It ain't about Salvation

I Google How to stop being self-absorbed. I read parenting books, listen to CDs of Zen guru's calm suggestions to be gentle with myself & stop thinking. I talk to myself. I say 'that is an irrational and self-absorbed thought,' I put my energies into doing for others in an effort keep busy enough to breath outside of my head. I work on my house. I work two jobs. I take my meds... I try to put to practice what is preached, but it seems I've a wiring malfunction in the transmitters that move the information from my head to my heart and somewhere between the knowing, or the letting go of knowing gridlocks forcing the negative nerons to back up into my neck and shoulders.

If I hear the phrase, Life a journey, one more time I may very well resort to primal scream therapy. Like I haven't already given that a go.

I am in the living in this very moment, Damnit!

Problem is, my moments are bi-polar; ginormous Polar bear moments that look sweet and cuddly, but damn if they don't have mauling skills. I've about yin yanged my way to oblivion at this point.

Cases, Points and Frightening Facts

In the moment only one of my boys lives with me, he is sweet and lazy, funny and failing classes and loving me with all his heart. His twin lives with his father and has taken on his narcissistic manner of manipulation and deceit, turning the knives into every soft spot until he wants something from me, at which point he turns on the sweet. I talk to him everyday, see him coming and going as often, but it's the worst pain to see him smirk when he knows he's touched a nerve or managed a master plan.

The ex. Is the captain of that smirk. I still pay for all of both boys needs, I schedule appointments, Pay for the orthodontist, the doctor, and the school fees, buy the clothing, haircuts, arrange for this and that of the daily do, and he feeds the boy once a day. But....It's the best he can do. He smiles a sad smile and mouths that he's so sorry that the boy won't come to Thanksgiving dinner with me, but he won't tell him he must do what we agreed upon; which is the same as giving him an allowance for asshole points.

I just called my son an asshole. I love him more than breath, but he is behaving like an asshole. Truth ain't pretty, It's yin yang, seeing what's real, calling like it is.

So, I've been getting out, trying to reconnect, and having some fun. Well, but then...there is last Friday:

I went to CD release party; it was beautiful music, a lovely atmosphere. I brought one of my sisters along and introduced her to sweet friends, I mingled, smiled and felt happy. The Man I'm no longer dating, but hanging out with and ... well he showed up and we all were having a great time. After The Man left I decided it was time to wait in line to use the powder room. I'd been drinking a bit, one glass of wine more than usual, but not crazy stumbling drunk amounts. I don't like to feel that way. The wait in line for the powder room seemed to take a long time and then I ran into more friends with whom I engaged in cautious conversation to hide my tipsy. By the time I made my way back to where my sister and I were sitting she was gone with my jacket, money, ID and phone. I sat and looked and waited for her until panic set in, I became dizzy, and my eyesight started to grow fuzzy around the edges. I couldn't think straight. I decided that she must have decided that I left with The Man and so she left. It wasn't rational, but I wasn't able to think. The thought of her thinking I abandoned her and the odd wooziness sent me running out of the building. The Man lives a few blocks from the venue, so I walked/ran in a cold drizzle to his apartment with the thought that he would help me find her. I guess I was too embarrassed to ask anyone at the party. The truth is I wasn't able to think in a logical manner, and I was very aware of a scary state of consciousness. I felt feverish, my head was pounding; I felt faint.

By the time I made it to the vestibule of The Man's apartment building I could no longer see beyond a blur, I couldn't remember his Apartment number and I couldn't read the numbers on the intercom. The last thing I remember before police officers showed up was apologizing through racking sobs and a shower of tears to someone for buzzing the wrong number.

I never saw anything but the officer's feet. I was curled up in a ball in a corner of the vestibule. The officer’s voice was kind and concerned, she had me get into the backseat of a car and someone drove me home. I don't remember the ride;
I remember getting out at the walk in front of my house.
I remember falling hard on my hip and thinking I would have to crawl to the door.
I remember falling again inside the door where my sister wailed my name, she was panicked. I remember becoming violently ill.

I remember the humiliation, the shame. I still feel it.

What happened to me?

I've pieced a few things together. My sister moved to get a better view of the band and assumed I was talking to friends. She waited until the party was over and then panicked when she couldn’t find me, called The Man, who had gone home and fell fast asleep didn't hear the call. She drove to my house, called my youngest sister who raced over and they were there just before the police dropped me off in front of the house. They held my head, undressed, bathed me and put me to bed. They watched over me all night long and took shifts the next day. I was unable to move out of the bed for a day and a half.

I kept telling them how sorry I was, that I must have had too much to drink.

It was more than the drink. I haven't been able to eat much. I had been having hot flashes all day, but I felt unusually energetic and nervous. I have been taking Sudafed for sinus headaches, a diuretic for water retention, Lexapro for depression. I did some research online and called the doctor. Either the interaction of these drugs with the wine cause sodium depletion; which is like getting water drunk bringing on confusion, nausea, and black outs, or I had a bonafide nervous fucking breakdown.
I'm lucky that this didn't come to a terrible end.

The worst of all of it is causing my sisters and The Man worry and pain. The Man woke to a terrifying message from my sister which sent him bursting in panic to the house; he was sick with worry. My sister who was like Mama Bear at this point wouldn't tell him anything or let him see me.

I wasn't going to write about this. The shame of letting myself get into this situation is heavy.

I've been working so hard to get out of my head and the stress of what I let my life become have taken a toll.
It seems like the harder I try to keep it together the more I fall apart.

So again, I'm in the same place; this moment, trying to let go of that moment and embrace the things that are good.
In this moment I’m embracing what I have:

The love of both of my sons. Although E is trying so desperately to hate me,
I know he loves me.
The love of my sisters and my entire family.
The Man who is not dating me, but loves me in the only way he can.
my friends who miss me.
my Career and my students who teach me beyond explanation
my ability to carry the load, to keep waking everyday keeping the household afloat..
the music; the art of my imagination.
the beauty of the world outside my window.
the hope that is cocooned in my heart.

If this life must be coined a journey, let's be more accurate and call what it really is:

This life is an ordeal. This life is a treacherous, joyous, ever dramatic fucking ordeal.

Gotta make it a Double

Kicked my sad ass outta the house this weekend to see
this couple play at a local pub. I walked in and into a 
room full of old friends.


"Hey, Lu!"
"Where've you been?"
"I miss you!"


I was hardly able to watch the show for all of the huggin,
kissin, and catching up.


I walked in alone,
but wasn't for long.

In your hopelessness is the only hope, and in your desirelessness is your only fulfillment, and in your tremendous helplessness suddenly the whole existence starts helping you. - Osho

Sometimes a heart pumps lead and everything it fills takes such effort to move;
the weight at center anchors the body to the bed.  
Mornings like this 
after nights like that 
land a person in a state of lessness. 

When all the hot spots are exposed, 
the slightest touch, 
even the breath of a move in the direction of the raw nerve triggers truths 
then all thats  held back against the back of the best interest builds up and flashes white hot fire. 

It feels like wrong, crazy and alone, 

but listen in the lyrics, 

see itin all the faces,

and feel the heat of effort in the wake of every foot step on  the sidewalks. 

Space

Karen wasn't a pretty girl. Her long black hair absorbed the light instead of bouncing off a shine; her skin was so pale it was nearly translucent except for a line of gray freckles under each eye. All of her features were exotic and beautiful in isolation, but unfortunate proportion and symmetry left her appearance little "off."

I'd heard other kids talking about her, always commenting on how her oldest sister was a breathtaking beauty. When people heard who her sister was there was always an air of doubt in the reaction.

My sister was the pretty one too.

We met on the jungle gym where she was hanging upside down from the top rail with her with no hands. I stayed closer to the ground. The Jungle gym was a mystery to me, it was a three level collection of cubes arranged to look more like a house than any jungle and the small steering wheels attached to the middle level only added to the confusion.

I watched her hanging out of the corner of my eye while I wedged myself into position with one of the steering wheels in hand. "Aren't you afraid?" I hoped she would say yes.
"No. Want to play Major Astro?" She righted herself and took the steering wheel next to me. We launched at five, four, three, two, one, and at blast off all hell broke loose. We exploded into one life or death crisis after another. There were fires to put out and a hatch to seal; we were nearly sucked out into the stratusphere at least a hundred times. When the bell sounded that recess was over we rushed our landing. The parachute almost didn't open, but Karen was quick on her feet and she dangled once more from the top rail to repair the invisible damage.

When our space capsule hit the water we bounced up and sprinted to the back of our respective classes lines. We were breathless, and laughing. I waved good bye to her as my class snaked into our classroom and her's filed past.

We never played together again. Years later I saw her sitting alone in the middle school lunchroom. Her hair was greasy and pimples dotted her face in the places between the freckles. She stared into the nothingness just in front of her nose. It reminded me of my first few weeks there, before my grandmother's neighbor took pity on me and invited me to eat with her and her popular friends. When one of the girls made a comment about Karen; how weird she was and how ugly I told her about the time I played with her during recess, how lost we became in our fantasy, how we hardly spoke, only reacted to what seemed to be the same invisible world. I told them about her beautiful sister. We looked at her without pity, without admiration, without depth and only for a split second before moving on to the merits Bonnie Bell Lip Gloss.

It wasn't long after that when I read an article in my Nana's Reader's Digest. A mother wrote a heart broken letter about the death of her youngest daughter. She begged parents to listen to their children before it was too late, before they pressed a shot gun to the soft spot under their chin.

Karen's Mother wrote the letter.

Missing Alfonso

Alfonzo smiled when we put tacks in his seat. He knew they were there, pretended to sit and let out a howl with Buckwheat face. Putting the tacks in his seat was a gesture of affection. I loved him, his open smile and the way he talked to me like I was his best friend. He talked to everyone like they were his best friend.
Alfonso was love. His father was a pastor. That's all I know about him. Color held no weight; he was a boy, sitting next to a girl and we were friends. We talked about what it was like to be white, what it was like to be black, how we combed our hair. We decided that was the only difference between us.

We used different combs.

From the Beginning- As I Remember

She was annoyed. Spirals of telephone cord snaked in a coil on the floor in a tangle around my legs as she pried my hands from her calf and pushed me off of her feet. She rubbed at the wet tear stains on her turquoise Capri's and the pitch of her voice tightened. The space between my fingers ached for want of the satin ribbons that she was tearing from the edges of my blanket, the same cool satin that I spent the greater part of my days weaving in and out of my chubby digits while I sucked my thumb. The calm that washed over me when I found this combination was soft and warm; my ballast. I choked on sobs until I threw myself face first to the linoleum floor, exhausted and soothed by the waxy cool. She was talking about me. I watched her face sharpen when my thumb found my mouth and my fingers worked at twisting my hair into knots. Her lip curled and her glare burned through blue cat eye glasses. Shame planted like a seed deep in the center of my chest.

erase. time to start over.