No Questions Asked

How can you say that I don’t know what love is? 

If I were a love song, I’d probably be Fleetwood Mac’s No questions Asked.  Most wouldn’t consider it the most prolific love song ever recorded.  But I do.  It’s a song that so poignantly delves into the realities of love and desire, and even on a more instinctual level, survival.  It’s not soft and sexy.  It’s not sweet and tender.  No Questions Asked is honest and relatable.   It’s not just a love song.  It’s a life song.  It’s a song about how we live.  The struggles between loving someone and loving yourself and wanting to be loved by others.  The lyrics don’t reflect the action of making love, but instead, the longing to be loved.  On our own terms and on our own agenda.  Of course.  Because we cannot accept the love of others unless they love us the way we have outlined.

I’m frightened and I’m lost

But isn’t that what we all want?  To love and be loved on our own terms?  Isn’t that how we are conditioned to live and love?  Don’t we all want to dictate our own futures; our own outcomes?  We want to be in control.  We want to be able to manipulate the products of our existence.  We want to own the successes and the failures.  As a result of our desire for success being more than that of defeat, we try to minimize the variables.  Therefore, the people we chose to share our road with, are those we are most vulnerable to; with those people, you have no other option than to be yourself.  And in a world as superficial as ours, being vulnerable is really fucking scary. 

Night after night

Night after night. No questions asked.  I affirm my belief that I am happy being alone.  I remind myself that being alone is safe.  I like the solitude.  I like that I don’t have to answer to others.  I like that my bed is my own.  I like that until I remember that I chose an empty bed to punish myself.  Then, night after night, I’m torn between loving my empty bed and wondering if there were arms around me, if I would appreciate it more or less.  Night after night, I climb into bed on the side closest to the window.  I wake up several times a night, when I cross the imaginary line that separates my side from the other side of the bed.  When I have realized that I have crossed the line in my own bed, I will get up, take a Benadryl and swallow a cup of water.  Then I’ll go back to the east side of the room; the far side of the bed. 

Pushed up against the wall

We can’t ever have a relationship that we feel stifled in.  We can’t ever love if we feel pushed up against the wall.  I realized at a very young age, that suffocating your lover, or being suffocated by your lover doesn’t make you close.  It makes you want to escape.  Being watched and controlled only makes you want to find a way to emit from what binds you.  When you feel cornered, the first response to be free of the discomfort, of the threat. 

The instinct to retreat is how we survive.  By being alone, we either become independent or we become sociopaths.  We can isolate ourselves from others in order to shield ourselves or save ourselves.  It’s a very thin line that separates love of self from love of others.  I line just as thin, separates us from loving ourselves and being loved by others. 

Need you now

Being alone only gets you so far.  All the money…All the independence…All the indifference only means something when you have something to prove.  I spent years alone.  Not independent, but alone.  I was convinced that was where I needed to be.  It’s only been in the last year or so, that I have realized the difference.  We should all be independent.  We should all be able to take care of ourselves.  But we should never be alone. 

Sometimes we want to be alone, but we should also be willing to accept that we need to not be by ourselves.  Sometimes, you just need to say “I need you now.”  That’s what survival is about.  That’s how you live life.  The people who love you will come through for you.  Your friends.  Your family.  Your lovers.  They will be there for you and know that there are no expectations.  No questions asked. 

-Inner Peas

Another Unnecessary Loss

About four years ago, I was talking to the students about their health records.  I do that with every class that leaves TRACEN Petaluma.  It’s important.  Your medical history is really important.  So that’s why I talk to the students about getting their health records to the next place they are going.  You know, you need to make sure what happens to you medically can be traced for several reasons.  Continuity of care.  Health benefits. Maintaining a medical history.  It’s a big deal whether you have served in the military or you could never fathom a military lifestyle.  Your health care and treatment is as much your responsibility as it is that of your health care providers.  I’m digressing though.  Point is that I make a concerted effort to make sure every patient I see understands how important their health history is to their future. 

So, I go and I talk to the students and I have them fill out a form.  It’s a very simple form; a form that I built myself in Microsoft Word in about three minutes.  It asks pretty simple questions like your name, your date of birth, the unit you are reporting to and when you are reporting there.  Seven lines. They fill out the form, I have them sign it, you know, just to make it a valid document.  (Don’t tell anyone that it is in NO way official.  I’d lose all my street cred.) After that, I carry on my way. 

Anyway, about four years ago I was talking to the students about their health records.  I did what I always do.  I gave them a brief lesson on their health record and how significant its contents are to their future.  Then, after I collected all the forms, I took a minute to ask them where they are going and how they feel about their orders and if anyone is so devastated that they won’t make it through the next three or four years.  As usual, that a courtesy laugh.  I thanked them for their time and for being a good audience and exited stage right.  I remember that day very well.  They were the first class to applaud me when I walked out the door.  Again, a courtesy.  But I remember their laughter and their applause very well.  I remember smiling as I walked up the hill. 

When I got back to my office, I filtered through all of the forms to make sure they were complete and I could read all of the hen scratch.  I put them into two different piles, a “to be shipped” pile and a “hand carry” pile.  I was about half way through the sifting when I found a form that didn’t look like the others.  It was complete.  And accurate.  But that’s not why it didn’t look like the others.  Even though, truth be told, none of the others were complete and accurate.  This particular form stood out because there was a very intricate drawing of a giant robot shooting at an army of much smaller robots. 

When I saw it, I smiled.  Just like his class had made me smile as I ascended the hill back to the clinic.  I maintained that feeling of delight when I saw the image that young man shared with me on his complete and accurate medical record transfer form.  I remember thinking two things 1.)  This kid didn’t hear a thing I said.  2.)  How did he complete such an intricate drawing in the 10 minutes I was there? 

It touched me so much that I emailed his class advisor with a scanned copy of this kid’s artwork with a note that said “Thank him for me.”  After I scanned it, I pinned it to my bulletin board.  And the days after that, when I was having a hard time, I would always look up to that drawing and put it all in perspective:  Medical records are important, but creativity is makes other people smile.  That was the message I got from him. 

About a month after talked to that class and transferred their health records, the clinic supervisor came up behind as I sat at my desk.  The only thing I remember was a hand holding a piece of paper with a name on it.  I recognized the name.  I looked up at the robot etching on my bulletin board.  Above the armed robot, on the first line of the form I had created myself, the names matched. 

I turned around and I looked at Allen.  I shook my head.  I yelled at him “NO!!!!”  He asked “do we still have this record?”  “NO!!!”  I screamed at him.  “NO!!!”  He went to that boat in Hawaii.  “He took his record with him before he left.  He drew me this picture.”  I pointed at the picture.  “HE DREW THAT FOR ME!!!   He was excited about going to Hawaii.  I asked him.  I looked in his face and asked him if he was excited.  He said ‘yes.’  That name is wrong.”  That’s what I told Allen.  “That name is wrong.  You. Are. Wrong.” 

Allen wasn’t wrong, though.  He was right.  That kid had left California on a plane for Hawaii.  Within hours of reporting to his new boat, he swallowed a 9mm round.  I was so devastated.  I wondered what his last days were like.  I wondered how a smart, handsome, likable young man who never went to medical ended up as a self-induced blood stain on a hotel carpet.  This young man who never exhibited any signs of feeling helpless or hopeless, was suddenly dead because he felt SO FUCKING alone. 

When he picked up his medical record, I hazed him a little.  I said “I emailed YN1 the picture you drew. Thanks for paying attention when I talked.  And just so you know, I’m keeping it on my board forever.”  I pointed behind me at the place he had memorialized in my heart.  He smiled cordially and walked away.  18 days later he was dead.  I thought my jokes were funny.  I thought that he understood that he had made a difference in my life.  I never would have thought that he was so sad, so alone that he wouldn’t want to be a part of our world anymore. 

It has been four years to the week that I learned of that young man’s death.  It’s been just a little more than four years since I tacked that picture up onto the board.  I knew that cute kid was sharing something meaningful with me when he drew that picture on the bottom of a printed Word document.  I knew he was sharing something so much as to email his class advisor about it.  I made a huge deal about it when he left the clinic.  But I made what he was sharing with me about me.  It wasn’t about me.  It was about him.  It was about a nameless, faceless statistic.  Where I saw another creative, free spirit, another creative, free spirit felt abandoned.  Again. 

In five years of doing this.  I have never received another message like that.  I get the Coast Guard’s “best” who can’t write their social security number or their next unit.  Sometimes they can’t even write their own names legibly.  But in five years, the only time I had a piece of art handed to me, I didn’t recognize the plea for acknowledgement; the silent scream for relief.  Don’t ever do that.  Don’t ever let someone ask you for help and not recognize it.  Don’t ever do that. 

-Inner Peas

Broken

There are days that I marvel at how broken I am.  Those are the days that I revel in my many pieces and the way they always find a way to fit back together.  There is a certain amount of fulfillment that comes with understanding that being broken doesn’t mean being dysfunctional, it just means that you can function differently.  The days that I take solace in knowing the gaps in my being and sharp edges didn’t come for naught are the days I find the beauty in the imperfections.  Not only my imperfections, but the imperfections around me as well. 

Its days like those that I define myself with words like “gypsy” or “hippie” or “spirited.” Its times like that when I feel my strongest and I find the most beauty in all of those busted pieces.  That’s when I feel powerful.  Not the kind of power that governs nations or pulls the tides.  Powerful like a Joni Mitchell song.  Those times also give me meaning.  Not like the meaning of life or anything.  More like the meaning of my life.  I find a lot of comfort in being broken.  I find a lot of identity in it as well.  While we are all broken, not all of us realize that we are.  In my revelation, I have control.  In my acceptance, I have peace.  That’s how I embrace being broken. 

But there are other times.  Times when it’s not so easy to appreciate the damage.  Times when it’s cold and bitter.  Times when it’s near impossible to see the beauty in the sum of your parts. That’s when I can feel those pieces of my fractured self, weakening.  It happens every time.  I know when I’m about to break again.  I can feel myself coming apart in the fall, before I even hit the floor.  Sometimes, I being to anticipate the damage before it’s even done.  Times like this make me wish I had never been broken in the first place.  If I had never been broken, I would never know what repairing the damage entailed.  It’s a lot of fucking work.

So, at times like this, I get really tired.  And kind of pissed.  And real resentful at the entire world because, really?  Can’t you learn to be more careful with fragile shit.  If you’re a bull, steer the fuck clear of china shops.  If you keep breaking mirrors, don’t blame other people for your bad luck.  If you drop everything you hold, then please, don’t pick up my heart.  I am tired of the anticipation.  I’m tired of carrying gorilla glue in my purse.  I’m tired of emergency fixes and temporary holds.  I’m tired of hearing “you are stronger than you think you are.”  I’m tired of “Do you know what a great job you are doing?”  I’m really fucking tired of all that.  I’m tired of doing “the best I can” and making excuses for my inadequacies and hoping they are reasonable explanations for barely holding it together when I’m falling apart. 

A product of loving people is not being loved back.  Everyone knows that you can’t love all of the people all of the time.  Even more, we know that we will never be loved by all of the people even part of the time.  But when is loving people going to stop being so painful?  There will be those that we love who can’t love us back.  There will be people we love who we can’t help.  There will be people we love who don't know how to love.  Every time we love someone, we risk the fall.  Every time we fall, we have to be ready to put the pieces back together.  We have two options. Either we can stop loving or we can be prepared to put it all back together.  Again.

-Inner Peas

Grace(Land)

I came home from work today, and like most days, I went immediately to the closet and kicked my shoes inside.  I went into my bedroom and grabbed a loose, ratty skirt and faded tank top.  I went to the bathroom and stripped myself of the dress and panty hose that I had been bound to since 6 o’clock this morning.  I changed my cloths and washed my face. I looked at myself in the mirror as I dried my face and was convinced that I looked older than I did yesterday.  Trying not to think too much about my rapid and premature aging, I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine.  Then I headed to the back yard to sit in silence and watch the North Coast sky does what it does this time of year.   

As I watched the gray sky roll in with conviction, I saw the bright blue overhead and the hole on the horizon that the pink sunset screamed out of, I thought about all the life that had happened in the last 24 hours.  I looked down at my feet and saw something that concerned me:  my ankles were swollen.  Bigger and angrier than I had seen them in a long time.  I generally don’t think too much about that.  Swollen feet are an occupational hazard of spending 60 hours a week in high heels.  I’ve accepted it.  But as I reached down to rub the product of my vanity, my mind took me to a place I didn’t know was important.  I flashed back to just before lunch this morning.  I was in my office, back to the door, when a heard a knock, knock, knocking on it.  It kind of threw me off a little.  Nobody knocks on our door.  It’s open, and usually people walk right in, because they need something from one of us.  And they expect us to produce it for them right now.  Right. Fucking. Now.  In my office, we always joke about those people.  We always say that when people walk in, they say “Hey you.  You with the vagina.  Fix my shit.  Now.”  Of course, I plan to  discuss that one day.  But for now, we will stick to the knocking.

So, when I heard the wrapping on the door jamb, I turned around and saw a young man with a medical record in his hand.  That shouldn’t be surprising.  Medical records are what I do.  But what surprised me was that I recognized him as a student.  And not just any student.  An Independent Duty Health Services Technician student.  They work in the clinic at the end of their extensive training.  I looked at him, with his creepy Movember, panel van, free candy ‘stache and said “Come in, Sweetie.”  He did, with a little trepidation.  He asked me:  “Is your first name Angela?”  I confirmed.  He looked relieved and sat down and said “Good.  So you must be Ms. Angela?”  I guess so.  Sounds right, anyway.  Then he said, “I was just looking at this record and this person transferred a month or so ago.  I called the new unit to confirm and I saw that the dental exam was updated online, but it’s not in the record.”  I know.  I know.  Those are a lot words that don’t mean much to anyone, except for me and this kid and the military member with horrifying fears of dentists.  But essentially, what Movember was saying was “Can I find the answers?  Can I help you?” I said “Thank you sweetie, leave the record on my desk.  I’ve got to go to a meeting.”  And as I walked down the hill I wondered if that kid understood that with his simple gestures of kindness he gave me grace.

Then, as quickly as Movember left, I found myself late for a meeting.  When I returned, another knock came from the door behind me. This time I looked up and saw a very familiar face, also with a hideous mustache.  The first thing I thought was “how come such magnificent people insist make me feel so uncomfortable with hideous facial hair?”” Despite the unsightly upper lip, I told him “COME IN HERE!!!”  “Do you have any Kleenex?”  He asked.  I said “Have a sit, babe.”  Then, I threw a box of tissue at him.  We talked for a while about the superficial stuff. We talked about the cold and the snot and the bullshit.  After that, we talked about real shit. We talked about our children and our hopes and the way life can be mean sometimes.  We talked about that for quite a while.  And as he walked out of my office I wondered if he knew that his honesty and the trust he had in me gave me grace.  

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Tonight, as I sat there rubbing my tender ankles, questioning the colors of the sky, I also wondered about why people are the way they are.  I wondered why people trust me.  I wondered why people want to help me.  I wondered why I have been so graced. Then, I head Paul Simon on the radio.  Even though I had heard Paul Simon sing Graceland many times, both recorded and live, Graceland suddenly resonated with me like it never had before. 

“She comes back to tell me she’s gone.  As if I didn’t know that.  As if I didn’t know my own bed…Loosing love is like a window to your heart, everybody sees you’re blown apart.  Everybody feels the wind blow.”  But do we all understand that?  Do we all go to places to feel we are safe when our lives are falling apart?  Do we take our love and kindness to people who need grace the most?  How do we know where we can find grace or share our grace with others?

I think we are all living to give and receive grace.  I think we are all human trampolines.  I believe that when we are bouncing, falling, flying in turmoil.    And the only time or place we can calm the turbulence is in a state of grace.  That’s Graceland. 

-Inner Peas

Live

A few months ago, I was having a real hard time finding a work-life balance.  Actually, I had been having a real hard time with that for a few years before that.  I was letting my life be dictated by the circumstances of my employment.  By the responsibility that I had.  By the unpredictable nature of my job.  By the pressure to be everything to everyone.  As my job became more and more complicated with unreasonable expectations from internal and external factors, I became less and less capable of dealing with anything outside of work.  That meant that I was too overwhelmed to go anywhere after work.  It meant that my child became bound to the confines of our neighborhood.  It meant that any social interaction that happened outside of work was pretty much confined to my yard or kitchen.  We were both suffering because of that. 

And that’s how my life was happening.  Waking up too early.  Going to work.  Coming home.  Throw in some microwave dinners and a bottle of wine.  Baths and stories.  Some broken sleep.  That’s where I was.  But a few months ago, when I had finally reached the place where I was throwing up in the bathtub every morning, overwhelmed with the anxiety of going to work and the threat of permanently isolating my six year old, I decided to make a change.  I decided to do the job I am paid to do, and not the other five jobs that I’m not paid for.  As soon as I made that decision, weird things started happening. 

I started going out after work.  To the grocery store.  To softball games.  To dinner with my girlfriends.  For fuck sake, I took five consecutive days off to go visit with people I love and enjoy.  I started doing things that, well you know, things that real people do.  I was doing those things with a different sort of life; a different expectation.  Instead of going out because I felt obligation, I was doing them to enjoy life.  That was the first time in five years I had been able to do that.  Just enjoy. 

But the thing about learning how to live life, is that the old expectations and demons always find a way to creep back in.  So, you start enjoying life a little too much, and you remember that happiness is not normative behavior.  When hurdles present themselves, you forget that you can, actually, leap over them.  When work gets too serious, you forget that your job isn’t the only facet of your life.  Then the overwhelming fear of simply living creeps back in.  That started happening again.  Too much obligation, too much responsibility, too much asinine bullshit.  TOO FUCKING MUCH!!!  So much, that I had passed out in the shower yesterday morning and cracked my head on the side of the tub, only to wake up naked and tangled and near drowning.  For what? 

Today I was at a party.  A fun party.  With people I respect and trust.  But at the two hour point, I was out.  I gave hugs and kisses and dismissed myself, on the premise that I just can’t be with people for more than two hours.  If nothing, I’m honest.  As I drove home, though, I felt this overwhelming guilt.  Guilt for not being able to stay and support my girl and celebrate her husband’s birthday.  Oh the fucking guilt.  So much that I almost got back in the car and went back.  Then I saw this “Enjoy life everyone.  It’s worth it.” 

As soon as I saw those words on the interwebs, I texted my friend.  My text read “’Enjoy life.  It’s worth it.’  I’m gonna write about that shit.”  He said “I hope you do.  The story is pretty amazing.”  We bantered back and forth for a little while.  The long and short of the story was that Tim had went to a Tough Mudder event to cheer on a buddy. He was just there for moral support. But when he got there, something changed. Something told him that he needed to participate.  So, without a change of clothes or a plan, he shelled out a couple hundred bucks, at the last minute, so he could run the course.   Then I read his experience from this morning.  “So there was this guy at the start of the run who was talking and it went like this ‘There was a tough mudder runner who died of cancer last year.  Don’t be sad.  DON’T YOU DARE FEEL SADNESSS.  Because when he was diagnosed in 2001, he made a choice.  He chose to live life.  He made a promise that every chance he had he would live life and do something new.  He made it 13 years and he lived those years to the fullest.  He would always say ‘when was the last time you did something for the first time?’” 

Wow.  Just wow.  Fucking wow.  We are all impermanent.  We are all mortal.  We all begin to die the day we are born.  Why does it take us so long to figure out that we were born to live, not to make a living?  Why are we so convinced that we need to suffer rather than enjoy?  When was the last time that you got to do something for the first time?  

-Inner Peas