey player---okay, I still am, but that's a secret) makes me crave an Ativan and a a glass of wine. Anxiety encompasses me. I know I will be fine, but really, if I have to change my address officially to the one I used before I was old enough to vote.....?

I am trying very hard to live in the moment, experience the present, not freak out about the looming, dark, vacuous future. But here's the thing: it is very hard to plan for the future, to take care of the things that need taking care of without thinking about it. So, today I went around and divided the house into lists: sell, keep, give away, junk and ?. After, when all of my/our possessions were classified, I dissolved into a messy, soggy, noisy mass of tears. As I lie on the bed, wailing away, Peaches came up and settled her little wise self against me, purring and warm. I woke up two hours later, soggy pillow, puffy eyes and no further in my tasks.

Where does it come from? Where do I get this strength/resolve/emotional numbness so that I can do what needs to be done. I'm freakin' out here. What if I don't get it in time. This place belongs to someone else on December 15.

All I want for my birthday is an address.

Wings of Lead

Ignorance of Icarus
Is not the reason why
I unswervingly and stubbornly
Imagined I could fly

With compliments of helium
I rose above my rank
And lavished in the novel view
Until my fortunes sank

Humbled and deflated
I fell out of the sky
I came to see that girls like me
Were never meant to fly

Je suis...

I am irrelevant
Encoded in ennui
Debased
Dispatched

I am a fleeting thought
A momentary memory
That catches on the edge of
An instance

I am the face
On the tip of a tongue
A visage invested in vagueness
Too insignificant to be forgotten

Coming out

So, my house is on the market. Have had about half a dozen showings and we (the realtor and I) are currently entertaining an offer. If it goes through, it will somewhat ironically be complete on my birthday, and exactly one year and one week since my husband left. Mixed emotions, to be sure.

Here is the house

http://www.teamcavaliere.com/view_listing.php?listing=mls&id=76781&MY_CURR_REALTOR_ID=1397


Click on the link and take the virtual tour, it looks quite fabulous!




And, I guess because I am feeling brave, and have already shared my heart and soul, here are my two best friends

Cromwell

and Peaches

And this........

....is ME! Taken last weekend at Whistler, where my best friend (human one) and I went for a girl's weekend away. We were out dancing like maniacs (or 20 year olds) until the wee hours, had a blast!

Susie

I wrote this August 9 2008. In a spasm of motivation I spent a weekend clearing out the basement, junk room and closets. Three truckloads of stuff taken to the Thrift Store, dump and Habitat for Humanity. Two days later I put the house on the market. I had been avoiding all of this because of what it all means. The end. With the help of my loyal cats, loud music and copious amounts of Diet Pepsi, I was able to get through it, and it feels good. Felt good. Now, 4 weeks later the adrenalin-induced euphoria is fading and I am back to questioning and vacillating. This I wrote for my husband, who will likely never read it, as I have no way of contacting him.

Tonight I got rid of all your stuff. Flashes of memories hit me as I went through your belongings…linen pants--trip to California; rain pants--bought for your new job; bow tie in your family tartan from our wedding; t-shirt from when we volunteered during the wildfire evacuations; the shirts you wore all the time; your gardening shoes; your bathrobe, that hung on the hook in our bathroom for 6 years. And worse, the gifts—the shirt my mom brought you from Alaska; the t shirt I made for you that first year, with photos of the cats on it, now faded almost beyond recognition; all the things I bought you. All quickly tossed in black plastic garbage bags, to be taken away by the thrift store next week. Others will wear our memories.

How could you leave me to do this? No one should ever have to dispose of memories this way. No one should be forced to throw away the gifts lovingly given over the years by a faithful, optimistic wife. From a family that accepted you as their own, to whom you never even said goodbye. Eight months since I’ve heard your voice. Do you know how much of me you took with you that day?

But, it’s done. A dozen black bags, the remnants of you. Making space for me.

All

All the things that make me sad
All the things that break my heart
All the loves I never had
All the wholes that break apart

All the pieces of all of that
All the bits that stay
Wrap them tightly in a box
And tuck them all away

Papers, promises, ribbons and vows
Quietly hidden from view
Stored away until the day
I feel like feeling blue.

In the shadow of 9/11

We all have our own memories and emotional response to September 11. "Where were you on September 11 2001?" has become the modern JFK assassination reference. September 11th is emotional for me, but for other reasons.

On September 10th, 2001 I got engaged to the love of my life. We reveled in our joy, loved each other to bits, and kept this special secret to ourselves for a few hours. The next morning, heady with love, hearts, and idealism, we would share our good news with The World!!

On the morning of September 11th, 2001 we were sleeping in. The phone rang numerous times but I let the machine get it. Finally I listened to see who was incessantly calling. My brother, from my hometown a few hours away. You see, on that day, my mom and sister were in Los Angeles visiting my great-aunt and cousins. And the world was ending on TV, and my brother was freaking out. My dad had died 9 months earlier, and for a brief moment, it seemed certain that our mother and sister would be consumed in the chaos of that day and those attacks.

The TV was turned on, and remained as such for the next several days. Facts were few; Los Angeles was hit--no, it was a target--not sure, but everyone is on high alert. Of course, there was no telephone service to the area. We had no idea what was happening. For several hours we watched and picked up bits of facts and tried to piece together what on earth was happening.

It didn't seem a good time to tell my brother about our engagement.

My love and I went out and wandered the Vancouver streets, meeting others' anxious looks with mirrored expressions that conveyed, "ya, I know...and I'm scared too". We went for dinner, to a usually cheery, boisterous boite that was all business this night, televisions showing not sports but CNN. My love reached across the table and caressed my hand, touching my new diamond ring. We awkwardly, and almost apologetically told the waiter we had just become engaged. Congratulations were delivered along with free dessert. But the air was full of fear and armageddon, not celebration.

Eventually we were able to contact my mom by phone, and everything was fine. They were up the coast, in a small town north of LA and although they knew what had happened, they still ventured out to the malls, which were open. As it turned out they had no difficulty flying home as scheduled from LAX several days later. A curling iron my sister (the blonde-haired, blue-eyed young Canadian woman with the Anglo surname) packed in her carry-on bag was not discovered, as they did not even look in her bag. So much for increased security.

Also eventually, our news was spread, although it paled in comparison to the news that was coming out of the TV and radio several times a day. I didn't care though; I wasn't looking for celebration, I had all I wanted.

Yes, I remember where I was on September 11th, 2001. I was with my true love. And I remember how I felt. Amid the fear, there was a sense of relief and security, that I was in the arms of the man I loved, with whom I would be spending the rest of my life. And he would keep me safe. And if the world ended, at least we would be together. Despite the horror of events, it was one of the happiest days of my life.

September 11th, 2008: My true love left me 9 months ago. I have neither seen nor spoken to him. I just got rid of all of his belongings last month, and am in the process of selling our home. I feel scared, and small, and alone.

There are many kinds of death, and fear is contextual. I remember September 11th. I wish it was because of what happened in New York.

And then...

And then one day I saw your face
On the back of dream I had
While waiting for the rain to start

And enigmatic effigies were wrought
For this timeless love
That beat the clock

And five years later it is six years later
Consciousness cohering continually
Consequence: regression is not an option

And retreat is not recommended
It is contraindicated in this affliction
Survival of the fittest fantasies

And then one day it is eight months later
Breathing and being becoming habitual
Retreating, impossible; resuming inevitable.

I had too much to dream last night...

I had too much to dream last night
Woke up cloudy, confused,
Smacked by the light
And thought for a moment
That you still loved me

This pounding head
inside my heart
inside my soul
It won’t let up
It keeps replaying love songs you never sang,
words you never said

I had too much to dream last night
and though my brain was dim
the room was bright
And for one sweet, torturous moment
I forgot that you were gone.

Football Season

You men are all the same; play your little games
Feed me little lies, while feeling up my thighs
Prying me apart
Coaxing out my heart
Tossing it around; drop it on the ground
Drop me on my ass
An unreceived pass
Why do I do this?
I’m covered in bruises
Why do I bother?
There will just be another
Too long a dropped pass
I’m just such an ass.

Wal-Mart always makes me cry....

When relationships fail, the individuals involved grieve the loss of the person as well as the many activities, songs, jokes, and what not that they shared. Little romantic gestures, pet names, a favourite show, a weekend getaway, all become tainted with the smell of loss.

For me, it's Wal-Mart.

Friday nights in this small town would see me and my husband at Wal-Mart, dressed in our finest Ozarks-backwoods outfits, cruising the aisles to restock on cat food, people food and what not.

We even brought along walkie talkies so we could keep track of one another in the store.

We would laugh at the people (who were likely laughing at us), marvel over the things we discovered that to that point we had somehow managed to live without, and generally check things out. My husband was inevitably drawn, like a mosquito to a fair-skinned arm, to the garden department. He would seek out plants that oddly managed to avoid being watered, and were relegated to the side to die out of the sight of customers. He would bring these poor, rejected, unloved beauties home, to nurture them and encourage them to their potential. It was amazing how these brown, diseased bits of flora thrived under his care, and repaid him with their exhibition of flowers, berries and leaves. His favourite was roses, and although I told him countless times that roses do not like our city's obscene temperature fluctuations and aridity, he persisted.

I have a lovely hedge of roses just out the window beside me, and rose bushes all around the house. A particular one, a red rose, blooms just outside this window. I notice the blooms each day and thank him for the flowers. Eternal blossoms. Roses everyday.

I tried going into Wal-Mart's garden department this season. I didn't make it as far as the roses or the half-baked bits of stem and leaves. I don't think I'll go back.

When the Gods want to punish you....

One of my favourite movies is Out Of Africa, based on the writings of Baroness Karen von Bliksen-Finecke (under the name Isak Dinesen) and her life in Africa. In the film, Meryl Streep as Karen, says "when the Gods want to punish you they answer your prayers".

Always be careful what you wish for. Sometimes what becomes important is the having, not the keeping, nor the wanting. This happens all the time in auctions; you get so caught up in having the winning bid that you lose sight of what it is you are bidding for. You get your black velvet painting of the wide eyed child and think: "I just spent $500 on this?" The rush of the getting is soon crushed by the reality of the having.

No different with men. Or should I say with relationships with men. A guy dumps you, you swear you would do anything to have him back, to just be with him again.... But when it happens? Suddenly his teeth are worse than you remembered...he drinks too much...he's awfully skinny...not really that interesting... Never mind! My mistake...go back from whence you came.

I beg, my dear, please come back,
I'll give you anything.
I'll make up for the things you lack
And make you feel like you're a King.

Oh please my love, I plead, I pray
For you to hold me tight.
What's that...you're here? With me you'll stay?
Um, I have to catch a flight...

Humble Pie, a la mode

I'm staying for the week at my best friend's condo in Vancouver, while she and her husband are in Australia. It is a lovely place, 15th floor of a new building, views of the city, mountains and water. It is also only 3 blocks from Canada's poorest neighbourhood..the Downtown Eastside.

Hastings and Main is the epicentre. When I first moved to Vancouver as an excited 17 year old in 1983, my girlfriend and I would often walk through that part of town, taking in the "colour" and shopping at Woodwards, Cabbages and Kinx, The Underground...all the stuff small town girls didn't have the opportunity to experience. I never felt unsafe then. I always saw the people as just slightly edgy characters, people John Steinbeck would have written about. When I moved downtown in the early 1990's, I made a point of driving through the neighbourhood on my way back from University classes every week. I wanted to be aware of what was happening in this area; I did not want to live in oblivion in the trendy West End. I was dismayed. the people were more in number and sicker than I recalled.

Last night, I got back to my friend's condo very late. I made a point to drive through the Downtown Eastside neighbourhood, to update my awareness of the local situation. I winced. "This is wrong" forced its way out of my mouth, to no one who was listening. These are our people. This is Canada. Shopping carts, cardboard boxes and chemicals do not make a home. This is wrong.

How can we comment on the rest of the world, how can we pat ourselves on the back for being granted the opportunity to "host the world" in 2010? We have forgotten our sons and daughters on the street, and their numbers have increased exponentially. They are sick, and we are failing them.

I have no problems. I am ashamed that I complained. There but for the grace of God.....

Happy Birthday Canada...instead of cake, I will be eating humble pie....

Q

Wanted: Respite from Hell

I haven't written for a while, too busy living life I guess, but my friend Alix posed some very good questions to me today. I answered via a comment to my previous post, but I thought I would also replicate our exchange here, to allow for other comments as well.

Anonymous said...
Some days it seems there is no point in going on. For what? I ask myself. A bad econmony? Rising gas prices, increased stress and medication to deal with it all (at an ever increasing price as well.)I don't need to always live in "my happy place", but I need a respite from Hell. Where did you find yours? Is it working for you? You seem happier. What changed?Alix

Q said...
Hello Alix...so good to hear from you again. You bring up good points, ones I am sure many, many people think of to varying degrees. Some days, I agree, it is like that. Why do I keep going on? For the other days. All the other days when the economy and gas prices and crap don't matter because someone you respect just told you they like your work, or someone cute just smiled at you on the bus, or your cat is kneading your chest and purring, telling you how glad she is for a snuggle. Then those bad things don't matter so much. Throughout time, the one consistent thing with humankind is we have continued. There were many occasions in history when things were very bleak, and people suffered--plagues, wars, poverty--and always the majority of people continued on.

I don't pretend to know what your own personal respite from Hell will be. I think ultimately you have to find it inside, but you can only do that by opening up to the outside. By that I mean let people in; friends, family, professionals, strangers, animals. Don't withdraw, don't hide.

You are right, I am happier now. Last Sunday was 6 months since my husband left me. I still have not seen or spoken to him. I still have no way of contacting him. I didn't think I could possibly find happiness again, but it found me! By taking time for myself, to be kind to myself; have a nice bath, a glass of wine, some good chocolate. Treats! Lowering my expectations of myself. Reaching out; allowing friends to provide what I needed and when; seeing my psychiatrist and believing him when he said time will heal; this blog, where I have had the opportunity to meet such bright, talented people, such as you. And, putting myself back out there. Dating. Not because I felt like it, but because I had to. "Fake it 'til you make it". Sometimes you have to go through the motions, even if you don't feel like it, go out, laugh, meet people. And, yes, medications. I have a mood disorder. I know that. And this latest catastrophe scared me; I thought I would go back into a black depression (I was in one 7 yrs ago). But, I didn't. I have a good doctor and he took care of me.

What changed for me is the passage of time, and receiving external validation, compliments and encouragement from others. And starting to like myself again. I'm a work in progress; I hope I always am. At 42, I still have some life to go, and I still have a lot of things I can and want to do. I still hurt, I still cry, but I don't feel hopeless, helpless or worthless anymore.

Q

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming...

This is what I know:
I am smart, kind, funny, good at my job
I am not beautiful, sexy, and I am not That girl.

I never have been, in 42 years. So to go along with thinking I am is to invite disappointment, misery and heartbreak. Having men tell me these things and be interested in me is not Me, it is not who I am. For whatever reason, this is an anomaly, and I would be foolish and delusional to think it has some substance. The longer I play into this delusion the worse it will be in the end.

The loud boom you might have just heard was the sound of me falling back to earth this week. Girls like me were never meant to fly. And thinking we can or should leads only to an inevitable collision with gravity.

Remember the Stephen King novel, Carrie and the movie of the same name starring Sissy Spacek? Carrie was an awkward, shy, homely teenage misfit, who at the same time envied and avoided the Beautiful People at her high school. Carrie knew she was not That girl, but part of her longed to be. The Beautiful People thought up a little joke to play on Carrie. They let her believe she could be That girl. They showered her with false praise, encouraged her to go beyond her comfort zone, to believe she could be like them…beautiful, desired, accepted. The Beautiful People convinced Carrie that she—homely, awkward misfit—could be Prom Queen! Carrie could only dream of such things. But they convinced her, and she stuck her neck out. She went to Prom feeling beautiful, evolved, accepted, happy! And when she stood on the stage accepting her crown as Prom Queen, she thought she was one of them. But the Beautiful People were out to teach Carrie a lesson. About how you should never try to reach above your lot in life. You are who you are. So they fixed the contest, so that Carrie would be Prom Queen, so that she would believe all they said about her. And then, as she stood there, they dumped a bucket of pig’s blood all over her and started to laugh. They laughed at the sight of her, and they laughed at the absurdity of someone like Carrie believing she could be That girl. They got her good.

And I imagine how Carrie, standing there with her curled hair, evening gown and dripping in pig’s blood would have described her emotional state to a reporter on the scene, much like an athlete does immediately after winning or losing the gold medal:

“Carrie, this was probably the biggest moment in your life so far, something you have looked forward to, dreamed of, and it didn’t turn out how you had imagined. What are you feeling right now, Carrie?”

“Well Bob, it’s really a disappointing outcome, I really thought I could do it and I trained really hard for tonight. I would say I am disappointed, embarrassed, hurt, humiliated, sad, and I feel rejected. And I am also really angry, not so much at what happened here tonight, but at myself for thinking I was ready for this level of competition. I think I knew it wasn’t right, but I kept listening to the people around me and they were all so positive. I think I have learned my lesson, Bob, and I am not going to compete at this level again.”

“So, are you saying you’re considering retirement, Carrie?”

“Well, Bob, it’s something I think I need to seriously consider given the outcome today.”

“Thanks Carrie. Back to you in the studio Jim….”

I am Carrie. I am the developmentally challenged little boy whose baseball team lets him think he hit a home run, cheers him around the bases as they purposely fumble the ball and walk around the infield. When he crosses home plate, they all cheer wildly and congratulate him, and he beams with pride thinking he has just done something great. Has he? No, they just let him think that. In reality he is a simple fool who will never be like the rest of them, and whose self-pride is based on a lie.

The West is preoccupied with “more, better, best”. We are not supposed to be happy with our lot in life. We are supposed to demand the best; be the happiest; be all that you can be! The truth is, only the beautiful get to be beautiful, only the happy get to be happy. The rest of us have to be content with our lot in life, with whatever struggle we are given. To demand more is selfishness, and arrogance.

Girls like me and Carrie were never meant to fly....