One of Those...

This afternoon, when I picked Radley up from his SEVENTH day of school, I got accosted by the teacher.  For the FOURTH time in SEVEN days.  And like all teachers do, before she started telling me about the problem, she made sure to emphasize the positive.  “Radley is a really amazing little boy.”  Yeah.  I know that.  “And he’s very logical.”  I know.  “But he’s very impulsive.  And he can’t seem to stop himself once he starts acting on an impulse.”  Yeah.  I know.  He doesn’t listen.  We’ve been dealing with this for quite some time.  “And he has very low self esteem.”  Wait.  What?  And I just lost it.  LOST.  IT.  Tears.  Snot.  Red face.  More Tears.  I don’t know why, but I told her “It’s because of me.  It’s because I don’t think that I deserve anything.  It’s because I don’t think that happiness is an option.  It’s because I don’t see my own attributes.  I didn’t try to project those feelings onto him.  I tried to protect him from it.  And I tried to make him feel loved and appreciated and smart and talented.  But I didn’t.”  And this kind woman looked at me and said “We’re all just trying to do the best we can.”  More tears.  MANY.  MORE.  TEARS. 

Alright, time for the dentist. 

So, as we drove to the dentist, I dried my tears and I asked my baby how his day was.  And just like his mommy, when she has a bad day, he didn’t want to talk about it.  So, I let him eat his otter pop in peace and I listened to Jackson Browne.  When we got to the dentist, we sat in the waiting room.  He drew and I watched his imagination unveil its infinite creativity, in crayon, on the pages of a piece of notebook paper.  And I started to feel better.  By the time the dental tech came to call us back, I felt a lot better.  I felt relief that my little boy is so resilient and capable of channeling his emotions creatively. 

I guess now’s a good time to mention why we were at the dentist.  He needed a dental exam to start school.  So, Mike took him a couple of weeks ago, while I was at work.  Radley had a hard time with the x-rays.  Which of course, I wasn’t surprised about.  It may be the listening thing.  It may be the following directions thing.  It may be because he gets real nervous in new environments.  So do I.  But anyway, that’s why we were there.  We were there to shoot x-rays and to get a treatment plan on filling a few cavities.  I can’t say I was surprised about the cavities.  It’s been very well documented that tooth-brushing is a struggle with this kid.  Well, we got the images of his teeth taken.  And I went to go talk to the Doc about the treatment plan.  And she was very somber.  Not judgmental, but somber.  Because there are more cavities than I would like to admit.  I know doctors.  I know dentists.  I know medical professionals and how they respond to things.  I’m used to the “look.”   The look says “I’m here to do my job, but I need you to do your job, too.”  It says “I’ll help you, but start helping yourself, too.”  I know.  I give that look to patients all the time.  It’s a lot harder to accept when you are on the receiving end.  And because I’m the kind of person who always looks to blame myself, before I blame anyone else, I was so overwhelmed that I couldn’t speak.  She saw that in my face, and said “would you like to come back next week to discuss my treatment plan?  I think sedation dentistry is the best way to go.”  I told her “I understand your words, but I have no idea what they mean right now.  So, yeah.  How about next week?”  Done.  Then, as the tech is walking me to billing, she asks me if we have insurance.  I said “yes.  I gave the information over the phone when I made the initial appointment and his dad gave it to you again when they were here last time.”  And she looked at me and said “So, you don’t know?”

Uhhhhh…..No.  I just told you.  (Believe it or not, that was in my head.  I didn’t say it out loud.  I know that a lot of people don’t think I have a filter, but when I work with medical professionals, I do try to show them the courtesy that so many do not afford my colleagues.)  So, the dental tech walked in to discuss this “confusion” with the doc and the billing girl, just feet away from where I am sitting.  And I hear the dentist say, “Yeah, they are divorced.  She’s one of those.”  I thought that maybe she thought I was being unreasonable because I was so overwhelmed.  And I got up to walk over an apologize for coming off as nonresponsive or difficult, because I honestly, was just having a hard couple of hours and the visit to the dentist kind of blindsided me.  But as I walked up, the tech said “Yep.  She is one of those.”  And instead of apologizing for behavior that isn’t near as appalling as I have to accommodate, on a regular basis.  I said “Ladies.  Please.  No more.”  But there was more.  While I was still waiting for them to figure out the billing woes, at the expense of my character and my self-esteem, the tech came out and stood behind me and said “It’s OK.  I was one of those once, too.  You’re just doing the best you can.” This time there were no tears.  This time the rage welled inside me.  WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK DOES THAT MEAN????  What. 

What does it mean to be “one of those?”  I knew this was how people envisioned me.  I knew this was the judgment they placed on me.  I’ve know that my failed marriage and my modest lifestyle were the reasons for the stares and the looks of sympathy and the whispers.  I knew that I was being judged because my lifestyle doesn’t conform to societal expectations.  But really, what does “one of those” mean?  Does it mean one of those who chose to serve her country at 18?  Does it mean a woman with a college education that was paid for, mostly at her own expense?  Does it mean the 30k she owes the government for that education?  Does it mean the job as a public servant that barely pays the fucking rent and student loans?  Does it mean the 1,300 illegitimate children she has adopted as her own, and has committed to herself to improving their health and well being and who she loves and looses sleep over?  Maybe it’s about the child who is a free spirit who doesn’t conform to social norms.  Maybe it’s because she chose not to accept a dime in child support.  Or the home she chooses to maintain in one of the most affluent counties in a state where the cost of living is near double the national average.   Maybe it’s because she doesn’t have cable television and her child asks to watch Mickey Mouse movies in French.  Maybe it’s because she questions her parenting, publicly, instead of hiding behind a facade of bullshit and illusions of perfectly parenting a perfect child.  Maybe it’s because of the jobs I am trying to figure out how to line up so she can afford a sedation dentist.  Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t shut her kid up in a restaurant by handing him a cell phone or a video game? 

Is that it?  Are those the reasons?  What does “one of those mean?”  Somebody PLEASE tell me.  Because if the world sees an honest, but turbulent existence as a hindrance or an eye sore, I will be happy to live on the fringes of society.  Just let me know if you are going to judge me, because I will be happy to return the favor.  

The Same Circle of Witches

Kindred

You know those people, who make their way into your life, and you don’t quite understand why, but you know that there is some sort of explainable bond?  These people don’t just walk through your being, but they set up shop and become part of your day-to-day.  They don’t just make one profound statement and then leave; they speak to you on a regular basis.  And even though they may come and go, they always come back.  Even in their absence, you are never without them.  These are the people who you recognize, upon meeting, that you are familiar with by emotion, not just by circumstance.  These are the people you are connected with spiritually, not just tangibly.  You know those people? Those people are your kindred spirits. 

Witches

So, earlier, I was engaged in conversation with one these people.  And after we agreed and laughed about something of no consequence, I said “You get it because we are kindred.” And Anissa, who, here forward will be referred to as Kitchen Witch, replied with “It’s because we come from the same circle of witches.”  We sure do, Sister. 

Something about her words touched my heart.  It made me smile to think about the circle.  Because we are from the same circle of witches.  And our circle is bigger and further reaching than we could ever imagine.  But as the Kitchen Witch noted, “I like our kind of witch.  Not the hocus pocus kind.  The quiet, demure, smart, sexy and charming kind.”  Essentially, the kind you never see coming.  She’s a wise witch, that one…

Are you a good witch?  Or a….

Just like when Glenda shattered the stereotype of mean, nasty, wart covered witches with her pink dress, kind smile and good intentions, so have my witches.  My witches don’t fly on broomsticks or cook in cauldrons or keep black cats close.  We do have all of those, just in case, though…My witches don’t wear black hats.  My witches don’t cast spells or cook potions.  Well actually, they do.  But not like you’d think.  My witches are good witches.  They don’t wear ruby slippers, unless the situation warrants.  They don’t generally walk around wearing silver crowns or pink gowns.  Again, unless, the situation warrants.  But my witches are good.  And we function better as a team.  We don’t fight for power.  We don’t try to control the group.  We appreciate that each one of us has a different contribution to the greater good.  The greater good may be our community.  It may be a difficult task.  It may just be dinner.  But we all contribute what we have.  We all cook our potions and cast our spells to do right by ourselves, by each other, and by the people we love.  We are good witches.

Magic

We all have something to offer.  We all want to contribute to something greater than ourselves.  We all have a little bit of magic to share.  We may not devise the same spells.  We may not concoct the same potions, but why would we want to?  For one person to have all the enchantment would be a terrible burden.  And it would be exhausting.  Together, however, we can have all of the magic and an alliance to seek solace in.  We have friends who will cook us dinner.  We have friends who will bring us wine.  We have friends who will hold us.  We will have friends who will laugh with (and at) us.  We will have people to guide us and remind us of what is important.  That’s what the circle is about.  It’s about never having to carry all the weight of all the world’s problems by yourself. 

The circle

Only you can decide what circle you belong to.  Even if you think you don’t’ have a circle, I promise you, you do.  In my circle we have all kinds.  We have the kitchen witch and the wine witch.  We have the bad-ass-bitch witch.  We have a unruffled witch and a muddled witch.  We have a garden witch and a guardian witch.  We have witches who watch and witches who respond.  There are those bound by solitude and those attached to community.  But we are ALL witchy, in our own right.  And we all have special gifts to share with the universe.  But when we use those gifts together, we make magic.

-Inner Peas (Wine Witch)  

Dangerous Cargo

Signals

Once upon a time, in sea going services far, far away, there was a specialized professional who was a master at communicating with other people on other vessels on the high seas.  This sailor used signs and signals in the form of lights and flags that could be seen from miles away in order to communicate the purpose and intent of the ship with which he sailed.  He was also able to read the intentions of others in the same fashion.  This guy was called a Signalman.  He was an expert at communicating without words.  Sadly for the signalman, the technological age has made his work obsolete.  However, the maritime community still recognizes many of his contributions.  Anytime you walk onto a pier you can figure out what’s happening on every boat tied up, and you can tell how they operate as a team.  Even in this era of virtual communication, ships still communicate as the signalman did.  You can see who’s boss.  That boat flies the SOPA (senior officer present afloat) pennant.  You know whose boss is there.  That boat flies the 3^rd Sub (commanding officer onboard.)  If a boat has a diver down, you’ll see the delta flag.  If it’s taking on fuel, they will hoist a bravo flag.  While they are no longer required, signal flags are still used a courtesy to mariners.  They are still flown to preserve tradition.  They are a reminder for sailors to be mindful of what they are about to encounter. 

Bravo

No.  Not like “bravo, you did a great job.”  BRAVO, as in “shit’s about to get real.” 

The bravo flag is a very unsettling signal.  It indicates that there is dangerous cargo onboard.  Ships usually fly this flag when they are fueling or moving ammunition.  The bravo flag indicates dangerous cargo onboard.  And, appropriately, it is red.  And bright.  Bright red.  A bright, red flag flying from the yardarm.  You can’t miss it.  It is troublesome and a nuisance.  Young sailors recognize it as a signal that smoking is prohibited.  Older sailors realize that it’s a sign that shit could go bad real quick, if you aren’t paying attention.  Regardless of your position, the bravo flag makes you think about what you are doing.  It’s a cautionary notice to behave yourself and to check the behavior of those around you.  IT’S A WARNING!!!!!  Essentially, it says: “Be good or blow up.” 

Red flags

I’m a sucker for a good metaphor.  I love dichotomy.  I laugh at irony.  So, I hope you can appreciate this… I was a signalman.  No, I wasn’t an actual signalman.  By the time of my nautical service, the signalman rating had long since been abolished and it dissolved into another job.  The job it was dissolved into was the job that I chose when I was a sailor.  I chose to be a quartermaster for a lot of reasons, most notably, because I’m a hippie and a dreamer and I wanted to navigate my life by the stars.  But, at that time, probably 100 years ago now, quartermasters didn’t look at the stars.  They looked at the GPS.  I wouldn’t believe that though.  Just like I couldn’t believe that the signal aspect of the job was being taken care of by RF Radio.  But I was  a dreamer.  And even though I don’t remember many things from those days on the signal bridge, I do remember flirting with Navy signalmen in semaphore and flashing light.  I also remember the bravo flag. 

After I left the Coast Guard, I went to college and I I got a degree.  In communication.  Is there a pattern?   Yes.  YES!!!  After all these years of communicating with people on many different levels, and by different means, I consider myself an expert on how people interact with each other.  When my girlfriends tell me about their last date, or how their husbands respond to them, I mentally put up a red flag.  I’ll say “SISTER!!!  Don’t light a cigarette!!!  This is gonna explode in your face.”.  I can spot it.  I know a dangerous situation.  Unless it’s mine.   It’s different in my life though.  Even though I see that bright red flag on the yardarm, I still strike a match and throw it at the fuel.  “Oh, you are tortured and have commitment issues?”  I’m up for that.  I’ll love you no matter what.  “So, you are addicted to Adderall?“  Sure, let’s be friends.  Again.  After your addiction burned me before.  “You think you have a personality disorder because you don’t have the capability to  grow attached to others?”  Let’s have sex  so you can devastate me with your disconnectedness in the morning. 

Dangerous cargo

This is usually when my girlfriends look at me and say “uh…really?”  Yep. Really.  I keep lighting the match under the bravo flag.  I keep waiting for it all to explode in my face.  And just when I think that I can’t be any more destructive than I already have been, I do it again.  I annihilate my own self worth.  I destroy my psyche.  I demoralize myself.  I hoist the red flag.  The same red flags that I see in my friends lives and I always ignore in my own. 

But today is different.  Because even though I can see the red flag, I won’t ever  be a victim of them again.  Will I always love the emotionally challenged?  Yes.  Will I always be there for those people who have damaged and abused me?  Yes.  Absolutely.  But I learned today that all red flags don’t mean catastrophe.  Sometimes, when the bravo flag is flying, and you light a match, there’s someone there to blow it out before you blow up. 

-Inner Peas

It takes all kinds

Normal

When I was a little girl, my mom would tell me “it takes all kinds, Angela.  Could you imagine how boring this world would be if we were all the same?”  It’s a good lesson, right?  We can’t all be the same and we shouldn’t all want to be.  But when you are a small child, you just want to fit in.  Even as you get older, you want to fit in.  You want to meet the expectations of normalcy.  It doesn’t matter how many times we say “there is no such thing as ‘normal.’”  We don’t actually believe that.  Because we encounter images of “normal” everywhere we are.  In this culture, normal is a ball and a bat.  Normal is highlights and pricy makeup.  Normal is a two-story house with a yard and a dog and loud children. 

I told you that story, to tell you this story.  The other day on the way home from work, I heard that Miranda Lambert song on the radio.  It’s called “All kinds of kinds.”  And it made me think of what my mom said to me when I was little, about how the world needs all kinds.  And I was impressed.  A pop culture icon was addressing the importance of diversity.  And again, I thought, this is a good lesson.  This is a lesson I am trying to teach to my own child.  Then, I realized that the message was coming from a cute little bleach blond with fake boobs and a painted face.  You know, a “normal” girl. 

Is this still a lesson I want to teach my child?  The answer is yes.  And this is why…

Acceptance

Ever since I was little, I’ve heard my mom’s voice saying “It takes all kinds.”  I think that’s why I haven’t had a hard time accepting people as they are.  Because my parents taught me that everyone had a purpose and we should love all of the people who make their way into our lives.  And I hope that one day, Radley will hear my voice saying “It takes all kinds, Child.”  I already know that my little boy doesn’t discriminate against anyone.  Except himself.  He’s like his mommy that way.  While it’s easy for us to accept others and love everyone we meet, it’s just not that easy to accept ourselves.  That may be the problem with teaching our children that it “takes all kinds.”  Even though we are perpetuating values we think are important, many others may not be.  So, even though we can accept others for who and what they are, those others may not be able to accept us for who we are.   

Understanding

It took me a very long time to understand why I always felt so out of place…why I always felt so uncomfortable.  Like I was always being judged.  Thanks to my VERY EXPENSIVE therapist, I realized that these feelings of self-degradation came because I was judging myself.   So, I did as she suggested and performed all sorts cognitive and emotional exercises to help me help me get right with myself and feel better so I could be a better person, mother, friend, lover, daughter, employee, gardener, etc…I went back to my therapist and told her “I still feel like people are judging me.”  And she said “It’s because they are.” 

Uh…maybe you could have told me that $2,000 ago?  

Diversity

As pissed as I was.  I still listened as she explained.  She told me “People are judging you.  Because you are different.  You live a different lifestyle.  You live by yourself.  You are raising a child alone.  You work for what you have.  You are trying to find your place in the world, even though society thinks you should have already found it.”  Uh…No words.  After two years and thousands of dollars in therapy, I finally got validated.  Even though it was a victory, it was a failure, too.  I had been fighting to accept and understand others.  I had made it a priority to teach my own child those values.  I had made a conscious effort to do right by the universe, and still, the universe said “you just aren’t normal.  Bless your heart.”

It takes all kinds

Turns out, I’m fine with that.  What bothers me is that the universe will eventually tell my child that he isn’t “normal” either.  In fact it already has.  He doesn’t live in a home with two parents.  He doesn’t have any interest in sports.  He loves to draw.  He dropped an eff bomb on the playground…Not out of hate, or spite, or anger, but because I’m his mother.  And anyone who has met me knows that the eff word is going to make an appearance in every conversation.  Thus far, I have been fortunate enough that people appreciate my use of colorful language.  For the most part, so has Radley.  His teachers and administrators never reprimanded him, but the parents of his peers did.  And they absolutely judged me, too.  And I would love to sit here and destroy myself for being a terrible parent because my four year old used foul language.  But I’m not going to.  Because if that’s the worst word he’s articulated, then, I’m not too worried about it.    In fact, I’m proud of him for being comfortable enough to ask his friends “what the feck are you guys doing?”  It demonstrates a pretty rational thought process. Maybe I don't care about that because we aren't normal.  

Anyway, the point is this.  It takes all kinds.  As Miranda said “All kinds of kinds.”  It may be more uncomfortable for those of us who accept all kinds and still aren’t accepted.  But it’s not our kind that I worry about.  It’s the kind that doesn't know how to accept others. 

-Inner Peas

Feedback

At an event yesterday, in a crowded room with a couple hundred strangers, I sat alone.  A few minutes before the start of the ceremony, one of my nearest and dearest came and sat down next to me.  Just seeing her gave me a little relief.  Dawn always makes me feel at ease.  Now, don’t misunderstand, I didn’t feel uncomfortable in that room.  There were plenty of familiar faces.  There was a lot of laughter and conversation.  It’s a room that I have stood in and spoke in front of people probably 100 times.  I wasn’t uncomfortable.  I was just there.  Waiting.  Then, my girl took the seat next to mine and the first thing she said was “So, listen.  Was that a pity party last night on Inner Peas or what?”  “Uh…Yeah.  It was.”  I told her.  Then she said “I get it.  And I appreciate what you have to say.  But I’m your friend and I need to know that you are just having a moment and that’s not how you are spending 80% of your time.”  Of course, I reassured her that I am fine.  Which, I am.  And I promised her that when I write, I do it to curb the crazy and move on.  Which, I do.   I also told her, it’s my therapy.  Which, it is.  She knows all of that, of course.  Because she’s my friend.  And she gets me.  But it made me wonder if I was giving people the wrong idea…If one of my besties had to ask, then what were other people thinking?  Had I made a mistake sharing all of this with the internet?  Maybe the internet isn't ready for this…Of course, when I say “the internet,” I mean the six people who may or may not be paying attention to what I say.  It’s pretty much like the rest of my life. 

I started this experiment back in the spring when I was in the midst of a pretty monumental meltdown.  The only two options I had were to either self-destruct or figure out a way to deal with it.  I opted for the latter.  It was very scary the first time I sat down and wrote what I was thinking.  When you have a lot of weird shit happening in your head, you never know what will come out when you find a way to express yourself.  But it worked.  It gave me a little resolution.  It made me feel more human.  It took the loud, indistinguishable noises that plagued the inside of my head and made them coherent, articulate thoughts.  I felt better.  It sedated the crazy and quieted the self criticism.  That’s what this project has been about:  feeling better.  That and anyone who has known me for longer than three minutes knows that if I think it, I’m going to say it.  Out loud.  And usually in a very inappropriate venue.  So, really it should come as no surprise that I share my most taboo thoughts with anyone who as the inclination to listen. 

Anyway, moving forward…Since the debut of Inner Peas, I’ve gotten a lot of really interesting feedback.  Some people get it.  Some people are moved by it.  Some people worry about it.  Some people worry about me.  I even had a friend tell me a few weeks ago, “I love Inner Peas.  It’s my dirty little secret.  Is that how women actually think?”  I assured him that this is not how all women think, only the craziest among us.  He laughed.  I didn't. 

Honestly, I was more shocked that people actually took the time to read it than anything.  So, the feedback, while unexpected, has been incredibly touching.  Until a few days ago when several people told me that reading the blog was making them sad.  I got calls and texts and was even accosted at the coffee shop by one of my very favorite women, who asked me “are you OK?”  Of course, I’m OK.  “Are you sure?”  I’m pretty sure.  Then, again, I started thinking about how people see me now that they know so many of the thoughts and feelings that, otherwise, should be of no consequence to anyone. 

I know that this sounds like I’m trying to justify myself or validate what I say.  But that’s not actually where I’m going.  What I am trying to say is that this isn't about seeking sympathy or approval.  This isn't about wallowing in self pity.  This is where my feelings manifest themselves.  This is my vehicle to get right with myself and the people I love.  This is a platform to acknowledge the amazing gifts I have been given, mostly those gifts are the amazing people who have graced my life with their friendship.  This is where I come to find my Inner Peas. 

You can relate to what I say.  You can laugh at what I say.  You can ignore what I say.  But you should never be sad because of what I say.  Ever.  

Defeat

Struggle

Some days, I am at peace. Those are the days when conversation comes easy and smiling is natural. There are some times that I can sit at stare up at the sky and feel comfortable with my place in the universe. There are evenings that a glass of Pinot and James Taylor and a little boy’s inquisitive grin are all I need to feel at home. Then, there are some days when I feel real anxious. There are times when I feel awkward with whoever I talk to. There are nights when I look into a starry sky and wonder what the purpose is. Those are days I can’t stop my mind from going to dangerous places. Those are the times that I struggle with. Even though we all know life is about balance, learning how to stabilize the comfort and the insecurity is a daunting challenge.

Resistance

Like most people, I feel an insatiable connection to fighting to feel good. Unlike others, I don’t see the purpose in feeling good unless it’s warranted. In other words, feeling good is a product of doing good…You know, because you earn what you get, you get what you give. It’s karma 101. Anyway, even though I want to feel good, I’m resistant to the idea that I deserve it. So, instead of putting my best foot forward and accepting happiness as it comes, I question happiness when it presents itself. There’s a lot of psychology here. My therapist is really happy I pay cash. I’m pretty sure that I’m somebody’s dissertation in the making. There is a scholarly journal just waiting for me to grace it’s pages…That’s the kind of crazy I am…Psychology Now crazy. The kind of crazy that fights happiness.

Defiance

My girlfriends have asked me no less than one gazillion times “Angela. WHAT. THE. FUCK? Why do you still love him?” The previous answer was “because he’s so different. He’s tortured and anguished but I see how deep he is.” It wasn’t until recently I finally said “Look. I still love John because he has already devastated me. He’s broken. He’s impaired. But he’s already shattered my soul. There’s no way that he can hurt me more than he already has.” Silence. Except for the noise four heads make when they nod in agreement. Many people have asked me “Ang. Why are you still fighting for a job that has no allegiance to you, when you can do something better?” My answer is always the same “Because I love it here. Even if they don’t love me back.” But since I got some job security, I now answer with “I don’t look for something else because rejection is worse than neglect.” Again, silence. Except for the sound you hear when people don’t want to admit they understand your fears. Recently, my hippie sister said to me “so, you don’t deserve anything? That’s why you defy happiness?” Yes ma’am. You are correct. While I love the days that bring laughter and solace, I never embrace them. Because I am not certain that I deserve them. And you don’t want to fuck with Karma. She’s a spiteful bitch. She will cut you when you get too confident or feel too entitled. I’ve been burned by Karma a lot. So, I never want her to see that I’m getting too comfortable. Because she knows I don’t deserve it.

Defeat

Once you accept defeat, you are pretty much committed to it. You can’t ever acknowledge victory, or for that matter, even consider it an option. Defeat is defeat. Yer done. Unless you have beautiful, amazing wonderful people who won’t ever let you be done. People who don’t ever acknowledge your defeat, even if you swear by it. How can you ever resist happiness when you have people who make you smile? How can you struggle when you have so many people on your side? How can you ever be defeated if you have people who believe in you?

-Inner Peas

Unwell

Sick and Tired

 Recently, I was in a meeting and somebody said “we see people who aren’t well. And when people aren’t well , they don’t behave reasonably.” It makes sense. I always tell patients, “I know you don’t feel well. And I’m sorry. And we’ll take care of you. I promise.” That’s because I knew what I was getting into when I started working in health care. My first day at the first clinic I ever worked at, someone told me “we see people at their very worst. Don’t ever expect to feel your best here.” It makes sense, right? Sick people don’t want to make friends, they don’t want to have meaningful conversation. They just want to feel better. And when you work with sick people, you want to help make them feel better. Everybody deserves to feel good.

Tired and Sick 

 I have had the privilege of working for a lot of VERY good doctors. Every time I have asked those doctors how they do it, they roll their eyes and say “chronic fatigue.” Every single one of them has said that. That’s probably the first thing they learn in medical school. There’s probably a class called “Forget your life, you are going to be exhausted until you die.” And if you don’t pass that class, you can’t be a doctor. Or at least, you can’t be a good doctor. But this is the thing, for some reason, doctors keep being doctors. And I can’t figure out why. Believe me now, when I tell you these truths. I am not going to substantiate these claims with numbers or facts or scholarly references, but please just trust my experience here. Doctors get lied to more than any other professional group. Doctors hear more lies than cops and judges combined. Doctors have to decipher more bullshit than a cow farmer. And if they don’t cut through all the crap that patients shovel at them, somebody could die. DIE. DEAD. And thanks to assholes who pursue illegitimate malpractice claims, dead people are a burden to doctors. So, yeah. Doctors have more responsibility that most people could ever fantasize about.

Unwell

 Ok, so I told you that to tell you this: Doctors are amazing. They treat the sick, lame and lazy. But even more than that, they treat the unwell. A few years ago, at a going away lunch with one of my very favorite doctors, and his beautiful wife, an ER nurse, I asked “Why are you guys leaving? This community is going to suffer a very tremendous void in your absence.” And he said “because 90% of my patients aren’t sick. They are unwell.” He didn’t’ have to say another word. I had no response, but I understood. I was still very new to the health care. But I got it. What happens when you commit yourself to making others feel better, but nobody ever feels better? That’s what it’s like to be a doctor. When you dedicate every fiber of your being to healing others, but those people don’t want to be healed. The effects probably make you feel a little unwell. You might even question your purpose. You might leave a community that could have benefited from you. ;But, in reality, that’s what happens when good doctors are abused by bad patients. I know there are a lot of bad doctors out there. Fortunately, I haven’t ever worked for any. So, I can tell you what happens when good doctors are devoted to bad patients…they become unwell. And that’s not good for anybody. So anyway…the next time you think you are important and have a lot of responsibility, don’t. You aren’t a doctor.

Dreams

Important stuff

This afternoon I sat with a dear friend, one of the best friends I have ever had, discussing reality over a glass of wine.  I had so much on my mind.  She had so much on her mind.  So we did, as we so often do, and just let it all go.  There was no order to our conversation; we only discussed the things that were on our minds.  No rhyme or reason.  Just talk.  We talked about what was important to us.  We talked about what we didn’t think was important.  We talked about where we are.  We talked about where we want to be.  Wait.  We didn’t talk about that.  Jillian talked about that.  I didn’t talk about it because I don’t know where I want to be.  And that’s really uncomfortable. 

The absence of dreams

There was a time in my life when I had a lot of really extravagant dreams.  There was a time when I wanted to grow up to be a lawyer.  There was a time when I wanted to save the world.   There was a time when I wanted to drive an Audi.  At a younger age, I dreamed it all.  I dreamed about being pretty.  I dreamed about being smart.  I dreamed about being successful.  I dreamed.  If one dream didn’t come true, I dreamed up another one.  I never, ever dreamed I would be here though.  I never dreamed that I would be without a dream or ambition.  It’s really awkward to listen to the people you love talk though their ideas and desires when you don’t have any.  I guess, you could say that the absence of your own dreams, makes you more apt to listen to the dreams of others.  So, that is what I did.  I listened.  And I was very captivated as my bestie talked.  Her dreams aren’t unreasonable or unattainable.  But they are still dreams.  They are still ambitious.  Her dreams keep her going.  The thought of a better life keeps her motivated.  I love hearing all of her dreams. 

But I had to wonder what happened to my dreams. 

Keeping the dream alive

I used to dream about good jobs and big houses and fancy cars.   I fantasized about a successful husband and a beautiful family and a lot of really HOT sex, on demand.  I wanted to make my parents proud.  I wanted to be a good friend.  I wanted to prove my worth to those who didn’t think I had any.  What I ended up with was much different, however.  I am a medical records clerk.  I live in a duplex.  I drive an eight year old Focus.  I am divorced with one child.  I don’t remember ever having hot sex.  So, maybe the defeat has destroyed my desire to dream.  Or maybe, I realized that what I already have is better than what I could ever dream of having.  Maybe, and this is real out there, but MAYBE, I can’t have it any better than I have it right now. 

Maybe I don’t want to go anywhere else.

Broken Dreams

Earlier today, I started to get pretty concerned with the idea that I don’t dream of a better life anymore.  I was feeling discouraged.  Maybe my dreams are broken.  Maybe I am broken.  Maybe all the disappointment and devastation and despair have inhibited me from dreaming.  Or maybe not…Maybe it’s because I already have everything I need.  I have a job.  A good job.  That I love.  I have a child.  An amazing child.  Who I love.  I have people.  The most incredible people.  People who are family to me.  I don’t have an Audi or a mansion on a hill, but I have a home.  With a garden and berries and a table that people, my people, want to come and sit and talk and eat dinner at.  Could life be more comfortable?  Yes.  But a comfortable life doesn’t always fulfill dreams. 

Turns out, this is the life I always dreamed of.  Even if I didn’t know I was dreaming of it. 

-Inner Peas

 

This is Really Hard

Parenting is hard

A few years ago, I was at a child’s birthday party with Radley.  It was a very typical pre-school party.  There were a bunch of small children running and screaming in a loud and obnoxious setting with bad pizza and grocery store cake and no wine.  I hate those parties.  But when you have a small child, you make the sacrifice and go.  Because it’s important for your child and it’s important to the birthday child and it’s just one of those things you do when you are a parent.  I’ve been too no less than 100 of those parties, and at every single one, I have prayed for wine.  It never came, though. 

But anyway, back to the party at hand…This birthday party was different.  It was the first time I compared Radley to another child.  It was the first time that parenting was scary.  Yeah, parenting is always scary.  Will they walk?  Will they talk?  Will they die of pneumonia before their second birthday?  Parenting is scary.  And hard.  It’s the one job that you want to have complete control over, but in reality have very little input in the outcome.  You want your children to be a reflection of what you teach them, but they are individuals, and make their own choices.  Ok.  I keep getting distracted.  Back to the party. 

So, this was the scene…Lots of little kids in a public venue with lots of lights and loud noises and marginal food.  It was about half way through the present opening period, when I watched several little boys start to push and yell and hit.  During this interaction, I watched my little boy sit back and watch it all.  He didn’t once try to interject.  He was just watching.  The image of that day may be the most vivid memory I have ever had.  Later Radley got in trouble for not listening, and we left the party early.  And as we drove home, I wept.  Quietly.  But I still wept.  As I drove and cried, I prayed to the universe that my baby didn’t ever have to change for the world, but the world would change for him. 

I never thought this would happen

I was never going to have children.  Because I don’t really like them.  But also because I didn’t  like the idea of bringing a child into such a mess.  Wars.  Lies.  Ugliness.  Societally, we haven’t really created a healthy atmosphere for children.  But I did it.  I did the unthinkable.  I had a child.  And as bazillions of parents before me thought, I knew my child was perfect.  And they are so perfect when they are born.  Then after you see perfection, you get scared again.  Because they only thing you can do with perfect is imperfect it.  Like I said, I never thought this would happen. 

I never thought that I would have a child.  However, if I did, he or she was going to be born under perfect circumstances.  And my child would be raised in a home with two, loving parents and lots of laughing siblings.  My child would be sheltered enough to never feel pain, but enlightened enough to solve the world’s heartaches. 

You can probably see now why I was never going to have children.  But I did it.  Even though I thought this would never happen. 

Growing up is hard

When I was growing up, and I had a hard day, my mom would tell me “Growing up is really hard, Angela.”  And that always made me feel better.  An adult was validating my feelings.  And as I got older, my mom stood by that position.  She always reminded me that growing up is really hard.  Whether it was a scraped knee on the playground, or an embarrassing moment in high school, or living alone for the first time, my mom ALWAYS reminded me that “growing up is hard.”  Even though I always appreciated her words, I never understood how hard growing up can be until I started to watch my own little person grow up. 

Now, I see how hard it is.  

Raising children is hard

My kid is tough.  He’s skinned his knee.  He’s skinned both his knees.  He’s fallen down.  He’s gotten himself back up.   He’s cracked his head on the corner of a mahogany table.   He’s had pneumonia.  He’s puked more times than Charlie Sheen.  He deals with shots like they are just another day on the playground.  He transitions between two different houses in two different cities EVERY WEEK.  He has been reluctant to make friends, but then he chooses loves them.  He has been heartbroken when his friends move away, but he is resilient enough to make new ones.  HE IS FIVE.  He is the toughest kid I know.  No scratch that.  He’s the toughest human being I know.  And I probably don’t deserve him.  The world probably doesn’t deserve him.  He’s amazing. 

So, when I get accosted in the hallway outside of his school, and his teacher tells me that he was bullied, I have to wonder why.  When that same teacher tells me he stood up to the bullies, I feel proud.  When I see my little boy’s face, sad, but keeping strong, I remember why this wasn’t supposed to happen.  Not because I wasn’t supposed to have a child, but because my child wasn’t supposed to be bullied.  The good news is that he isn’t a victim.  He is confident.  He stands his ground.  He’s a good person. 

With that said…For FUCK SAKE, teach your children some respect.  Teach them to love each other.  More importantly, teach them to love themselves.  Teach them to stand up for what is right.  Teach them values.  Just teach them love.  Yes, we all have to deal with bullies.  Yes, we all have to defend ourselves.  Yes, we all have to learn to survive.  We all had to do it.  But your children are your opportunity to make a difference.  And you aren’t making a difference if you are raising assholes. 

Eat. Pray. Love.

So, I read this book…

A few years ago, right after Mike and I separated and I was living by myself for the first time in years, in this little shanty just outside of town, I picked up this book called Eat.  Pray.  Love.  Ever heard of it? It was a big deal.   Hollywood made a movie out of it.  They casted Julia Roberts to star.  The movie wasn’t a blockbuster, but the book was a best seller.  It doesn’t necessarily qualify as a literary masterpiece, but it’s very poignant and honest and beautifully written.  And it is VERY relatable for a recent divorcé.  As I read it, I heard every word and felt every emotion.  It was like she was writing my story.  From the sobbing on the bathroom floor in a loveless marriage, to moving from a comfortable house in the suburbs into a smaller, less desirable place, to the boyfriend who was going to save her soul, and of course didn’t…I got it.  ALL OF IT.  I was engaged.  And captivated.  And when she said “I just needed to get away from it all.”  I got that too!!!  But what she said next effected me more than anything else that came before or after in the book.  She said that she pitched a book idea to her publisher and they footed the bill for a year-long vacation.  Italy.  India.  Indonesia.  All expenses paid.  Just come back and write about what you did there, they told her. 

Uh…What??? 

Getting Away

When I fantasized about getting “away from it all”, I was dreaming about a week on the North Shore of Kauai, or a quick trip to visit old friends on the East Coast, or even just a weekend in Santa Barbara.  In reality, though, I got away from it all with a trip to the smoke pit at lunch.  It never occurred to me that “getting away” could mean escaping the plague of reality for an ENTIRE YEAR without having to pay a dime for the solace.  Where the fuck was my publisher? 

That’s when I started to call bullshit on the sob story.  Where this woman was talking about having panic attacks while eating or meditating, rent free, I was having panic attacks about keeping my job and my house.  While this woman was getting paid to learn the value of solitude, I was learning the cost of seclusion.  While this woman was being embraced by the man of her dreams, the man of mine was alienating me.  Suddenly, it wasn’t such a good book.  It became more confining than liberating.  It became the other side of the mirror.  And that’s the thing about life, there’s always another side.  There is always another hurdle.  There’s always more bullshit to contend with than was advertised.  There is never any “getting away.” 

This is not a book review, this is real life.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  The smoke pit is a great place to regroup and recover.  Every couple of hours, there’s a break in the mundane; a break from the monotony.  But it’s not a year of good meals and meditation and tropical islands.  It’s the smoke pit.  It’s dirty and disgusting and full of heavy angst.  But that’s where real people go to recover.   It’s reality.  But on days like today, when I get a past due notice from PG&E,  I wish the smoke pit wasn’t the only place I could travel to.  I wish that the only love story I knew was someone else’s.  I wish that the phone call I got at 3:PM wasn’t about work, but about dinner or drinks or moving to Bali.  I wish I didn’t feel so out of place when I’m in a room full of people I love.  I wish.  I wish.  I wish….

Eat.  Pray.  Love. 

So, the book was a bust.  But, very often, so is life.  I’ll pay PG&E tomorrow.  I’ll keep listening to love songs, even though they will never be mine.  I’ll answer the phone again.  And I’ll keep loving my people.  Because they are amazing.  And they love me back…for some reason.  Also, I will continue to eat, pray and love.  Those are the greatest gifts we are given.  Even if they don’t pay the bills. 

OK, I changed my mind.  The book wasn’t  a total bust. 

-Inner Peas

 

Misery

No Complaints

Ever since I passed that test so that I could keep my job and my mammogram came back positive for weird lumps, but negative for malignancy, I have had a hard time finding anything to complain about.  I wake up in the morning, and I’m not horrified of becoming unemployed, homeless and/or orphaning my child.  I don’t really wake up in cold sweats in the middle of the night anymore.  I don’t walk around carrying the weight of the world on my soul.  I kind of don’t know what to do myself now.  I mean, worrying is kind of what I do.  I was born this way.  And it’s a part of who I am.  Who else would have stayed in a job with no stability for two and a half years?  Most people would have taken the initiative to find alternate employment after the first couple of months.  Not this girl.  It’s almost like the torture of the unknown, and the prospect of dismal uncertainty kept me going.  For two and a half years. 

And the boob thing.  That couldn’t have been more perfect for a compulsively disturbed.  How is a GIANT lump in your right breast not the perfect gift for someone predisposed to neurosis?  It was perfect.  I could envision myself dying with so much unresolved.  I was never going to see my child grow into the wonderful human being I know he will be.  I was never going to know true love.  I was never going to get published.  I would have been a victim of life’s cruel game.  It was  textbook fate for the chronic pessimist.  But that was a farce.  It’s just a fibrocystic condition.  It’s cool.  I don’t really date that much.  Essentially, it will have very little impact on my life. 

So now what? 

What happens when you feed off of uncertainty and you have nothing out of the ordinary to feel uncertain about?  What do you do when you become accustomed to fearing the inevitable, when the inevitable doesn’t manifest into anything?  What happens then? 

I’ll tell you.  You find things to worry about.  You find a means of feeling panicked.  You find things to consume your thoughts.  After everything cleared up, the first thing I did was start to pine over all of my previous failures.  ALL OF THEM.  Two jobs, one marriage, four friendships, high school volleyball.  Nothing is off limits when you are determined to feel like an asshole.  I beat myself up for being a terrible friend, mother, daughter, employee.  And to ice the cake of sorrow with pity, I delved REALLY deep into the failure with the LOVE OF MY LIFE.  Who of course, NEVER loved me back.  I was pretty engaged in self destruction.  I was relatively certain I deserved it.  There’s no way that the life I have led deserved anything less that wallowing in perpetual misery.  And if nothing, I’m dedicated. 

Misery is really exhausting.  But it’s habit. 

So now what?  Really.  What?

I was exhausted with misery, but I didn’t think I deserved anything better.  So, I was kind of torn.  There were hundreds of options, but the two that stood out most in my mind were these:  1.)  Be miserable.  2.)  Don’t.  I really have no idea where I’m at in the decision making process.  But I do know this.  The people around me are amazing.  And if I want to keep amazing people in my life, I should probably not try to exhaust them with my misery.  So, thank you dear friends who love me and understand me and remind me that I am not as miserable as I want to be.  Thank you to all the people who remind me the value of happiness, even if I don’t want to be.  THANK YOU to the people I love who, for some reason think I am worth loving back.  While I do enjoy basking in my own dismay, I enjoy laughing with the people I love even more.  Thank you for reminding me where to find my inner peas. 

PS  I’ll probably be hateful and miserable again tomorrow.  Thanks for understanding.