It has to go somewhere

Everyone who knows me well, knows I am not patient. I really don't like waiting for stuff I want. But what I really hate more, is waiting for stuff I don't want. Like surgery. The dread, the anxiety and the mental games during the wait are sometimes worse than the thing itself. So, I am frankly glad that today is here. Surgery day. Finally. And, I feel ready. I had a good meeting with Dr. K., I have done everything they asked, I've already been poked, prodded, stuck, charted and photographed. Let's just do this thing already. I've bitched a lot along the way. It's a way to cope. But the biggest way that I have coped, has been through my wonderful friends. All of you who have listened to me whine, talked to me, prayed for me, for the laughs, the talks, all the moments that got me here feeling so loved, I am grateful. Keep the prayers coming! Time to go!

With my surgery date rushing toward me, I am realizing once again that fear is funny thing. I'm sure everyone has their own way of coping with it that seems to work for them. Frankly, I do NOT have it figured out yet. So, I run the gamut. One moment I am frozen by it. A deer-in-the-headlights kind of thing. I shut down and don't think at all. I just freeze. One can only maintain that state for a moment or two and then the panic usually sets in. Oh-my-gosh-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into kind of stuff. That state seems to be my stand-by. It's not that I am particularly afraid of the pain of surgery. Don't get me wrong. It hurts. It hurts a lot. Pain killers don't seem to do much for me, and I am carrying a lot of weight. Put that together with having your body filleted open and rearranged, stuffed back in and sewed up...it's gonna hurt. But I can sorta handle that. I don't like it, but it doesn't frighten me. And, yes, I think about the risks of the surger...

She has a scarlet handprint smeared across one cheek. And a diamond plate pattern scraped into her knees. The bitter taste of copper and shame fills her mouth, And fingertip bruises scatter across her shaking shoulders. Her mind, once filled with a suffocating terror, Is now etched with a heavy fear and the memory. Of scents. Cigarettes, chewing tobacco and sweat. Of pain. Each thrust of hate so deep it reaches her soul. Of sounds. Grunting and laughing and words sharp as knives. Just a few hours in the middle of a still, summer night And She is shattered into fragments too jagged to repair. Old dreams, light and colorful, have suddenly vanished And new ones simply won’t come. One day as she adjusts her mask in the mirror--trying on a smile. She says outloud to no one, “I don’t know her.” This is dedicated to a girl I knew in high school. And to all survivors.

I wonder. I wonder if you know your power. How, when you really turn your attention toward me, I soar. How your quiet kindness can soothe my searing pain. I wonder if you know your power. How your careless words crash through my defenses. How they cut and leave gaping wounds. I wonder if you know your humor. How it’s smart and silly and truly a blessing. How our laughter has brought me so much joy. I wonder if you know your humor. How when you use it as a weapon, your face changes. How its cruelty dismisses me as nothing. I know we agreed to smile. But I wonder if you know what lies behind mine.

Sometimes I get caught up in the bad news. All that stuff that reporters love to talk about. With their painted-on look of sorrow that barely covers the glimmer in their eyes, they report on those tragic deaths, the suffering, abuse, and poverty. And, if that were not enough, I get bogged down in my own self-loathing, and pity, my own pain and suffering. And, I forget. I forget that there is the good stuff right there before me. But just recently I was reminded. Our friends invited us over. They are a 30-something couple with 2 adorable boys. Big brother is 5 and little brother is 3. They live on a cute cul-de-sac with their cat and some fish. We were excited to go because we had been promised a "camp-fire" complete with roasted hot dogs and marshmallows. It had been years since I had been in front of a good roaring fire, so although it was kinda hot out, I was optimistic it would be a nice time. Well, "nice time" is quite the understatement. It was paradise. The bo...

Some nights, when I am wide awake thinking about how tired I am, yet afraid to sleep because I might dream, I try to imagine what it would feel like to *not* carry my baggage around. This horrible, tired old baggage. I wonder why letting go of emotional baggage can't be like letting go of material stuff. I have no problem tossing junk I don't want. I don't enjoy clutter. Cleaning out a junk drawer always feels so good. Going through stuff, old batteries, pieces of string, twisty ties. All of it seemed like a good idea to save at some point. But you go through it, examine it and realize it can't really serve you. So, you let it go. Just trash it. Gone. It is so liberating. But when it comes to my hurts, my pain. I cling to it like letting go is somehow asking for more. Keeping a tight grip on it is me saying, "No, thanks. I'm all good. None for me." Or maybe I hang on because letting go means I have to forgive first. That's tough. I have had people try ...

I've been listening to Sarah McLachlan sing about my feelings. I think it can be healing when lyrics from a song match your own thoughts so closely. Sarah totally got this one right. ******** I'm so tired, but I can't sleep Standing on the edge of something much too deep It's funny how we feel so much But cannot say a word We are screaming inside, but we can't be heard --Sarah McLachlan

I hate bugs. I think we should ban them. I know that they are God's little creatures and do all kinds of good stuff for the planet...yeah yeah. But I really hate bugs. I tried to look at them and wonder at their complexity, at their beauty. I mean, sure, I get it, they have some cool features. Take bees. Go ahead, Google for facts on bees. There are some cool facts about honey, and rapid heartbeats, the colony and flight patterns. But all I really need to know...they will sting you. Uh huh. Don't really care about a bumble bee's wing to weight ratio when it stings me. And spiders. I mean, come on. Is anyone really buying this whole "good for your garden" stuff? Not me. That sounds like some kind of spider propaganda if you ask me. I admit it. They scare me. I may not scream or faint, but on the inside. I'm screaming when I see a spider. I've seen people find a spider and scoop it up carefully on a piece of paper, marveling at it's majesty and then they...

Occasionally, I actually do have happy, sun-shiny thoughts. One way for you to be almost guaranteed to see me smile...just watch me with my dog, Moxie. Or watch me looking at a picture of her, or watch me talking about her, or watch me thinking about her, or watch me thinking about looking at a picture of her.... Moxie is special. All dogs are cool. And most cute. But, you see, Moxie is love on four legs. There is no better way to describe her. She's perfect. She is little and cuddly. Has big, brown, shiny eyes, a wonderful, little, cool, wet nose. She loves to be held and cuddled. She knows she's cute too. And she works it. Often, when I am getting ready for work in the morning, she turns on the charm and tries to talk me into staying home and curling up with her and a good book. She *says* we could sleep in, rub her tummy, have a nap, eat in bed, scratch her head--you know--all the cool stuff. And when I try to resist, she poses. I will come out of the bathroom and ther...

I am pretty sure that I have had an asterisk (*) following me since I was born. Maybe everyone does, I don't know. This magical little character that indicates an omission, reference or footnote can definitely adapt to whatever situation I am in. I first became aware of the asterisk as a very little girl. My mom would say, "This is Debby, our daughter*" And then a pause and then a little bit quieter, *she's adopted. I have found that usually the mark (*) refers to a shortcoming or something that people need to know in order to understand that although I may be in a category (daughter), I am definitely not flying first-class (adopted). One that I find particularly annoying is the one that I find popping up when I attend church. Now, I know I share this with others at church, but it definitely puts you in coach class. *single-childless-no-prospects-in-sight. Of course, you don't really get this until you are well out of college-age and have managed to avoid some ...

I've been thinking a lot lately about the idea of being authentic. It seems like a worthwhile goal. Afterall, what's the point of interacting with people if it isn't genuine. I'm not talking about full-disclosure. I don't feel the need to share every profound morsel that pops in my head. And it certainly isn't my intention to go about my goal without regard to others' feelings. This is the fuzzy part. Can you be "sorta" authentic? Or is being authentic more about being genuine? And being genuine is about your intention as much as it is about your immediate thoughts. For example, my intention is that I have a loving relationship with my best friend. My immediate thought may be, "gosh...she's really annoying me" What is the authentic action at that point? I'm only asking. I don't know the answer. I do know that somewhere along the path of my life I quit being authentic. I was pretending more than I was being genuine. I was actin...

So, I think it is time for me to explore this blogger thing. It is appealing cuz I have lots of stuff in my head that has got to come out. And, it seems that when you burden people with it, things can get dicey. Some people are better than others, but the gunk in my head can apparently be quite baffling and even troubling to most people. (myself included) So, this could work. I can spill...and people can read or not read. That's cool. Of course, I am worried that certain people will happen on to it and then I will get long critical letters explaining why I shouldn't feel the way I do. I guess I will risk it, but for those of you who are reading and considering twisting my arm until I have crumpled into submission--and agreed to only write sun-shiny things. Watch out. You very well may show up in this blog.