Identity

I had  a conversation with a friend the other night about my deep, dismal sadness and why it seem so overwhelmingly untouchable.  As I cried to him, I said " I don't have an identity" Then I said it again.  "I don't have an identity anymore."  My friend asked when the last time I had an identity was.  This is the story I told him:

I showed up in Bellingham, WA on August 8th, 1998.  I got there after ten days of travel.  It was ten days that should have been four.  I flew from Philadelphia to LAX.  There was a layover in Phoenix. When I got to LA, I  took a shuttle from LAX to my dad's home in Ventura.  Slept until 6:AM for the first time in eight weeks.  Walked to the corner, picked up 5 bacon, egg, cheese and potato burritos from Gutierrez Drive In on the Avenue. When Rosie saw me, she came outside the window.  She rarely did that.  She was very comfortable on the other side of the screen, taking orders and making the salsa.  But that morning, she came out.   I kissed her as she congratulated me for "growing up"and offered the burritos for free.  "Take these for the road," she said.  I smiled and left $20 dollars on the counter.  I heard her yelling at me as I crossed the Avenue and made my way up Warner Street.  "Angie!!! VEN AQUI!  COME BACK HERE!!!"  I just kept walking.  And I laughed as I felt her smile piercing my the back of my head.

Rosie was a part of my growing up.  She always knew when I was sad and would always make sure that there was more cheese and guacamole on my burritos.  She would wink at me, with a knowing grin, when I was happy, and give me extra salsa.  If she hadn't seen me in months, she would say "I have been asking David, pido tu padre, how you are.  He says you are OK,   Como estava, Mija?  You are OK?"  She had been feeding me since I was seven years old, so she always knew what was on my mind when  I showed up at her window.  I was on a schedule, but I had to stop and see her.  I wanted Rosie to see that I was OK.  I also had to get some breakfast burritos.    Got in the Karmann Ghia and made my way north.   

I keep thinking about how strange it is that the last time I really felt like I had an identity was the last time I walked away from Rosie.  I have spent years building community.  But I haven't built an identity.  The last time I had an identity, I was walking away with breakfast burritos.  

-Inner Peas

Alone

I had a really long, really lonely week.  I've been in an overwhelmingly isolationist mindset.  I've been sad and scared and nauseous.  I've been in the place I go to when I don't have any other place to go.  It's what I do when I can't find hope or purpose.  It's the journey I make to the darkest recesses in my soul when I don't think that I deserve light.  It's a place that I hate being, but have a really hard time escaping.

I only left the house twice between Monday and Friday.  Tuesday I paid the rent.  It was horrible.  I had to go to the post office to buy stamps, too.  So, I did that first.  Tuesday afternoon at 1:30 is the best time to go to the post office.  There are very few people in the post office on Tuesday afternoon. Radley loves the post office.  It's beautifully adorned with marble columns outside and stone tiles on the inside.  He likes to cruise around and check out everything that is going on.  The old ladies who still use the post office as their primary means of communication love this kid.  LOVE HIM!

But for me, the post office means I have to stand in line next to other people who don't understand the concepts of personal space, patience and hygiene.  And, in addition to strangers in my space, I have to watch out for a child who is, relatively, well behaved, but still a child.  So, while people step on my feet and push their way into my space, I have to wonder if my child is doing that to someone else.  Anyway, the long and short of it is that the post office is never a very relaxing experience for me.  And after that, I still had to go pay my rent.  Also an anxiety inducing evolution for me.

So, we left the post office.  Paid the rent.  My landlord said "You don't look good."  Well, thank you. It's because I got laid off, and you keep raising the rent and I don't have a dishwasher.  That's what I thought, not what I said.  What I said was "I'm so sorry I didn't make it in yesterday, I've been so sick the last few days.  Oh, and Happy Anniversary!"  Please like me  because I'm trying really hard to be a good tenant!  And I really like having a home!  "Thank you."

That same day I also had to return the movies to Redbox and since I was already at Lucky, I decided I should put some food in the fridge.  After milk, grapes and cereal, I was pretty much at the end of my tolerance for the real world.  So, I went back home and closed the doors and the curtains and prayed for solace.  I prayed so hard I must have sounded like a beggar on the universe's deaf ears.  After I dropped Radley off for his play date, I screamed into my hands, hoping my fingers would hold the tears inside my eyes.

After that really humbling experience with my reality and the universe, I didn't get off the couch except to make dinner and then breakfast the next morning until 6:PM on Wednesday night.  Jess texted me and asked if I needed anything.  I told her I was hungry but couldn't eat.  She came over.  Instead of going to get something, I said "Let's get delivery."  Instead of calling the Chinese restaurant, I downloaded an app on my phone and spent 30 minutes setting it up and ordering  lemon chicken, broccoli beef and egg rolls.  Just so I didn't have to talk to anyone.  Then I said "Oh, I need a diet coke."  So we walked to the market across the street.

I tried really hard to eat.  I tried really hard to make conversation with my best friend.  Nothing worked.  I still felt sick.  I still couldn't make words come.  I was a fucking mess.  I gave my son a bath and put him to bed and took Xanex.  I laid there in silence, begging the world to quiet itself.  But it just wouldn't.  The noise in my head would not shut the fuck up.  At that point, I had no other option but to get up and make a list of things that needed to get done the next day.  I made a promise to myself that I would do the dishes, make the beds, and shave my legs.

I did all three.  It was a huge accomplishment.  I felt tremendously gratified as I crossed all three of those tasks off my list.  I even made a joke about it on social media.  It seemed like a joke, but it was actually a big fucking deal.  Then, I got a little too excited and did more laundry and the fucking washer broke.  It broke.

It.  Fucking.  Broke.  

Really, washing machine?  I needed one fucking victory, and you break?  Noted.

But what happened while I was trying to solve the broken washing machine conundrum was amazing.  I got offers of assistance.  I got direction on how to deal with the situation.  I got shamed into trying to fix it myself.  I got calls from my best friends, who have their own crises to contend with.  

So, while this has been the loneliest week of my life, I am reminded that I am not alone.  That, in itself, is humbling.

-Inner Peas

Crusaders and Champions

I had a conversation with my little brother this morning about saving the world.  Anyone who knows me.  Or knows Conrad.  Or has read my blog.  Or has pretended to read my blog in order to demonstrate false interest in my egocentric expressions of thoughtful commentary knows that my baby brother is one of the most remarkable men I know.  He is the kind of man whose character I want my son to emulate.  He is the kind of human being I aspire to be.  He is the reason, without question, that I will be an eternal spinster.  First, because no man will ever treat me the way Conrad thinks I should be treated.  And second, because even if a man could find a way to treat me like gold, he would most certainly have a character flaw that my little angel brother would see as a glaring red flag.


If I brought home a man who was the CEO of a fortune 500 company who committed the entirety of his annual earnings to feeding starving children and employing homeless veterans, Conrad would say "Sorry.  Sis.  He obviously has some heinous demons that he's harboring.  And he's giving all that money away.  He'll never be able to give you the lifestyle you deserve."  If I introduced him to a member of Seal Team 6 and said "Little Brother.  I want to introduce you to the man who killed the world's most criminal terrorist!"  My brother would look at me and say "Oh you brought home a hero. I'm glad I got to meet him, but there's a lot of expectation that comes with being the most respected man on the planet.  He won't have enough time to pay you the attention you deserve."   I could put him on a space shuttle and send him to the space station to meet my new boyfriend, who is monitoring the Earth's counterpart deep in another universe, and Conrad would come back and say "Sister.  He's in space.  You don't think that's a little weird?  It's not like he was the first guy to see the heart on Pluto or anything."

And every time something like this happens, I just look at my little brother and sigh and think "I am NEVER getting laid again."  Ever.

But the point isn't that Conrad is obscenely overprotective of me.  He might be.  I know how lucky I am to have someone who loves me so much that he thinks the universe has not yet produced a man worthy of my love.  It's not about his protection of me though.  It's about his crusade.  It's not just because I'm his sister that he protects me.  It's because my little brother is on a crusade; a crusade to protect everything that is precious and vulnerable and persecuted.  I can never fault him for that.  In fact, I love him more than anything because of that.

When I was his age, saving the world was my crusade, too.  I was going to educate the masses about unity and equality.  My college classmates called me a communist.  I wanted to fight big business and corporate sponsorship in government.  My family called me an anarchist.  I spoke out in defense of marginalized demographics, a wistful hippie.  No matter where I turned, no matter what I defended, I became an outcast.  To see my little brother, with all his hopes and ideals, facing an even more impossible truth than I did breaks my heart.

So, today, during our weekly diatribe about how to save the world, I finally told him that the world can't be saved, but we can clean up the piece that's most precious to us.  It occurred to me, that somewhere between where Conrad is now and where I am now, I found a few things to crusade for.  Instead of trying a way to fix it all, I now advocate for mental health awareness and empowering women through unity. I still find myself frustrated and cornered, at times.  But because I don't champion 237 causes anymore, I can regroup from setbacks.

That was my message to my little brother today:  Don't cloud your vision with everyone else's vision; don't be dissuaded by somebody who is fighting a different battle.  There is so much injustice, so much inequality, so much disdain.  So much stupidity out there...Don't fight agaist that.  Fight where you can make a difference.  Don't get mad at the Lion hunting dentist.  Don't get mad at the guy who spits on the homeless guy at the intersection of Washington and McDowell.  Don't get mad at the guy who yells at you because he can't see the difference between you and his father.  We all have our battles to wage.  We can't take on all of them.

On the same note, we cant get mad at people who don't champion for the same battles we fight. Again, my fights are mental health awareness and unifying women.  Those are my battles. And those two things are really fucking hard to fight for.  I can't fight for all of it.  And I can fight for the people I love.   I don't have as much fight in me as my little brother has.  But fight for something.

-Inner Peas

Island Time

If the last 12 days of my life were navigable waters, the track line I've  been plotting on is a 180, relative, from where I stared on the 30th of June.  12 days ago I was using Polaris, steady and reliable, as my celestial beacon.  Today, I look more to the Southern Cross, drifting slowly and sinking lower through the latitudes, for my direction.  On the last day of June, I woke, with trepidation, to the sound of my alarm at 5:10.  This morning I woke to the roosters singing and the sun rising.  12 days ago, I operated by corporate America's time clock, now I function on island time.  It's extraordinary what 12 days can do when removed from the corporately conditioned psyche.

When I found out that I was losing my job in March, the anxiety became unmanageable.  I was throwing up every morning before work.  Sometimes at work.  I became overcome with panic every time I tried to pursue new career opportunities.  Looking to the future for a new path evoked so much fear that I was barely functional.  For some reason, the idea of leaving an existence of uniformity, compliance and symmetry cast light on the demons of my past.  The demons that I have been engaged in a dysfunctional affair with for the last 20 years.  Looking ahead also brought more demons with it.  Those I have been fabricating for nearly as many years.  And that has been the last four months of my life.  That has been where I found comfort:  in pain and fear.

But today, only 12 days after I left, I sit surrounded by nothing that has previously occupied the inside of my comfort zone.  No blue suits..  No name tapes.  No cutterman pins or collar devices.  No titles.  Almost every face I see and personality I meet comes with a story I know nothing about.  Nobody here is a number in my inbox or an appointment time.  Nobody gets thanked for being on time or reprimanded for being late.  My phone hasn't rang one time with demands for more comprehensive services.  I haven't received any requests or complaints, aside from the quality of a peanut butter and honey sandwich, that need to be rectified IMMEDIATELY.  Here, I don't see the hostile, entitled faces.  Here I only see the faces of people with their own demons who fight them in different ways.  They fight their battles on a different clock; on an island clock.

Two nights ago, I was going to have dinner with a girlfriend.  I asked her "what time should we be over?"  She replied "At dinner time."  That was it.  So we went over at dinnah time.  The next morning, I texted an old friend to let him know we were on the North Shore.  I typed "I know its the weekend and weekends are tough, but I'm here if you have time."  His response:  "Angela.  You forget.  Nothing is tough on Kauai."

All I could think about after that was "Huh."  On the mainland, you have to coordinate by way of 18 different calendars just to find the time for a cup of coffee.  By yourself.  If you want to do that with other people, there needs to be a date set in your Outlook calendar, a calendar request sent to the participating parties, a follow up email stating the purpose for coffee at an hour different than 0650 when you leave your house.  Then, just to make sure there is no confusion about the time and purpose of the coffee meet, there should probably be two instant messages, a text and a Facebook check in that states where you are, what you are doing and who you are doing it with.  I'll use an example from the recent past...Facebook reads "Angela Padgett is at Two Rock Coffee Co. with Shaun Darrall."  Then it displays a little map of where we are at.  Then I get to say something clever like "Finally having coffee and talking shit!"  And don't forget the sassy little smiley face at the end.  Because this is really exciting!!!

In reality though, we have spent the last three years working 500 yards away from each other.  So, did it really require that much planning and fanfare?

Meanwhile, back on the island, people who are new to your life tell you to come ovah when you want.  Friends you haven't seen in 20 years make time for you without calendar invites.  Things happen when they happen and there is no vomiting. Or guilt.  Or fear of retribution for NOT being on time.  Or drinking coffee with a friend.

I only have four days left on this island or rogues, pioneers, misfits and eccentrics.  When I get back to the mainland, I will, again, be plagued by the pressures and expectations that accompany a "normative" lifestyle.  I'll deal with that when I get back.  But the longer I stay here, the more this way of life makes sense.

So, until then, I'm on island time.

-Inner Peas

Empathy

Empathy is the ability to connect others on a very emotional and spiritual level.  It seems simple.  It seems very human.  It seems, on many levels, to be very logical.  As human beings, we are all connected, so it makes perfect sense that we should be able to relate to those around us.  We are all sharing the human experience, after all.  But some people do not possess the capabilities to relate with others; some just can't  resonate with other people's experiences.  So while we all possess the ability to empathize, not all of us can identify ourselves as being Empaths.

Being an Empath is much harder to define than, say, being a lawyer or a doctor or even a Sagittarius. Empaths don't need to touch or hear or even talk to feel what the people around them are experiencing.  It might be spiritual, or theological or maybe it's just cognitive.  But Empaths do more than just exhibit empathy.  They can't help but feel the energy around them.  They just do.

I started thinking about this a couple of weeks ago after I lost a dear friend, also an Empath, to the resounding noise in his own mind.  While we were all rallying  together to grieve the loss of our brother, I heard many of my loved ones say things like "I guess we will never understand what happened."  Those words were blood curdling and bone shattering and heart wrenching and every other reaction your body has when you know that something just isn't right.  Still, the only response I had to those comments was "I know what happened."  But I had no way to explain that to those who would never understand.

I was at a loss.  But shortly after I posted "My Brother's Keeper" to the blog, I got a text message from a dear friend, who in ordinary interactions, would never admit his own ability to feel the reverberate echos of what others feel.  That's just too much hippie shit for him.  But, make no mistake, he has it.  Not just empathy, but he is an Empath.  Don't tell him I said that. He'll get mad.   Anyway, after the "My Brother's Keeper" post, I got this text message that read:  "One of your greatest strengths is the ability you have to connect to a person's soul.  You search for a reason to connect instead of a reason not to connect.  This beautiful ability also creates havoc on the connection between your heart and mind."

I generally like to just blame the voices in my head and the energy in my soul to my mental well being on any given day.  But something about that text message resonated with me:  It's my ability, be it voluntary or otherwise, to connect with others that makes all of my interactions so emotional. Being able to see others for what they really are, not who they want to be seen for, is a pretty lofty task.  By no means am I implying that I see everything or know everything or, even, feel everything.  But I absorb the energy that others project.  Some people can control what they take in.  I haven't learned that skill so far.  Because I don't have the ability to prevent over-saturation, I'm more susceptible to love, attachment, and emotion.

On a late balmy July evening, about five years ago now, one of the women closet to me in the entire universe, my soul sister in fact, asked me:  "Angela.  Why do you love so haphazardly?  Why do you always love with more than you have when you know that most people don't have the capacity to love you back?"  For years, I tried to justify that question.  Not just to my soul sister, but to the many people who have had the courage to ask it after she did.  I have revisited that question out loud, and in my own mind, at least a thousand times.  I have wanted to be able to answer that question, not only to the people who posed it, but also for myself.  I haven't ever been able to.  I just like to chalk it up to my own crazy that I have never been able to come to terms with.

But that text message from two Saturday's ago now, explained it all.  I'm an Empath.  I love others because of their energy.  I love them because of their laughter.  I love them because of their pain.  I love them because I can feel what they feel.  It may wreak havoc between my heart and my mind, but I love people who need to be loved the most.  Even when they don't need me to love them anymore.

-Inner Peas

Beautiful World

When I was in college, my best girlfriend and I were very idealistc.  We would sit on my balcony in Fairfax and drink wine.  We would talk about hope and equality, as privilaged young white womenn like to do in the midst of their educational prime.  We would read Mark Morford columns and watch movies like Hotel Rawanda and be horrified by the injustice and inequity in the world.  For that matter, we were horrified at the disparity and discrimination that happened to our neighbors based on status, race, and orientation.

One night, in druken protest, we  picked up a bottle of the finest vintage the 7-11 had to offer and drove to the city.  Backpacks brimming with $3 wine, red solo cups and big bites and jalepeno cream cheese taquitos, We set up shop on the stairs of the Peace Monument, directly adjacent to the east face of the capitol building.  Karen and I sat there for many hours, and many nights after that, looking at the rotunda that symbolized the institution we believed in and the establishment we believed we could change.  It may have been the wine.  It may have been the taquitos.  It may have been the fact that we didn't get arrested for drinking wine out of plastic cups, within feet, of this country's hall of legislation.  But those nights on the steps of the Capitol, Karen and I were certain that we were going to change the world; that we were going to make it a more beautiful place.  To this day, I have no idea how we didn't ever get arrested.  Maybe because we were saving the world and even the secret service can't interfere with that.  

Anyway, Karen and I aren't friends anymore.  Too many drugs.  Too much alcohol.  Too many idealistic thoughts that didn't pay the bills.  But when I think about those nights at the Peace Monument, I always think about how we both wanted to perpetuate a community where Love prevailed and hate wasn't an issue.

Naturally, I think of Karen today.  Not just because I think of two privileged white girls breaking all the rules of national security, drinking wine, looking west at the Capitol building.  I think of Karen because we were supposed to be celebrating these victories together.  Not that they were ours to celebrate.  But we were supposed to be sitting on the marble steps of the Peace Monument...Giving a big middle finger to the assholes we elected.   We were supposed to be sitting there saying "Told you so.  Look!  It's our people who made this a more beautiful world."

BUT!!!

To be continued...

Bookends

I left Kodiak five years ago today.  Alaska fundamentally changed my being.  Largely, because my son was born that first winter there.  Of course, becoming a parent for the first time changes us all.  But it also changed me because that's where I learned the value of community.  It's where many of the friendships I cherish the most were forged.  Alaska also gave me an understanding of how light and darkness are both equally powerful forces; forces that should be respected and should be regarded for their control and influence.

The end of my time in Kodiak was dark.  Even though it was summer and there was nearly 20 hours of light in every day, it was dismal.  I had finally found my place in a community and I was beginning to understand my role as a mother, friend, advocate.  But I was leaving this place that I had a purpose in.  My marriage was deteriorating very quickly.  I had spent six months being told that I had failed as a wife, which is possible.  I had spent six month trying to be as far away from that conversation as I could get.  I got tired of being told I was going to be left.  It was an infuriating discussion that was on repeat and I couldn't turn down the volume.

So, as so often happens when life is beyond reason, I was drinking a lot.  I was going to seedy bars and talking too much and too loudly.  My marriage segued from emotionally destructive to physically disastrous.  While I had been the victim of the initial emotional threats, I became the physical aggressor.  I was the perpetrator.  I came home from bars drunk, looking for fights.  And I always got what I wanted because the fights ensued.  And not the kind of fights you can take back.  The kind of fights that resulted in being physically restrained in hotel hallways.  It was a dark time.  It was a period that looking at myself in the mirror made me nauseous.  It was a time I didn't ever think I would get out of.  And I had no idea what was coming next.

I had agreed to come back to California to be a family. At the very least, I agreed to come back to be closer to my people. But the uglier things got, the uglier I became, I didn't know if I could maintain the lifestyle.  So, instead of coming here, I went to Texas instead.  I got on a plane with my son and flew to Houston and I didn't know how long I was going to be there.  Or if I would ever leave.  My marriage had turned into a nightmare.  The kind of nightmare that you wake up from, in the middle of the night, scared to go back to sleep because you know it's just going to pick up right where it left off.  I didn't think I could do it.  In fact, I knew I couldn't do it anymore. My life was a fucking cataclysmic tsunami.  I couldn't exist like that anymore.

That was five years ago now.  I was convinced that I was at my absolute worst then.  In hindsight, I can tell you, with all honestly, that was the ugliest I have ever been.  But that was NOT, by far, my absolute worst.  The last five years have brought much more detriment than that June five years ago. And right now, I am absolutely in another one of those really difficult places  I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had never decided to come back from Texas.  I wonder if I could have saved us all more so much uncertainty and heartache.  A lot of tragedy came with me when I flew back to California When I revisit my decision to come here, I wonder about it as if I could rewrite history, as if I could go back and make things different.

But then I think about all of the other shit that has happened over the last five years.  The love.  The friendships.  The people who have enhanced my life whether I wanted them to or not.  The people who have relieved me of my prejudices.  Those who have let me hold them when they were at their most frail.  The people who have insisted that they hold me when I was convinced I was broken.  The beginnings.  The endings.  The reunions.  The human experience that only comes with living life on life's terms.  All the life that has to be lived before you can honestly understand its value.  That's when I see that the hard times that have come and gone aren't the story.  I can't rewrite the stories.

I'm starting to see these two Junes, five years apart, as bookends.  The bookends hold the stories in place so they don't fall down.  Bookends are decorative and dramatic.  And really heavy.  They have to be to keep it all in order.  They scream "LOOK AT ME!  I'm holding all of this together."  But the bookends aren't the actual story.   They aren't the details.  They aren't what's important.

-Inner Peas

My Brother's Keeper

My circle is small.  But it is strong.  My circle sometimes takes different shapes.  But it's always connected.  My circle relies on each part to help hold it together.  When one part is weak, the other parts bring the strength to maintain connectivity.  It's kind  of  like lava.  It fills in tired and weathered cracks inside the terrain and reinforces its own structural integrity.  Turns out, my circle may not actually be a circle.  It's more of a series of dots on a map that are linked by an invisible roll of  duct tape.  But for the purposes of this conversation, we will refer to it a circle in order to avoid any metaphorical confusion.

On the Monday before last, my circle stopped being a circle.  We lost part of our connection.  We lost a link.  We have a gap in what we were.  Even though our loss has brought us closer, we are still without one of our fasteners.  The hugs, the tears, the talks all remind us that there is a chasm in who and what we were.  I just need to relive some of this for a minute.  It's going to be an uncomfortable conversation, mostly for me, but I just need to write it out.

I got an IM on that Monday afternoon from a dear friend.  Office communicator popped up with a message that said "I need to talk to you."   Being difficult, as always, I replied with "What did I do now?" No response.  Probably for about 30 seconds.  But something told me it wasn't good.  45 seconds.  Still no response.  Around 55 seconds I got the reply that read "It's not about you, but its not good."  Again, being difficult, I told him, "I'm don't think I like your tone."  And I didn't.  I didn't like it at all.  It made me uncomfortable.   It made me worry.  And it made me reel with fear.  The seconds that I awaited the reply were ticking in my head.  All of them.  All of the seconds were screaming so loud inside of me that I could feel every single one.  Tic.  TIC.  TIC!!!  The longer I waited, the more I squirmed in my chair; the harder I stared at the monitor and the phone.  One of them had to give some sort of interaction.  But neither did.  

I finally picked up the phone and dialed the number.  My friend answered, as if he wasn't expecting my call:  "Service Center Administration, Can I help you?"  I said "What the fuck is happening?"  He said only two words.  Those two words were the name of a dear, mutual friend.   The first thing I said was "No."  The voice on the other end of the phone told me that he didn't want me "to read it somewhere or hear to 3rd hand."   I was silent for a minute.  It was an excruciating moment of absence.  I was waiting for something.  Something to tell me that I had jumped to a conclusion that wasn't reality.  That something never came.  I whispered into the phone "hedidit."   It was  a statement, not a question.

It's funny.  I didn't ask how Drew was.  I didn't ask if he got in car accident or fell down the stairs or drowned on the North Shore in a one of those random surfing things that happen to those kamakasi kids who live without fear of mortality .  I just knew that he was gone and I knew why he was gone.  All I said was "hedidit."  Then I wondered why I wasn't surprised that he did it.  

I talked to Drew on a regular basis.  Several times weekly, at least.  I knew he was in a bad place.  And I know that bad places and bad things happen to all good people sometimes.  But Drew was smart and funny and pretty.  So, even though he was in a bad place, he was going to get out of it.  I knew that.  I felt it way deep down in my soul.  I knew that Drew was going to come out the other side of this fucked up island living/working/surviving situation and was going to do something so much better.  He just was.

Back to the phone call I was forced to make on Monday afternoon.  I was so convinced that Drew would be just fine as soon as he got out of Hawaii.  So, why was I not surprised to hear that he was gone?  Why didn't I question the cause of his death?  Why were the tears that I cried as I grieved his loss also tears of guilt?  Because I am my brother's keeper.  And I failed him.  I failed my brother.  And I have to carry some responsibility knowing that I didn't do right by my brother.

Now, as I have documented very well, I am not a theologian.  I'm not biblical.  And Christianity certainly is not my spiritual refuge of choice.  But I believe the stories of the bible can be very resonant in humanity.  In the story of Cain and Abel, after Cain brutally murdered his brother, God asked Cain "Where is your brother?"  Cain replied, and I'm paraphrasing here, "How the fuck should I know?  Am I his keeper?"  Then God was like "Uh.  Yeah.  Kinda.  You are.  You were a total dick to your brother. Now he's dead and you are dead to us"  (Genesis 4:8-11).

One of the last conversations I had with Drew was when I was feeling particularly pathetic.  I told him:  "Now be honest, Bro.  Why am I so unlovable?"  He laughed that laugh he had.  I never knew if it was patronizing or if it was omniscient.  But he laughed that laugh and said "Angela.  You are not unlovable.  You are just really hard to love."  And because I didn't know if he was being patronizing or if he was being omniscient, I laughed.  Then I called him a dick.  Just to make sure he knew I was being patronizing.  Or pissed off.

I think back to that conversation and I wonder how he was so sad and I couldn't see it.  I see people.  I see their souls.  I see their desperation.  In life, I didn't see that in Drew.  But as soon as I made that Monday afternoon phone call, I saw it all so clearly.  I saw my brother struggling.  I saw him suffering.  I saw him in silence.  I am my brother's keeper.

And I failed him.

-Inner Peas

I'm Scared

A week or two ago, I had a friend in my office.  We were exchanging pleasantries and talking life and the fuckedupness that it is, as we usually do. He was admiring the the bulletin board behind me.  He laughed at the big "fuck yous" I had pinned up.  Then he said "Really?  You have Murdoch and Napoleon Dynamite?"   I do actually have autographed pictures of Jon Heder and Dwight Schultz on my bulletin board.  Courtesy of a very dedicated comic-con colleague.

But on this particular day, my friend made mention of something most people don't understand. He asked me about about the most important thing on my board.  At the very top of my bulletin board are two words:   Matthew.  Sers.  He looked at me and said, very flatly:  Matthew Sers.

I started to tell him the story, as I knew it, about Matt Sers. I said "this kid was incredible.  He was an artist.  He  was the only person who ever shared his art to me.  He drew a picture of a GIANT robot killing a robot army.  Very symbolic. I loved it.  He ended up eating a 9mm round.  He killed himself hours after her reported to his next unit."  I looked at Jay.  Jay looked at me.  It was at that point that my friend stopped me and said "I know him."

In my mind, I'm like "Yeah, you know him.  I've been talking about this kid for years."  But no.  NO. Jay actually KNEW this kid.  From the time they were kids.  And Jay said to me "He grew up two houses down from me."  Everything went silent.  All of it.  Then there was noise inside my head.  Not loud noise, more of a dull drawl.  The kind of noise that you just want to stop.  The kind of noise you want to scream at "STOP!!!"  But, all I could say was "SHUT.  THE.  FUCK.  UP."

Jay said "no."  He also said not only did we both end up in the Coast Guard, we both served on AQUIDENCK at Patrol Forces Southwest Asia (PATFORSWA.)  Two kids from a DC suburb, 12 years apart, two houses separating them, both ended up serving at the exact same unit.   Go fucking figure, right?

So ,why am I scared?   Is it because a kid who had everything going for him felt so hopeless that he succumbed to the madness?  Is it because the kid who had nothing but a marginal golf course job made a surf star of himself?

-Inner Peas

Life of A Not-So-Super Hero

What I find most interesting is that so many people believe I am a hero. Yes I have gone out in the worst storms and been part of rescue crews, yes I have been in the Bering Sea when fishermen and sea captains call out for help, but I've always just believed that it's part of my job. You see I'm in the Coast Guard and that's what we do, we go out when no one else will to save life and property. I've been doing this for nearly 20 years now but That doesn't make me a hero.  I don't even have a cape, although that would be cool.

No one sees heroes as weak, sad or someone who would give up. Over the last 3 years I have hit some really difficult times, the faces of those I could not save haunt my dreams and all to often I believe I should have been one of the many deaths the Coast Guard has endured.  I've narrowly escaped crashes, aircraft mishaps and close calls landing on the back of ships. Most recently though I tried to take my own life because I didn't believe I was worth the air I was breathing, and I fully believed I was a failure in every area of my life. I've been diagnosed with major depression (duh), multiple anxieties and PTSD. And yet I still have people telling me I'm strong and special and that I have helped them understand themselves more because of what I have shared with them. They say I have been a hero because of everything I have overcome and how I'm sharing my story.
     
While I have been recovering and learning to live again, after my own mind betrayed me and I no longer believed I belonged among the living, I have shared much of my story with others so maybe they wouldn't reach the same place in their life.  I have traveled and shared,with hundreds of folks, what I know about suicide from the standpoint of a survivor of an attempt.  I don't see this as an act of heroism or that it's terribly special. I just do it because I hope I will reach just one person who is on the verge of giving up. Nothing special there.
     
I still stumble, I struggle, and I still want to crawl in a hole and give up sometimes. I feel weak and don't want to show the vulnerability I thought I had embraced.  I don't want to feel and I don't want to say good bye to the friends I've made and the support network I have relied on for the last 2 years. I don't believe I can handle the change and the challenge that sits in front of me.  I am struggling right now with staying engaged in my world.  I am isolating from those who are most important and starting to push away.  Doesn't sound like the acts of a hero or even someone with strength to me.

What I do want, is to say Thank You to all those people who have stood by me, never given up on me and have cheered me on when I've chosen to bring my story forward.  I want to show every one of them that they have been my heroes and I could not have made it through the last 2 years without them. These special folks have loved unconditionally, provided tough love when I needed a kick in the pants, and been the shoulder to cry on when I could not hold it together.

So from one supposed super hero to the true heroes in my life I say thank you

The Week

Social Commentary

I had a few moments of existential clarity today.  Not that I don't usually have a couple of moments like that during the day.  But today, I had several of them in a row.  Like in order.  Not just misplaced universal interjections.  They were consecutive.  So, it wasn't just a fleeting thought like "why are birds so loud?"  or "I need to cut the grass." It wasn't just here and gone.  It has been a while since I have had one of those days; one of the days when you remember connectedness and the whole and the greater vision of humanity.  I had one of those days.  And I'm kind of excited about it.  It means that I'm completely fucking lost.

Anyway, while I have been basking in the magnificence of my momentary clarity, I have scraped together a few thoughts on the state of planet Earth based on this weeks "headlines." I don't generally use this forum as social, economic, or political tool.  It's happened before, but I try to stick with bad sex and life's cruel sense of humor.  However, in light of my complete lack of sex and life's perpetual reminder that it's a horrible comedian, we are going to have a little social commentary here tonight.

Maryland  

I have largely remained silent about the unrest in Baltimore.  Starting last Monday, we switched the TVs at work to the Game Show Network and the Weather Channel.  I''m pretty sure that was a managerial decision because they didn't want patients to hear my political diatribes about inequity and injustice.  Which is moot anyway, because the coroner and the district attorney have already made their decisions based on facts.  But more importantly, the crisis in Baltimore is yet another representation of what is so very wrong with this country.

To be fair, I grew up the illegitimate child of two hippie parents.  I didn't understand how dichotomous race, status and gender issues were.  My parents were on drugs and truly believed that equality was a thing.    At least that's what they taught me to believe.  So, you can probably imagine my disbelief the first time I heard a black person say they felt marginalized.  Because I was raised to believe that we are all supposed to have equal opportunities and to love each other...Oh look, a butterfly.

I will never forget that afternoon, in that upstairs classroom at College of Alameda.  For the record, that was the first time I realized I was a privileged, white asshole.  So, naturally, privileged, white assholes kind of put me on edge.  I'm also unnerved by people who respond to violence with violence.  I would much rather people talk about the actual problems:  Injustice and Inequity.  And fear.  I would like to hear people talk about those things without being hateful.  On EVERY SIDE.

Everest

It was with thoughts of civil imbalance in Baltimore, that my mind gravitated to another tragedy:  Geographical instability in Nepal.  While I'm thinking about Baltimore, this fucking catastrophie in Nepal is making an appearance in my cognition.  I kept thinking about the initial 700 casualties compared to the more than 10,000 estimated now.  I thought about the people who refuse to re enter their homes or dwellings because they aren't stable enough to maintain another aftershock.  I think about the people who will never be accounted for.  And again, I think to Baltimore.  Where the death count is currently zero as a result of the riots.  All day, I tried to make sense out of both.  I couldn't.

I had a quiet Friday, and I needed somebody to make some sense for me.  So I texted my friend Drew.  I said "They are estimating close to 15,000 dead in Nepal.  That's a lot.  Why aren't we talking about that.  And Drew, being very pragmatic, said "Because Nepal has no consequence in our lives."  Oh.  Ok.  I see.  He then told me "Most people can't point out Nepal on a map."  I said, "Let's be honest, A lot people in this country can't point Baltimore out on a map of Baltimore."

Drew was right, though.  Nepal is of very little meaning to us.  We want to feel sad for the poor people who are suffering and Facebook asks me every day for donations, so they can match my contribution.  But, unless you are a renegade, douche bag hell  bent on scaling the face of Mt. Everest, Nepal means nothing to us.  They are poor and brown and Hindu.  They aren't privileged white assholes.  We have no need for them.  We don't really need to care.  Just to be clear, you can replace the word "white" with the word "American."  Because if you riot in your neighborhood to make a point, regardless of your gender, status or race, you are privileged.

The Symbol

Speaking of privilege, I have been hearing a lot about flag stomping and how it's viral on the internet. I didn't hear shit about it until people got so angry about it, they started making threats to people who were doing it.  Again, I don't have cable and I'm only exposed to the Game Show Network.  But if it was that big of a deal, I probably would have heard about it with a means other than Facebook.  You would have, too.

This isn't a patriotism issue.  You can't question my patriotism.  I have served my country.  As did four generations that preceded me.   After I was done serving my country, I continued to serve those who serve for more than a decade afterword.  The issue isn't patriotism.  The issue is divisiveness.  Stop generating hate where there is no hate to be had.  If you are going to get mad over a symbol, get mad that the 49ers have committed to a black uniform.  It's the same thing, it's just a symbol.  The flag isn't who we are.  It's not what we do.  It only represents where we pay our taxes.

Don't pledge Allegiance to the flag.  Pledge Allegiance to each other.  That's real patriotism.

Independent

The week in review ends here; it ends with Bernie Sanders.  I'm a little giggly and a little hopeful here.  But Bernie Sanders (I-VT), has decided to make a chase at the Presidency.  He won't win.  But this is WIN for my people.  It means that he has enough influence to make people listen.  He's also a privileged, white asshole. But he believes in health care and education and jobs and veterans and the environment.    That''s what we are all looking for in a candidate.  He won't win.  He doesn't have corporate sponsorship.  Again, this is a win for my people.  I love that he is making his point.

Done

That was a lot of thinking and talking.  I haven't been able to do that in a while.  But think about this week.  We can do better.  Personally.  Professionally.  Socially.  We can do better.  This week is proof of that.

-Inner Peas

When I Grow Up

There's a thing that little brothers do that seems to make everything OK.  I don't know how they do it.  I don't know why they do it.  But they know when they are needed and they never fail to come through. They can see things.  They're visionaries.  Or prophets.  Or maybe they're just delusional.  Somehow, though, they always find the best in their sisters.  They have faith and they believe.  They encourage and support and fight .  And they always know when they should make an appearance.  Always.

Yesterday, I texted my little brother just to tell him that I love him; that he's one of the most remarkable human beings that I have ever met.  To which he responded with "I love you too, sis.  What's on your mind?"  Even though little brothers have the ability to make everything OK, it would appear that they are very skeptical creatures.  "Can't I just tell you that I love you?"  

"Of course you can.  But why?"  Really kid?  Really?  Because I love you and I miss you.  That's why.  Then he asked for what he refers to as the "SISREP."  That's the sister report.  "Listen Brother.  I don't have one.  I just love you.  Let's talk when you don't think I need something from you."  I was pissed.  Not at Conrad.  At myself.  Because apparently, that's what our relationship has been reduced to.  He only thinks I call when I need him.  That made my heart hurt.  I don't want to be that to anybody.  I don't want to be that leach, the energy vampire, as some might call it.  So I just told to him go back to softball.  

Then, between games he texted me  and said "I'll call you when I get home."  I told him not to.  Detroit is three hours ahead of California and he should sleep.  But he called anyway.  And, of course, I answered.  Because I needed him.  Duh.  How did he know that and I didn't?  See.  This is what I'm saying.  Little brother's know shit.  They're prophets like that.  

We talked for  awhile about his plans and his beautiful bride and his disdain for his job.  He made me think that it was about him.  Then, out of fucking left field, my baby brother told me that I am the embodiment of the the middle finger. I laughed.  Because what else do you do when your little brother tells you that you are a metaphor for a big "fuck you."  I told him while that might be true, it wasn't getting me any job interviews. Apparently, that position has already been filled.  Conrad didn't laugh though.  He said something that shut me up.  He said "You're amazing because you raise a little human being single-handedly, while your job disappears, the people around you hold you back society says you need to be 'x,y,z' and yet you stay you.  Not compromising your belief of how you should raise  a child and who you or he should be."  

"Sis, you are the embodiment of the middle finger to the conforming members of society who do it out of fear or laziness.  You are a middle finger in skirts and heels.  Basically, the best dressed middle finger in the area."  This is a fucking analogy that only Conrad could formulate.  And he wonders why I just call to make sure he knows that I love him.  

As we finished up more than two hours of FaceTime, solving the worlds problems and creating a better future for the generations that will follow, Conrad said "I love you, Ang.  I believe in you.  I have fought along side you forever.  And I will continue to fight by your side.  And when you can't fight anymore, I will fight for you.  I fight for you because it comes naturally, it's instinctual.  Also, you look like shit right now"  

I hung up because I didn't want him to see me cry.  I didn't cry because he told me I look like shit.  In fact, I don't think he actually said that.  I think that's just something I heard because I didn't want to hear the rest of it.  I cried because his words echoed somewhere deep in the hollow of my soul.  I laid down in bed and thought about everything we had talked about, everything my little brother had told me.  I didn't sleep for hours and I couldn't figure out why.  You'd think you'd sleep really well knowing that somebody loves you as honestly and wholeheartedly as my little brother loves me.

Then I figured it out.  It was the guilt that kept me awake.  It was the unnerving feeling that my brother loves me for something that I am not.  He loves me for something that he sees in me that I don't see in myself.  I woke up this morning and, for the first time in years, I knew what I wanted:  When I grow up, I want to be the person my little brother thinks I am.  

-Inner Peas

What It's Like

I started sharing my mental health struggles here about two years ago.  Since the inception of this blog, I have talked about a lot of things.  I have talked about life and love and the struggle for independence.  I have shared my experiences with anxiety, depression and survival.  In the earlier posts, I got a lot of really good feedback and positive reinforcement about how people perceive mental illness.  It was very empowering.  I felt validated when people would call or email or stop by and engage me in conversation about my experiences.  

I got a lot of input from people I never would have imagined could understand or would even want to try to understand.  I got a lot of "I feel like that, too."  Or "I love someone who feels like that."  Or even "How do I help when you feel like that?"  It was mind blowing the conversations I had and the people I had them with.  But in all of the discussion I have had about mental health and stigmas over the last couple of years, nobody has ever asked me what it's like.  

In no way does the fact that nobody ever asked "what does it feel like?" detract from the value of the the conversations that have ensued because of it.  There has been tremendous value in acknowledgement, alone.  But yesterday, easily the worst day I have had in in years, or maybe ever, I got an email from the Hawaii contingent that read "how can i help" in the subject line.  I didn't open the email until this morning because I didn't know the answer.  But when I opened it, the question wasn't "how can i help?" it was "what does it feel like?"  

As I scrolled through the email, the tears I had been withholding for the last couple of months fell down my cheeks to the keyboard.  She wrote: "I don’t know about panic attacks from my own experience. I can only estimate that they are a more overwhelming feeling than what I have felt at times in the past when I felt I was caught up in a dark vortex that threatened to consume me. I imagine a panic attack is what it feels like to be swept into the throat of that vortex."  That was the most accurate likeness I have ever heard from someone who has never experienced the mental and emotional suffering of anxiety or depressive episodes.  When I read that, I cried more.  

And while it was so vividly accurate, it also seemed so very generic.  It's easy for people who have been swept away into such a vortex to relate to the analogy.  It's ominous and vicious and so very dismal sounding.  It's easy to relate to that when you have experienced it.  But it doesn't necessarily define what happens when you are being forced into the unknown of that oblivion. 

So, this is what it's like...It starts pretty benignly.  You wake up in the morning and there is an unspecified dread.  It doesn't necessarily present itself as fear or panic, but something doesn't sit right.  Maybe a premonition.  Like you know you are going to walk into the bathroom and the tub will flood or walk outside to find a flat tire on your car.  And even if those things don't happen, you convince yourself that they will.  Just because the tub didn't flood and all four tires were fully functional on the way to work, you can't shake the idea that something is going to happen.  You become hyper-vigilant.   There is a suicidal deer lurking in every shadow, there is a drunk driver in every headlight.  You finally get to work and hazards on the roadway have escalated to occupational hazards.  

You start to believe that you aren't capable of completing job functions.  You devalue yourself, and assume everyone else has done that as well.  Then you feel guilty for failing the people around you.  At some point in the day, maybe mid morning or mid afternoon, you find yourself laughing at asinine jokes or looking at the clouds rolling overhead, and for a brief moment you realize how silly you have been to take all of the shit so fucking seriously.  You pull the best positive energy out and finish your day.  There's a sense of relief as you make your drive home.  You made it.  You convince yourself you can do it again tomorrow.  And you believe it.  

Then when you get home, you close the door and lock it behind you, because you don't want that day getting back in.  As you do the dishes and put something in the oven for dinner, the fear sneaks back in.  Maybe you weren't wrong when you woke up.  Maybe, there was something out there, but you just escaped it.  Shake it off.  That's just fear trying to own you.  But by the time you should be drifting off to sleep, panic set's up a fucking novelty table in your brain.  So, you don't fall asleep until it's tomorrow, then you wake up, what seems like minutes later.  In actuality, it was only minutes later.  

You wake up again with an unspecified notion of impending doom.  It's a little harder to get in the shower.  It's a littler harder to get in the car.  It's excruciating to go to work.  You know it's ridiculous.  So you go.  But by the time you get to work, you have villainized  yourself to the point that physically hurts to walk through the door.  Your colleagues say "good morning" to you.  You curse them under your breath.  "Don't fucking patronize me."  The day plays out pretty much the same as the day before, only all the emotions seem to amplify.  Do that for a week or two.  Or maybe a month.  Throw in some extenuating circumstances and a good run of bad luck, and you just went from barely functioning to barely breathing.  

It doesn't matter what you do or who tries to comfort you, you don't see a purpose.  In fact, you see a burden.  The insufferable darkness that  you can't escape, the weight of the burdens you place on others is suffocating.  The weakness that you exude is a crime only punishable by solitude.  In the off chance you allow another being close enough to see your vulnerability, the only option you have is to apologize.  Apologize for wasting the limited oxygen produced by Earth's vanishing forests, because you aren't worth anymore than that.  You are a fucking waste.  

And that's what happens.  It doesn't matter how many people call or text or visit or get on planes to make sure you are OK.  You are a fucking burden on humanity and you don't deserve the time those people are investing in you.  

That's what it's like.  It's like drowning while you watch everyone around you breathing.  

Close Enough

Radley and I were supposed to be on a Hawaiian Airlines flight from Oakland to Lihue this morning.  I only made that decision last night.  Seemed reasonable at the time.  Spend an entire paycheck on airline tickets to cross an ocean to go hide in a tropical paradise.  Sounds familiar.  I just did that two months ago.  Had a great trip to Hawaii last time, what would the harm be in making it a two-fer...This time while a kid who has school and field trips and extra-curriculars to account for would also be traveling.

Seemed like a pretty sound idea. So, I bought the tickets last night before I even told anyone that I was planning it.  Because I wasn't really planning it.  It just sounded like a good idea to get the fuck out of storm's way.  See, I have been in this perpetual fight or flight status since the beginning of the  year.  So, every time I get uncomfortable, I think it's a good idea to remove myself from the situation.  Only, for some reason, getting out of the situation makes me more uncomfortable than just dealing with whatever the source of the discomfort is.  I liken it to what crazy people do when they when they escape from the straight jacket:  the straight jacket was uncomfortable, but processing everything outside of it's comfort is horrifying.  So, essentially, I guess I liken myself to a crazy person?  Not an unreasonable leap, I suppose.  

Anyway, back to the flight we were supposed to be on this morning.  Theoretically, we should have been on the road by 6:AM to make our 9:35 flight.  I didn't sleep well.  I never sleep well before an early flight.  The terror of losing money on a missed travel arrangements haunts my entire being.  It just seems so wasteful.  But the travel industry has made enough to subsidize entire countries on their inability to be flexible.  So, this morning, when I woke up in a state of terror, I knew I had just lost an entire paycheck on two un-executed fight plans.  

I called the airline, canceled the tickets.  They were very generous to credit me, for the cost of $400.  Then I called my dad.  I left a message that would probably be unsettling to the most disconnected of parents.  He finally called me back when he woke up and said "can you fly later in the week?"  The suggestion terrified me.  I couldn't even leave the house, how was I supposed to get on a plane and fly across an ocean later in the week.  Two hours later my phone rang.  It was him again.  He said "There is a direct flight from Lihue to Oakland tomorrow.  I will see you in the evening."  All I could say was "OK."  

It's weird.  When I find myself sifting through the deepest, darkest, most rancid shit I feel I have ever seen, I retreat.  And people from all over everywhere seem to know it too.  After my dad called and announced his intentions to be here tomorrow.  After that man decided that he could walk away from the jobs he was responsible for and the people who are depending on him to meet deadlines, I naturally felt like the biggest dirt bag on the planet.  Why didn't I try to stop him?  Why didn't I tell him to go to work and to not worry about me?  Why didn't I just tell him I had a lapse in judgement and I am so fine that a trip across an ocean is completely unnecessary?  That is what I have always done.  So, why didn't I do it this time?  I didn't do it though.  And it made me feel worthless because I couldn't even formulate a series of cohesive words that would have made half sense.  

My dad told me that he's coming because his parent manual states that "when daughter's need hugs, dad's are required to get on planes.  It says it right here, Angela," he told me.  I laughed.  Then I felt like a bigger asshole.  Because that's not strong, fierce, and independent.  It's not what my parents raised me to be.  That's needy and insecure.  It's having your daddy come post a bond on your emotional deficits.  Basically, it means that you are a jerk and you can't handle life so your daddy is going to stop his entire fucking world to come make sure that you don't need to be committed.  

While I lay there, mulling over my emotional deficiencies and the gift I have for making people put their entire fucking existences on hold because I am always in some new and, unyet discovered,  dysfunctional state of turmoil, my phone started blowing up.  I wanted to take it to the corner and throw it into traffic.  

"Hi" 

"How are you doing, sister?"

"Sorry I haven't talked to you in a few days.  What's up?"

"How did I just drop my phone in a plate fruit curry.  That shouldn't even be possible?"  

Too much.  Too fucking much!  Then, as if I got hit in the head with the smart stick, I realized that they were all looking out.  They all had taken time out of their day to make sure I knew they were still thinking about me.  I resolved, at that minute, to be honest with them.  Because let's be honest.  If you tell someone what you are coming apart at the fucking seams, and they still want to talk to you, you have people.  

I was honest with all of them.  I told them that I'm not real functional right now.  I apologized for being that fucking guy.  I never want to be that guy.  Ever.  But they all said the same thing.  Maybe not in the same words.  They said:

"don't apologize. I've never lost faith in you."

"I am here for you."

"If I could, I would take away your crazy."  

"How's your hygiene?"

Really?  How's your hygiene?  Then I got it.  Because my people fucking know me.  Rach asked 

"When was the last time you brushed your teeth?  Did you take a shower today?"  I thought for a minute...thought some more.  Then I admitted:  "Yesterday.  I took a shower yesterday.  I brushed my teeth at the same time."  Silence on the other end of the phone.

Then she said "close enough."  

-Inner Peas

It Hurts to Think

I was a very serious child.  My mom always tells me I was a happy, jovial little girl.  But I sometimes think that is how she wants to remember it.  Or maybe she has the benefit of life's experience that she sees the past with different hindsight.  Either way, I don't think I was ever really jovial.  I was always very solemn.  Not necessarily melancholy, but I was very introspective.  I saw everything through a blue/green filter.  I guess that's probably pretty normal for the illegitimate child of two hippie parents.  There was never a black and white.  There was never a definitive line. There was never a clear direction.  While my parent's probably gave me more to think about than my peers who had two corporately employed parents, they also gave me the curse of thought.

Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't change anything about my childhood or my parents or, for what it's worth, the rest of my life.  But I will say this:  thinking is really hard.  When you don't have someone to tell you how to think or what to do and you have to make your own decisions, life get's complicated.  My parents were amazing in that they never placed any undue expectations on me.  They would say things like "be the President of the United States or bag groceries at Safeway.  Do whatever makes you happy, Angela."  Or they would say "Get an education, but don't become a pretensions asshole.  What you know isn't who you are."  They gave me the whole world as options. They would have been proud of me if I had chosen to shelve books at the library or if I had have gone to law school.  They were good that way.

But on the librarian to lawyer scale or the white bag to white house scale, I don't fit in anywhere.  Even my hippie parents don't really know what to do with me.  I joined the Coast Guard right out of High School, because as much as my parents wanted me to be my own person, they couldn't afford for me to do that.  I think they hoped that it was some thing I would do until I could afford to become one of those other things.  But I held on to it for 17 years.  My parents have told me repeatedly to get out of it.  That I can do more and I deserve better.  I'm not sure what that means.  I'm not sure the I understand the direction I am supposed to take from here.  What am I supposed to be when I grow up?

I can tell you what I don't want to be when I grow up.  I can tell you that I never want to be the person who hates getting up in the morning because they hate their job.  I don't ever want to be the person who has to demand that people acknowledge their importance.  I never, ever, EVER want to be the person who has to remind people of decency and human kindness.  I don't want to be the person who walks out of meetings because adults can't act like grown ups.  I especially don't want to be the person who has to demand respect.  Because respect commands respect.  And if you have to tell someone to respect you, either you have failed as a human being or...OR..you are surrounded with people who respect the wrong shit.

I will also tell you what I want to do when I grow up.  I want to be a gypsy.  I want to be wild at heart.  I want to have a rebel soul.  I want to be that girl in the Karmann Ghia who would drive until there was no more gas.  I want to be stuck on the side of the road, on an almost impassible road, waiting for a tow.   I want to be the girl who chased the sun down every beach from Fort Bragg to Stinson to Faria. I want to be the person who walks into meetings disheveled and out of place, just to make everyone else uncomfortable I want to be the woman who is so passionate that she doesn't stop to think about rent or employment or jail time before she throws dangerously sharp objects at assholes who think they are better than everyone else.  I want to be the girl who was determined to swim with the dolphins and was willing to take out a 2nd mortgage out to finance the house in the stars.  I want to be her again.

I have become the person I didn't want to be when I grow up.  I fight to take care of people who don't my name.  I fight with people who don't care about other people.  I make other people look really good, when they would otherwise look like assholes.  I am tired.  All I want now is dolphins and sunsets and stars.  I want hugs and smiles and twinkling eyes.  All I want is to be who my parents wanted me to be when they told me I could be anything.   It hurts to think about that.

-Inner Peas

Helluva Life

A few years ago, right before I started this blog, I was experiencing the worst mental health episode of my adult life.  The anxiety and the depression were insatiable.  The emotion was constant and paralyzing and physically excruciating.  I couldn't get out of bed.  I couldn't go outside of the house.  I didn't buy groceries for a week.  I showered once, maybe twice in 18 days.  I didn't answer phone calls or text messages.  I locked myself so deep in the pit of my fear, that some around me wondered if I would ever be able to find my way out.

I don't how what motivated me to get out of bed on that frigid April morning, two years ago this month.  Of course, I don't really know what triggered the 18 day isolation that came before that either.  Regardless, I got out of bed on Monday April 21, 2013.  I took a shower.  Put on some makeup.  Threw a banana at my kid.  Got in the car and drove to work.  I shook uncontrollably on the 9 mile trip down Bodega Avenue, forcing myself to not pull over or turn the car around.  When I walked into work, I was met by about 20 pairs of glaring, critical eyes.  I could hear the thoughts of everyone I walked passed "Where the fuck have you been for the last three weeks?"  Their judgment was deafening.  

Of course, it wasn't judgement.  It was more concern.  Or confusion.  Maybe even a little surprise that I was still alive.  After all, the only thing that had kept me connected to the outside of my house for the previous 18 days were the text messages I got from people who reminded me to shower and the meals that showed up on my front door step from neighbors who thought I was turning into Howard Hughes.  But I did go back to work that morning. 

I remember very vividly being so self conscious about having to explain my absence. But as soon as the phone rang at 7:02, I forgot about trying to make excuses for myself.  I logged in.  I looked at my desk.  I checked my email.  I remember being astounded that people were still calling the clinic, still leaving work in my "to do" box, still stealing all the good pens off my desk, and still sending emails to me.  It was round mid-morning when I went outside to smoke that I actually thought to myself "That's weird.  Even though I haven't done anything for the last three week, the world is still doing its thing."  

I keep thinking back to that morning on April 21st, two years ago.   The only reason I remember it was April 21st is because I wrote it down when I got there.  With a green ball point pen.  Because that was the only pen I could find.  I wrote "21APR" I don't even know what prompted me to write it down, but I kept that piece of scratch paper in my purse for a very long time.  I can't tell you why, but I have held on to it like it was the Holy Grail.  I didn't look at it very often, but when I rummaged through my purse and came across that green hen scratch, it always made me think.  

So now, almost two years later, I was sitting in my kitchen this past Sunday night.  Cleaning out my purse, because my motto is "clean purse, happy heart."  It's stupid, but I can never find anything in there, so I always feel like I need to clean it out.  Anyway, last Sunday at the kitchen table, I pulled out everything and put it all into two piles.  Just like I always do.  The shit that I need.  Things like my wallet, key, and wine tool.  The other pile was the shit I don't need.  Like receipts, gum wrappers and half eaten granola bars.  I immediately took the pile of shit I don't need out to the trash can.  As I organized the shit I do need, I realized that the green scribble was missing.  

I looked.  I looked again.  I check all the pockets.  I checked the pockets of purses I haven't used in months.  I couldn't find it.  So back to the trash can I went.  Like a shameless fool, I started pulling things out of the grey bin. Sifting through last weeks garbage, even though I just thrown the shit I didn't need away.  I dug through all of it.  ALL.  OF.  IT.  When I was elbow deep in coffee grinds and chicken bones, I had the good sense to have Radley open the door and turn on the shower for me.  You know, that way I didn't leave e coli and salmonella in my wake.  
I got in the shower and washed it all away.  Got up the next morning and went to work.  Like I knew what I had been doing all along.  But, I don't know what I am doing at all.  I have been finding myself really close to that place I was two years ago.  I have been having a hard time functioning and feeding myself.  I have been overcome with fear and sadness a lot lately.  Feelings I hate.  Feelings that I have been able to keep at bay, for so long, with that fucking piece of paper.  But it's gone now.  So how do I remind myself that I survived the worst of it two years ago?  How do I remind myself that I am strong enough to beat it again.  How to I tell myself that adversity is a part of survival?  

Then it hit me this morning.  It's other people.  Other people are the reminder.  It's not a security blanket. It's not two numbers and three letters.  It's other people who are the reminder.  Just as that first day back at work after after my fear and sadness almost consumed me, now I have to look at the universe and see how it doesn't stop just because we stop.  Two years ago, my withdrawal from humanity didn't stop the work from piling up.  It didn't stop the bills from being paid.  It didn't stop one of my best friends from losing a baby.  

As I sat there this morning, at the same smoke pit that brought all the clarity to me two years ago, I looked back on the events of the past week.  Monday, I got a call from my girlfriend who got laid off from her job in private practice, due to "budget restraints."  They told her she could collect on her vacation on her unemployment benefits.  Just like that.  Same fucking day. They didn't even give her a slap on the ass on the way out.   Also on Monday, I found out that the program, and the educator, that have been most influential in my child's life are both on the bureaucratic clock.  Tuesday,a dear friend of almost two decades, lost his first born grandchild to a three year battle with cancer.  Same Tuesday, a baby arrived.  The first born to two really fucking amazing human beings.  Wednesday.  I couldn't get out of bed.  Well, to be fair.  I did get out of bed.  I even got in the shower.  But by the time I got out of the shower, I was so overcome with nausea and fear that I just sat in the shower until I could compose myself to find clothes.  

Yesterday started to feel a lot like that April two years ago.  I got a couple of text messages from my girlfriends.  One said "you aren't at work.  How are you?"  Another said "Do you want me to stop by tonight?"   I had dinner made for me by friends who just wanted to make sure I was "OK."  It was really eye opening.  Not just because I have really fucking amazing people in my life.  But also because they see my pattern.  That pattern kind of started to scare me.  

So, yet again, I woke up this morning.  Got in the shower.  Threw some makeup on my face.  Got two human beings dressed.  Shoved a banana at my kid.  Made coffee and drove to work.  Listened to NPR and learned about two fabulous new bay area plays on "Second Row, Center."  No sooner did I get out of the car, did I get two new photos and a text to accompany them that read "the newest addition."  Another baby.  I smiled as I walked by the front desk, cold as hell and yelled "It's 35 degrees!  Sleeves up, boys!"  I went to my desk.  Did work.  Remembered it was Tim's birthday. 

I drove down to his building at lunch to tell him "happy birthday"  I stepped out of the car and found my footing, I was cussing at my skirt for always riding up in the car.  As I slammed the door, I heard a soft voice call after me: "Hey Ang."  I looked up from my shoes and my skirt and I saw him.  I saw my friend.  Of nearly two decades.  The one who just lost he first born grandchild to a three year battle with cancer.  I had been avoiding him.  Because what do you say to someone who just lost a child from their life?

The first thing I did was hug him.  The second thing I did was demand: "Why the fuck are you at work?"  He looked at me as if I should know the answer.  I told him "you are all in my heart.  All of you."  He said "I took a couple of days off.  But what am I going to do at home?"  I had no answer for that.  I had no insight or cunning advice.  I had nothing.  We talked for a couple more minutes before he looked at me and said "The worst part is that I can't do anything to ease the pain of my daughter's loss."  

I looked at him in the eye, like I only do with people I love, honor and respect and told him "Mart.  There is nothing you can do.  Losing a child is the most unnatural experience we can have as parents."  He hugged me again and walked away without another word.

That's the weird thing about life.  As much as you life it,..As much as you hide from it...As much as you try to beat it...Life keeps happening no matter what happens.  

-Inner Peas