February is nearly over. I’m not sad to bid farewell to the shortest month of the year.
The Al-Anon 12 steps are empty words on a page until connected to action. They are aspirations yearning to become accomplishments until attached to a movement.
I’m angry at myself because when I think of how people view me, this twice-divorced woman, I imagine they think I am an idiot but I’m not.
First I noticed the color where there should not have been any. I picked it up and the evidence was littered inside its belly. Flecks of dark red. Sulfites. They landed at its bottom. It was placed inside the box, hidden from my view, yet frozen in time.
At face value, when I read this step some months ago, I thought, yep, I did that. This week I remembered why and how and where I was when I took this step. And why the first step is always the hardest.
I felt like I was fire dancing between earth and water, grounded nowhere, fueled by both, and extinguished inside.
Reruns in life are our own fault. They are lessons that we have yet to learn. They replay over and over until we accept the truth about who we are.
That’s a big step! It requires honesty, humility, vulnerability and everything else in between. When we are in crisis we viscerally tamp down all of those things, every moment of the day to carry on a life with the appearance that we have our shit together.
“You swear on your grandma’s soul,” she asked.
I went to bed last night confused. I had a decision I needed to make. Its nature wasn’t earth-shattering, but it was a decision nonetheless. I was also anxious about my inability to fully delve into an assignment, due to fear of failure.
I sat down at my desk this morning and committed to writing something with the cube’s contents, words whose adhesive still binds them together.
We are a people of dreamers, innovators, crusaders, and more. Our principles of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness embedded with equality are absent when those who dedicate their lives to serving and protecting their fellow citizens and the vulnerable and youngest of our citizens who pledge their allegiance to this country every school day are shot down and killed.
My father saw no ceilings for his daughters or sons. His wife who sat directly across the dinner table from him had a different trajectory. My mother’s choices post-highschool were limited to gender-specific roles: teacher, nun, nurse, secretary, or wife.
Walking through the city today in some ways felt like the calm before the storm. Maybe this is the week that we wake up? Maybe next week we realize what guns have cost us? Maybe when we bury the souls that are surely ready not ready to leave, we’ll be moved into action? Maybe? March 20.
I remember living like that many times throughout my life. Worries and fears stood tall and proud at forefront of my mind and tongue. Chronic anxiety resulted, evidence of the illness was seen in my entire physical and emotional state that I allowed to be hijacked by worry that was born out of fear. Xanax helped quell it, but it didn’t stop it.
Then I cried. Life and death puts things into perspective. My problems are small today. They’ll be fixed tomorrow.
I even promised not to use the f-bomb until after midnight. My friends laughed at that vow, given my proclivity for swearing.
I’m grateful to Kim Foxx for her brunch story and the louses who helped me realize that when you accept things that you neither want or order, your desserts are justly deserved.
How I thought my day would play out, and how it played out were two different scenes. And I loved the latter. Especially the fantastic and unexpected Saturday surprise, from a kind and generous stranger no less. The compliment’s impact is real and lasting because it came from a place of authenticity, and not ego.
If the length of a person’s driveway was the measure of their fortune, then I’d be rich. #SnowDay #GoodNeighbor
No, it wasn’t the ending that was caused my grief, it was the beginning that I mourned.
Once we got situated, it took about 20 minutes. I worked it out and brushed her hair until all of its caramel-color shined through, her long locks were as smooth as my satin bedspread.
They are the contrarians, rooted in my obsession to avoid seeing the world/ glass as half empty, hence preventing a deep, dark, desolate depression.
I’m feeling anxious and accomplished about my progress writing every day for 90 consecutive days. I’m more than halfway through my commitment. This mixed bag of emotions has me back to a betwixt and between morning, so taking a queue from Comfort Prayers this morning, I’m going to share the angels who graced my WordPress Reader this morning.
The truth is, February is a game changer. I felt good that a marriage, a friend’s birthday, moving to Springfield, and so many positive events offset what happened in 1990. That was when I went to my resident adviser at Marquette University and told her that I sexually was assaulted by another student.
The movie disturbed me for days after. It was chilling. I felt that grief and anger watching Three Billboards yesterday with Bridget, and without saying it out loud, the thought “My God I pray that I die before you” was omnipresent. I touched her knee, physically connecting myself to her, looking at her, reminding her that she is a part of me.
This morning the alarm went off in the middle of a dream. It startled me. It’s been quite a while since I woke up to practice yoga on a Friday morning. It felt good to be back into my Friday routine.
XRT’s #AllVinylSaturday reminded me of the beauty of the record album. The reason why an artist makes an album is the same as me making a photo album. It’s a collection. There’s a theme. A common thread that runs through it. And listening to an album in its totality, you can fully appreciate the breadth of the artist’s talent. What a gift.