sick

Ug. That is the only description fit for how I feel at the moment. The only one I have energy for, anyway.

I hate being sick. I do not do sick well. I don't do other people being sick well. (Especially when they are the "man sick" type, which J is.) I think this has to do with how my mother brought us up. We just didn't. get. sick. Period.

What? Runny nose and headache? Drink some orange juice. Throwing up? Get fluids and plenty of rest. Better yet - suck it up. If you ignore it, it will go away. Like it never even existed. I think we were generally suspicious of doctors and medicine. The only medicine I ever remember taking was those little red Sudafed pills... and those I popped by the handful, though never because I was sick.

So, now as an adult, I get sick and I go to work, I make dinner, I go shopping. And if I DO stay home, it pretty much has to be because I don't want to get anyone else sick, not because I should TAKE CARE OF MYSELF. Ah, fanning the flames of martyrdom.

I like to be left alone when I'm sick. Don't touch me, don't coddle me, don't make me chicken noodle soup. And I'm horrible with people who get sick and suddenly can't function, insist on going to the doctor, stay in bed, get medicine right away, let other people baby them. I mean, c'mon, get over it already.

But, today, I did go buy some medicine (after going to work and to the mall to buy A some new pants). Progress? Maybe. I think the fact that I actually picked something out and paid for it (and TOOK it) given that there are more cold/flu type medicines than there are colors, speaks for something.

If I ever become one of those people who gets "man sick," though, please shoot me and put everyone out of their misery.

Ug.

dichotomy

I wish I had a before and after picture of my life like those fad-diet ads... I don't know that a picture would capture it, but where I was and where I am are at such opposite extremes that the change really is as drastic as dropping 15 dress sizes.

As the 6th anniversary of my last drink draws near, I can't help but think back on what my life was like when the bottle was my everything. There was a time when what I remembered was peppered with swirly romanticism... when I remembered the fun, glamour, harmless insanity, relief, release, etc. of drinking.

I've done enough writing and talking and living to really accept - swallow - the reality of that time. Mostly the reality of the end of that period.

It is impossible to put into words the black hole that fills my chest when I think about how lost, how desperate, how frightened, angry, alone, full of shame, remorse, defiance, pain I was. How badly I did not want to quit drinking but how desperately I wanted to end my misery. How addicted I was to the chaos of my life, to the chase of the elusive high and how absolutely terrified of discovering who I'd be without it. Convinced that I would hate - abhor - what I uncovered.

Years into sobriety, even, I found other ways to cope. I starved myself, I disappeared, I shut down, put up walls, blamed my parents, son, lover. I still very much fancied that girl who started drinking tequila at 12, and was soon drinking almost everyday...quite the bad ass.

It wasn't until A turned 12 and I realized how fucking YOUNG 12 is, that I finally saw the tragedy in all of it. That I realized that I wasn't tough - I was scared. That I wasn't conquering the world - that I was escaping. And that I missed out on some pivotal emotion growth because I stunted it with whatever I could get my hands on.

The girl I was when I started on this journey was a small, curled up creature. I was thinking about how there was something about me that attracted predators. How that had been true all my life. I thought I had a sign that said "Previous abuse victim up for grabs." How I didn't know I could be any different, how I didn't know that some of the things that happened were not my fault. How I carried around a cloak of shame about the things that were done to me and the things I did to others. Shame for being the abused turned abuser.

Today it hit me that all those smarmy predatory people don't come near me anymore. They don't even look at me. I am stronger. My energy is deep and calm and aware. I am not a girl - I am a woman. There is deep, deep joy in my life to balance out the deep sorrow and hurt that is an inevitable part of life. I am present, available, trustworthy, unafraid. And remarkably, fallibly, wonderfully human.

I hope I never forget where I came from. It's the only way I get to stay where I am.

smell like dog

Every once in a while, I'll catch a whif of unmistakeable dog odor - not dog urine or shit - just dog. And it takes a second for the horror to kick in - it's ME! I smell like dog. It brings up all kinds of crazy flashbacks of what the house I grew up in smelled like. ANd it smelled of dog and cat and every single thing - liquid, solid, and the gamut in between - that could come out of said creatures.

I know the truth is that I smell like a dog OWNER, not a dog, but it still makes the hair on my neck stand up. It makes me want to wash everything I own with heavy duty extra smelly detergent and then dry it with three dryer sheets. It makes me want to sweep and mop every day. It makes me want to shave the animals and bath their stubly little bodies every day.

I keep envisioning people saying as I walk by "Ug... she smells like DOG." Chances are no one else smells it the way I do. (Of course, I also thought no one could smell the cigarette smoke that lingered on my clothes before I quit).

Guess I'll have to be ok with smelling like I'm a dog owner. I never even fathomed being a dog owner... but I guess if I have joined that one-of-a-kind group of beings who treat their dogs like children... I should get used to having their stink all over me.

dog walking

As I was walking the dogs today, I realized how silly we must look. Two dogs with matching rainbow collars - yes rainbow. Luna with her Hannibal Lector mask and Xochi with her Halti, which she HATES. Every chance she gets, she throws herself on the ground like a 2-year-old throwing a tantrum, and tries to rub the thing of her face. Meanwhile, I'm yanking on her and saying "tsch, tsch, tsch" like Cesar Milan on speed.

If that weren't enough, I have a tendency to talk to myself while I'm walking the dogs. And usually, I am telling somebody in no uncertain terms EXACTLY what I think in a situation that happened two days ago or might happen in the future. This involves head-wagging like a really pissed off black woman, and I am almost always incredibly witty and brilliant ... and wishing that a) I had thought of all this when the situation was actually happening and/or b) that I had the wherewithal to say all those things in the potential future situation. So much for living in the present.

I any case, I'm usually pretty proud of how smart and well-spoken I am during these made up dog-walking conversations. What a sight - there goes the lady who talks to herself while wagging her head and walking her two crazy, gay dogs, smiling like a maniac.

running, etc.

It seems unreal to me that I'm coaching new runners when I just started running myself. It's just what I need, though, as it turns out. I have a stubborn as hell mental block that I can't seem to tear down that tells me I can only go so far before I need to walk. When you are leading a group of people and you've determined how far you're going and how fast, you have to do it. There is no quitting, there is no "sorry, I'm tired." Ego, in this case, is a very good thing. And it is inspiring and awesome to see some of the people who, despite what their minds and bodies are telling them, have the heart and willingness to show up and run at 7 in the morning. Because they want to lose weight or feel good or get healthy. Who knows. But it certainly makes me show up when I don't want to, knowing there are a group of runners counting on me to lead them.

****

A is officially home. I pulled up to the house after work yesterday to find his father's Suburban in my driveway and boxes being hauled into the house. And J looking a little aggravated. This has all happened so quickly. R will be in San Antonio for the foreseeable future, and am dancing with my inner demons who have always wanted him to leave, while feeling tremendous sadness for A who wants his dad more than ever right now.

He walked his dad out and came back inside doing everything he could to hold back tears. He hugged J, hugged me. Then asked if I would please play basketball with him... that he really needed to play basketball.

I must say that I get really, really, REALLY tired of basketball. But this is a kid who's coping skills used to include swinging a baseball at me, punching and kicking walls, swearing, screaming, running away. The fact that now under stress and sadness he wants to play basketball is a miracle and I would've played all night if he needed to.

What hit me last night was that, even though I am ecstatic to have him home, I had just found my groove with him NOT being here, and it will be a rough transition to having the house filled with his not always easy-going energy. Wouldn't trade it for the world. I am convinced he is where he needs to be. (Not that I REALLY know where he's supposed to be or what path he is supposed to be on... or that i get to dictate that in any way.)

I hope that he continues to talk. I hope I continue to listen. He has been so blessed with having both parents - despite our difference and despite what an absolute idiot R is - near by. This will be a completely different experience for both of us. I shudder to think that this is what I always wanted.

I hope to hell that R stays close - calls, finds ways to see him. An odd thing to say since I despise the man. Maybe this is what happens when you mature - when you really allow yourself to fall fully, deeply into the absolutely selfless role of motherhood. I hate R, but I love A even more. And I will do what ever is best for him.

thanks for your support

Just as I'm leaving the office today to pick up A for his counseling appointment and then our group run, I get an email from R that says 'the new landlord says i have to move out by monday, so we need to figure out how to get's a's stuff to your house.'

Instantly I am in that place where there are too many completely opposite thoughts and feelings to make any sense of. I am glad that after years (YEARS!) of this, I have learned not to reply until I've taken several deep breaths and talked through it.

I am elated that A is coming home. I am aggravated that I am not involved in the decision, that the whole thing is treated like moving a piece of furniture under some sort of joint custody agreement. I am worried about how this back and forth stuff is affecting A, I am not looking forward to J's reaction - she's had to ride this ridiculous roller-coaster, too.

And I try not to get too excited. Twice already (maybe more) I thought he was coming home, and he didn't. I want him to WANT to come home, not be resigned to coming home. It's selfish to think that way, I know - but it is the truth and I dare anyone to tell me that they have not thought that way. Ultimately, I want what is best for A. And I want what is best for me. And the kicker - I have NO IDEA what that is.

So we just keep moving. And deal with what is right in front of us, I guess.

A says he's not worried about moving back in with me, he's worried that he "won't have a father when he needs one." It is heart-breaking to hear him say that, and I resist pointing out that really, he doesn't have a father now. He has a guy who behaves like a 15 year old and calls himself a father. It's unfair to say that. I know R loves that boy - and that A loves his dad. And I don't know how to comfort him and help him go through this transition. I do know that I have to sweep aside all my resentments toward his father, no matter how justified.

So I tell him I'm sorry it's working out this way. That I know it's scary and frustrating and unfair. That the place his dad will probably end up is not too far away and that we will make it work.

He says, "Thanks for your support, Mom. I love you." And I know at that point to let it go (too many times I keep talking and trying to fix it).

We ran, we ate, we're home. WE'RE home. I love that he is back where he belongs. And I hope it sticks. And I hope I can continue to support (not push) him.

hang ten, dude

I absolutely love this picture of me and A - except for the fact that it makes me think about how I'm not really living the life I think I wanna live.

I'm not talking about a ridiculous fantasy life, I ... well, maybe I am. I see pictures like these... outside (mountains or beach) and I look happy and relaxed and it makes me wonder why (WHY!!!) I live in a city like Dallas. People don't live here, they work here. And it's certainly not relaxed. Or bright. Or full of spunky, funky, laid-back energy (that is NOT a contradictory statement).

I want to be in California or Mexico or Belize. I want to walk around barefoot. I want to be outdoors. I want to walk/bike/run/ride the bus to the store, the beach, the mountains, the coffee shop.

I long for a kind of simplicity that in my younger days I found boring and catastrophic. I always fancied myself an artsy urbanite, a slick city-girl, a Manhattan hipster- but I find that I am happiest near bodies of water. I am happiest surrounded by trees.

I know this. I've known it for a while. What is it that holds me back, I wonder? If I think hard enough, dig deep enough, I'm pretty sure I could find the answer.

I wish I had the courage to risk being truly happy.

the heart of the matter

I had an eco-cardio-thingy done this morning to make sure my post-patching-surgery heart looks like it is supposed to, and I'm in a minor state of panic (even though I am fully aware that there's nothing wrong).

First of all, walking into the place where four and a halfish years ago they ripped open my sternum, pulled my heart out, patched it up, and then put it back, is a little nerve-racking.

Second - the last time I did an eco, I had a very talkative, nice sonogram lady who kept telling me how BEAUTIFUL my heart was - how nice it looked, etc.

The lady I got today spent an awful long time getting images (longer than I thought necessary), and didn't talk at all... and didn't even smile. So, of course, I look at the image on the screen and decide it doesn't look right, I listen to my heart beat and decide that it doesn't sound right... mind you, I have no idea what it is supposed to look or sound like, but in my little over-imaginative head, I'm prepping for surgery.

I ask how everything looks and she won't tell me. "oh, i'm just taking the pictures, the doctor will look at them." When I leave, the woman at the front says, if you don't hear from us in two days, just call.

TWO frigging DAYS??? Seriously? I don't think I wanna wait that long.

on another note

Spent this entire weekend with A and it was just what this mom needed. I had been missing that boy to a degree that was starting to feel like longing, which borders on the needy side. Thirteen is still young, he is still a child, and he is my child and I have absolutely HATED not seeing much of him over the past couple of months.

This weekend, we played basketball, went to the mall, saw a movie, went running, watched football, had dinner... and it was pleasant. I know that more important than anything else is that I remember these moments everytime he declares, like only defiant teenagers can, how much he hates me. Remember these moments everytime there is something way more important/interesting/cool than me.

It is aweing that this boy, who's voice has deepened, who's features have become chiseled, who's shoulders are broadening, who's feet are humongous, will still hug his mother and tell her that he loves her.

I am so proud of my young man.

On (not) fitting in at the Fiesta

The other day, J and I went to the Fiesta (supermarket which caters to Texas' huge hispanic population that makes me so incredibly homesick) to get some TopoChico and I decided, right then and there "this is my new grocery store."

I went there today with grocery list in hand, and felt like an absolute alien - no a tourist. And if there is anything I can't stand, it's being judged as a tourist in a place that is engraved in my soul (yes, this is a grocery store we're talking about - but I refer to the mexanism of it). People were looking at me... well, no... not looking at me - wouldn't even make eye contact. As if I had infiltrated their hispanic haven. I wanted to look at them and say, 'hey, i have every right to be here. I probably speak better spanish than you!' Then i thought of a less obvious approach... maybe when people are complaining about the slow cashier in SPanish, I can chime in with my two cents with my flawless accent. Ha - that'll show 'em to judge a book by her blonde hair and white skin.

Then it occurs to me that this is may be how most of the shoppers in this store - primarily hispanic and black - feel when they go to, say, the Tom Thumb by my house. And then it just pisses me off. The whole thing. Segregation as reality despite being "illegal."

I will go the Fiesta again, because it has things in it that remind me of my childhood. And since I have never been one of those to make anyone feel like they look like they're are in the wrong place, I refuse to let a little discomfort keep me away.

Of course, it may not be that I'm white... it may be that I'm pretty obviously not hetero. I believe that's more insulting to both aforementioned communities than being a blonde girl shopping in the Fiesta. And there you go, I just perpetuated a stereotype.

bah.