On Becoming a Woman

It was a Sunday in my eleventh year. As was our custom we attended church as a family. We returned home, changed clothes and my father’s former boss joined us to lunch at Ryan’s buffet. I remember it being a beautiful spring day. complete with sunshine and open car windows.

Lunch was a stupendous treat. Rarely did we get to go out to such an expensive meal. I suspect that my Father’s former boss may have pitched in or purchased that meal. I say this because my parents were in good spirits as well. Their most frequent disparities seemed to come from financial woes.

I’m not sure of the complete details of this man’s story but as an adult the details that I do recall seem to indicate that he was separated from his family. He was staying with us for a bit. I don’t remember if he returned to his family or not. I know he had a young son and possibly a daughter older than myself. I know he voiced that he missed them. He often seemed to enjoy the company of our family because of the longing to be with his own family.

After lunch, this family friend asked if I might accompany him on a motorcycle ride. My mother was unnecessarily leery, my father thought it a great idea. I was over the moon! They said “yes”! So, away we went!

It was a glorious ride. We traveled through Northern Louisiana in to Southern Arkansas. The ride seemed to last for hours in my 11 year old dyslexic mind. The roadside scenery was a beauty to behold. There is nothing quite like the South in the Spring. It is a glorious burst of yellows and chartreuse and bright shining sunlight. I remember the soft glow of radiance through the tender new buds in the trees. The smells of soft newness and gasoline engines on the back highways flow over me now as I think about this. It was a good day. It was a glorious day.

We stopped at a small bridge which passed over a small creek. The small creekbed was flushed with other people starving for the fresh air and warmth. There was laughter and bright faces all around. (Side convo: I was wearing a pair of denim, puffed capris, as was the style of the 80’s. When dismounting the motorcycle I pressed my calf on the exhaust. I seared my leg thoroughly and shrugged it off but there is still a bit of a strawberry discoloration on that leg. It looks almost like a birthmark, Bonus!) The pebbles and stones crunched heartily beneath our feet and the water was cool in my hands. It was just as magical as the whole ride.

When I could tell we were heading back home, a bit of unhappiness rose into my throat. It would soon be over. The noise and tension of home would soon surround me. The moment was worth living in though, and I let it whisk me into the air surrounding that magnificent metal steed.

I remember, distinctly, the arrival at home. I was in such amazingly high spirits I stopped to literally smell the roses in our yard. Upon squatting to get close enough to the short rose bushes I realized I needed to visit the bathroom. When I entered the house my mother was fretting over how long we had been away but only a little. Soon she would be much more uncomfortable.

Then it happened. Although I knew a bit about “becoming a woman” I was not really prepared for the actuality of it. On finding that red spot in my white underpants I felt a sense of loss. I felt a sense of something I could not voice. I called to my mother to come help me. I’m sure she knew that something was very amiss because it had been ages since I had summoned her to the private parts of my life like bathroom functions. When she saw the situation I was in she was somewhat concerned but seemed oddly overjoyed about it. I, myself, was confused. She rushed away returning to help me change pants and affix an annoying, bulky, mattress sized pad to my unders.

When I exited the bathroom I was mortified. Despite my mother practically singing about my ushering into adulthood, I felt the shame of thousands of years of female suppression. The words she spoke in that small private space of a bathroom rang in my ears. I’m certain they were spoken with pure encouragement and a bit of pride but they haunted me. I wasn’t even sure what exactly it meant. In my moment of terror she said, “Oh, Honey, It means you are growing up. It means one day you can have babies!”

Babies? Babies?! Why was this said with such joy and exultation? My mother, the mother of three children, one somewhat estranged, and the caregiver to many babysitting children, was indicating I should want these babies. It made no sense to me. Why would I need to bleed to have babies? That red spot imprinted on my mind through the day. It caused me much despair. I immediately felt the need to suppress the knowledge that I was on my cycle. It was like a demented secret I harbored inside myself. I wanted to never let another person know it was happening to me. Still my mother wanted to tell the world I was now with period. I was not proud of the fact at all.

Before going to sleep my mother came to speak with me at my bedside. She asked if our family friend had touched me in a way not common. As an adult I realize what she was afraid of. It must have weighed on her the whole day. How sad that this thing is not only an indicator of the coming of age but also a loss of innocence. There are so many things tied into that red spot. So many dark revelations and many more intricacies that go unspoken in public concerning this womanhood. If you are a man, this will not be common knowledge to you, if you are a woman, this is the essence of our quiet sisterhood.

The many unspoken realities of menstruation are numerous. It is a strange affair, this coming of age. I have no idea what the modern male equivalent is. In explanation of this thing, I want to voice the commonalities of the red spot. I don’t thing I’ve done a fair job of this story. There are so many things I want to say that I haven’t said. I’ll try now.

As I have become more mature I have come to an understanding about this red spot. I have been ever sorrowful of the appearance of it. I have often cried on the first day of its coming. Often out of the approaching pain and agony as well as its annoyance but also out of a joy of its return. The coming of the red spot is a marking of a renewal but it is an arduous transformation of the female womb. It mostly means that a woman is not pregnant. It means that the babies haven’t come yet. It means that the night(s) of passion hasn’t/haven’t yielded a child too soon. It can also mean that the night(s) of passion hasn’t/haven’t given the thing some women want most. It is often a deep darkness of shame. In most cultures it is a thing we don’t talk about.
(Isn’t it so in all cultures?)

I have been fortunate to have the companionship of more than one man. In light of my uncomfortable cycles, two of four have been most understanding. Lovers, on the other hand have not always been so. So much disdain for the facts of life a woman goes through are shied away from. If a woman is on her period it’s viewed as disgusting in many cases, to the point of her being useless to a lover.  Many men only want to know that a women is on her cycle in order to avoid her. It’s really no wonder that PMS includes bouts of frustration and anger. Women are often invalidated on a daily basis. Often the insult hurled at women who questions such invalidation is, “What, are you on the rag or something?” I feel I defend myself more efficiently when I am on my period. I actually seem to make more lucid decisions for my well being when I’m on my period. I also experience a distinct brain fog during that time. There are extreme mood swings, generally from bliss to despair, often skipping any angry outbursts. I often experience intense sexual desires at the dawn and dusk of my cycle. This may explain why it disappoints me that so many men are grossed out by a woman on her period or possibly about to start her period.

So why is it such a big deal? Why should I be writing about this? Because, it’s really not spoken of often. How can something so prevalent not be normalized? If you know a woman, she more than likely has had a menstrual cycle, get this, when you were in the same room with her. Many times I’m sure you didn’t even know it. Let’s go through some basic commonalities. Not all women who have entered puberty but most: have debilitating cramps, nausea, headaches, uncontrollable mood swings, heavy blood flow days, hypoglycemia, back pain, muscle soreness, joint pain, breast tenderness, depression, lethargy, and hot flashes. These are some of the naturally occurring symptoms of menstruation. They are extreme for some women. It varies widely and from the little other women feel comfortable sharing I have rarely heard a woman say it’s an easy thing for them. On top of these symptoms women often go through the daily life experiencing belittlement, objectification, oppression, and a general lack of respect. Maintaining the poise it takes to endure all of these things at once is astounding. It is no small feat. The average age for the onset of menstruation is 12 years old and generally lasts till the age of menopause which is reached, on average, at 45. That’s 33 years of menstruation once a month (possibly 396 periods lasting 4-7days), barring conception of a viable fetus. Most women will endure the cost of tampons, pads, and other period related necessities, in many cases all of these are necessary. This is a thing we live with. It is a part of us. It is the thing that makes us a ciswomen. These are the mostly physical things women abide and don’t really include the psychological aspects of our society’s viewing of the natural processes women undergo.

My personal feelings haven’t been fully expressed here. I feel this is just the beginning on this topic, but responsibility to rest calls me. I hope I opened this door so you are at least standing on the threshold. I hope to write again soon. Thank you for reading.

 

True Love

She was lost in the neighborhoods of North OKC. A Friend found her out running the streets. I got a call during a small Oklahoma storm from that friend asking if we could take her in and foster her till other arrangements could be made. She was sheepish and cowering. Her eyes were huge and sad. We sat on the couch at opposite ends that night watching Nip Tuck or something. Every time I moved she would start and follow me with her eyes. She didn’t like our dog Zombie so much. She would try to deter him from approaching her side of the couch with fright in her face and I wondered if it was going to work.

When we would leave for work she would chew anything chewable. Coming home to find she had taught our well behaved Zombie Dog to chew the house up made me feel hopeless. Putting them in the yard when we left was also turning into a bad idea. She could find any week spot in the fence and Zombie would follow her. She still didn’t like him either but he loved her. I wondered if I’d be able to skip her improprieties if a family came forward to adopt her.

At some point she started looking less sad. She started sitting closer. She started laying at the foot of the bed. Before I knew it she was following me with her little feet instead of with scared bewildered eyes. At some point I quit hoping a family would adopt her.

Before we knew it, she was laying on the bed with us. She quit being so upset with Zombie’s prescience. Her personality started to shine. She would jump on the couch and cuddle me. If she needed to go outside she would climb on me, gently scratch me, and start “talking” to me or she’d lie on her back next to me and squirm and whine at me. She started trusting I’d come home. She quit squirming out of the fence when I was home (she did it if I left her out there and went somewhere though). She quit chewing the house up.

At some point we fell in love. At some point I didn’t think I could live without her. When I cried she would comfort me. Where ever I went she wanted to be with me. We would go visit my friend and her dogs. She was my friend. I cried a lot those days. When my husband and I started separating she would force herself into my lap and comfort me. Many times, seeing her face kept me going, because I had promised to care for her. She needed me. Although my husband could make me feel that love wasn’t real anymore looking into her face had me convinced he was wrong. Love was that little girl holding me on the couch as I dozed off waiting for him to come home. Love was that little beagle-jack-Russell-terrier rescue dog laying by me on the bed. Love was her sweet little trusting animal soul.

When I moved out she came with me. That first weekend was fine. I was home those first three days. I woke up Monday and got ready for work. She stayed in the bathroom as I showered. I put her in the kennel and went out to the car. I could hear her crying on the second floor while in the driveway. I got in the car and my new roommate called me to tell me my pup wasn’t letting up. I had no idea what to do. I called my boss crying, promising I’d be there as soon as possible and telling him of the situation. I was heartbroken. What could I do? It was starting to look like a bad idea.

I had to have my soon to be ex husband come take her home during the week. I had her on weekends. It was like split custody. It continued to break my heart. We loved each other. Every night in that bed alone was sheer torture. I felt the gravity of her holding me in reality slipping further away. I cried every time I dropped her off.

My ex knew we would have to re-home her. I knew we would. She was feeling abandoned again. She had started all the “bad” behavior again. I held on as long as I could. My ex did a lot of research and found a grandma type who would be home with her all the time. He set up a meeting for them to get to know each other. Before I knew it my little girl had a new home. My whole being was crushed. I had to let her go. So I did.

It still hurts to this day. The purest love I could ever share with any being was with that little dog. I’ll never forget a year later I awoke in another state and saw a blanket jumbled at the foot of the bed. I thought it was her for a few seconds there in the dark. I reached for her but it wasn’t her. I lost it. I was sobbing uncontrollably. My boyfriend at the time woke up to me with a face full of hot tears and snuffles. Through a lot of jumbled words I told him what was wrong. His response should have been a sign. He was baffled how I could be so upset.

I miss her so much. I know she’s loved where she is. I have to believe she’s forgotten me. I’ll never forget her though. I’m writing this because I need to be forgiven for having to send her away. When I’m lonely I wish she could be here. I don’t think I’ll ever have a pet again. I’m highly allergic to most animals now. I love all of them though. If you see me pet an animal and wonder why I do it at risk of very uncomfortable allergic reaction just know it’s because I miss my Bela. It’s because she saved me. Because of that I feel like loving on other animals is like showing her love again.

Goodnight, Bela…

The child…

As an adult I look back in my memory banks with no driving reason. I see my childhood through the wonder of those old synaptic snapshots and feel the magic of my life. It envelopes my being as I wander through the storehouse of my brain.

I was watching a short film today that I found by absolute mishap. As social media often does, the film was suggested by a Facebook persona who’s profile is call Atlas Obscura. A friend had shared a video that then led me through a rabbit’s hole of other videos. All of them fascinated me. Yes, that’s when my memory flood came washing over me.

In the years of my life between birth and 13, my paternal great grandparents lived in a rural part of Arkansas. (This is how I remember it. I could be off, give or take a couple of years.) Thier house was very old and, for my child’s understanding, very big. At night my sister, cousins, or brother and I would sleep in the same room. Oftentimes the Windows were open as there was no air conditioning and the night sounds would drift in. I thought it enchanting and, sometimes, frightening. There were always rustling noises in the night. Grunts and low baying would often be heard from the neighboring cattle and prevalent armadillo. On a rare occasion my mother and I were sleeping in the “green room”, so named because the billowy bed clothes and decor were all a mossy green, I awoke to a terrifying bellowing in the far off distance. My Hollywood inspired mind imagined gigantic elephants trudging through the misty not too distant dense woods and I was fear stricken. I could see them approaching in a herd to the house and I woke my mother. She whispered in the dark in a chiding tone for me to “go back to sleep”. Later in life I would hear that bothersome noise again and learn the owner was far scarier than an elephant, for it was the voice of “gators” down in the marshes.

During the daylight hours my mother would load us kids into the car and drive down winding roads that led to narrow gravel roads that lead to dirt ruts. We would be exploring these back roads for endless hours. Often we listened to John Denver or Carpenter’s or Mozart cassettes, windows down, singing at the top of our lungs.

On one such excursion we happened upon a dirt road that cut in front of a rather massive, authentic, yet new log cabin. It practically gleamed in the sunlight splitting through the spindly pine trees. The logs were still yellow as apposed to the weathered gray most skinned trees become over time and they looked freshly lacquered. My mother wanted a closer look and started to drive the narrow dirt road which wound towards it not knowing that it was not a road but a driveway. She stopped when we saw a medium sized plaque that said “no trespassing – Leah”. My mother turned the music down and proceeded to back down the driveway when someone hollered from a seemingly impossible place below the level of the car. Of course the brakes were engaged and a startled look was on all of our faces. That’s when a burly, sweaty, graying short haired woman emerged from the ground to come eye level with the car windows. Our mouths had fallen open and my mother started apologizing for the intrusion. The woman’s face transformed from concern and irritation to an easy genuine smile.

This was Leah, of the no trespassing sign Leah. She pronounced it Lee which confused me because I kept reading that sign to say Lee-ah. Leah and her man were down in that hole just building a root cellar  out of cinder blocks. She hefted another block down in the hole from ground level and I admired her thick muscles flexing in the cut off sleaves of her plaid work shirt. I knew she was a goddess albeit a very “manly” goddess. She and he crawled gracefully out of the hole and Leah leaned on the window opening of the car. She said, “Well! It’s a-time fer a drank anyways. Y’all wanna see my cabin?!”

It was cool despite the muggy outdoor heat and smelt of fresh pine, of course. The lacquer was just as shiny on the inside. We all wandered through each room with a cold glass of water in our hands. Leah couldn’t wait to tell my mother the intricacies of log home building. She and the Mister had built the whole thing themselves from the property lumber. The indication was that they’d only just put the finishing rooms on it. They had been working on this dream for years. The inside was tidily packed with all manner of trinkets, glassware, and loved furniture.  As I recall it, Leah and the Mister didn’t have home building experience. They had a book or two with basic information in it but learned to build by trial and error. My mother’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and curiosity. The root cellar was a similar endeavor. Never built one before but needed to so, they were. My childhood mind raced back to the Laura Ingles books and my excitement grew to think Laura lived in a somewhat comparable structure.

We left a bit later. Leah invited us to visit anytime. As an adult I see this moment and, combing through the events, I swear Leah was trying to impress my mother. As if to impress her in a flirtatious way. It could be my overactive imagination but maybe not…

I wanted to build something that substantial. I wanted to go out in the woods and fell trees to make a home out of. Later in life when I learned of the Egyptian Pyramids, Stonehenge, the Nazca Lines and other monolithic creations I fancied that one day I’d set out to make something just “because I could”. Other things made me think of building a house made of soda cans or plastic bottles. I imagined sculpting a “mud hut” out of quikcrete. The child in me still thinks I could do it. The child in me still knows I probably will. The child knows that wonderment is the magic in life that keeps us from bittering up and dying. It’s the child I want to listen to, not the jaded road worn adult. It’s always been the child.

For Consideration

It has just registered in my mind that I often attract people that have a low sense of self worth. I am an encourager. An ex described me as a cheerleader. This ex also referred to me as effervescent. While that person meant both of those things as negative, and indicated an undertone of disingenuity on my part, I’ve come to understand how those characteristics play out in my life.

I look for the good in others. I tell others about the good in themselves. I tend to cheer on my fellow man. I have a somewhat childlike sense of wonderment and excitement. I believe others are inherently good. I try to build people up. I give from my heart. I tend to believe what I say and mean what I say. I forget people can’t feel words like I do. I take on the burdens of my peers. I would rather hurt than have others hurt. I beat myself up when I feel I’ve failed.

The kind of person that I am attracts people who need to feel good about themselves. Sometimes it gives them a way to feel whole for a little bit. Mostly it seems to create a shift where the other person just keeps taking and then demanding more from me. I’m happy to give as much as I can. I’ve bled my being dry to see a person feel built up and feel important. I continue to do it.

So, why am I airing this? I’m saying all this not to exalt my character but to say it pains me when others are taken advantage of. I wouldn’t knowingly do it to someone else. It’s time for me to realize I shouldn’t let it happen to me either. This is what I’m working on now. I’d like to hear what others think. Have you ever felt I took advantage of you? Am I doing to others what’s been done to me? I need to know.

Todya’s requests…

When I was a young girl a group came to our church in Bossier, LA. They were from Zambia. They sang a cappella songs in English. It was spiritual in a way I had not felt often. As I frequently do, to this day, I closed my eyes so I could concentrate on the rapture I felt in the experience. While there in my inner mind space I prayed with my child’s heart earnestly. I asked God to set all the important and beautiful moments in my life to music. I imagined the swell of their voices lifting my spirits every time I should take notice of the events in my life that would/could change my life. That child’s request was a plead that God would make those moments beyond amazing and sear them in her mind so she would realize what was happening was special. The thing is, the music keeps playing. It’s always playing. In some cases the music is audible for everyone and in some cases only I can hear it. What I’m trying to say is I had no idea at that time that every moment is a moment that can change my life. Each second makes me who I am and I can seize that opportunity or I can let it pass. I spend most of my life focusing on my feelings so I can decipher how I should proceed. Maybe this makes me emotional or maybe it makes me self aware. When another person can’t tell me verbally how they feel it makes me uncomfortable. I often get tied up in semantics because I think that definition is what keeps us in touch with the private inner workings of others. This  way of understanding another person has often backfired. I’m sure it’s because I know that I can’t really know someone other than myself so I rely on people to say what they mean. I have met a disconnect with this naïve approach. I’m sure you see the flaw immediately but I still continue to live my life this way. It’s a habit now. This is how I get my heart stepped on. This is how I have let myself be hurt. I don’t even know how to change it. I just know that I believe most of what a person tells me. I’m smart enough to catch on but it’s generally after many times of seeing the hurtful actions of another. This may be why I am often slow to anger. I swear I’m not stupid. I’m just of the misguided mindset that people are inherently good and more like me than they actually are.

I request you tell me when something is important. I request that you tell me when something is special. I request that you not ask of me a thing you would not do. I request that you say what you mean with the right to amend what you say or outright change what you say. I request that you use me no more harshly than I use you. I request you extend as much respect for me as you desire for yourself. I request that you not expect me to read your mind, I’m going to need it said out loud. I would like to extend these courtesies to you as well. I request you ask for the things you want from me and be alright with whatever my response may be.

That’s all I can think of for now. Good night and good luck.

Wasted Energy…

I’m finding that I am the number one reason I am constantly exhausted. I can blame it on the amount of work I do in a day, no matter the quantity. I can blame it on the many things I feel I still have to do, no matter the actual expenditure of energy those tasks take. The truth is that I am wasting so much energy.

I waste energy every day on meaningless worries. I worry that I may not perform to my expectations concerning everything. I literally worry that I will not be successful at every task I proceed to take on. This is ridiculous. The truth is that there are few things I have been a total failure at accomplishing. The things that I have been unequipped to do and therefore “failed” at I either realized my folly and exited the task as graciously as possible or I learned to push myself to be better at it. I have no idea why there is this anxiety. I think maybe I have developed a habit based on the idea that if I don’t worry about something then it means I don’t care about it. Clearly that is not a good approach.

I waste energy on situations that should never need this level of energy to achieve them. I spend energy trying to get things I think I want that I’m not even sure I actually want. For example, a romantic relationship. I don’t even know that I want one but I have attached my mind to a person and therefore I must push on to the next level (whatever the heck that is). I actually worry what this person thinks of me and frankly I don’t think that I’m thought of very often. That assumption is based on the amount of action I have witnessed. In addendum, I could just quit waiting for this person to the right thing all on their own and actually ask for what I want. It would be a lot less energy used if I would just ask for what I want and when it doesn’t happen, realize it’s not meant to be. There is a theme here. I know I’ve said something very similar to this in the past. Why can’t I just DO IT?!

It’s past due for me to just be me and fulfill the obligations that I commit myself to and not worry about these outside distractions. What will be, will be. I can go a direction and enjoy the scenery or I can push myself to insanity trying to make a direction that doesn’t exist. I’ve got to learn how to retain some of this energy I’m wasting. This is my next task.

Declaration of Personal Independance…

It’s time for me to face the mirror and ask some hard questions. What do I want from the life I am living and what do I want from my environment? I have often gauged my personal wealth on what the significant others in my life have said about me. As my birthday approaches I want to set aside the false assumption that I am what others believe me to be. I’m not trying to say that I will instantly be successful at this but I am going to try. I’m tired of judging myself through the eyes of others. I know me and I like me so if others can’t do the same they can witness from afar and quit getting in the way.

I want beauty from this life. I want the unbearable agony of the truth in all it’s glory throughout my stay on this Earth. In the life I am living there will be many nights and days spent doing as little as possible. I’m not saying that I’m going to become a powerhouse of energy and go hiking up mountains any time soon but I will strive to find my truth in each day lived. I will go out into places I find comforting, wherever they may be, and I will express my life desires by participating in my interests. This means I will go to parks, and read more books, and sit in coffee shops eavesdropping on other patrons while sipping my beverage, etc. It also means that if an artistic idea strikes me at 1AM I will make note of it and make it happen. The problem with the life I have been living is that I let others tell me what is not serving me. I let time slip into eons of wasted energy because I thought that I had to fit the patterns of other people. I am not other people. I am just me. By squelching my creativity and eccentricity I have become an empty vessel sitting on a shelf. I’m going to try to slough that mantel off and start anew. That’s what I want from the life I am living.

I desire acceptance. I had it once. A life where I was not questioned on my intent because I was trusted to do the right things even if it took me a bit of time to achieve the right things. I was trusted in that I do not harbor malice to my fellow man or otherwise. I need that in my environment. I will find that again. If I have to be alone to find that kind of trust again, so be it. I desire friendship with people of similar values. I desire companionship. I would like to be in a relationship. One where there is trust and communication despite all peripherals. I want to be important to someone I place in a position of importance. I want to be valued and treated as such. I don’t want to wait by the phone, clear my social calendar, and sit on the back burner waiting for someone to get around to me. I won’t do it anymore. If I’m going to treat you like royalty I should be your queen. I will try to settle for nothing less. That being said, I need a person that shares my interests and has the ability to participate in some way. I may fail at this but, it’s what I want from my environment and I will strive to achieve it to its fullest fruition.

I will strive with all my being to no longer be chained to those things that do not serve for the betterment of my life. I will try to no longer make excuses to try and hide things that I feel others will dislike about my life choices. I will not rub any thing in the proverbial face of another to make a point, either. I will, however, find a balance that suits the amazing person I can become. To those in my life, I will only make apologies for those things that have been done with inconsiderate actions and thoughts. Although I feel this life is worth living because there are others in it I do not think that my life should reflect your goals, it should reflect mine.

This is my declaration of personal independence to be responsible for my desires instead of finding a way to pin my unhappiness on someone else based on my prior propensity to follow someone else’s plan for life.

Just life as I know it….

I think I’m obsessed with making my life busy. So that I feel like I’m accomplishing something. Some might say that I get bored easily. I don’t agree. I think that I was taught that I had to “do something” with my life.I think I was taught that I had to make my life appear full upon observance from the outside world. I know that I feel like my life should have purpose. I pack in all the things I think I should be doing then I get so exhausted that I never get all those things done. I have learned that I can’t say yes to everything. That reduces the amount of stress but it does not alleviate it.

I’m packing my apartment (ha! I’m actually blogging to avoid packing, presently). I think I’ve done pretty good and I’m proud of myself, but the steps I know will follow after the packing just wear me out. Where is the energy I see other people harness. I guess it’s this ADHD addled brain of mine. See, I can organize thought, communicate the plan, and attempt to fulfill it but in order to do that I must be capable of actually focusing on the tasks at hand. When my mental list of organizational steps gets too long my brain just goes haywire and I feel ridiculously manic. By the end of an episode of that manic energy what I really get is just a confused pile of everything mixed in with incoherent jumbles. It’s frustrating to know where you are and where you’d like to head but have no idea what happens in between. I have faith I’ll figure it out.

I’m kinda laughing to myself right now, ’cause I have already begun the process of jumbles. So far the packing has been very organized. Things that go together have been packed nicely in boxes. This morning after the last few packing sessions, I looked around and just wanted to be done with this already. HA! I started to pick up random items in front of me and just put them in a box in the nearest box. I had a flashback to the last move and immediately took the items out of that box. I mentally had to check myself and make a note that the kind of packing I was doing in that moment would just make life harder later. “Like things together, Mandi. Always like things together.” I told myself.

So, this is the process of a mind that just meanders through life. How do you find a purpose when you cant even focus long enough to be sure all the tasks in a thread of necessary processes has been fulfilled? I can’t even begin to imagine what my calling in life must be. My birthday is Friday this week. I’ll be the closest to forty that I’ve ever wanted to be. It’s not like I want to stop existing before forty I just kinda thought I’d be better prepared for that age by now. Maybe I’ll let my purpose just be fluid. Right now my purpose will be to meet my financial responsibilities. I’d better really get on that.

On the fullness of life: I think it’s time for me to realize that the fullness of life is subjective and should not be measured by the observations of others but by one’s self. I just know that I’m going to revert back to old habits at some point on this idea and have to start  the learning process over. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

Well, technology is making me very frustrated right now. Pandora keeps randomly refusing to play music in a continuous stream and WordPress is like typing blind because the characters show up on the page ten seconds after being typed. I think it’s a sign that it’s time to proceed to the next required task. I’m not proofreading this, it would just be more techno agony for me.

Make Spring Love

Touch me with the delicate fingertips of a man who has found his heart’s treasure.

Touch me with the desire of preserving the fragility of the heart that beats within.

Touch me with the joy of a thousand waking springs.

Touch me with the beauty of the Universe’s living music.

Touch me as I touch you, in reverence and with a sense of all that is sacred,

For as each breath is taken,

I will breathe for you,

Only…

Another Dream…

One of the problems with being a dreamer that often remembers what happens in the dream state is that the residue of that dream stays with you throughout the day. Possibly it stays with you for much longer. Maybe mine stay with me till the explored idea presented in the dream is solved. More specifically, the residue of the dream’s good or bad feelings stay with me through some amount of time. I’m sure this happens for everyone with the basic difference being that those that don’t remember their dreams just have some mysterious ennui and later in that day they may have an epiphany which they will mark up to an unexpected moment of personal genius. For me, I have a very emotional dream rife with all the weirdness of my Id, I wake and try with all my might to make sense of what just happened. So, not only am I trying to complete the day’s tasks with the dream shackled to my mind’s eye, I have a bevvy of ridiculous imagery imbedded in the dream which can keep me from deducing meaning so that I can not just cast off the problem I’m meant to solve and move on.

I was driving the current vehicle in my life. The place was a mixture of all the semi rural areas I have ever been combined. In the car were a Spanish speaking woman, the woman’s daughter, and her son who later morphed into my brother. The woman is sitting in the passenger seat. the other two are in the backseat. Everything is “normal” to start. Then, with no lead into why, I realize that I am driving, no, I’m reversing down the road. I realize it because I am twisted in the seat so I can look over my shoulder to see the road. My eyes are hurting from the strain and I am in much distress because driving has never been so difficult. I imagine it’s so difficult because the road is very winding and I am going at a decent pace, the equivalent to 40 miles an hour. I also, at that moment, realize that my passengers are talking about me rapidly. They think I have gone crazy or I’m going crazy. They are trying to figure out what to do about it. I realize that given the circumstances I must be going crazy. I mean, I’ve only just realized that what I’m doing is literally backwards and not natural at all. In that moment I feel stupid and awkward and embarrassed. I decide I must put them at ease, admit my folly, and ask for help. I tell them I’m going to pull over and the woman can drive.

This is when the son turns into my brother and suddenly, before I’ve even attempted to pull the car over, and without effort or the act of it, the woman and my brother have switched positions in the car. They agree that I should go with the proposed plan. I try to pull over at a scenic look out. We’re facing forward in the car now. It feels like we’re going to be safe.

For some reason I can’t touch the brake pedal. It’s not as though my legs aren’t long enough or the pedal has moved it’s just as though I can’t move my foot to the pedal. We coast into the look out. I’m getting desperate to stop because there is a guardrail with a drop beyond it right in front of us. I can’t reach the brake pedal. I grab the shifter and try to shift into park. It might break the car but it would be worth it. Even in my dream this doesn’t work because you can’t shift into park without your foot pressing the brake pedal. I feel panicked. Then the car hits the rail, softly….Then the guard rail gives way! we just keep going. We’re bracing for impact, I can feel everyone imagining the sound of asphalt crushing tire rubber, metal, plastic, and glass.

Here in this moment a fresh new horror comes over me. We aren’t going to hit dirt, stone, or mortar, we’re going to land in water. The fall is endless. It’s so quiet. The front end of the car hits. It feels just like jumping onto a floatie raft in a pool. First there is the feeling of the impact then the feeling of buoyancy. The back end of the car its immediately and there is a sizeable sensation that the body of water is pulling and sucking the car down. The water is a deep, dark, navy blue with flecks of silver bubbles and pieces of black water debris. Its swallowing us. There is no light now.

I’m thinking about how I’m going to use all my force to get out and how they tell you it’s impossible to push the doors of a car open when its under water. I’m thinking I’m going to do it anyway. Then quietly, a little voice says, “Or you can just wake up.” I can’t remember many times where I was instantly so sure I was in a dream instead of waking life. I definitely felt like I was in the waking world when this started. I woke immediately. I was gasping and struggling back in that dream but it was surreal how still and relaxed my actual body was. My physical self was devoid of all the anguish my mind was feeling. I felt so desperate for a physical release that I cried.

Dreams, such a mysterious use of our sleeping cycles. So amazing, arduous, enlightening, and confounding…