fuckit

I have been sitting at this fucking table for the last five days trying to write something.  Trying to find something to say that would ease the angst and lift the weight that is suffocating my soul.  But what could I say?  What combination of words can you put together to adequately express all of your failures, weaknesses, adversaries and demons?  How do you do that?  Do you tell people that the reason you live in near poverty is because you don’t see anything better for yourself?  Do you say that being alone is easier than being connected?  Or maybe you could tell people that you had to tell the father of your child that you can’t absorb all of the everything anymore.  Then there was that Christmas morning text from the sister who you haven’t heard from in three years that read “you are a ruthless bitch.”  I could probably write about that.  That would probably get the ratings.  Or you could talk about how you got dumped by a man who was supposed to be “different” in a really casual, yet very expensive manner, four days before Christmas.  Those are the things I have been sitting her trying to write about for the last week.  But I couldn’t find the words.  There are no words for any of that. 

Because when you try to articulate that shit, the first thing that people want to do is tell you to forget all that and just be grateful for what you have.  Never fails.  Ever.  That’s the first sentiment out of other people’s mouths when you have a hard time.  They say “don’t lose sight of what is important.”  Or “you are so blessed.  Don’t let this get you down”  Or my personal favorite “You have more than most people.”  What the fuck kind of encouragement is that?  You think that because I am having a hard time, I can’t see the gifts I’ve been graced with?  You think that I’m ungrateful for what I have because I can’t shake the shit circus that has been shacked up over my being since forever?  This is why we are socialized to not talk about our feelings.  Because if you do, you will be labeled as weak or emotional and be chastised for being unappreciative. 

In the hours, upon excruciating hours, I have spent sitting here trying to find words that don’t make me sound like an entitled douche bucket, I started writing some of these things down.  I always keep a spiral bound notebook next to the computer when I write.  I guess to try to organize some of the emotional tsunami that happens when I write.  So, I started writing.  While I was writing.  I know, I am a multitasking marvel…Anyway.  I looked down at what I had written last night and tried to make a correlation between their relevance.  It wasn’t until I was stirring my coffee this morning, and spilled a little on the notebook that I realized what it was. 

The list was everything that I have been holding on to, trying to control.  All the things that are so far out of my control that I have been trying to navigate and manipulate and improve and own.  But they are all things that I can’t change; they aren’t mine to own.  I can’t change the pressure of December.  It is what it is.  I can’t change douche bags with judgmental eyes.  I can’t change a failed marriage.  I can’t change people who care more about their ambition than being kind.  I can’t change the way that people have treated me.  I can’t change the poor decisions of my past, nor can I replace them.  This is all shit that just is. 

I thought about that list all day.  When I got home from running my errands, I started tearing them out of the notebook, one by one.  I knew I had to do it, but I didn’t know why.  Or what I was going to do with 100 pieces of my past on shredded, college ruled notebook paper sprinkled all over the dining room table. 

It was right then that my phone buzzed from across the room.  I turned around to check it and, as if the universe had planned it, I read a text from my little brother.  It said “Hey Sis.  How are you?  It’s almost over.  Keep fighting.”  With tears in my eyes, the only words I could respond with were “I love you, but fuck this shit.  I’m a pacifist.  I want life to be nice.  I know that’s naïve.  But I want that.”  And this kid, God love his soul, said “You aren’t a pacifist, Angela.  You are a hippie.  By design, hippies fight a different battle just being who they are.  You don’t conform.  If you did, you would be a pacifist.  But you don’t.  Keep fighting.  That’s what we do.” 

I put the phone down and turned around and looked at the scattering of guilt, regret and rejection on the table.  I walked to the back yard and grabbed the aluminum bucket that I stole from a bar, circa 2003.  The one with the faded Budweiser logo that usually houses bottle caps.  I dumped out the caps and wrote in big, black letters:  FUCKIT BUCKET.  There’s going to be a fire running through my past, like Sherman’s march into Atlanta.  I’m burning it all down. 

 Just because I can’t control it, doesn’t mean that I can’t feel it.  It also doesn’t mean that I can’t let go of it.  Fuckit. 

-Inner Peas

Dear December,

Dear December,

What happened to you?  Do you remember the days when you were that enchanted time between fall and winter?  Do you remember the days that you embraced all of us with spirit and delight? Do you remember being the time of year that summer envied?  Do you remember that?  What happened to you; what happened to us? 

December, what happened to the excitement that came with your arrival?  The Thanksgiving dinners full of laughter that gave way to the lights and decorations that celebrated you.  The traditions that you brought back year after year, once so coveted have become tedious and excruciating.  Pulling boxes from the closet to decorate trees and homes has become a chore.  Grocery shopping to bake snowman cookies and gingerbread men and peppermint bark has become a series of hostile encounters that has robbed us of the enjoyment of the final product.  Giving the gifts we have chosen with such attention and concern to detail has become less fulfilling now that we can question the options. 

What happened, December?  When did the days of playful weekends with cousins turn into three months of corporate propaganda?  When did the 25 days in the advent calendar succumb to half a year of pressure, starting with Christmas in July?  Where did you lose the simplicity of short days and long nights?  Hot chocolate has been replaced with peppermint mochas.  Gingerbread houses have resigned to rebar enhanced culinary designs.   The bicycle has been made obsolete with battery operated, battery powered, plastic trucks.  Where are you, December?

I remember days when December, you were desired.  You were an escape from the rest of the year.  As a young adult,  I remember the first time I saw the city lit up from Shoreline drive in Alameda and being as captivated with the lights on the city skyline, as I was with their reflection on the bay.   December after December, I rode BART into the city, from the Fruitvale Station, with my roommate.  We’d get off at Powell and Market.  As we made the accent into the city, we would both stand silently in awe of the energy around us.  When we finally found our bearings, we would head straight for the effervescent lights of Union Square.  We would banter back and forth and say things like “One day, I’ll get you that for Christmas” or “One day we will be able to eat there.” When we grew fatigued of Macy’s and Virgin Records, we would meander through the Market to the waterfront.  When the glowing blue and pink neon lights and shiny façade of the Fog City Diner reflected off the Embarcadero, we could almost taste the bread and milkshakes. 

Every December, we did that.  We would rest our feet and tempt our nearly sophisticated pallets at one of San Francisco’s most iconic restaurants.  Then we’d hail a cab back home, by way of BART.  Once we got back to the East Bay, we would go to Waldon’s books or See’s Candy and pick up a gift we could afford for each other.  But once upon a time, those nights in the city were cherished and hopeful.  What happened to that?

I wouldn’t fly to the city now, during the month of December, if a helicopter landed in my back yard, picked me up and dropped me directly on top of Union Square.  So, what happened December?  When did you lose your mystique?  When did you become so angry and resentful and dirty?  What happened to your genuine innocence and kindness?  What the fuck happened?  Why is it that December is the most resented month of the year, now?   How did a month of celebration become some much responsibility and angst? 

December, I want the old you back.  The one who shone with glitter and magic. The one who sparkled with the light that reflected in all children s' eyes.  I don’t like the new you.  I don’t like the expectations and disappointment.  I really don’t like who you have become.  I don’t need your entitlement or your judgment.  Somewhere along the way, you lost sight of what was important.  Try to find that again.

Yours Truly,

Inner Peas

Let it Go

Every time my journey into the land of the living is delayed by traffic, weather, or mechanical malfunction, I wonder why I can’t seem to make any headway in my travels.  I am perpetually reminded that even though I want out, I am stuck in Survivaland:  The place where life is replaced by existence and dreams give way to reality.  It’s a place where the only aspiration is to wake up in the morning, with no greater ambition than, only to maintain shelter and food.  Survivaland is the place where the once aspirational and idealistic settle.  Survivaland is a psychological continent for people who can’t let go of the wrongs they have committed and those that have been committed against them.  It’s a realm of past injustices and transgressions. In Survivaland, you don’t have to live, you just need to exist. 

I know about Survivaland.  I’ve been there for years.  I’ve been doing that thing that we do here.  In Survivaland, we wake up early in the morning and get our kids ready for school.  We go to work.  We shake hands and make nice with other people.   We take out the trash and do the dishes and sweep the floors.  Not every day, just the days that courtesy requires us to do so.  Here, we don’t do much. We just survive.  Here, we don’t realize that the key to living isn’t surviving, it’s letting go. 

When you live for survival, you are bound to the things you can’t let go of.  Sometimes you cling to the best times of your life.  Sometimes it’s the worst memories you have that make you remember.  Regardless, you are just breathing one breath at a time. Day by day is too much to deal with.  So, you don’t do that.  In surviving you become complacent; comfortable.  There is no hope and no future.  You have nothing to look forward to, except Wednesday night when you take out the trash.  Or maybe sweeping the floor for a last minute guest.  The only thing you have is what has been.  And to be quite honest, what has been means nothing if you can’t let it go. 

Some of us can’t let go of the past.  We can’t let go of the boy we had a crush on in college.  We can’t let go of the time the mean girl made fun of us.  We can’t ever forget the people who watched us the time we fell off the curb the first time we wore high heels.  Some of us will never be able to let go of the first girl who broke our hearts…Or maybe the last girl who did.  We will never be able to let go of the friend who, as it turned out, couldn’t be a friend to anyone.  We can’t let go of the belts or wooden spoons that our parents disciplined us with.  We can’t let go of the lunches we couldn’t make with our cousins or the times we got bounced from bars because of the people we love had two more shots than they needed. It’s fucked up.  All of it.  It’s fucked up. 

Let it go.  Let it fucking go.  Whatever it is, LET IT GO.  It’s not worth it.  Mean girls and bad boys and friends who don’t know how to friend.  Let them go.  The family who turned on you because they didn’t understand who you are or what you stand for.  Let that shit go, too.  The friend’s who get too friendly with bartenders who expect good tips.  Those people are all living in Survivaland.  Let them go.  Let it all go. 

If you don’t ever experience it for yourself, take it from me.  I’m the girl who can’t let go of what has been.  If I let go of what has been, I wouldn’t be able to suffer.  If I let go of what was, I wouldn’t be able to live for now.  I can’t enjoy life because I am too busy abusing myself for the indiscretions of my past.  I’m the girl who puts on a woman’s facade because I have too.  If I could let it all go, I wouldn’t live to survive. 

Like a sweet sunset in Georgia, Let it go.

Like the fear that grabs ahold ya, Let it go.

LET IT GO...

-Inner Peas

Constant

Not too very long ago, maybe in the last week or so, I was thinking about writing.  I sat down here, at the dining table, where I usually write at and started a blog post.  The first thing I wrote was “So, I was talking to [some random person who has magnificently impacted my life], and [this is what happened.]”  Then I thought to myself “Angela.  You have written this before.  You have to stop writing about hugs and laughs and the smoke pit and phone calls and text messages.  It’s just the same shit over and over.”  Because, let’s be honest, what I write about are human experiences.  I didn’t want that to get too monotonous.  After all, being human is monotonous and excruciating and, often, real fucking boring. 

I didn’t want to do that again.  I didn’t want to write about a conversation I had had or an experience I had or some random text message.  I thought to myself, “You can only write about that for so long before people stop reading; before your writing gets stagnate.”  Then, today, when I got a text message from a young man very dear to my heart, I realized that my Inner Peas is about my relationships with others.  If I stop writing about those relationships, they may dissipate…Those memories may be forever forfeited because I didn’t share them.  I guess my hand has been forced…

So…Today, I got this text message from a young man I revere as a friend and a confidant.  A human being I love and respect so much, I would drop most anything I am doing if he needs me.  Even if he didn’t need me that badly, I would likely, still, stop what I was doing and listen to what he said.  He’s pretty special.  Anyway, back to this text message.  At first it was just a “hey…how are ya…how’s life…how are your people?” kind of conversation.  As the conversation rolled to a close, I said “I couldn’t love you more if you were my own brother.” 

Then, I read this: “Thank you for being there and simply being consistent.  Few people understand how rare consistency is.  It’s one of the things I value most in you.”  I smiled when I read it.  Then I read it again.  After I read it for the third time, I saw my left hand covering my face, as if I was asking my soul how to understand why I was so gifted with this love. 

Naturally, I tried to save face.  I tried to be despondent with humility.  I responded with some snarky comment about not being a constant, but rather being the Edmond Fitzgerald…The Great Lakes freighter that fell apart in a storm, just miles from a safe harbor. 

But Steven wasn’t going to let me be dissent; he wasn’t going to let me be the Edmond Fitzgerald.  He said “we know each other well enough to know our bad days and our good days.  We know each other well enough to know that we are always going to be there for each other at the end of it all.” 

It took this kid to remind me that consistency isn’t an even temperament. It was a conversation about life that made me realize that we don’t choose our destiny; we only facilitate it.   It was this wonderful young man who reminded me to love with all that I have.  Because you never know who will be your constant.  You never know who will be your balance.  You never know how consistent love will change the way you live…the way you love

-Inner Peas

Feel Something

This afternoon, I attended the graduation for the Coast Guard’s newest Independent Duty Health Services Technicians.  I make this pilgrimage across the street three times a year to watch corpsmen, who have previously functioned as team members, advance to an independent duty status.  That means that they now have the training to function as a primary health care provider.  Sometimes it means taking responsibility for the health and well being of a ship’s crew.  Sometimes it means that they will maintain their own sickbays at isolated or specialized units.  Sometimes it means that they will go back to their clinic and await assignment to one of those units.  IDHS school is an important step for a corpsman.  It gives them the opportunity to further their careers in health care and it demands that one individual absorb the responsibility of an entire clinic.

So, three times a year, I find myself watching these men and women be celebrated for their hard work and dedication to their trade.  I go for a couple of reasons.  I go to show support to my friends and colleagues who have dedicated the last three months educating and transitioning more inexperienced corpsmen into the future of health service provides in the service.  I also go because, without fail, someone from my past has participated in the program.  Mostly I go, because of the people I didn’t know until three months ago, who somehow found a way into my heart while they were there for school.  Essentially, I go for the people.  To support them.  To encourage them.  To make sure they know that they are important to me.  All of them. 

Today, at my 2 o’clock smoke break, which actually happened at 1:50 because graduation was at 2, I was at the smoke pit with my friend Dave and three of his classmates.  I was talking story with them.  My friend, who missed the birth of his child because he was here, honing his craft, made some comment about how it was hard to believe that it has been nearly six years since we worked together for the first time in Kodiak.  Then he said "Who ever thought we’d be standing together here today when I’m graduating from IDHS?”  I giggled and agreed.  Then I looked at the other three and smiled and said “Who would have thought that I’d ever be standing here with these kids?  I watched them all go through “A” school.”  It got real quiet at the pit for a minute.  Then I looked at them, “Am I rite gentlemen?”  And they all nodded “Yes ma’am.  We always remember Ms. Angela.” 

Probably not in a good way, but that made my heart smile.  For a minute. 

After that, I walked over to the upper galley and made my appearance.  Let it be clear that sounds more pretentious that it should.  Nobody was waiting for me, I just kind of meandered in.  Greetings and hugs and stories happened during the next few minutes.    When the ceremony started, I sat with my head on the shoulder of a friend who has always shouldered the weight of my emotions when I needed him to.  As I listened to the class advisor introduce the class and the instructors.  I heard the more seasoned independent duty corpsmen give words of wisdom to the newest of their counterparts.  I watched ten of the Coast Guard’s newest talent in health services, accept their qualifications.  Seven of them I had watched since they were studying to be corpsmen.  SEVEN of them I have known since they were scared to draw blood for the first time and nervous about every test out.  Seven out of ten.  One I have known as a colleague and friend.  One I have treated, as a patient.  Nine out of ten I have a history with. 

As I sat there with Louie holding my hand on what had been a very hard day, I felt so many things.  At the time I looked at those ten faces, I felt pride and hope.  When I hugged Dave and wished luck to his classmates, I felt honored to share their accomplishment with them.  When I talked to Allen about the impending arrival of his first baby, I felt love.  When Louie and I told him the story about the night we made out one New Year’s Eve in the Castro, I felt amused and nostalgic.  I remembered that New Year’s Eve buzz when I asked him why he couldn’t be straight and he yelled back at me “Why aren’t you a gay man!?!”  Allen looked at us and laughed.  I felt kindred.  With both of them.  But as I walked back to my office, I felt something different.  I felt torn.  I felt lonely.  I felt insecure and unsure of myself and a little sad. 

That’s the thing.  I feel everything.  Not just my own emotions.  I feel the emotions of others as well.  I have to balance that.  The feelings.  I can feel emotion in a room or at an event or in another person.  I understand when others are sad or indifferent or despondent.  I can feel relief and joy and satisfaction in others.  I can feel it.  All of it.  I can feel my emotions, too.  That’s that hard part.  Feeling all of it.  I’ve gotten pretty good at finding a place where balancing the internal and external is comfortable.  I know now that my emotions are deeply rooted in those of the people around me.  It’s called connection. 

But today, as I walked across the street after that ceremony, I didn’t know what to feel.  I had just left an event that evoked so many positive, meaningful emotions, only to return to a place I had been so sad an afraid all day.  I left a place where I was loved and felt love, only to return to a place where I felt disposable and devalued.  There’s so much dichotomy there.  It’s all a part of who I am and what I do.  Being without value to your employer, but being invaluable to the people you are employed with is a really hard place to be.  Being trapped between what you want and what you deserve is a really hard place to feel. 

-Inner Peas