Monday, April 7, 2014

From Victim to Victor

It’s late in the day and I am sure some diminutive gremlin is creating the incessant pounding I feel behind my eye, or perhaps it is the residual throb of too much tax forms and not enough sound sleep. Whatever the cause, I am considering banging my head against the nearest hard surface until I’m senseless. It won’t take but a few good thumps to git ‘er done.
For those of you who might have stumbled upon my rant a couple of days ago, be assured (or frustrated) that this is no retraction. It is merely an extension of my thought. As any bovine, I often ruminate and this cud is just too much to pass through the chambers without a bit more cuspid and spit to soften the effect.
If you missed it, and it’s entirely possible that somewhere betwixt the scream of life and your dendrites my attempt at satire zinged through your orbs as anything but and you stalled out on any number of incendiary phrases (again truth is truth and truth is our filters filter according to the lens of emotions and not necessarily what is true.) you may have missed what I intended to convey. Thus the gnaw I feel in my gut to clarify. I suppose being read and misconstrued is second only to being put on perpetual ignore. (I got kids. Ignore happens)
The truth of the day is: my parents were not “mean and selfish” – that phrase was written for effect. Since my father is no longer on this side of the veil and cannot defend himself I felt prompted to be respectful of his memory. My parents were the perfect storm however, and I was often caught in the elements. To be honest though, until I had kids of my own it never registered that their behavior was any different from any other set of parents and perhaps that is part of the reason I didn’t perpetuate most of the insanity. While I wondered “why” for many years, there was a part of me that was cognizant of truth in its simplest forms – right is right and wrong is wrong and I have never been one to live in the gray area so many are happy to taut as “freedom.”  If anything I understood the gravity of consequence. I wanted my children to love me and knowing that love is a choice, being reasonable increases the odds.
It sounds cliché but hurt people hurt people. My parents didn’t invent any of the emotional or physical torment inflicted on me either directly or indirectly. It was learned. Passed down from generation to generation until it culminated in what could have been a monster of epic proportions: me. While  I make no excuses for their behavior, the more I learn about the trauma of my predecessors, the softer my heart becomes. I am a human after all. The most powerful thing I can do is forgive, and move on. For me, that is the best free will I have at my disposal. I hope that this is my legacy. Truth is, love has the power to take the human heart from victim, to victor. I choose to love my parents. This is my freedom.  

Peace. 

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Are you a Victim?

My name is Tammy and I am a victim. When I was little my parents abused me. I need glasses in school and didn’t get them until I was a teenager because my parents were mean and selfish. As a result, I never learned to play sports so I was teased and bullied by my peers. There wasn’t money for me to go to college so I had to pay my own way which was really hard and I had to work at jobs that were terrible because I am female and I didn’t get paid as much as men who were doing the same thing. I am a victim of discrimination. Now I have been diagnosed with GAD and severe sleep apnea. I eat to comfort myself because of my horrible past and now I am obese. Because I am a victim and overweight my sleep apnea is chronic which makes me worry and escalates my GAD. I can’t exercise because every time I try I am reminded of how I was bullied as a child and it makes me cry. So I go buy a hamburger. I may have an eating disorder and with all the chemicals in the food that make me crave sugar and salt and HFCS I am now an addict to processed food. 

Life is too hard, so I have decided that I am going to stop using my CPAP machine because it impinges on my right to sleep comfortably. When I go completely insane because I am not getting oxygen to my brain I am going to strangle my child. I’ll tell the cameramen and reporters that I guess I gripped his neck too hard while disciplining him and I’ll have free room and board for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll write a book and make lots of money and get a law degree because I will be a victim of the system. Or maybe I will go camp out on the bosque and scare bicyclists. Then the police will have to come shoot me for no reason and all of you can come put up a santuario in my memory because I am a victim and no one will help me.
It’s all true you know. I was abused as a child. I didn’t get glasses till eighth grade. I was bullied and teased. I am female. I do make less than my male counterparts. I do have GAD, sleep apnea and I am seriously overweight. I cried yesterday just thinking about doing a Crossfit WOD. And honestly, right now I would love to wrap my pudgy paws around a double green chile cheeseburger. I have every reason to check out of society and be unaccountable for my actions. I’m a free white American. I am entitled. I am privileged. My situation is everyone else’s fault and you can shoulder the consequences when I become homeless and sick. Only thing stopping me are four tiny words: It’s not about me…

Truth is, raw emotion is no filter for truth. Truth either is or isn’t and the truth is we all are accountable not only for ourselves but for others. When we sound off without fact checking, when we accuse without applying the litmus test of transparency we are no better than jackals at a carcass. We the people have championed organizations like the ACLU who quashed a form of a Kendra’s Law here in Albuquerque that would possibly have prevented James Boyd from camping out in the foothills in the first place. How does one propose to assist the homeless mentally ill when those same people are not required to even partake of one’s assistance? Perhaps we do it by protesting the very entities tasked to uphold the laws we helped get on the books? Ah yes, I see that we the free are due to have it both ways because we filter the law through our situational emotional barometer of personal right and wrong which may or may have little to nothing to do with truth. Life is precious and James was sick and cops are mean for using excessive force unless he had raped your daughter and she’s pregnant then you could shoot him and we can’t possibly force an unwanted pregnancy on your princess so we’ll terminate that pregnancy. Cuz it’s its ok to shoot a sick homeless rapist yourself and well everyone knows that children in New Mexico are disposable before and after birth. That’s why Omaree Varela’s mom can spout off with a comment like “I guess I kicked him too hard.” and we can blame APD for that too.  Should the officers have used excessive force on her? Would we then have lit candles for a repeat child abuser? We’re doing it for a violent homeless man. Oh but mental illness puts you above accountability. I forgot about that.

Until we register that we are all accountable incidents like those involving James Boyd and Omaree Varela will continue to happen. We can yell at our law enforcement all we want. We can put flowers down. We can cry about taxpayers’ money because God knows we cry about paying taxes again, we want everything for nothing, but until we determine that we are the ones to blame, nothing will get fixed. And there’s only so much carcass to go around before the jackals are gnawing on your prized poodle.

I am responsible for myself. If I choose to play victim, I will always be fat, anxious and sleep deprived. That is my truth. Broccoli sucks. I hate Crossfit. And that CPAP machine is of the devil. But my consequence for my personal discomfort and accountability will be better health, peace, and emotional stamina to truly get out there and make the changes for those who really are disabled or incapable. It’s not enough to be the megaphone for the accuser. We must become the moving hands and feet of change. Pitchforks were designed for moving hay and excrement not brandishing at our fellow humans. Blocking traffic, spitting at cops and wearing Guy Fawkes masks on your head will not facilitate change. Volunteering at a hospital, a shelter, a food pantry – educating yourself on the LAWS that govern us, paying your taxes, showing up for life, yeah, those things – those things will facilitate change. I am not a victim and the truth is many of us do not understand the true meaning of that word.

Peace.

Stuff to google on your own: 

James Boyd
Omaree Varela 
Kendra's Law
John Hyde

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Horse Feathers

The day is dissolving into that gun metal colored expanse of high desert sky that tugs at the ghost of my teenage heart, creating that ache of hope crashing against the vast expanse of hopelessness. It’s like a stranding in the horse latitudes waiting for winds that never come to give me lift, to move me forward.

Truth is, my feet are cramped from sitting on this same perch for so long, if my cage were opened I don’t know if I could achieve flight. I’ve experienced so many extended landings I’m not even sure what altitude is anymore. I used to crave it, the rush…the heady flutter of wings against the fresh air, the warm light and promise of a new day. I’m not sure where I lost it but circular motion will eventually numb your perspective and that is where I am. I’ve been on this same loop for so long I can ride it with my eyes closed. If I were presented with an opportunity for change, would I even register or would I trudge right by, head down and bit in mouth – each foot in the groove the prior steps made. I wonder.

Yet on days like this if I stop for a moment and consider letting that wispy pin feathered thing called hope to flutter within, I feel the lift and I hear that teenage heart cry out “I still want to fly.” Hope is a powerful thing, you know. Given one open door moment and hope will fledge, taking to the skies – new altitudes, new ideas – she will soar.

Who knows how many more extended landings wait for me. Perhaps I am destined for a plethora of wing snapping crashes before it’s all over but oh, that hope for flight. I still crave it. I still believe it is possible. And I’m asking. Open the cage. Bend the bars a little. Flight feathers….they always grow back.


Peace

Horse Latitudes - latitudes with little wind and warm weather. Supposedly Spanish sailing ships would find themselves becalmed with cargoes of ponies for trade and would end up throwing the horses overboard when fresh water supplies dwindled. There's probably a cool poem in there, or not

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Love and War

Suffice it to say, if you know me you may be aware of my default “angst” setting regarding all things romantic, cuddly and potentially pink. Valentine’s Day therefore is right up there in my book with having my teeth scaled or getting a mammogram (Hey –I’m over 40. Humiliation happens) Yup, Tam’s a hater from way back. While other girls were getting silly little rosebuds with ribbons and boxes of kitschy conversation hearts from “secret admirers” (harrumph! They were probably sending them to themselves) I was sitting in the back row in the trumpet section blowing spit out of my valves and making duck calls with my mouthpiece. All I wanted out of High school in those days was me, and that’s all I got.

Fast forward to single life and college, my first part time job as a cashier at U-Haul and I receive a pretty little sequined heart box and a bouquet for Valentine’s Day from a wonderful auburn haired, blue eyed Nordic man. (My dad. At the time I was his only girl.) Enter reality as my boss snorts his derision and says “If you weren’t so damn mean you could get a real guy to send you flowers.” Yeah. That happened.

While I never blossomed into a fairy tale princess, I am now permanently married with two almost adult male spawn (depends on the day. They vacillate between 4 and 40) My husband is a man’s man. He replaces the wax ring on the toilet without instructions. He can field dress a javelina (it’s a wild pig that eats cactus. Booyah!) He eats fresh jalapenos for fun. The scent from his work clothes could be bottled and sold as a weapon of mass destruction. Frilly little cupid in his ruffled diaper doesn’t stand a chance in this house. And while sometimes I wax a little girly and contemplate sugary moments of waltzing, and orchids and the click of real silver against bone china I’m ok with the trade-off of protection over pursuit.

Truth is my much maligned He-Man would fight a bear for me and the boys and we’d get dinner and a show out of the event. Romance may be wonderful, but real love in all its grit and imperfection is the better option. Real love stays up all night in the emergency room with a vomiting child. Real love holds your hand praying and telling you you’re good when you’re shaking so hard the entire hospital gurney is rattling and you cannot breathe, and you know you are going to die in that moment. (True story. Tam is allergic to morphine. Whodathunkit?) Real love untangles a strangling pet at three in the morning in the mud. Real love caresses the hair on your daddy’s head after he passes away, then stands at your side and sings “Open the Eyes of my Heart” because real love knows you need peace and you want to be strong in the moment for the family that is shattered. Real love knows I’m a better warrior than a romantic, and that’s ok.

He’s not perfect. He got me a stove once for Valentine’s Day. He’s still on the list for that. But life is so hard sometimes and when I find myself at that place of “done” my forever husband is there to pick up the pieces and get me battle ready again. We’re in this together for the duration, and that’s all I ever really wanted. Takes a special man to deal daily with a war horse. He is that man.


Peace. 

Friday, February 14, 2014

On Kisses from God...

So I was sitting in my shower this morning, scraping off my glittery nail polish (note to self. Your toenails are terrifying. Seek professional help. Really) and ruminating over a dream I had in the predawn hours. You see, since an onset of severe sleep apnea I rarely remember my dreams and when I do, they’re stupid. Last one I had I was having a conversation with a blue dog.

You see, I am about as spiritual as mac and cheese – and not the ooey gooey Velveeta joy in an orange box, but more the generic Kraft knock off with that dayglo powder that sticks in in a defiant pasty curdle on the edge of your spatula. That stuff. Last night however, I dreamed of Colleen. I saw her dressed in cobalt, the air around her alive with light. She was singing a song I’ve never heard before and she was surrounded – not by angels but by some of the Worship Team, the choir and her family. It was so real I could have reached out and touched the shoulders of the people worshiping with her…

Chalk it up to that cold Carl’s Jr. bacon western burger I munched on the way home from her Life Celebration or the staccato firings of dendrites attempting to soothe my overwhelmed heart,  but I believe it was a little kiss from God. And I’m tasked to hold it lightly on my fingertips for a moment then send it off gently to someone else in the hope that it lifts a soul, just a little. Only God can infuse my dark words with light for someone else. I don’t have that power.

To those of you commented on my Facebook page yesterday, you have no idea how humbling that was. Truth is I write because I’m not an adept musician (bagpipes on a worship team….uh no.) and the first time I heard myself recorded while singing, I was shocked to know that I sounded more like Kermit the frog than Stevie Nicks (I’m also twirl impeded. Sigh) I write because I’m so much better on paper than in person. Take away the me in the mirror, the imperfections, and there is no filter to dilute the depth of emotion I want to convey. I have no desire to fill up journals with morose, self-absorbed ramblings. I have enough of those rotting on my bookshelves to paper the cages of Petland for the next millennium. I write for you. Because I love you. Because you matter. Because I see that light within you and I am drawn to it. Maybe my words will be the mirror that lets you see that light…you’re alive with it and it shimmers around you – effervescent and beautiful.


Peace.    

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Mixing Grief and Joy

The middle of the week is winding down and I find myself on autopilot.  In of my first official returns to blogging early last month I told 2014 to bring it. In retrospect, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

Truth is 2014 is gearing up to be a continuation of 2013 which was simply an extension of its wearisome predecessor 2012. Honestly, I can’t remember the last “good” year I had.  Work is still a blur. I’m still fat. I still don’t have that book keeping business, or that publishing business or a clean kitchen floor and now I find myself dealing with the most aching grief I’ve felt since my dad passed away in 2009. All this in the face of everything I’ve been reading and hearing in my heart when moments are quiet and I look up, praying under my breath for that flood of indescribable joy I know is but a blink away….

Last Friday, one of the most beautiful souls I’ve ever had the blessing to experience, if even on a surface level won her four year fight with the monster that is Lyme Disease. The first time I saw Colleen and her husband was in 2005. It was a summer Sunday morning and I and my family attended a local church called Believers Center for the first time. We were looking for a new home after making a wrenching decision to leave our Lutheran church. I remember we talked about how we didn’t want to go “Pentacostal”, or “large”. We just wanted a quiet small place to disappear maybe on the back row on Sunday morning. I can’t tell you what song was being sung but I do remember that the music was totally amazing and I and my whole family wept through all the songs. We’ve been going to BCA ever since. Along the way, we grew to love Colleen and Jaris and the rest of the worship team like family. It took me about three years to gather the courage to join choir (because I was scared Colleen would actually hear me sing and toss me out) and I still remember one of my first practices when she turned around and said, “I can hear you. It sounds good.” I think I forgot all the words to the songs for the rest of practice. I never lost that sense of awe and respect for Colleen. I keep it in my heart even now as I consider her grace, her tenacity and her impact on others as she battled a monster that just kept coming….

I’ve been so blessed to know other people in her extended family. One of her nephews was the first friend my younger son met at BCA. My older son is close to another nephew and a niece. Her husband Jaris was instrumental (no pun intended) in helping our younger child play bass guitar and Colleen herself mentored our older son in choir and on the Worship Team. We learned to worship watching Colleen and the rest of the worship team and now with her passing, we are learning how deep love and grace can go in the face of loss.


I know so many people would look at Colleen’s passing as failure on multiple levels. Why would a loving God take a beautiful, strong, gifted woman away from her husband, her children, her church family and her circle of influence. Why would He let her suffer? And the worst – where was her faith for healing? Honestly, before 2005 I would have been asking those questions myself. But Colleen and others at BCA have taught me that none of those questions are even worth contemplation. The enduring part of Colleen’s legacy is so evident in those who love her, who have responded with that mix of joy and sorrow knowing she isn’t here, but she WON and is where she always wanted to be, at the feet of her King and Father. Whole and singing and dancing and laughing that huge laugh she had. That love has been on display in the responses of so many, and it is proof that love, not death, is the most powerful force on the planet. We cry because we miss her. And that’s ok. But torment and tears and suffering are all temporary. We are destined for a time and a place where there will be no sorrow, and no suffering. Colleen lived her life like that. I want to live mine like that too.  I hold on to the very real hope that the aching grief will indeed pass and that flood of indescribable joy is only a moment away.  

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Songs Unsung - For Colleen Cawthon

Songs Unsung

So we live in these two worlds  
This aching dark this perfect light
A standard of love unfurled
No more struggle you’ve won the fight
Tread the threshold of forever
Your joy has just begun
There is grace to surrender
There is one more song unsung

Where is God in the chaos
When torment takes us down by degrees
A little more broken every moment
Down in the dirt and the fight on bloodied knees
God is there in the heat of the battle
Telling you you’ve already won
He is your words when you cannot speak
And your music for songs unsung

And I will dance in the depth of sorrow
And I will sing In the midst of pain
And I will live today and hope for tomorrow
When I will see you whole and rejoicing again
Tears are temporary in this place  
Your celebration has begun
Standing with Him face to face
Singing sweet songs unsung

TL Boehm

02/09/14


My heart simply can’t process multiple emotions, and my words can’t articulate. I know life without God. Without worship. I have written about darkness, about despair - about selfish things that will simply burn in the end. I was one of those people who watched Christians perpetually fail that love litmus test. But eight years ago when I and my family worshiped for the first time at Believers Center - truly worshiped with tears of joy spilling unhindered - all that was lifted. Colleen, Jaris and the Cawthon family have been so important to us. I've watched my family grow to be strong men of God. Worshipers and prayers who use their talents, time and energy to help others. Right now in this moment my heart aches in knowing so many are grieving and missing her. But it is also galvanized knowing that she fought a monster. And WON. And that means the rest of us, we win too. 
Peace.    

Sunday, January 12, 2014

Karma Must Be Feline

And so here I am at  the end of the first official week of 2014 or perhaps starting the second, depending how one approaches the concept of a calendar and I must admit the new year has entered with the ferocity of a Kansas worthy tornado. (polar vortex notwithstanding) I am quite convinced that those external human driven powers in control of various parts of my life must have spent massive hours on January 1 determining that I am in fact capable of facilitating all of their New Year's goals with in the first two weeks of 2014, which should I be stupid enough to pick up the thrown glove would it merit me a blissful hiatus for the rest of the year? Excuse me, my unicorn needs her rainbow tail plaited. One moment...
You see I am by trade an accountant in a small company owned by a complex, brilliant entrepreneur who often does Rain Man math in his head whilst hurtling down the freeway and conversing on the phone with us office types. I'm sure he's texting others as well. Since tag I'm it for the year end process for his multiple companies (including the main corporation which employs almost forty people) I am always a busy chick in January. So let's amp up a sparkly new HR process for our beloved work force right smack in the soft midsection of Oh My God I'm Trying to Close the Books and cap it with a nice frosting of multiple hours of "Why Won't My Software Back up Tech Support Hell" If you've ever called your utility company during a power outage or the IRS on April 14th, you may comprehend my pain, just a little. Thus compileth my first official foray into the milieu that is 2014.
Of course the minions could not possibly have realized that I, having compiled my own personal goals started them that same week. Woman cannot survive on white bread, chocolate and cheese indefinitely and I picked this year to excommunicate them from my kitchen after a December of indulgence befitting Caesar. And then there's that little exercise DVD set I bought in June. Let's not forget that bit of daily torment, shall we?
Suffice it to say, I slid into my weekend with my brain wrung out and my body lamenting the extra layer of seal fat I've acquired over the past two decades of living the Murkin Dream. That's when the bell rang for round two of the onslaught against the reigning champion of Casa De Boehm. He's tall, he's grizzled, he said yes in 1990 and death hath not yet parted us. Bring on them honey do's. (he gets stuff to work without burning down the castle and fixes the chariot, I dole out the pittances to various soul sucking entities, make pretty words form sentences and run all manner of administrative affairs. We both run the scullery and kill vermin. Its how we roll.)
I haul out Saturday morning and brace myself for my "I just need your help with this and this and this purgatory when my dear HOH (head of household) tells me "Sasha is missing." And there it is. Karma is a feline and she hath just scatted mightily and with great scent upon my breakfast gruel. The resident feline and I have raised hating on each other to a high art - so complete is my loathing that upon her absence the Spare's eyes were upon me expecting me to break out in spontaneous song and dance. (Like Princess Di I have an Heir and a Spare) He unfortunately was devastated as he had been the bearer of the short "you have to put Karma outside tonight" stick and had neglected to bring her back in and all on the cusp of bathing her 17 year old, graying feline parts earlier in the day.  As the morning progressed into afternoon we could feel the Karmic squeeze around our hearts in the knowledge that our feline was no longer capable of weathering below freezing temperatures another night. Suffice it to say, when we came home from a scout around the block to find her Feline Badness munching kibble and growling into her bowl as we mauled her and cried (well I cried) there is a sense of peace once again in the castle. I'm even less sure about her personal safety outside after discovering that one set of adjacent neighbors has at least eleven cats....all staring us down as we walked by as though we had catnip tied around our necks.
The thing about Karma though is this. Grace can counter any bad JuJu you may accidentally spill in your lap as you're blasting at the speed of light through this thing called life. Some lessons like "you left the old cat out all night because you were distracted and tired and she died" aren't worth learning. Sometimes it's so much better to know you have a Creator who listens when you cry out "I'm sorry. I made a mistake with something I'm tasked to steward. Please help me make this right." or perhaps "Please God. Help my kid. There are other consequences bristling in his future. He already understands how hard life can get. He's already had a pet die in his arms. Spare him this."
I don't believe I had to convince God by begging for the life of a small, irritating, aged feline who exists merely to make my life difficult. I didn't tear my hair and storm the gates of Heaven. I just asked for help for my kid because I'm the mom and my children are under my specific spiritual authority and I am equipped to ask for things on their behalf. I know God is the Author of life and will agree with a life running its course to its completion. And I don't believe that God invented Karma. We humans did. What we do can and does come back to us - good or bad - but its not God batting the unholy ball back in the direction of our soft underparts. We chose to throw it.  In this case, I think God gently intervened and let us walk on this one. Take your base, Boehms. I love you.
Tomorrow is another day and even though I've lobbed enough karmic goo out there into the stratosphere to keep me dodging the rebounds and aftershocks for the rest of my life I know I'm gonna be ok as is everything under my jurisdiction. With God batting for me I can get the books done, the year's closed, all the mighty new year projects ticked off, the kid helped and yup even the cat protected against  a world of feral felines, roaming coyotes and whatever else lurks in the darkness under the neighbor's trailer. Life is good. Bring it on 2014. I'm ready for you.
Peace.

Saturday, January 4, 2014

Goodbye and Good Riddance 2013

Somewhere amidst the flurry of wrapping up another nasty audit at work, drafting yet another novel to waste hard drive on the PC, adding a few K more of dead people to my family tree and gaining back all the weight I lost in 2011 there floats the wreckage of the rest of my life. I'm clinging to the mast, chipping off splinters to stab the soft noses of circling sharks and sticking my toes down frequently for the sweet feel of sand in the shallows. I know it's only a matter of time and once in awhile over the past 12 months of storms and doldrums I've hauled out to hang ten over the edge of my precarious perch. I'll do it again. Just let me get that second or fortieth wind.
There's a whole lotta flotsam and jetsam floating in my personal ocean, storm surges and ripple effects carried me and mine through water we never thought we'd cross and some of it - I'm not sure it was worth the tear induced migraines. I watched my dear son let go of the beautiful girl we thought he'd marry - a lesson in transience I never wanted him to learn and I am not sure if any of us are better for it. I'm always a proponent of "Happy Ever After" because that whole "Loved and Lost" bit is for those much less possessive and addictive than me. But the decision was his and hers and I have to respect their free will. I had to let him go a little in the process and my inner toddler is still face down on the floor screaming over that. When the man child informed me he was moving out in June - I burst into tears. It's better now. We moved the younger spawn into his room, painted, and I count hours between the weekly visits. I turned younger spawn's room into an office. I burn scented candles in my little space and draped some surfaces with girly scarves (the feminine human equivalent to peeing on the hydrant I suppose) Its no replacement for that blue eyed child who never refused to hug me and that ever present smile - but change is change and I'm attempting to do it gracefully (pfuh!)
A couple of months ago I finally got a diagnosis on why my feral heart behaves like a nerd at a dance party. Apparently I suffer from severe sleep apnea which means I stop breathing upwards of 47 times an hour on average. I've been on a CPAP machine for almost three months now and while I loathe the thing - I am noticing that my palpitations are less severe and I don't dread hauling out of bed in the morning. Whodathunkit? I wasn't falling asleep during the day. I was dog tired but I thought it was just my own inability to prioritize all the daily drudge - and I truly blamed hormones for the palpitations. I'm 48. Seemed like a no brainer. I still wake up a couple of times per night - mostly because the mask is something akin to a farting jellyfish on my face, it blows in my eyes and it's not conducive to any form of romance but the little monitor says I'm staying below 2 episodes per hour so I try to be tolerant.
I did start frequenting my old haunt at Writers Cafe this year and have returned to writing poetry. I participated in NANOWRIMO - hitting that 50k word mark well before the end of the day on November 30. Not sure what I'll do with the mess that is a first rough draft but at least its something.
And so this new year - I've determined to continue writing and that includes a return to blogging. I know I'll never be "interesting" again on the scale of Y360 but I find release in blabbering to a screen about my dismal day and sometimes when some one stops by and enjoys a good belly laugh - well that's better than marshmallows in my cocoa. I figure this and a diet and exercise regimen to try to get some of this regained flab will keep me busy over the new year - and there won't be much time for moody introspection and disappointment. Unless perhaps the younger spawn falls in love and moves out. Could happen. He's become an accomplished bass guitarist over the past year and graduated from High School. He has beautiful blue eyes and dark curly hair...Perhaps I need to shop today. For a large lock....for his bedroom door.
Peace
  

Monday, September 16, 2013

Will It Go 'Round in Circles, Do Do...

If the earworm is planted - I know how old you are...
It's late Monday evening and I have exactly twenty four minutes before the obligatory family TV time wherein the male progeny and bipedal hominid also known as my spouse will convene in our living slash eating slash jockeying for rulership of the known world room and watch sinewy types fling themselves at obstacles in an effort to conquer something called "Mount Midoriyama"  If I were to hurl myself at an insurmountable object suspended over liquid t'would more than likely be some candied fruit perched on the lip of a frosted glass with a dollop of fattening confectious goo. If there's no chocolate involved, why exert the effort?
Today was a noxious mess of punitive audit type finger shakings and last minute financial napalm. My feral innards began sounding off at 9:00 and are still pummeling their soft selves against that barrier to freedom known as my breastbone. You see, for those of you who do not know, I am battling with incessant heart palpitations. Like so many toxic things in my life they were cyclical from 2007 until Thanksgiving Day 2012. Since that day - they are daily in blocks of 30 minutes to four hours to all day - every single day. Some days I power through and other days I simply crumble. It is why I am prone to cryptic Facebook updates and bouts of waffling on goals. The palpitations become so strong that I cannot concentrate fully on even the eminent issues which leaves nothing for things like goals, dreams, and making a healthy smoothie for breakfast instead of gulping down leftovers in a styro box.
I've been tested and retested and have been told that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my heart, my hormone levels or even my cholesterol. I've been offered a tiny pill which I bristle at the thought of taking. It's much like cavities. I never had one until about ten years ago. Then I got one and now I have six I think. So why cross the line, you know? There is one more option and that is a test for sleep apnea. I do snore but so does every one else in my casa so I don't see the point but I will dutifully trundle myself off with my stuffed unicorn and stripey jams tomorrow evening after another difficult day and attempt to sleep with sticky pads all over my person - knowing someone is watching....what if I scratch myself in my sleep? Sigh.
And so I've been trying to divert my attention to more productive things. In April I returned to writing a lot more poetry which I've only subjected my buddies on Writers Cafe to reading. I harangued my poor husband into making the tiny front room into an office, moving the progeny back into the Heir's old room and trying to stay out of the Heir's business. (I text him every day. He never answers. What's a nosey mom to do.) Tonight in an effort to siphon off some of that angst I thought I would attack the last bastion of pure chaos and streamline my "internet presence." Truth is I love blogging and blogger is a blog site so I think I will combine my multiple blogs here and inundate my Facebook Buds with inane posts. Why not glut the bandwidth with Tamjunk. It's a repeating loop and here we go round again. Maybe this time I'll stick to it.
Peace. I have to go get my spot on the couch - you know, the one that is form fitted to my..form.