Service

I am proud to tell you that I am a veteran of the United Stated Armed Forces.  I am also proud to tell you that I am the most recent veteran, in a long family history of veterans.  Because this history is so long, I will keep it to the last century.  So, briefly, my dad’s mom was an army nurse.  She met a strapping young chaplain in World War II (please reserve your laughter for later.)  Anyway, the Army nurse and the Chaplain fell deeply in love.  They produced two sons and two daughters.  First a daughter, then a son.  Then another son, then another daughter.  The first born daughter became a nurse.  The first son joined the Army.  The second son joined the Marine Corps.  The last daughter went to college and got her master’s degree in public administration, and became a social worker.  So, I guess you could say that all four offspring were public servants.  All four are veterans. 

So, two WW2 veterans, produced two Vietnam veterans.  One of those veterans was my father.  David.  When his parents returned from war, they were met with a hero’s welcome.  My grandfather completed seminary at Emory University.  After many moves and birthing many children, my grandmother was offered a medical administration job in Port Hueneme.   My uncle joined the Army, my dad couldn’t join the Army because he was color blind.  So, he walked to the next door.  The Marine Corps door.  My dad joined the Marine Corps in 1967.  After he left RCMD in San Diego, he hugged his mommy, and boarded the first flight to Honolulu.  From Honolulu, he took his sea bag, and tugged it up the ramp of a C-130, headed to Nagasaki.  From Nagasaki, he humped every possession he had to some place in the Vietnamese jungle.  Where he lived for many, many months. 

When I was little, and my dad would try to explain to me what he did in Vietnam, he would get really angry.  He would say things like ‘I had to shove the bayonet at the end of my riffle into bales of hay.  Bales of hay that honest people were trying to make a living off of.”  He would also say things like “I knew people like you in Vietnam.  I knew little girls who didn’t know the difference between war and peace.” When I was eight, that meant nothing to me.  When I was eight, Vietnam may have been a different planet.  When I was eight, the idea of a bayonet in a rice paddy was more foreign than Farsi on the menu at a Persian restaurant.  I had no idea what Vietnam meant. 

As I got older, I tried to relate to my dad’s experiences by reading books.  After I got out of the Coast Guard, I went to college, and I took classes, and I read books.  I read a lot of books about Vietnam.  One time, my dad came to visit me.  And, as an offering of peace, I said “I’ve been reading this book.  Wanna see it?”  I don’t’ remember the name of the book now.  But it was very popular and it was very poignant.  It was a compilation of essays by Vietnam vets.  And it was the only thing I had to relate to my dad’s experiences.  I was 23, and getting educated, and I wanted my dad to know that I finally understood what happened to him in South East Asia. 

I sat there and watched him read.  I waited for him to look at me and say “thank you daughter, for finally understanding.”  But he didn’t say that.  Instead, he pretended to read until I broke the silence when I asked him if he wanted to go to dinner.  He was ready.

We didn’t talk for Vietnam for many years after that.  I can understand why.  I thought I was trying to relate to his experiences, but really, what I was doing was trivializing them.  I read a book.  Maybe two.  And I wanted my dad to know that I got it.  But I could never get it.  I have never been to war.  So I DO NOT get it.  I don’t understand the idea of losing your two best friends to a senseless argument.  I don’t’ understand shrapnel in your knee.  I don’t understand a purple heart.  I don’t understand any of it. 

Since then, my dad has said a lot of things about what happened after he returned from Vietnam.  He has talked about the lonely welcoming.  He has about the hostile encounters with people who hated the war.  He talked about how he almost lost a leg, while he lay bleeding, near death, on a hospital gurney, after a motorcycle accident, because his hair cut told the story of his service.  My dad lived in a different time.  His parents were veterans, and they were revered for their service.  His daughter is a veteran, and she is, too.  I live in a time where the media demand that I am revered for my sacrifice.   But the media, conveniently, has forgotten my father’s generation.

More Vietnam veterans have died on the streets than any veterans that came before or after them.  More Vietnam veterans have suffered from addiction.  More Vietnam veterans have lived , and untreated for post traumatic stress disorder.  More than veterans from any other war, conflict, military intervention.  What does that say about that say about how we view our military men and women? 

My dad is a Vietnam veteran.  He suffers for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. After 40 years, he still can’t sleep at night.  He give sto charities.  All of them in Vietnam.  He has done humanitarian work in Southeast Asia.  He had done everything within his means to make right his indiscretions, and  make right the indiscretions of his country.  And he still can’t sleep at night. 

Thank you, Dad.  Thank you for your service.  Thank you for bearing the weight of the world’s poor decisions.  Thank you for being so wonderfully optimistic, despite the way society views you and your counterparts.  Thank you for coming home and fighting like hell to make the wrongs right.  Happy Veterans’ Day, Daddy.  

-Inner Peas

Hurt Feelings

Recently.  It’s been brought to my attention that there are some people who think that I’m a big meanie.  I’ll be honest, that’s a little surprising to me given that I spend my entire day doing things for other people.  Not just a few other people.  1,100 other people.  So many other people, that I have a hard time coming home and doing anything for myself.  Anyway, there are some people who think I’m not nice enough.  I know because somebody told me recently that my voice evokes anxiety.  I also know, because in the not too distant past, a couple people have made a very avid attempt at skirting the system, and when they were called to task about their behavior, their answers were the same:  “I feel like Angela hates me.” 

When I first heard those things, I was fucking pissed.  Not just marginally upset.  I was a lot of pissed.  I mean, come on.  I spend  my days giving hugs and sharing cupcakes and drying tears.  I’m not a dick.  I’m the proverbial mama bear.  If you can’t fix it, I will fix it for you.  If you need help, I will get it for you.  If you need to be an asshole to someone, call me, I’ll take it.  Then I’ll fix your shit, even if I don’t particularly care for the way you went about asking for help.  But really, you think that I hate you?  My voice induces anxiety?  You always get what you need from me.  That’s how it works.  Everybody knows that.  So, yeah, I was a little more than put out.

Then somebody told me “maybe you expect too much from people?”  Now this a battle I fight every day.  Because I always wonder if I’m being too hard on Radley.  I always wonder if I expect too much from him.  After all, he’s five.  He should have the benefit of enjoying his childhood without me projecting too many demands on him.  So, I thought, if it’s possible that I’m too hard on my own son, how might my expectations appear to other?  Especially since my filter is filled with gaping holes and my face shows every emotion I’ve ever felt.  It’s plausible that people may be offended by my honesty. 

That of course, led to a completely different train of thought.  I have had a lot of men tell me that they are uncomfortable  with my tone.  Not just spineless assholes.  Strong men.  Accomplished men.  Men with more backbone than most.  My ex-husband would tell me on a regular basis that he hated my accusatory tone.  Believe me when I tell you,  tone was never accusatory towards him.  It  may have been a lot of other things, but never accusatory.  Then, the second clinic supervisor I worked with would yell at me when I asked him questions.  Not because I was asking questions, but because, as he put it “I always think you’re pissed at me.”  I had a conversation with another clinic supervisor about how he felt like every time I talked to him, he felt like I was “calling him to task.”  I’m still not sure what that means, but I’m pretty sure he was trying to tell me that I’m a bitch.  Which is fine that he thinks that, but that’s never been my intention. 

These conversations made me wonder.  If so many of the people I have had very personal relationships with cannot decipher the difference between my concerned voice and my irritated voice, how is it possible that people who only vaguely know me could?  And don’t misunderstand, just because I thought about it doesn’t mean that I’m going to change it.  Just like I’m not going to change the hugs and the Kleenex and the cupcakes.  But at least, I’ve thought about it.  I’ve also thought about the people who have said those things to me or about me.  And this is what I’ve come up with: 

I am not offended that you don’t like.  You are only one on a long list of many.  I am only a little offended that you think I hate you.  After all, at the end of the day, I don’t have enough energy for hate.  If you knew me, you would know that.  I am very offended that you think I won’t do everything in my power to help you.  Because that’s what I do best.  I help others.  Even if you don’t realize I’m trying to help you, I want you to know that I want you to grow into strong, independent women who do not feel entitled because you are unhappy.  I don’t want you to find short cuts.  I want you to go out and change your own fate.  I want you to be women who can deal with discomfort and, at the same time, can revel in contentment, as well.  I want you to hold yourself accountable, and do the same for the people around you.  And, if you feel anxiety when you hear my voice, know that I feel the same when I hear yours.  However, the reason you feel it, is more likely because you aren’t living up to your potential.  The reason I feel it, is because I’m afraid that I’ll see you not living up to your potential. 

That's not judgement, that's experice.  

-Inner Peas

Mirror, Mirror

I love the interwebs.  Just when I think I’ve seen it all or heard everything, the Google always provides me with a refreshing break from the monotony.  Even if I don’t know if what I’m reading should be classified as refreshing, at least there’s always something different.  So, today, I read this blog.  I do that a lot more now, since I started my own blog.  It’s a courtesy.  Mostly because there are a lot of good ideas out there that aren’t actually “good” enough to be printed.  Anyway, I was reading this blog, “Couples & Crap” or something like that.  The title of the post was “Man Successfully Sues Wife for Ugly Children.”  Despite your first thought, it’s an interesting read.  Google it. 

Did you?  Google it?  Ok, now, after you get over the absurdity of the story, how about the content of that guy’s post?  I admire his honesty.  Essentially, he said that when he looks at a woman, he sees her physical attributes and her potential for raising his children.  I can’t argue either of those points.  Anyone who tells you that character is the first thing they notice when they’re attracted to someone is fucking lying.  Also, in the event you actually want to procreate, you should ABSOLUTELY consider the parenting potential of prospective mates.  It’s just good planning.  So, this guy is honest and he has some very relevant points.  And I can appreciate that. 

Then I read, and re-read what he was saying.  It wasn’t the lawsuit that was bothering me.  It wasn’t the fact that he admitted to being shallow and self absorbed.  It wasn’t that he said, in more words, that he was looking for a woman who would make his children beautiful and successful.  It wasn’t even his point about women “objectifying” themselves more than men ever could.  Those were all genuine statements.  Even if I don’t agree with them, I revere the honesty in the sentiment. I think the reason I couldn’t stop reading, is because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t misunderstanding the value he placed on women.  The value was beauty, which is valid, but the beauty he described was very one dimensional:  Either you’re born with it or you’re not.  And if you weren’t born with it, then you have no substance. 

Now.  Prepare yourselves.  This is a secret, so don’t tell anyone, but I’m not a natural blond.  I have a girl who does that for me.  Another secret, my face doesn’t actually maintain a summer tan all winter long.  I wear a very expensive color-correcting primer under my foundation.  Also, the shoes that I demand you compliment , have deformed my feet with calluses and ingrown nails.   AND!  And, five years ago, I weighed 250 pounds.  I hated it, so I did something about it.  (By something, I mean Weight Watchers and the treadmill.)  I perform these measures of vanity for one reason:  I want to feel better.  Not because I want to objectify myself.  I just want to smile. 

The first 30 years of my life, I was afraid to look in the mirror, because I knew that the reflection was hideous.  Even though I grew up with two hippie parents who wouldn’t acknowledge physical beauty, I lived in a society that conceded to it.  I did everything to bust the stigma.  I was a cheerleader.  I was class president.  I got good grades.  But, on many occasions, I came home from school in tears because of some hateful comment about my looks or my potential.  Those comments always came from assholes with the same perspective as the guy who wrote that commentary about the Chinese man who sued his wife for not disclosing her “ugly” history.  Men who insist that only women who are genetically gifted with beauty, are worthy of bearing their children. 

Seriously, this guy compared hemophilia and downs syndrome to ugly.  That, in itself, is ugly.  And ignorant.  You can be as honest as you want; I’ll always give you credit for your candor.  But when your honesty only reveals your shallow nature, then FUCKYOUMOTHERFUCKER.  A pretty face doesn’t amount to good parenting.  And it’s nice that you try to cover your intentions with words like “healthy” and “maternal.”  But since you’re being honest, allow me to be as well:  You mean “sexy” and “submissive”  Again, I say, FUCKYOUMOTHERFUCKER.  I’ve had the misfortune of having sex with better men than you, and I’ve lived to regret it.  But still, I’m doing way better than the chosen beauty who will grow and raise your children while you sit back and revel in your trophy wife and the gifted children she raised for you.  By the way, this woman will grow to hate you so much, it will make her physically ill to have sex with you and your children won’t ever appreciate you for more than their allowance. 

And I’m gonna keep dying my hair, too.  Because genetics gave me gray at 25.  I’m going to continue to get my eyebrows waxed, because I like two better than one.  I’m going to keep wearing skirts and heels, because it makes me feel better about myself.  Also, I’m going to teach my child discipline, but still not reprimand him for saying the eff word in appropriate situations.  I’ll do all because it makes a difference.  And also, I’ll do it just to spite you. 

-Inner Peas

The Best? Really...

It seems I’ve heard that a lot lately.  “We’re all just doing the best we can.”  I read it in books and in blogs.  I see it in movies and on TV.  I hear it from judgmental eyes, hiding behind sympathetic voices.  “We’re all just doing the best we can.”  I particularly enjoy when they add “with what we have.”  Because what we have, determines how we should live our lives.  Right?   The deeper I delve into single mommydom, the more I hear it and the more I try to understand it.  I appreciate that when you feel like you are at the end of your rope and you’ve exhausted every lifeline, that’s a good outlook.  It’ll keep your head above water, before you sink into a hollow, dark abyss.  I appreciate it for the survival value.  But, otherwise, I’m not sure I’m onboard with this philosophy.  So, let me get this straight, “we’re all just doing the best we can with what we have?”  Like it’s some sort of validation for living in mediocrity. 

But this is the thing.  If you are just doing the best you can, you don’t ever aspire to be better than what you can actually be.  You are only maintaining the status quo.  You are towing the line.  Which is good.  If that’s all you ever dreamed of.  But, if you have ever dreamed of doing more or being better or having a louder voice, then doing the “best you can” with “what you have” should never be the end. 

Today, I sat in a meeting.  I love meetings.  (insert sarcasm here)  Meetings are important.  Meetings are where “brain storming” happens.  Meetings are also where ‘group think” happens.  Anyway, today, in a meeting, I made a very clear point about how attitude and workplace climate are perceived and why. I aired my grievances.  I felt real accomplished.  After all, meetings are where you make your statement.   I said what I had to say.   The best answer I got was “she’s not happy, let’s fix that for her.”  The first thing I thought was “Wow.  Thanks guys.  For loving me enough to try to alleviate the pain” The second thing I had was “Wow.  That was nice, but this isn’t about me.  This is about everyone.” But the end result was still:  “let’s fix it for her.”

Every rational emotion I felt told me to scream out lout “NO!!!  It’s not about you fixing it for me.  It’s about me fixing it for me.”    I didn’t say that though.  Instead, I refused to make eye contact, while they discussed the ways to make my life better.  And, it occurred to me, as I sat listening to others try to make me feel better about my existence , that I can do better.  I also realized that those people could be doing better.  We should all be doing better.  We shouldn’t just be doing the best with what we have.  

Now, I’m not saying that life isn’t hard.  It is.  Really FUCKING hard.  But our choices, our experiences, our bruises are NOT excuses for complacency.  We only make it harder on ourselves when we lower our standards.  When others greet us with low expectations; when they want to save us from ourselves, we are only perpetuating the idea that we cannot do better.  That’s not doing the best we can with what we have.  It only  means we are doing the best we can to maintain mediocrity.  

Go out.  Do more.  Find better.  DO NOT LET OTHER'S FIX YOU.  Because nobody can make you better.  Only you can.  

Who's that Girl?

So, I was sitting here.  Writing something that read like the ramblings of a crazy person, trying to rub a thought or two together to make sense of all the noise that has set up shop inside my head.  Seriously, it sounds like a fourth grade band room in there.  It’s ridiculous.  You can’t find a steady beat or a rhythm to save your life.  Anyway, I was sitting here, doing everything in my power to make rational thoughts happen, failing miserably.  So, I picked up my phone and it said “FACEBOOK:  Two new notifications.”  Seemed like a legit distraction from actual thinking.  I figured it was probably a “like” for one of my very witty and insightful posts.  Maybe another snarky comment about rechargeable batteries.    But when I opened Facebook, something weird happened.  It was the past.  History happened.  Suddenly, all of the noise stopped. 

The notification said “Leisha Urban tagged you in two photos.”  Now, Leisha and I have been friends since before we could drink legally.  We have a pretty extensive past, so I was thinking maybe those pictures were our kids trick-or-treating together, or maybe, a picture of us holding up the wall when we were neighbors at the 405, or more than likely, some meme about wine and profanity.  But when I opened those pictures, I saw something unexpected.   I saw a different time, a different life, a different me.  Holy shit. 

That’s all I kept thinking.  HOLY.  SHIT.  Then I looked closer at the pictures, and I thought “I don’t think that’s me.”  One picture was a girl with a big smile with two of the guys I worked with, wearing pea coats.  The other was a girl with a carefree grin, sitting on the fantail of SHERMAN next to my boat bestie, Josh.  It made sense that I would be in both of those pictures, but the girl with that smile looked so very unfamiliar.  I must have looked at both those photos for ten minutes before I confirmed, to myself, that I was, in fact, the girl in those pictures.  If not for the way I held the cigarette in my right hand, I may have untagged myself from both pictures and chalked it up to a case of mistaken identity.  Leisha knows me though, so she wouldn’t mistake me for someone else.  But I sure did. 

That was supposed to have been the hardest time in my life.  Or, at least, that’s how I remember feeling then.  That life was SOOO hard.  But I looked at those pictures today, and the girl with the smile so genuine, she couldn’t fake it if she wanted, made me wonder.  Obviously, those weren’t the worst years of my life.  Clearly, I have seen harder times.  I wonder though, have my choices and my experiences damaged me so much that I can’t even recognize myself in a picture?  Not because of the 30 pounds between now and then.  Not because of the MANY years that have weathered my face and my outlook.  But because of the smile.  Your smile makes you unmistakable, not unrecognizable.  Shouldn’t that always be the same? 

-Inner Peas

Not as Bitchin' As You Think You Are (Part 1 of Many)

Walk a mile

My feet hurt.  Both of them.  Every day.  It’s because I wear heels 9 hours a day, five days a week.  Maybe more accurately, I choose to wear heels 9 hours a day, five days a week.  There’s nothing in my job description that says I MUST wear heels every day.  There’s nobody out there who will tell me my shoes aren’t within regulation.  There’s no rule that says I have to wear suntanned colored panty hose instead of nude or taupe or black with my heels.  My boss will never come to me and say, “Hey, I’m not sure those heels are 2 and ¼ inch high.  Can you change them?”  There is no policy dictating my choice in footwear.  I choose to wear them.  Professionalism.   Desire.  Image.  There’s a lot of reasons.  But all of those reasons are by choice. 

Judgment

I’m very aware of my shoes.  That’s why I insist that people compliment them at the beginning of every conversation.  Basically, it translates to “like my shoes, or you aren’t getting shit from me.” But let’s be honest, my shoes are marginal, at best.  But, in my twisted perspective, if you acknowledge my shoes, you acknowledge my journey.  People who know me the best, know that’s what I want.  That and really good shoes.  Since I can’t afford really good shoes, I’ll accept meaningless compliments about the one’s I can afford.  That’s also true for my life.  I can’t afford a really good one, so at least acknowledge the one I’ve made with what I’ve got.  It’s symbolic of the metaphor  “walk a mile in my shoes.” 

And if, in the off chance, you don’t feel obligated enough to compliment my shoes, judgment always slips in.  I really want people to admire my shoes.  I want others to walk down my path.  I want people to acknowledge my journey.  But when other people want to share their experiences with me, I get real ambivalent.  Oh, you’re trying to save money to ensure a better future for your family?  Take your six figure income and move on.  Or, maybe, you’re having a hard time with your child?  Try to do it by yourself.  And, my favorite, you hate a job you only have to put in a solid 10 hours in a week at?  Huh.  My deepest condolences.  I get real critical when people want to tell me about their struggles.  But for the love of God, those people better respect mine. 

Humility

Then, sometimes, shit gets real.  Sometimes, real people with real troubles cross my path.  When I meet those people, I am humbled immediately.  These are the people who make me eat every word I’ve ever uttered. These are the people who have been dealt a really ugly hand, and still, come up all aces.  Like my friend Albie who first walked into my life almost four years ago.  And the first day I met him, I hated him.  He said “I need to see a doctor.”  I looked at the fins in the wings he wore on his uniform, and I said “in two weeks.”  I don’t like rescue swimmers.  They are arrogant and entitled and real demanding.  I looked at the wings on his left chest and I got real indignant.  I actually said to Albie in one of our first encounters “You can’t walk because you spent 20 years jumping out of helicopters.”  As if, by choosing to be a hero, he deserved to sacrifice his body and his lifestyle.  Like the 20 years he spent jumping out of helicopters in to frigid and hostile waters, to save the lives of people he had never met before, or would never meet again, warranted the 20 surgeries that will guarantee lifelong disability. 

Shoes

There were many before Albie.  There have been many since Albie.  There are MANY people who remind me that the shoes we wear are not important, but the road we travel in those shoes is what’s important.  The six-year old girl, with the bald head and an elbow implant.  The family orphaned by a terminal father.  The young man who’s hand I held steady while he wrote his name on the top of a duty status chit.  The man who I had expected to be my boss one day, paralyzed in a random accident , who’s fate was conveyed to me in a late night text message from the hospital:  “you might want to start grooming a new boss.”  The kid with pilot’s wings, who didn’t even look old enough to drive a car, much less an aircraft, who walked through the door with a career ending injury and an honest laugh.  Those are the people who remind me about shoes.  Their shoes are the biggest shoes to fill. 

Anyway, back to Albie.  After I got over my stigma about swimmers.  After I stopped judging him because of the stereotype.  After I stopped expecting him to be a dick as a result of his trade, we became friends.  One day, at lunch, I asked him “How do you cope with all of this?“  He looked at me and confessed:  “My dad used to tell me when I was growing up ‘You aren’t as bitchin’ as you think you are.’  He was right.”  And my world stopped.  I thought to myself “Whaaaatttttt??????”  So let me get this straight.  Other people have walked in my shoes.  Other people have traveled my journey?  I’m not the ONLY person to ever feel pain or beat adversity or have fought the good fight?  (whatever the fuck that means.)  But most importantly, I thought “I’m not as bitchin as I think I am.”  And neither are my shoes. 

-Inner Peas

Today

Yesterday, I woke up and I felt good.  For the first time in a long time, I woke up in the morning and I wasn’t afraid for my feet to touch the floor.  It sounds silly to most people, but I hate the mornings a lot.  And I’m scared of what is going to happen after my feet touch the floor.  Because as soon as my feet  feel the carpet under my bed, shit gets real.  First I have to get into the shower and I brush my teeth and wash my hair. Then, when I’m done with the incidentals, I let the water rush over me.   I think about what the day will bring.  I think about the things I need to get accomplished.  I think about the people I will have to encounter.  That’s when panic takes over  my consciousness.  I don’t remember a time that I have woken up, gotten into the shower, and then realized that the anxiety wasn’t so fierce, it made me puke.  Every day.  That’s how I wake up.  Then, after I find the strength to stop heaving, towel off, get dressed and I crawl into bed with Radley and I talk and sing to him, in the hopes that he’ll wake up without argument.  Those few minutes with my son, in the breaking daylight, calm me before the anxiety starts again.  Because as soon as we are out of bed, and making our way down the hallway, I know I’m just seconds away from fighting more battles.  Wash your face.  Brush your teeth.  Get dressed.  The same arguments.  Every morning.  the anxiety builds.  My mind is already exhausted by the time I back out of my driveway at 6:35.  That’s how I wake up every day. 

Anyway, back to yesterday. Yesterday, I woke up and I felt different.  I felt good.  No looming fear.  No dismal outlook on the day.  I woke up and I wasn’t afraid to get out of bed.  So, I did that.  I got out of bed and I was going to do things.  I was going to do the dishes.  I was going to get groceries.  I was going to fold laundry.  I was going to stop loving people who will never love me back.  I was going to go to mailbox and get the bills.  I wasn’t going to be afraid of paying the bills.  I was going to go to a party with many people I love.  At 7:AM yesterday morning, I believed I could do it.  All of it.  And as a reward for all of this motivation and positive energy, I was going to get a massage.  I think that may have been a mistake.  After I got some chores done in the morning, and I got my costume ready for the party, and I walked down to get my massage.  I was real excited.  I don’t get my hair done.  I don’t get my toes did.  I squeeze every last drop out of my makeup.  I don’t splurge.  So, a massage is pretty lavish.  I was gonna own it. 

Still real excited, I undressed and got under the sheet.  I laid face down.  Bambi, my masseuse, told me “relax and don’t think about anything.”  What the fuck?  Are you massage people messing with me?  Did you tell me to not think about anything?  Really?  Clearly, your brain doesn’t work like mine works.  Because when you tell me not to think, I’m just going to think more.  OK.  So I got over that.  And I enjoyed my massage.  Two hours later, Bambi said “take your time getting up.  Keep yourself hydrated.”  After it was over, I did not take my time getting up.  I stood up, real light headed, and got dressed.  She tried to make some small talk, but I couldn’t get out of that place quick enough. 

I stumbled, I staggered.  I hyperventilated.  By the time I got home, I was I was in the midst of a panic attack.  I found the good sense to text a friend and say “please tell everyone I’m sorry I can’t make it tonight.  I have a headache.”  Immediately after that I texted someone who get’s it.  I begged her to tell me that I don’t suck.  She did.  She told me a lot of other things, too.  She told me that sometimes you don’t need to go out.  She told me that I deal with enough people during the week that I don’t need to do it on my night off.  She told me to breath.  I did.  And I felt a little better. 

I still felt guilty, though.  Not so much because anybody missed me at that party, but today was going to  be different.  Today was supposed to be day that I stopped fearing the ordinary.  I was supposed to go out and embrace life.  I should have gone out and laughed with my friends, but instead, I closed myself off even more. 

When I had that monumental meltdown back in the spring, I vowed to change my life, my perspective, my actions.  But I’m still doing the same thing every day.  I don’t know if that’s progress or insanity.