tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-191907122024-03-07T12:35:48.181-06:00The tulgey wood"All our souls are written within our eyes."glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.comBlogger154125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-14548440561380131832015-12-01T11:15:00.000-06:002015-12-01T13:50:12.414-06:00not in never falling<div class="p1">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">A repurposed necklace, the charm is mine, the cord was part of a gift from someone I loved (the original charm, it went the way of the love, it's gone)</span></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I can’t find the right words to describe this. This feeling that comes when I least expect it. The feeling, as Rilke would say, of pushing through solid rock.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>It’s possible I am pushing through solid rock</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone;</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>I am such a long way in I see no way through,</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>and no space: everything is close to my face,</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>and everything close to my face is stone.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>I don’t have much knowledge yet in grief</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>so this massive darkness makes me small.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>You be the master: make yourself fierce, break in:</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>then your great transforming will happen to me,</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>and my great grief cry will happen to you.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s2"><a href="http://www.slowmuse.com/2007/05/01/rilke-pushing-through/"><i>~ Rainer Maria Rilke</i></a></span><span class="s1"><i> (Translated by Robert Bly)</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">There's a hollowed out feeling when I think of you, there's sadness and anger too, but mostly it's hollow. I can usually distract myself, with sleep, with TV, with work, with art, with words, with movement, with anything handy. The thought of actually sitting still with myself still overwhelms me, so I move, or I sleep. When that doesn't work, when you bubble up unbidden, on those days, I run the same circles in my head, the same tig</span>ht circles that loop back on themselves and spin faster and faster. I tell myself I've been an idiot once again for loving people who leave, for banging my head and my heart against your rock wall, constructed to keep people like me out. I sometimes think a different version of me might have been enough, could have make it through your emotionally unavailable barracks, but that's not true. Occasionally I feel like throwing a rock, a brick, or smashing a plate, perhaps that would at least get your attention. I won't, but the thought remains attractive, if only for the moments I pick it up and hold it, pass its weight back and forth between my hands.</div>
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<span class="s1">You huddle in, becoming</span></div>
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<span class="s1">the deathless younger self</span></div>
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<span class="s1">who will survive your dreams</span></div>
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<span class="s1">and vanish in surviving.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>- Self and Dream Self excerpt, by Les Murray</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">It's not just you, of course, it's been a brutal fall. Somedays, all of its hurts lay on top of each other and weigh me down. I thought we were connected, but we weren't, that was me telling me stories and you telling me your well practiced lies of convenience. That level of connection, of honesty, was the last thing you wanted. At my core sits a small hard bit of certainty that if I love, you will leave. My head and my heart know somehow this is not correct, but my bones know that it is so.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ring the bells that still can ring</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Forget your perfect offering</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There is a crack in everything </span></div>
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<span class="s1">That is how the light gets in.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>- Leonard Cohen</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">There isn't a light coming in, at least right now. It's cold and it's dark and it's empty. He also said <i>"The Heart beneath is teaching / To the broken Heart above", </i>maybe that's what this is, healing. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Into the Pit - source David I.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I don't think you've ever allowed yourself to be opened, to let someone break your heart, your shell is too hard, too thick, too well formed to allow that to happen. Or maybe you did, once, and then swore never again, and that is why you remain frozen, hard, hidden and clinging to that past trauma that you will never release. You turn your focus on yourself, withdrawing into your shell if anyone gets too close, only pretending to connect, to engage, to care. If that doesn't work you manipulate, gaslight, play controlling games, run tests, that will always set you up as the winner. You don't know how to live openly, you don't know what it is to fall, and to rise again, only to withdraw and hide. There is no glory for you, only more hiding, more controlling, more walls.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall</span></div>
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<span class="s1">- <i>Confucius</i> </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I do know the feeling. I once had walls. They had a hollow sound behind them, but they were solid. With them in place I could play happy, charming, funny, but was just acting. Taking the walls down was excruciating, and also exhilarating; still, there are days I wish I still could hide behind my walls.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And so, I've fallen, and risen, and fallen again. I've fallen into this mess that I have to pass through (not go around, not go over, or go under). I will, pass through this. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b>Ten Things I Hate (Love) About You / </b><a href="http://www.shakespearemag.com/reviews/10things.asp"><span class="s3"><b>The Taming of The Shrew</b></span></a></span></div>
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<span class="s1">10. The cold way you looked at me (the warm affection in your eyes).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">9. The way you'd protect yourself from me (the way your arm moved to protect me).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">8. Waiting hours for you (the way you greeted me).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">7. The way you made me cry (you made me laugh).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">6. Your lies of convenience (your lies of flattery).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">5. The part of you that understood me and then left (the part of you that understood me and seemed to want to stay).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">4. The drive in (sneaking into movies).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">3. The plans you never meant to do (the future plans we talked about).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">2. Waiting for your call (your goodnight texts).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">1. Blowing cigar smoke in my face.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The truth is my struggles, my demons, all come from, and aim directly at the very things I am most insecure of, mainly not being lovable, being abandoned, and when they strike up the band and start to play my thoughts and emotions get sucked into that spinning wheel where no good ideas ever emerge. Don't believe everything you think, don't believe everything you think especially when you are tired, hurt, raw, emotional and generally broken up inside. Those are the times when throwing the rock, or smashing the plate seems like the best idea ever. Those are the times where you, as Pema Chödrön says, have to lean into the sharp points, the pain, and the discomfort, even when, especially when, this makes it hurt even more.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Which means this won’t last forever. I will emerge. I might even grow a little. Maybe not today, today is pretty awful. Today I am pushing through solid rock. Maybe another day this won’t be so heavy. At some point you do free yourself, and take your power back – flaws and all. Someday.</span></div>
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glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-17320124656378506882015-11-23T23:44:00.001-06:002015-11-23T23:45:14.678-06:00eulogy for my brother<blockquote style="-webkit-hyphens: none; background-color: #e9eff3; border-left-color: rgb(135, 166, 188); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 2px; color: #4f748e; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 8px 0px 24px; padding: 16px; quotes: none;">
<a data-mce-href="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/10616274_10204420794615608_257153541342318674_n.jpg" href="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/10616274_10204420794615608_257153541342318674_n.jpg" style="color: #00aadc;"><img alt="10616274_10204420794615608_257153541342318674_n" class="wp-image-2207 size-medium alignnone" data-mce-src="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/10616274_10204420794615608_257153541342318674_n.jpg?w=300" height="225" src="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/10616274_10204420794615608_257153541342318674_n.jpg?w=300" style="border: 0px; height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="300" /></a><br />
“He was my North, my South, my East and West,<br />
My working week and my Sunday rest,<br />
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;<br />
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong."<br />
-W.H. Auden, Funeral Blues</blockquote>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
To paraphrase Emily Brontë, my love for my brother was like the eternal rocks beneath, not always visible, not always a source of delight, and no more a source of pleasure than I am to myself, but necessary, it resides in my bones, not just in my heart, or my thoughts, it lives in every cell in my body. Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
To say John was brilliant, or merely complex would be an understatement. He was so many, many things, - <a data-mce-href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10207722021509829&set=a.10203076839343178.1073741836.1271736301&type=3&theater" href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10207722021509829&set=a.10203076839343178.1073741836.1271736301&type=3&theater" style="color: #00aadc;" target="_blank">to paraphrase myself</a> - a brilliant creator and solver of puzzles, a talented player and lover of music, a gifted conceiver and expresser of visual arts – be they paint, pencil, wood, clay, or words, and an inspired and - sometimes overly - creative chef.</div>
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He created. He created games, puzzles, paintings, delicious food. He created a home for his daughters.</div>
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He made you laugh.</div>
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John would have had you in stiches by now. He was the funniest person I’ve ever known. Brilliant, witty, irreverent and always ready with a joke or amusing observation.</div>
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Everyone in this room has laughed, and not just once because of something John said or did. He was the original photo-bomber, he was always ready to drop to the conversation lowest common denominator, which generally involved loud bodily functions, burping, farting, burping and farting together, burping songs, making fart noises in his arm, in his arm pit, and then drawing everyone in.</div>
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<a data-mce-href="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/20151019_144255-01.jpeg" href="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/20151019_144255-01.jpeg" style="color: #00aadc;"><img alt="20151019_144255-01" class="size-medium wp-image-2208 alignleft" data-mce-src="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/20151019_144255-01.jpeg?w=189" height="300" src="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/20151019_144255-01.jpeg?w=189" style="border: 0px; float: left; height: auto; margin: 16px 16px 16px 0px; max-width: 100%;" width="189" /></a>When my son first started struggling he sent him homemade Hero cards, featuring Greek, Roman God, with points and skills assigned. Each and every one said “Kicks Butt” and Hercules “Occasionally goes BESERK” The last card he sent was the Uncle John card. The Uncle John Hero was described as “The Sharpest Spoon in the drawer, fancified dancer, can kick his own butt – plus that of Uncle Ruth’s, yep, that’s what he called me when he wasn’t calling me Big Nose. His Attack number was 42, a Douglas Adams reference I’m sure, His Thoughts were listed as “Not Often”, his Symbol was “Messy Hair and Stinky Socks” – although his stinky socks, as many of us knew could be better listed as a Weapon. His special skills were “Sarcasm and Burping” – okay, that part was pretty accurate. The card was quintessentially John, from the stinky socks to the self deprecating humour. he also sent Graham a rubber chicken, a series of original Canadian comic books, still in their protective covers (a state that did not last long), and a hand sewn teddy bear.</div>
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He was generous. With his love, with his art, food, with everything he gave openly and freely.</div>
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<dt class="wp-caption-dt" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; overflow: hidden;"><a data-mce-href="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/wpid-20151109_234010-01.jpeg" href="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/wpid-20151109_234010-01.jpeg" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; color: #00aadc;"><img alt="Picture John made for (of) me, 2003" class="wp-image-2213 size-medium" data-mce-src="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/wpid-20151109_234010-01.jpeg?w=200" height="300" src="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/wpid-20151109_234010-01.jpeg?w=200" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; border: 0px none; display: block; height: auto; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px;" width="200" /></a></dt>
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He also called me Big Nose, even made me a little drawing of Big nose. I called him No Chin. It was a special sort of endearment between us. He also called me Bruce, well my whole family calls me that, between that and the Uncle Ruth is surprising I don’t have a gender identity problem. At my wedding he gave a brilliant speech – it included Ode to a Grehian Urn, my driving skills, my applying makeup while driving skills, my applying makeup, singing to the radio, while shifting gears, driving skills – you get the idea. He was brilliant. He was also charming, and a beautiful person all the way through.</div>
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Where I have been described as feisty, stubborn, Little Miss Splendid – yes, they gave me that book, John was the sucky second child, the one who charmed his way through things. I would dig my heals in and cross my arms – metaphorically and often literally when faced with obstacles, John used charm. It made me crazy. One fateful year when I was visiting from school I came home to a little brother who was now taller than I was. It was a moment he had been waiting for his whole life. In the den he wrestled me to the rug, sat on me with his hand over my mouth and the poked and tickled me all the while yelling “mom!!! Ruth’s hurting me!!” Needless to say by the time my mother arrived he had jumped back and assumed an injured stance in the corner looking beseechingly at our mother, who may or may have believed him, but certainly played along. That is how my brother rolled. Many of the times I have laughed the hardest, the stuff coming out your nose, tears coming down your cheeks, the immanent danger of peeing your pants kind of laughter, those laughs <a data-mce-href="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/20151019_152813-01.jpeg" href="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/20151019_152813-01.jpeg" style="color: #00aadc;"><img alt="20151019_152813-01" class="alignleft wp-image-2209 size-medium" data-mce-src="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/20151019_152813-01.jpeg?w=234" height="300" src="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/20151019_152813-01.jpeg?w=234" style="border: 0px; float: left; height: auto; margin: 16px 16px 16px 0px; max-width: 100%;" width="234" /></a>originated with my brother.</div>
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Which makes his ending all the more tragic.</div>
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A few months ago, a friend of mine died. He was in his 90s, had lived a full life, was productive right till the end, and then one night he died peacefully in his sleep. We took comfort in that. The rare times we think about our own deaths, this is often the one we want, the good death, the peaceful, after a long well lived life death. This is what we want for ourselves and our loved ones. No one wants to die like John did, no one. There is nothing comforting about his death. It is utterly heartbreaking and tragic. It is unfair. It was wrong for him to die as he did.</div>
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The thing about a brain disease, which is what John died from, a brain disease called alcoholism, the thing about it, is that it takes away the personality, and then it takes away the person that you knew and loved. We lost John, but before that he lost himself. That guy, the one who made us laugh till we cried, who sang to us, read to us, who made wonderful art and delicious food, that beautiful person, was lost to a disease that affected and distorted the way he thought, the way he saw the world, and mostly the way he saw himself.</div>
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John felt things very deeply, maybe too deeply. One of my first memories of us is me wrapping him in a blanket during a sand storm on a beach. I have no idea what the context of the situation was, what I remember is wanting to protect my brother above anything else.</div>
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I couldn’t protect him from this. None of us could. There was never something that one of us did that caused this, there was nothing that we didn’t do that would have cured this, and there was never a way anyone else could have controlled his disease. Cunning, baffling and powerful is how alcoholism is aptly described, and it is, it is all of those things. It took our father, and it took John, both before their 50th birthdays.</div>
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John’s behavour for the last several years was baffling, it was heartbreaking. He pushed us away. His brain, his thinking was so distorted by this disease that the only way he could cope was to continue to try and numb his thoughts and feelings. It never meant that he loved any of us less. He loved his family, his daughters and Tamara were his life. That never wavered, not for a instant. He loved us, all of us, and in the end that’s what we need to hold on to. As painful as this has been, hold on to the times he made you laugh, the times he showed his love to you, the times he was his exceptionally lovable and goofy self. It won’t happen today, or maybe not this year, but start to let go of the painful memories, and hold on instead to what you loved about him. Remember him as someone full of love, caring, stinky socks and really terrible jokes. His personal favourite was "you know the corduroy pillows, the ones that are making all the headlines?"</div>
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“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.”<br />
― Augusten Burroughs</blockquote>
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“He was my North, my South, my East and West,<br />
My working week and my Sunday rest,<br />
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;<br />
I thought that love would last ------</blockquote>
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I was right. Love is the thing that endures. Love is what we have left of John, love and some pretty wonderful memories.</div>
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<a data-mce-href="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/12108267_10207722033310124_8293890433605817967_n.jpg" href="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/12108267_10207722033310124_8293890433605817967_n.jpg" style="color: #00aadc;"><img alt="12108267_10207722033310124_8293890433605817967_n" class="size-medium wp-image-2211 alignleft" data-mce-src="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/12108267_10207722033310124_8293890433605817967_n.jpg?w=300" height="268" src="https://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/12108267_10207722033310124_8293890433605817967_n.jpg?w=300" style="border: 0px; float: left; height: auto; margin: 16px 16px 16px 0px; max-width: 100%;" width="300" /></a>Hang onto those, and hang on to each other. He loved us all, what we have to do now is continue to love each other, to create in what ever way we express ourselves, eat good food, play games, solve puzzles, and make the odd fart or burping joke.</div>
glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-61478965785253980352015-09-23T16:39:00.000-05:002015-09-23T16:39:22.503-05:00dear world, just in case you were wondering<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16.003px; margin-bottom: 1em; padding: 0px;">
For the past few years I've done this thing called <a href="http://www.doyou10q.com/about" target="_blank">10Q</a>, you answer a question a day for 10 days and then your answers are stored for a year until it's time to answer another 10 Questions. This year I'm making my intention, the bonus question 11, public. This is what I want, and this is what I will be working towards in the coming year. You don't even have to wish me luck, because I fulling intend to make this happen. Cheers!!</div>
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My Intention for my 52nd year: </div>
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I will be living my own home, with studio space, a front porch and a screened in deck. There will be a spare room for my kids to stay in whenever they need to. There will be lots of light and it will be filled with colour, pieces of art, books, my personality. There will be water near by, and a small, but very beautiful garden that attracts humming birds, honey bees, and butterflies.</div>
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I will be in a loving a meaningful relationship with a man who thinks I am the best thing that ever happened to him. He is witty, handsome, kind, intelligent, funny as hell, financially secure and loves animals. He is also organized and balances, supports and grounds me. We will travel a couple times a year, get to local theatre, galleries and interesting restaurants regularly, but also really enjoy just hanging around with each other doing nothing.</div>
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I will be making more than enough money doing work that I love. I will continue teaching yoga, managing and developing other teachers and constantly growing my own practice. There will be travel involved with my work. I will continue to write and will be published. My art will find it's audience and I will create bigger and more daring works of art. I will be exploring different ways to expand my creativity, including improv and other forms of expression.</div>
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I will be healthy and strong and continue to have a loving community of friends and family that love and support me. I will have made peace with my mother, my brother and my step-father.</div>
glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-49819580049242197832015-09-06T18:40:00.000-05:002015-09-25T00:17:34.058-05:00Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Nimbus Sans L', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 1.625em;">
<strong>Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche</strong></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-BTyAOuY8nOR8-KOo0uh8UtVCwYTiIPnL-Ltngpanuh39SngYNMJGHgc57Ns3Ux2tXXVjKCbJywbFBekRNoLDZtOygteC8Zt1mY9ycelXk9vofFk8YdOBuR4LOytz-o9NU6qcA/s1600/klimt-abbraccio-particolare-300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-BTyAOuY8nOR8-KOo0uh8UtVCwYTiIPnL-Ltngpanuh39SngYNMJGHgc57Ns3Ux2tXXVjKCbJywbFBekRNoLDZtOygteC8Zt1mY9ycelXk9vofFk8YdOBuR4LOytz-o9NU6qcA/s1600/klimt-abbraccio-particolare-300.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Escribir, por ejemplo : 'La noche está estrellada,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos'.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oir la noche immensa, más inmensa sin ella.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos arboles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Es tan corto al amor, y es tan largo el olvido.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Aunque ésta sea el último dolor que ella me causa,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.</span></div>
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<br style="background-color: #141414; color: #cccccc; font-family: Whitney, sans-serif; font-size: 17.1px; line-height: 28.215px;" /></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">Tonight I can write the saddest lines.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">Write, for example</span><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">, ‘</span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; margin-left: 2px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.</span><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">’</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">Tonight I can write the saddest lines.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">How could one not have loved her great still eyes.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">Tonight I can write the saddest lines.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">What does it matter that my love could not keep her.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">The night is starry and she is not with me.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">The same night whitening the same trees.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">We, of that time, are no longer the same.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;"><i>I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;">Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 28.215px;"><i>I no longer love her, that’s certain,</i> but maybe I love her.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">Love is so short, forgetting is so long.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="line-height: 28.215px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.14902); background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; line-height: 28.215px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-top: 1px; position: relative; transition-delay: initial; transition-duration: 0.02s; transition-timing-function: initial;">Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and these the last verses that I write for her.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">I loved him. A </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">flawed and messy love that was my best. An open, vulnerable love that left me open, exposed, and for a while, shattered. I thought maybe he loved me just a little, just for a few hours, but it was his lust I had, never his love. I never said the words aloud, just in my head, when I looked at him, when he touched me, when we held each other. I thought I could have looked at him forever. </span></span></div>
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<i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 23px;">I no longer love him, that's certain, but how I loved him. In the end, that is what mattered. What mattered is that I loved, not that he did not. </i><br />
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<i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 23px;">This is the last pain I will suffer, and the last lines I will write for him.</i></div>
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glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-72327753491066109952014-06-04T22:03:00.002-05:002014-06-04T22:03:46.252-05:00It's Four O'Clock in the Morning, Damn it*<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDl5KaiPd9rqphA1BH6jGMdSINNuapW-KuBAwpFmrZHX3irqwhvoAQ4lBRSFEGfuaQ3ztRT27IrPZQe3qerTisPhmUyJDfTc53Y4QT-D4uaSKoobqcu8zhUjCzCCw9qBFxseJZpA/s1600/stl0006_20010216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDl5KaiPd9rqphA1BH6jGMdSINNuapW-KuBAwpFmrZHX3irqwhvoAQ4lBRSFEGfuaQ3ztRT27IrPZQe3qerTisPhmUyJDfTc53Y4QT-D4uaSKoobqcu8zhUjCzCCw9qBFxseJZpA/s1600/stl0006_20010216.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
At four o’clock this morning I’d been asleep for 5 hours.<br />
<br />
Today I took him to the airport.<br />
<br />
Four nights ago I drove him to the hospital with an empty bottle in my pocket. Four nights ago I was already in my pajamas and wanted only to go to bed and to sleep, when he showed me what he’d taken. Four nights ago he said he reached his bottom and was ready to recover, but that’s not why I took him to the hospital.<br />
<br />
I was not sitting in the ER once again, with my son hooked up to monitors because of the street drugs he had been relapsing on for weeks. I wasn’t there because of the altered state he went into the previous week during his birthday dinner, in the nice restaurant, surrounded by nice families. The altered state that was caused because he had stopped taking his prescribed medicine two weeks ago. I was in the ER because of cough syrup. Cough syrup he’d been drinking by the bottle, cough syrup that contained Tylenol. I took him to the hospital when I realized he’d been taking massive doses of Tylenol unintentionally with the cough syrup, because a Tylenol overdose doesn’t kill you right away, it kills your liver and your kidneys first, and it does it slowly.<br />
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So I sat there, dead tired, not because of heroin, or cocaine, but because of Tylenol. I sat there while a nurse roughly scrubbed down his arm and called him “dirty”, while she told him was going to die, while she rammed an IV needle in his arm, intentionally causing him pain. He bore it quietly. Her harsh words and her painful treatment of him. I bore it too, even while a part of brain was saying how wrong it was.<br />
<br />
They keep the curtains open in cases of overdose, they also take all your clothing and belongings to make sure you don’t try to sneak out before your mental health is properly assessed.<br />
<br />
This boy. This boy that the angry nurse purposely hurt. This boy used to bring me dandelion bouquets, used to sit for hours on my lap while I read him story after story, this boy who always tried so hard to fit in. This beautiful boy was still there in the hospital bed, with the sore arm, with all his belongings taken away. My little boy, who I could still occasionally glimpse in a gesture, in an expression, he was still in there.My boy, who’s brain chemistry has worked against him for the last ten years was still there, still trying. He has been fighting against a mind that contains beasts and horrors and realities only he can see. A mind, that when he became overwhelmed with its noise, he tried to quiet with drugs, and they worked. The drugs settled his mind, the drugs helped him make friends, let him feel like he belonged and was accepted. How can you blame him? He was 15, and his brain worked in ways that none of us could comprehend.<br />
<br />
I saw that he was in pain, and I tried to fix it. I tried everything I could think of, sports, clubs, mentors, social workers, doctors, life coaches, tutors, psychiatrists, psychologists, peer groups, retreats, camps. I tried, but none of these worked as well as drugs and so the drugs won. I lost my boy by degrees, and he became the kind of patient a nurse thinks it’s okay to shame and to hurt. He became someone I didn’t know anymore. He became the young man in the hospital bed before me.<br />
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I stayed till 3:30am. I stayed while another mental health assessment was done. I stayed till I knew he would be safe and survive the night, and then I went home. It was 4am when I pulled into my driveway, when I slowly got out of my car and started walking through garden to my front door. It was 4am when I noticed the songs of the night birds, and while I’d would have rather have done anything but spend a night in hospital with my drug addled son, the bird songs, an owl hoot, and my dog waiting up for me were comforting.<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/152875228&color=ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_artwork=true&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false" width="100%"></iframe>
He was in hospital for four days. Four days that I spent negotiating with insurance, four days trying to find him something, someone, somewhere to help him. Four days crying in my car where no one could see me, four days asking for help, four days not sleeping or eating enough, and this morning I drove him to the airport.<br />
<br />
Today he flew across the country to a residential treatment center in California called Michael’s House. He says it’s incredibly beautiful there. They’ve taken his phone now, and I won’t be able to talk to him for 7 days, but he seemed hopeful and happy tonight, so I will hold on to that.<br />
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<em style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Nimbus Sans L', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24.375px;"><strong>*Lyrics by Bernie Taupin from "Someone Saved My Life Tonight"</strong></em><br />
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<em style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Nimbus Sans L', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24.375px;"><strong><br /></strong></em>glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-30418307913902109722014-05-08T10:12:00.000-05:002014-10-12T11:39:21.698-05:00about that homeless, mentally ill, and intoxicated man <div class="mceTemp" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Nimbus Sans L', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24.375px;">
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<dt class="wp-caption-dt" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; font-weight: bold;"><a data-mce-href="http://www.suntimes.com/news/metro/27113854-418/life-size-sculpture-of-homeless-jesus-unveiled-in-chicago.html#.U2fCIvldXTo" href="http://www.suntimes.com/news/metro/27113854-418/life-size-sculpture-of-homeless-jesus-unveiled-in-chicago.html#.U2fCIvldXTo" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; color: #1b8be0; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="Homeless Jesus by Timothy Schmallz" class="wp-image-1586 size-large" data-mce-src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/o-homeless-jesus-facebook.jpg?w=584" height="292" src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/o-homeless-jesus-facebook.jpg?w=584" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; border: 0px none rgb(238, 238, 238); display: block; height: auto; margin: 5px auto 0px !important; max-width: 98%; padding: 0px;" width="584"></a></dt>
<dd class="wp-caption-dd" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif !important; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px; margin: 0px 0px 0.6em !important; padding: 0px 0px 5px 40px; position: relative; text-align: left;">Homeless Jesus by Timothy Schmallz</dd></dl>
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Dear Well Intentioned Friend,</div>
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I know your intentions were not unkind when we talked the other day. I'm certain you had no idea the affect your story would have on me, and I'm somewhat ashamed I didn't speak up more clearly at the time.</div>
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<a data-mce-href="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/homeless.jpg" href="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/homeless.jpg" style="color: #1b8be0; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="homeless" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-1584" data-mce-src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/homeless.jpg?w=199" height="300" src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/homeless.jpg?w=199" style="border: 1px solid rgb(221, 221, 221); display: inline; float: left; height: auto; margin-bottom: 1.625em; margin-right: 1.625em; margin-top: 0.4em; max-width: 97.5%; padding: 6px;" width="199"></a>Okay, here's the thing. Your story? About your daughter's dance class being threatened by a lone homeless man, the one where the instructors bravely hid all the girls (who 'were practically dressed in bikinis') in the locker room to protect them? The story where the lone homeless man who may have been intoxicated, who likely <em>was mentally ill </em> (spoken with your voice lowered), had come into the lounge near the studio and sat down to watch the tv, you remember? Do you remember telling me how horrified you were, what danger these girls were in. Do you remember when you first described the man that I said, poor thing, he was probably just looking somewhere safe to rest?</div>
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<a data-mce-href="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download.jpg" href="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download.jpg" style="color: #1b8be0; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="alignright wp-image-1579 size-medium" data-mce-src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download.jpg?w=300" height="98" src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download.jpg?w=300" style="border: 1px solid rgb(221, 221, 221); display: inline; float: right; height: auto; margin-bottom: 1.625em; margin-left: 1.625em; margin-top: 0.4em; max-width: 97.5%; padding: 6px;" width="300"></a>Here are some things I didn't tell you. I have worked with homeless people for the last ten years. Yes, many are mentally ill, many are alcoholic or addicts or both. All of them suffer greatly. All of them are human beings, who love and are loved by someone. I didn't point out that mental illness and substance abuse are medical illnesses, just like cancer, or diabetics. I also didn't mention the reason many of them are homeless is because of inadequate resources to treat these disorders,and the tremendous negative stigma that goes along with being homeless, with being an alcoholic, with being an addict.</div>
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<a data-mce-href="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download-3.jpg" href="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download-3.jpg" style="color: #1b8be0; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-1581" data-mce-src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download-3.jpg" height="182" src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download-3.jpg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(221, 221, 221); display: inline; float: left; height: auto; margin-bottom: 1.625em; margin-right: 1.625em; margin-top: 0.4em; max-width: 97.5%; padding: 6px; width: auto;" width="277"></a>At one point while you were describing in great detail how horrifying and dangerous this man was, I did manage to quietly say, just like my son. I don't think you caught my meaning. I don't think you understood that what I was saying was that my son is homeless, that my son is mentally ill, that my son is an addict, that my son has curled up in all sorts of places trying to get some sleep, some comfort. I don't think you realized that while you talked about saving these girls from this threat, all I could see is the countless cruelties that the homeless, mentally ill suffer, that my son suffers. The diseases themselves and the heartbreak they cause to families are bad enough, but the stigma that well intentioned people attach to them and then use as a justification to treat them badly, as something less than human, and something not worth compassion, or love or comfort, the stigma is the worst of it all.</div>
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Change mentally ill to someone with cancer, with diabetics, suddenly it seems horrifying that someone suffering from cancer, or uncontrolled diabetes would be ostracized, would be seen as a threat to children.</div>
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<a data-mce-href="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download-1.jpg" href="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download-1.jpg" style="color: #1b8be0; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="alignright wp-image-1580 size-full" data-mce-src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download-1.jpg" height="208" src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/download-1.jpg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(221, 221, 221); display: inline; float: right; height: auto; margin-bottom: 1.625em; margin-left: 1.625em; margin-top: 0.4em; max-width: 97.5%; padding: 6px; width: auto;" width="243"></a>Eventually all I could see was someone treating my son with the horror and disdain you very eloquently described, all I could see was the pain and the humiliation he has suffered. All I could see was my little boy being threatened, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing I could do to save him. All I could feel was all the pain and the heartbreak of the last several years as I fought to keep my son sane, sober and safe. You see, my well intentioned friend, I too am a mother, a very protective one, and I do understand the overwhelming desire to protect my children. My daughters took dance when they were young, I did my time sitting in studios, going to recitals, I do understand that part, to this day I would do anything to keep them safe. I also love my son with the same intensity, and I have done, and still do everything I can to protect him. Sadly with his disease part of doing what's best for him and my daughters is to let him hit a bottom so he can hopefully one day come back to me.</div>
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I couldn't tell you any of this. All I could do was to cover my face to hide the tears and run away. When I got to my car I sat for a very long while until I stopped crying and could drive home.</div>
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<a data-mce-href="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/neighbor.jpg" href="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/neighbor.jpg" style="color: #1b8be0; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-1583" data-mce-src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/neighbor.jpg?w=300" height="199" src="http://emmaandtoad.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/neighbor.jpg?w=300" style="border: 1px solid rgb(221, 221, 221); display: inline; float: left; height: auto; margin-bottom: 1.625em; margin-right: 1.625em; margin-top: 0.4em; max-width: 97.5%; padding: 6px;" width="300"></a>The other thing I didn't tell you is what I may have in common with the homeless man, I'm an alcoholic. I was raised by one and am related to several. The disease runs rampant in my family. I've been told to say I'm a person in long term recovery, meaning I'm sober and have been so for quite some time. I don't generally tell people this, because unlike, say cancer survivors, there aren't any coloured ribbons, or fun walks for alcoholics or addicts, even the clean and sober ones. People don't look at you as someone who has fought - and remains constantly vigilant - against a chronic and deadly illness, and survived, people see a drunk, an addict, someone who has a flaw in their moral character, someone who cant' be trusted, someone you can't leave your children with (yes, I have been at the receiving end of all these attitudes) people look at you as something that is <em>less than</em> normal people. That's why I don't generally share that about myself. That is also why when you told me about the homeless man the first thing I felt was empathy for him, and the pain he must feel at fear and loathing that he experienced in your daughter's dance studio, and likely just about everywhere else he goes.</div>
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I didn't tell you any of this, because these things are usually too raw for me to say out loud. These things have brought judgement and negative stigma on me and my family, and some days I'm just not up to saying out loud that this is wrong. This is so very wrong. That it is not okay to view people as <em>less than</em>. No is less than anyone else. I think if people could get that straight in their heads the world could be a more compassionate and beautiful place.</div>
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So, maybe, next time you see a homeless person, someone who is mentally ill, intoxicated<em>,maybe</em>, you could let some compassion enter your viewpoint, and not let fear guide your thinking and actions, <em>maybe</em> you could lead with kindness and compassion, just a little at first. Or maybe you could, just for a moment, reexamine the way you view the homeless, the mentally ill, the addicted, the alcoholic. Maybe that could be a start.</div>
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glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-82190097815746663732014-05-01T20:10:00.001-05:002014-05-01T20:39:14.548-05:00life with addiction, mental illness and stigma<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px;">
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">It started about 9 years ago with a handwriting tutor. In grade three Graham’s handwriting was terrible. I found him a handwriting tutor and drove him there three times a week until we realized it wasn’t having any effect on his handwriting. Over the next year it became clear it was something more than sloppy penmanship, it was like his brain was going way too fast for his hand to keep up. I found him a psychologist, had him tested and to absolutely no one’s surprise he was diagnosed with ADHD, and so started a long and inglorious period where I became an expert on 504 education plans, communicating with teachers, school social workers, and psychologists. I learned everything I could about the –constantly changing - prescribed medications and while I was at it I tweaked his already pretty healthy diet in an effort to improve his concentration and focus. At some point he told me he was seeing colours that weren't there, I had his eyes checked – all normal, and chocked it up to an intelligent and creative kid’s imagination.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">During his middle school years I got even better at working with his teachers and school staff. He now had an organizational counselor who met with him a few times a week in an attempt to keep him from losing track of pretty much everything. I worried about him not fitting in, but I told myself a lot of kids have trouble in middle school and end up just fine, in high school things would be better, I was sure.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">I can’t remember when he first told me he heard voices, but it was somewhere in his second year of high school. Again, I attributed it to a very active imagination and by this point his relationship with facts was off and on, so I didn’t pay too much attention to it. In high school there were many more pressing things to worry about. It wasn't easier, it was harder, so much harder. I got to know a lot of teachers, became very close to his guidance counselor – who eventually memorized my phone number from the sheer volume of calls he had to make – the school social worker – who still hugs me when she sees me, and I got to know, quite well 3 separate school Deans. He struggled through school, painful to watch because he was so bright, just not in a way the he could show. Things seemed to be getting better the summer before his junior year and he was hanging with people and going out and seemed generally happy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">And then his junior year. Small things at first, some dishonesties, stories that didn't quite seem to make sense, but he had friends and seemed to be enjoying himself, so I told myself. He was seeing a ‘very cool’ social worker who kept assuring me that everything was fine, and that I needed to back off and ‘give him some space’. Then I found a pack of cigarettes. I was appalled. This was the worst thing that I could imagine, how could a child of mine start smoking, where had I gone wrong? I got over that soon enough. Shortly after the cigarette discovery, I found out he had been selling his ADHD drugs at school and buying marijuana and cigarettes with the money. I found out he’d been stealing from just about everyone. Suddenly the cigarettes didn't seem so bad. His new friends? Customers. He had found a way to deal with his social awkwardness. His ‘very cool’ social worker? He knew about everything, all the drugs, the dealing. He didn't seem so ‘cool’ anymore. All the signs pointing to something more much more serious mentally going on he attributed to me being an over protective mother, and he told me so several times. I stopped taking him to that social worker, but some serious damage was done, from that point on Graham blamed me for taking away ‘the one guy who understood him’ and wouldn't cooperate with any new counselor, or social worker that I found for him. Graham still talked about the voices, but at this point I assumed everything he said was questionable – and generally this was true.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">His behaviour became worse and worse. One night after 11pm he jumped out his bedroom window and ran</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">off into the night, just because. Catherine and I were each driving around for over an hour trying to find him. It was surreal. Eventually he showed up and we never did figure out why he did it or where he went. Within a few weeks his behaviours became concerning enough that I called the police, starting what was to be a long and complex relationship with Naperville Police Department and my son. We got lock-boxes and locked up everything of value in our home – money, medications, jewelry. During all this craziness I was taking him to a recommended drug education and prevention program. That was a colossal failure, and two drug counselors later, residential rehab was suggested. I drove him to the facility in Rockford and managed not to cry until after I was in the car coming home alone. For the next 35 days I was in constant contact with the facility and the school to participate in his recovery and to keep him from failing his school year. I drove back and forth twice a week. The nights I was gone my daughters were on their own. For the next year Catherine took over driving her sister to appointments because I couldn't.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">Still we were confident that we had acted quickly enough and effectively and soon enough Graham would be well.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">After he came home he started an Intensive Outpatient Program, four nights a week for 4 hours in Downer’s Grove. Back and forth I drove, again, the girls were left to fend for themselves. We did this for 11 months. I was also taking him to NA meetings most nights. Our life revolved around Graham his recovery program, his meetings, and his school work. I hired a private tutor and a life coach to try and save his school year. There wasn’t room for much else. He still blamed me for taking away his first ‘cool’ social worker, and wasn't working well with anyone.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjNAQRAU4f9YGhEK0mOOi2DgnNSgfPOrTo0iUwBdgMdaB4iOeAkgBBvNNfY9Zy4uEAmP3oKfHt9wXu37CSrZsfSFY-h7HCqvTnUvWr5Ownl7fHo8cd-f4iHgCtbcHZFm2xRCCxg/s1600/711223-fig1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjNAQRAU4f9YGhEK0mOOi2DgnNSgfPOrTo0iUwBdgMdaB4iOeAkgBBvNNfY9Zy4uEAmP3oKfHt9wXu37CSrZsfSFY-h7HCqvTnUvWr5Ownl7fHo8cd-f4iHgCtbcHZFm2xRCCxg/s1600/711223-fig1.jpg" height="252" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">He started his senior year – having passed his junior year just barely – with plans of doing well and finishing strong (a tag line from his life coach). I got to know yet another school Dean, and we had more unpleasant adventures. He still talked about the voices and this time I decided to see if there was more than addiction going on in his brain. More doctors, more tests, much more money, more arguments and appeals with insurance companies and we ended up with a sobering result. Graham has bipolar disorder. By this time we had taking him off all ADHD stimulant meds because of their negative effects in an addictive brain and although he had been mostly cooperative with rehab and all the doctors and testing he decided the meds for the bipolar didn’t work and he stopped taking them.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">Before the Christmas break it was pretty clear that he couldn't continue at his school and he was told he needed to attend an alternative school. He wasn’t pleased, but he adapted. A couple of months into that school, we were told he couldn’t continue to attend, that his behaviour needed a more controlled environment, and so with tremendous resistance he was sent to another very structured alternative school – where the staff “are trained to restrain” I learned during orientation. He managed to graduate from high school. He managed this with tremendous support from countless professionals in the schools, in the recovery and medical communities, and from his family. Our lives continued to be dictated by his needs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">The day of his commencement arrived and I couldn't believe he would actually graduate. I thought we’d done it, we’d won, from now on it would be easier, the worst was over. I was so grateful and relieved and so very proud of him. He looked so proud in his gown, I don’t think he thought he would ever graduate either.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">Sadly it was after he graduated that things got much worse.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">He turned 18<sup> </sup>right after graduation and was legally considered an adult. By the end of June we had to do the unthinkable, we told him that because of his behaviour he could no longer live in our home. The lying, stealing and erratic behaviour was more than we could bear. We gave him 45 days to change his behaviour, participate in his recovery, to start to take his medication, and at the end of the period if he had not moved forward even slightly, he would have to find somewhere else to live. To come to such a decision was excruciating, to follow through even when his behaviour had only deteriorated was worse. For the months after he moved out I was felt I was the worst parent ever. How on earth did we get to this point? It broke my heart to send him out – even though I spoke with counselors, his NA sponsors and several professionals about how to navigate this with firmness, boundaries and with compassion. That he was loved was never in question, it was the behaviour we couldn’t tolerate. There were late nights where he tried to break into the house long after I should be asleep and I would sit curled up in my room just listening to him try to get in through a locked window. We stayed in contact, sometimes I would hear from the police, sometimes from one of his friends. Near the end the police were looking for him, but because he was now an adult they wouldn’t tell us what for. In the fall I received a phone call from one of his friends saying that he had tried to walking into traffic to kill himself and that he had been taking to Lindon Oaks. This was his second suicide attempt – the first happened at home when he swallowed a bottle of pills. There was no warning for either, they seemed to be completely impulsive. He was in ICU for the pills and straight to Lindon Oaks (LO) for walking into traffic.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">This fall we started the cycle of in-patient admissions and outpatient programs. After his discharge from LO</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">he moved back in and agreed to take medication and participate in treatment. There was more driving back and forth to Outpatient programs and to meetings. There were 3 more admissions to LO, more outpatient programs after he was discharged. He was diagnosed with rapid cycling Bipolar Disorder, an Impulse disorder, Anxiety, and with Psychosis Not Otherwise Specified. It was decided the suicide attempts happened during manic phases, which is common with Bipolar disorder. At the beginning of December I received what was becoming a very familiar call – Graham was being discharged from the outpatient program and was recommended to a higher level of care – residential specifically. I found him a bed in Chicago and drove him in on December 5<sup>th</sup> to his second residential rehab – which also specialized in dual diagnosis patients. While we were waiting in the lobby he pulled the advent calendar from his bag and ate his chocolate for December 5 – this, more than anything else broke my heart. He stayed there till the end of January with one 8 hour pass for Christmas day. While he was on a waiting list for a spot in a halfway house, I got the all too familiar call saying he couldn’t stay at Gateway anymore and they had sent him to the psych ward of Mt Sinai hospital. He had been planning a suicide attempt. Much scrabbling and a many phone calls later I found a halfway house for him in Elgin. During this time I was driving to Chicago, and in Elgin every week to participate to support him and make sure he was receiving acceptable care.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">During the two months at the halfway house he had three separate psych hospital admissions, all for voices and panic attacks. He was compliant with his medications by this time, but it’s a difficult thing to balance and it can take years to find an acceptable balance between effectiveness and acceptable level of side effects. Less than a week ago I got the call from the halfway house, he could no longer stay there and was being discharged within the hour. Graham has relapsed on marijuana and LSD. From there he found his way to what would be his 6<sup>th</sup> or 7<sup>th</sup> emergency psych hospital admission. After that admission I drove him to another Gateway residential rehab in Lake Villa. Six days into to that he was back in hospital, the voices were telling him to kill himself. After a day of negotiating Gateway agreed to take him back, and within 6hours of returning he was kicked out, this time for good, the voices had told him to harm his roommate. After this hospitalization I had no more ideas or resources. When he was discharged from hospital and they called to see who was picking him up I had to tell them no one was coming, to discharge him to the homeless shelter. While we was at the Lake County shelter I helped him apply for Medicaid and started the process for Social Security Disability (we got an official rejection letter before we even finished the first application). These could both be long processes. He went back into hospital last week and was supposed to have a bed in a state run rehab, but at the last minute they turned him down, and he was discharged once again into another homeless shelter.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">In the last 3 years he has had at least 8 emergency room visits, 10 admissions to hospital – a couple of months total time, 1 ICU stay for 2 days, 4 separate outpatient treatment programs – totaling 16months, 3 residential programs totally, so far 4 months. You can imagine our insurance horrors and staggering bills we owe to many separate institutions. He has also been homeless and lived on the street or in various shelters. He has slept on the street, in people’s garden sheds and the occasional friend’s couch. The time at friend’s houses never lasts long, his behaviour makes it too difficult for people to accommodate him for long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">Graham has an illness. A chronic, debilitating, life threatening illness (and no, I’m not being dramatic, we have been to funerals for children with these diseases). Mental illness and addiction don’t have ribbon campaigns, there are no fun runs, no fundraisers where everyone feels good about helping out.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">During the months and months of time he spent in hospital, during the last 2 ½ years of our life Graham received 2 cards – total. He had 2 visitors who were not family. During the months I had to leave my daughters to fend for themselves it felt like there was no support from our community. We were hurting, we were so very tired, and we were on our own.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">I write a blog. Often I write about what living with a person with addiction and mental illness is like. I wrote about how no one brings you lasagna when your child is an addict. I write quite a bit actually because I am tired of the stigma and fear associated with these illnesses. If Graham had a medical illness with corresponding amounts of hospital admissions it would have been a different experience.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">There have been acts of kindness and support which helped tremendously. A friend showed up one day with two books she thought I would enjoy, and batch of homemade cookies and then just hung out for an hour and chatted. A couple came by around Thanksgiving and raked my yard and brought us pumpkin pie. During the 11 months of driving to Downer’s Grove 4 times a week several church do gooders helped out with some of the driving. Some of Graham’s young adult friends from camp mailed him homemade cookies, and 2 even went through the multiple and inconvenient steps to spend an hour visiting with him while he was in Lindon Oaks for the last time. I will never forget these acts of kindness.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>Some of the things that have not been helpful :</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">ask if there is anything you can do, and then do nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">ask if there is anything you can do, and not mean it a word of it.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">ask if there is anything you can do, and then gossip.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">ask if there is anything you can do while wearing a fake smile and (literally) walking away (body language – it’s not always subtle) – yes, this has happened, a few times.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">tell me “I did <i>something</i> right” because, at least, my girls are doing well.</span></li>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>What does help</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Treat us like a family with an ill family member, we are going through many of the same things families of</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">people with cancer go through, except we also deal with the negative stigma associating with mental illness<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">be a benevolent witness to the grief and the pain, this doesn’t mean fixing anything, it just means bearing witness with compassion and without judgment. And I do mean grief – I grieve for the healthy son I thought I had, for the life I thought he would have. The hopes and the dreams I had for him will never happen, they have been replaced with much smaller more basic hopes, like I hope he survives this, I hope he finds someway to be happy with his life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Sue Monk Kidd has a passage in her latest book – the older sister who has resigned herself to never marrying is watching her younger sister get married. She describes the feeling like walking into an empty room that you forgot was there. In the room you had planned so many things, but now it is essentially empty. It’s not a room that you visit often, and you don’t dwell there when you do, but every now and then you find it, and you remember what you had hoped it would be. When I hear about or see Graham’s old friends, and his peers I step into that room. I see all the potential that’s gone, I see just how lost my boy is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">If nothing else, be kind to my girls, they are marvelous, courageous and loving people who should not have to go through any of this<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">These diseases have, on one hand, devastated our family, and on the other brought us closer and made us stronger. I have sat up countless nights curled up certain that I cannot bear this a moment longer, that I have nothing left to give, that I have done everything wrong, that my life and my children’s will never be normal, will never be without this pain. And yet, each morning I get up and go through another day.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">Days that are for the most part, happy and are filled with love. What I have learned is just how resilient people can be, how even when faced with disappointment over and over again, we still find ways and things to hope for. I have learned that adversity and pain can make you softer and more compassionate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 12pt;">Poetry gets me through some of this, this poem in particular by Oriah Mountain Dreamer<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">The Invitation</span><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.<b> I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<em style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">"Today is gone. Today was fun.<br />Tomorrow is another one.<br />Every day,<br />from here to there,<br />funny things are everywhere."</em><br />
<em style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">- Dr. Seuss</em><br />
<em style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></em><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><i>Actually, most of today was fairly average, but tonight was OUTSTANDING! </i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><i>Tomorrow will be another adventure, and time to change things up a bit, starting with a new blog. I'm moving out of my comfort zone and trying something new, something completely different, and I can't wait!! </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">if you want my new blog address shot me a note, email etc and I will send it to you</i><br />
<i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></i>
<i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></i>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><i>AND, if my mood was a youtube video, THIS would be it.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-57257522917887315822013-07-30T10:43:00.001-05:002013-07-30T12:18:20.863-05:00Of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax, Of cabbages, and kings...So. It's been awhile. I'm not too sure about writing even now. It's not that I couldn't think of anything to write about, I've written pages and pages in my head these past few weeks, but nothing ever came past my very busy brain.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I wrote about Trayvon Martin and how my heart breaks at the hurt and injustice and our ability to be cruel to each other. I included the biracial Cheerrios commercial and the hate mail it received.<br />
<br />
<br />
I wrote about Cory Monteith and the pains of addiction, my own struggles and the struggles of those I love, and about hating the deadly disease of addition and not the person addicted - a difficult thing to do, something you have to recommit to daily.<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>If this were only cleared away,' </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>They said, it would be grand!....</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
I wrote about how I spend my time looking at the world differently now, like I'm seeing so many things for the first time. I spend so much time looking at couples and trying to understand how having a partner works. I never quite got this concept. I was so very sure in my youth of the ways things were and the way things ought to be; I wasted decades in certainty and frustration.<br />
<br />
I may still write about the Royal baby because the birth, along with so
many things these last few months have moved me to tears, tears that I
don't always entirely understand.<br />
<br />
All this, and songs on the radio, people walking their dog, a photo of a young man who would have been my son's age had he not killed himself 2years ago. <i>.. </i><br />
<br />
<i> </i>I know this, I am more open than I've ever been. I feel things more
deeply - all things, joy, pain, love, sorrow, and very rarely, anger. <br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>I weep for you,' the Walrus said: </i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i> I deeply sympathize.' </i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>With sobs and tears he sorted out </i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i> Those of the largest size, </i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>Holding his pocket-handkerchief </i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i> Before his streaming eyes. </i></div>
<br />
So, yeah. I'm sort of just hanging out. 'On hold' it would seem. Lots of internal musings, not too much external manifestations. I think, maybe, if I had a close friend I might process some of this more quickly. It's mainly me and my dog, me and my sketchbook, me and myself doing lots of pondering, lots of observing. <br />
<br />
I don't think I'm lonely, precisely, I am on my own however. In the next few months two of my three children will be moving away, and a large part of my existence will be open to redefine. I look at the next 5 years of my life and see some major changes. I may go back to school. I likely will move from here, maybe, .not sure, more pondering required.<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>The time has come,' the Walrus said, </i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i> To talk of many things: </i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax — </i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i> Of cabbages — and kings — </i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>And why the sea is boiling hot — </i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i> And whether pigs have wings.'</i> </div>
<br />
<br />
Till then, I will try to write more, to develope a disipline about daily writing again. I have enough time, and I waste too much of it. glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-74593350600772853632013-03-21T12:49:00.000-05:002013-03-21T12:49:35.688-05:00leaving Normal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9DNXYZzEZG7RRH90QqXl6CyEuwG6c3FZON5MZnFGNRTwdB2YHqujIw7ZttBluPlrj5ndY85ScB5osilf1XNSyYpAiC7gA4UYvyHn0xfrPTHBk-pHDrsL6Q_td2_lNHVr1jWC8g/s640/IMG_20120416_165857.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9DNXYZzEZG7RRH90QqXl6CyEuwG6c3FZON5MZnFGNRTwdB2YHqujIw7ZttBluPlrj5ndY85ScB5osilf1XNSyYpAiC7gA4UYvyHn0xfrPTHBk-pHDrsL6Q_td2_lNHVr1jWC8g/s640/IMG_20120416_165857.jpg" /></a></div>
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There's a look you get from a pharmacist when you are picking up a lithium prescription and a home drug test at the same time. It's not pity, it's not even judgement, maybe it's sadness, or resignation, or maybe it's simply obvious that Normal and I are no longer together. Somewhere we took a wrong turn, and I just can't get us back to my life with Normal. Actually, I don't think I would recognize Normal if it walked up and asked me out for coffee, just for old times sake.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
Normal and I are no longer an option. We never were an option, outside of my imagination, really. When I was young I knew how everything worked, and I knew how my life was going to turn out if I did all the right things. Normal was who I would be with. I dreamed of my life with Normal my whole childhood. Normal and I raising my kids just right so that they would never suffer through pain and anguish. Living with Normal meant my kids growing up in the same house, in a friendly neighbourhood, with nice friends. It meant me and their father and I growing together, working together, loving each other, so they could see what a good partnership looked like. Normal and I would be everything I never had, and with Normal I was going to fix everything and do things right with my family.</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
Many years ago I left Normal, it wasn't a friendly breakup. There were tantrums and tears and reconciliations, but eventually the relationship ended. Maybe the break up started when I realized that you can't 'fix-up' the person you marry, that my needs were valid, or maybe when I noticed that love had left my marriage a decade earlier (Love and I have a long and complicated relationship as well). Either way, Normal and I drifted further and further apart. I made better and bigger excuses. I pretended Normal and I were just fine, that what we were, and I was happy.</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
Then one day while I was sitting at a stop sign, I realized just how badly we had turned out. That no matter how hard I tried I could not make that pretend life with Normal real. That the framed photo of us in the family room, all smiles, was an absolute farce.</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
When Normal and I broke up we each got custody of certain friends and groups. Not surprising, Normal got most of the friends and a group or two. People just felt more comfortable around Normal, or maybe they were less comfortable around me without Normal, either way there were fewer people to talk to. That part was hard. I'm lying, that part hurt like a mother-fucker and it still does. Normal saunters around, pals with everyone, and I skirt around the edges of people nervously, waiting to see if they still will talk to me without Normal. Some do, some like to pretend we are still together. I have much less time for those people these days.</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
These days, most days, I'm glad Normal and I ended it, I'm more myself. I can speak with my own voice. I don't have to pretend Normal and I are happy until I'm nearly mad and want to scream till someone's ears bleed, but I do miss the good times. I miss the friends, the contrived ease of conversation about superficial niceties, the invites to social gatherings.</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
Maybe one day Normal and I can go for that coffee, maybe one day a new me and a new Normal might be friends. </div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">
Maybe, one day.</div>
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YzQT_HlILuiWTNnQNqyqsvezGcfsVEbo8B2R7Y8kVK3iHvE3Lwj_guA4MNSvl1HxWNFkh8cIG7wp028nu_BK-2f0iUB3kk5dYbaORcAYli75ZkvpD2REgb0aG7OuWvO04IX-VQ/" /></div>
To Do:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Yoga class</li>
<li>Pick up Car</li>
<li>Laundry</li>
<li>Pay Bills</li>
<li>Buy Cat food</li>
<li>Purchase bulk sizes of feminine hygiene products, condoms, and chocolate</li>
</ul>
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All the while humming Talking Heads......</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You may find yourself living in a Pleasant Suburban Town</div>
<div>
You may find yourself in another part of your mind</div>
<div>
You may find yourself behind the wheel of a fuel efficient automobile</div>
<div>
You may find yourself in a hormone filled house, with hormone filled teens</div>
<div>
You may ask yourself, what the f*#% have I done?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, let the hormones hold me down</div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, menstrual flowing all around</div>
<div>
Into the loo again, after the pads are gone</div>
<div>
Once in a lifetime, menstrual flowing all around</div>
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<br /></div>
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You may ask yourself, where did I park that fuel efficient automobile?</div>
<div>
You may tell yourself, this is not my Messy Suburban house</div>
<div>
You may tell yourself, these are not my hormone filled teens</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, let the hormones hold me down</div>
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Letting the days go by, menstrual flowing all around</div>
<div>
Into the loo again, after the pads are gone</div>
<div>
Once in a lifetime, menstrual flowing all around</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was</div>
<div>
Same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was</div>
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<br /></div>
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Sanity dissolving and sanity removing</div>
<div>
There is a little sanity at the bottom of the box</div>
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Remove the sanity, carry the sanity</div>
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Remove the sanity from the bottom of the box</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, let the hormones hold me down</div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, menstrual flowing all around</div>
<div>
Into the loo again, after the pads are gone</div>
<div>
Once in a lifetime, menstrual flowing all around</div>
</div>
<div>
Into the store again, into the girly aisle </div>
<div>
Under the pads and plugs, for the flow that's come around</div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, into the girly aisle</div>
<div>
Once in a lifetime, menstrual flows all around</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You may ask yourself, how do I know that helpful clerk?</div>
<div>
You may ask yourself, why do these condoms cost so much?</div>
<div>
You may ask yourself, am I sane, or am I gone?</div>
<div>
You may hear your neighbour say, 'my god, what has she done?'</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, let the hormones hold me down</div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, menstrual flowing all around</div>
<div>
Into the loo again, after the pads are gone</div>
<div>
Once in a lifetime, menstrual flowing all around</div>
<div>
Into the store again, into the girly aisle </div>
<div>
<div>
Under the pads and plugs, for the flow that's come around</div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, into the girly aisle</div>
<div>
Once in a lifetime, menstrual flows all around</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was</div>
<div>
Same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Time it is aging us, time it is after us</div>
<div>
Time it is aging us, time it is sagging us</div>
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Time it is aging us, time it is after us</div>
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Time it is aging us.....</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, letting the days go by, letting the days go by, thrice in a lifetime</div>
<div>
Letting the days go by, letting the days go by, letting the days go by, thrice in a lifetime....</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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and yes, I knew that helpful teenage clerk, from when he was in public school</div>
<div>
and yes, my neighbour with different views on raising teenagers saw my mega box of condoms</div>
<div>
and yes, I do drive a fuel efficient automobile, live in a messy hormone filled house, and mumble to myself while buying girl products, chocolate and condoms.</div>
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the days go by, the days go by, the days go by.....</div>
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glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-68794596774265265432013-02-11T21:36:00.000-06:002013-02-11T21:36:36.159-06:00dear cupid<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1jFmtBinDIVGyhaM4ByMW74St5igKWqI8F9yEDOIQx3jOYF9RREPoY3MxtYeOJZKhoPtU4ZIW3nciM-wjbz0aQXE2ELwZXhzsBTWZSQu2Hvx0_0MByln-E8ZGM8eE-Zk3DUuB4Q/s1600/IMG_7296.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1jFmtBinDIVGyhaM4ByMW74St5igKWqI8F9yEDOIQx3jOYF9RREPoY3MxtYeOJZKhoPtU4ZIW3nciM-wjbz0aQXE2ELwZXhzsBTWZSQu2Hvx0_0MByln-E8ZGM8eE-Zk3DUuB4Q/s1600/IMG_7296.JPG" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">a
letter with footnotes....</span></i></b><i><br />
</i><br />
<i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Dear Cupid</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">1</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br />
<br />
I wanted to personally</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">2</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> thank you for all <br />
the joy</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">3</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> you have brought into my life</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">4</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span></i><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br />
thus far. My high school years were <br />
especially full</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">5</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> of your special touch with <br />
an arrow</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">6</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">. As I grew and matured</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">7</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> I came to <br />
realize the unique role</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">8</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> that you would play<br />
in my life</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">9</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">. Every step I took you were <br />
there</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">10</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">. I have certainly been blessed</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">11</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> by <br />
your love</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">12</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">. It is at this wonderful</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">13</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> time <br />
of the year that I really feel closest to you</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">14</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">. <br />
So for all</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">15</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> you have done</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">16</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> I want to express <br />
my gratitude</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">17</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span></i><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">properly</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">18</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">. With a kiss</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">19</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">. <br />
<br />
Yours with Love</span></i><b><i><sub><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">20</span></sub></i></b><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <br />
</span></i><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">R</span></i><i><span style="color: #ff0099; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br />
</span></i><br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";">1</span></b><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> you atrocious nude
hooligan<br />
<b>2</b> meaning up close and quite personal<br />
<b>3</b> years personal gut-wrenching anguish<br />
<b>4</b> if you could call it that<br />
<b>5</b> of scatological moments<br />
<b>6</b> were you aiming for my forehead?!<br />
<b>7</b> tried desperately to out run you – you grotty little louse<br />
<b>8</b> of my private naked tormentor <br />
<b>9</b> of pain and turmoil<br />
<b>10</b> shooting barbed arrows in my back<br />
<b>11</b> I didn’t know Beelzebub did blessings<br />
<b>12</b> love of inflicting exquisite psychological and physical torture<br />
<b>13</b> commercially forced-fed sentimental pink drivel <br />
<b>14</b> hard to miss you with this sharp arrow in my throat – you vile
bastard!<br />
<b>15</b> Every last agonizing…<br />
<b>16</b> each and every arrow through my head, my back…<br />
<b>17</b> I purchased a cross-bow <br />
<b>18</b> so I would watch your spiteful nude arse<br />
<b>19</b> would you like to know where?<br />
<b>20</b> here's to snapping your "little bow"</span></div>
glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-67345562223736760402013-02-06T10:16:00.002-06:002013-02-06T10:16:11.559-06:00dreams to spareof course it's 'normal',<br />
part of the 'process'<br />
but after 2 1/2 years, or<br />
30ish months, or<br />
about 9,000 days of<br />
living with someone has several 'regulatory dysfunctions' (doctor's words, not mine)<br />
in his brain<br />
with someone who manifests these 'dysfunctions' with difficult behaviour<br />
(difficult, defiant, dangerous, direful, dreadful, deranged - God how I love a thesaurus - behaviour) <br />
and even though you have been his only constant parent, and support, his sane, safe place<br />
when he asks you, correction,<br />
when after $4,000 in medical bills - this month,<br />
after hundreds of miles and hours of car trips,<br />
after you've read yourself blind to understand so you can be that sane, safe place <br />
when he screams at you,<br />
from his 17year old ego-bound place<br />
"Do you know what it's like to have to give up on your fucking dreams?!"<br />
for the first time, you can respond like that sane, safe person you work so hard to be,<br />
even after the second and third time,<br />
but eventually what you see is all the parts of you that you did give up,<br />
the parts of you that gave up All of the dreams your 17year old self had,<br />
all the dreams your 25 year old self had, and the dreams<br />
of your 34 year old self, your 41 year old self, and the 48 year old self that is looking<br />
straight into his grief, pain and anger<br />
and as you stand there, with all of the lost dreams wrapped around your throat and your heart,<br />
his and yours, because they are same for you, <br />
will all of the dreams for him and dreams for you that you push aside<br />
day after day after day, after motherfucking day<br />
with all the dreams neither of you will never realize because you're certain you'll be in this hell forever<br />
all your dreams for both of you that you don't even peak at, each, every moment, of you life, right now<br />
because it is easier to pretend you don't want them, than to lose them over and over again,<br />
as you stand there with all of your collective dreams smashed and weeping<br />
on the stupid beige carpet between you <br />
you respond "yes" in a voice that is louder than the sane, safe voice<br />
you tell him "yes" you know "what the fuck it is like", no longer even pretending to be sane,<br />
you tell him "yes" and so does everyone else in the world, and then you pick up new dreams,<br />
and then you suck it up and move on and you do you best, knowing as you hear your voice<br />
that this is not your best,<br />
not by a long shot<br />
but this,<br />
this smashed, weeping, broken person is the best you have to give him<br />
right now<br />
and you toss another dream into heap.<br />
<br />
<br />glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-39605807616652846532013-01-29T22:38:00.000-06:002013-02-05T18:33:12.486-06:00one week later<br />
'... I want to know if you can get up<br />
after a night of grief and despair<br />
weary and bruised to the bone<br />
and do what needs to be done<br />
to feed the children...."<br />
from 'The Invitation' by Oriah Mountain Dreamer<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
it's been one week<br />
and I'm too damn tired to slap on<br />
that bright and shiny plastic smile<br />
and say all the stupid pointless, and hollow words,<br />
to pointless, hollow plastic people - with shiny smiles - who don't,<br />
actually,<br />
give even the slightest of damns,<br />
to whom,<br />
it has never occurred<br />
to give a damn,<br />
about anyone but,<br />
themselves.<br />
<br />
it's been one week, and<br />
the best I can do is put my head down<br />
to sneak the odd nap,<br />
and hope I don't drool on my arm.<br />
<br />
one week, and I still wish they did,<br />
give a damn, that is<br />
I think,<br />
Really,<br />
that they<br />
Should<br />
Give-A-Fucking -Damn<br />
that we're in so much pain over here,<br />
HELLO.... can you see me?<br />
can anyone see us?<br />
fuck it.<br />
<br />
but thinking and wishing<br />
for people to be different doesn't<br />
do anything but make me more nuts,<br />
and today I quit bashing my head<br />
against that glass wall.<br />
today, I walk away.<br />
<br />
today, I made myself some goddamn tea<br />
and lit a goddamn candle,<br />
because, somehow that's suppose to help<br />
with<br />
something....<br />
I have no fucking clue what.<br />
<br />
and now I'm writing word, after word, after Mother-Fucking Word,<br />
that mean absolutely nothing, it's just my<br />
word vomit on a page,<br />
I'll write till I can't anymore, then<br />
I'm going to draw some really ugly lines,<br />
some terrible pictures,<br />
and doodles, that I will hate, and I'll crumple them all up,<br />
and throw them at the wall<br />
<br />
and I wonder<br />
why it is I haven't cried yet (except for that one time).<br />
shouldn't I be crying?<br />
shouldn't I be on the floor sobbing?<br />
I mean really, this is really awful stuff, the stuff of every parent's nightmares<br />
and all I can manage is tired<br />
and occasionally snippy?<br />
what the fuck wrong with me?<br />
<br />
I'm just so damn tired,<br />
my stomach feels like cold black stone, and<br />
a boot is stomping down, Hard, on my chest, and I can't breath<br />
but no tears, no time for tears.<br />
<br />
maybe I'm tired enough to finally see,<br />
really see<br />
who the love comes from,<br />
who is my tribe, who will hold us, and sustain us.<br />
<br />
the rest are dross.<br />
<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
"What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross<br />
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee<br />
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage...."<br />
from Ezra Pound's 'Canto LXXXI'glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-91371818474621800942013-01-23T20:57:00.005-06:002013-02-06T16:13:17.406-06:00sometimes you have to buy your own fucking flowers<br />
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<br />
<br />
and when you think things won’t get worse,<br />
that things have turned a corner,<br />
and while it’s not rosy,<br />
at least it’s not hell anymore,<br />
and you dare to hope that there could be a future.<br />
<br />
then,<br />
that night when you’d expect to be in bed<br />
you are driving quickly to emergency<br />
you are driving your child<br />
your child with the belly full of pills<br />
and you’re hoping you get there before<br />
it kills his liver, before<br />
it kills him<br />
and in your pajama bottoms you walk determinedly past people<br />
and go to the head of the line<br />
(how very un-Canadian of you)<br />
and you say in a loud clear voice your son has overdosed<br />
and you hand them the bottle<br />
then it’s all motion, and follow me<br />
and take off your clothes and pee in this cup<br />
needles for blood, needles for IVs, stickers for electrodes<br />
monitors and carts with medications<br />
speedy doctors and nurses all talking at once<br />
and you sit, in your pajama pants, and text his father, because<br />
his father who was too fucking upset to do anything useful, because<br />
his father couldn’t even manage to put on his own damn shoes<br />
so, you’re in charge, again<br />
you’re the one who copes, again<br />
the one who holds the family together, again<br />
it’s not that you mind, but<br />
wait, you do mind, you mind a lot<br />
you’re tired, and you’re alone and watching the speedy medical staff<br />
and you have to answer his irritating questions with text messages<br />
<br />
later, when it seems your son won’t die tonight,<br />
you go home and talk down his father who is ‘very upset’<br />
and ‘needs to vent’ and likes to<br />
‘process his frustrations out loud’, to you, because he can’t talk to anyone else<br />
and what the hell is he going to tell his family<br />
(don’t answer that)<br />
<br />
and when you finally say fuck it and go to bed<br />
3 hours before you get up for work, and<br />
you lay your clothes out on the floor, just in case,<br />
just, in case the hospital calls and you have to rush back<br />
because actually he is going to die tonight<br />
but he doesn’t<br />
so you go to work the next day and do the only thing you can think to do<br />
is write a fucking poem<br />
because that fixes everything<br />
because you sure can’t talk to people about the latest and greatest Swirling Shit Storm<br />
your family is going through<br />
<br />
Here are the Swirling Shit Storm Rules:<br />
<br />
your son goes to rehab,<br />
no one notices<br />
you drive 700miles a week,<br />
you leave your daughters to fend for themselves<br />
no one notices<br />
<br />
your son overdoses,<br />
no one wants to talk to you<br />
your daughters are so tired they don’t want to talk to you<br />
you buy your daughters ice cream and teddy bears and chocolate<br />
but that fixes nothing<br />
their brother is still in the hospital<br />
and they can’t talk about it<br />
they don’t want to talk anymore about it<br />
<br />
your son actually dies,<br />
well then, everyone wants to talk<br />
people send you flowers<br />
and bring food<br />
and love, and there is a big get together<br />
and everyone says nice things about your son,<br />
about you, and they actually<br />
talk to you and your daughters<br />
and his father can vent to someone other than you<br />
<br />
<br />
and there’s the rub,<br />
until your son actually dies,<br />
there’s no one to talk to<br />
you’re buying the fucking flowers for yourself<br />
and the fucking comfort food for your daughters<br />
and talking his father, the fuck down, again,<br />
and again<br />
and again<br />
because you're in this on your own<br />
and you best just get used to it.<br />
<br />glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-69264570040554618102013-01-19T22:48:00.000-06:002013-01-19T22:48:06.375-06:00kindness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
When I was about 10 we had a small mutt my mother had found in the alley behind the library where she worked. We called him Book. He was a street smart, funny. lovable small black mutt. He was my little brother's and my first dog, and we adored him. One night when my mom and step father were out I had a terrible feeling in my stomach about Book. That night I played with him, rubbed his belly, and must have given him half a box of dog cookies. Nothing bad happened, and I went to bed. When my they got back, my step father drove the babysitter home. We think Book must have got out and tried to follow the car. My mother woke me early the next day after she spent a sleepless night worrying and we all went looking for him. We lived about three blocks from a main street, and on the far side of that street, laying on the grass beneath a tree we saw Book. I rushed to him, and reached out my hand to wake him, and only then when my fingers touched stiff cold fur did I realize he was dead. <br /><br />We buried Book in the backyard under a bed of flowers, it was the only time I ever saw my step father cry. My mother said that some kind person must have picked Book up off the road after he had been hit, and laid him gently on the grass for us to find him. Tied up with the sadness of losing our dog was the thought that someone had been kind to him, and also to us by taking the time to stop, pick up his body and gently place in on the grass. <br /><br />Late last night I was coming home with my daughter and we saw the body of tortoise shell cat on the road. We circled round and stopped just behind it. She looked like she had been a well loved pet. She looked like she had died instantly. We stood and looked at her silently, my car's headlights illuminating her. After a moment I walked back to my car and got a small white gym towel from my yoga bag. I knelt down and wrapped her still warm and pliable body in it and carried her to a grassy area under a small tree. Her back legs and fluffy tail stuck out from the end of the towel and her fur stirred slightly in the wind. I placed my hand on her side and said how sorry I was she had died. We stood a moment more and got in the car and drove the rest of the way home.<br />
<br />
Four years ago when our young, beautiful, and foolish dog Willow got out of the yard and was run over, many people stopped, someone called me and we rushed to spend our last moments with her before she died. Someone brought a blanket that they never saw again, another person brought a board for us to lift her shattered and dying body into our car. My daughter sobbed, held her face, and said her name over and over again. The driver of the car stood crying. Before we got in our car to rush Willow to the vet in some mad hope that she could be saved, I went to the driver and told him it was not his fault. She was a skittish dog, and very fast, and he could not have avoided her. I didn't want him to carry any more grief and guilt than he was already going to. I don't remember anyone from that day. I have never been able to thank them for stopping, for helping our dog and us when it was most needed.<br /><br />We never knew who carried Book from the road that night almost forty years ago, but that act of kindness stayed with me. It helped me tell the driver it was not his fault; it is what guided me when I carried the cat from the road last night. One act of kindness decades old still touches me and through me touches the world. Such is the way of kindness.glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-9453054268789470802012-12-27T19:03:00.000-06:002012-12-27T19:03:12.562-06:00cheating corpse<br />
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Tonight I did my last evening beach side evening yoga class. It's a beautiful place, the Yoga Temple, ocean on one side, jungle on the other, images of Buddha, and a fountain with a small stream of water. I decided instead of lying down in the traditional Savasana (corpse pose), that I would remain in Siddhasana, or seated meditation pose, and, being the rebel that I am, that I would keep my eyes open. All the lights were off, and surprisingly I found it easier to be completely present when I could see the upright silhouette of our yoga teacher, the beach and ocean beyond him, and the full moon rising over the water, when I could hear the tide and the breathing of those around me. I caught glimpses of bats, and heard the sound of countless jungle insects and animals.</div>
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In yoga I try to be the best, I work very hard to get everything exactly right. My downward dog is a thing of beauty, I can do tree with my eyes closed (very briefly, I'm working on it, alright?) <i>and </i>with hands in reverse prayer (not bragging, just saying), I can do crow without falling on my face, and on a good day, headstand. I'm not bad, above average depending on the group I'm with, so my sitting posture was naturally, flawless. I was perfectly in, on and around <i>the moment</i>, I <i>was </i>the damn moment, you get what I'm saying here? I was doing everything exactly right. </div>
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In front of me an elderly couple from NYC lay in Savasana. They had struggled through the class, the man especially; we won't even mention his Warrior 2, and I never got a look at his downward dog, because I was too busy admiring mine from behind in the mirrors at the rear of the room, but they were both in good spirits throughout class, despite not being able to do most of the poses. While I sat, flawlessly, taking in the beautiful evening and congratulating myself for my excellent pose, I watched the man's hand reach toward his wife, and her hand reach toward him. They held hands for the final minutes of Savasana, their imperfect yoga finishing perfectly.</div>
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glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-44313869489283472852012-12-26T18:36:00.000-06:002012-12-26T18:36:30.559-06:00No tengo hombre. Necesito el chocolate<br />
Today, bag over squared shoulders, worn, slightly moist map in hand, I went on a quest. A charged by God with a most sacred and holy quest. A quest for chocolate (no, I was not banging two coconuts together, but I could have, they were everywhere). I'm a woman of few vices, (yes, I typed that with a straight face) only coffee and chocolate really, and a certain weakness for men with particular accents, and I am rather fond of butter tarts, but that's not really a vice because butter tarts are Canadian and therefore it is patriotic to love them.<br />
<br />
but I digress.<br />
<br />
I was told that a smile would usually be enough to get me around here, which is good because I can tilt my head, flip my hair and smile, and also good because my knowledge of Spanish is muy muy poco.<br />
<br />
Aside: Chocolate is the same in Spanish, English and French (not precisely, but close enough). Perhaps love or music are not the universal language, perhaps all you need is chocolate? Think about it people.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzAzYdjhD48NSqxDVFbiiALY7wQqq_9QCzcdTpM8znxV89XOpwnn0oN61iUBHhk-FwlJEzw4pd5dGTYx36b6RXgaV3qIC1fe0b3onF3NNBnL2pduHDxfdn09hCi1f0w-GVF5eYA/s1600/IMG_7477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzAzYdjhD48NSqxDVFbiiALY7wQqq_9QCzcdTpM8znxV89XOpwnn0oN61iUBHhk-FwlJEzw4pd5dGTYx36b6RXgaV3qIC1fe0b3onF3NNBnL2pduHDxfdn09hCi1f0w-GVF5eYA/s320/IMG_7477.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">an here we see how 'just a smile' looks</td></tr>
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After wandering around aimlessly for at least five minutes, I found a tiny old man with a large rifle across his lap. I'm used to the rifles now, but I did not take his picture, cute as he was. Smiling, I said "hola, hablas Inglés?" Hola is a great word, you say it to everybody and smile and then they forgive your horrifying Spanish. He replied "yes, I speak English". Thirty seconds later I realized we had both used up almost our entire vocabulary in the other's language. Fortunately someone else came along who wanted to help, unfortunately she knew less English than my friend with the gun. I did understand "¿dónde está tu hombre?", "No tengo hombre". Sigh.<br />
<br />
We managed with smiles, pointing at the map and road, and me doing some really impressive charades (really, really could-make-a-living-busking-on-the-streets impressive charades) to get me through the streets, between the rápido motorcycles, cars, buses, taxis and the odd rooster, and to the shop with chocolate, and there I blended in perfectly, in my own mind.<br />
<br />
Back in my room, I eat an entire package of chocolate cream cookies, and all is right with the world again (there is more chocolate for tomorrow, which I am Going. To. Leave. In. The. Cupboard tonight)<br />
<br />
My new Spanish expressions today? Estoy perdido. Lo siento (I'm lost, sorry) and Estoy en busca para chocolate (I am looking for chocolate).<br />
<br />
<br />
glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-24701479496387273152012-12-24T15:37:00.002-06:002012-12-24T15:37:57.876-06:00how a 72 year old Korean man and yoga are teaching me to surf<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">oooh, Roberto.... </td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
Today the sun is out, so today is the day I began surfing lessons, with Roberto.... (roll those rrrrrr's people). Turns out I'm not too bad, this has been reported to me by my surfer hostess, I thought I looked hopelessly clumsy. Tomorrow I will go to my second lesson.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow I there are several things I will remember:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Do NOT wear the low waisted bathing suit bottoms because (a)they try to slide off each and every time I flop (a generous description) up onto the board, giving my hot young surf instructor a half moon I'm certain he is still traumatized by, (b) they try to fall off in front when I'm paddling into waves and do a 'surfing upward facing dog on a board' like I;m suppose to do when cresting large(ish) waves (no idea who I'm traumatizing there, (c) they try to escape into the ocean each and every time I fall off my board.</li>
<li>For Heavens sake Keep Your Mouth CLOSED when traveling towards a large(ish) wave, falling lamely off my board, and ducking under the water to capture escaping bottoms.</li>
<li>A smallish wave in the face will do more to clean your sinus than any pharmaceutical or nasal spray every could.</li>
<li>Stay LOW. Lean FORWARD. Leaning backwards is the Number 1 cause of bathing suit bottom escape attempts because one hits the water ass first.</li>
<li>Everything comes from your core, you control the board with your core - try to remember that.</li>
<li>Two hours surfing uses ALL of the muscles in your body, including your sinus muscles, I'm not sure if they exist, but something is getting a workout inhaling and exhaling gallons of ocean at a time.</li>
<li>All surf instructors are HOT, which makes repeatedly falling on your ass because you didn't lean forward, and losing your bottoms each time you get on your board even more mortifying.</li>
</ol>
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So where does the little Korean man come in? Master Chang is my Hapkido instructor. I swear the fist words he learned in English were LOWER, HIGHER and FASTER. I have spent hours and days and weeks in Horse-riding stance with one are extending in front of me while he walked around saying LOWER!</div>
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In yoga I have spend just as many hours, days and weeks in horse-riding stance, and Goddess (which I renamed Pooping Waitress, but that's another blog). I've also done, approximately 1 billion* Yogi core strengthening exercises (*estimated). So, when I was shown how to crest waves in downward facing dog, no problemo (except for opening my mouth and swallowing ocean). When I was told to hop up and bend my knees LOWER on the board NO problem, I have quads of steel. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Now all I have to do is keep my butt covered, close my mouth and stay on the board. So tomorrow while you all are eating turkey and opening presents I will be taking on the ocean again with better bottoms and hopefully less salt water inside my head. Merry Christmas!</div>
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glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-47577391705574064852012-12-23T18:29:00.001-06:002012-12-23T19:12:06.941-06:00me and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and a half<b>*Spoiler Alert:</b> Pity Party in full swing (The Smiths "I Know It's Over" playing softly in the background - look up the lyrics, no really, Do It) combined with PMS, and "I'm All Alone For Christmas and Really Bummed About It" Syndrome. Read ahead at your own risk.<br />
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<br />
I hate this place and I want pack up all my toys and go home.<br />
<br />
But I'm in the Caribbean, how could I possibly be unhappy?<br />
<br />
Well, it's raining. It has <i>been</i> raining since I got here. I think it started raining when my plane was descending (because the weather was <i>just great</i> before I arrived - I might add that when I arrived in Montreal it started raining there too) Today, at about 11:06, there was about 20 minutes of sunshine during which I jumped into my bathing suit and covered myself in sunscreen. That did it, it started raining again. Rain is forecast right up until the day I leave.<br />
<br />
Good thing I've got a nice place to stay in.<br />
<br />
In the place I'm staying if it rains, the ceiling leaks - in three places - and the floor in that room can give you 'shocks' if you're barefoot. The 'door' has two open metal grates that bugs like to fly in through. One of the open areas is to reach my hand through and clamp on the padlock on the outside of the door to lock it at night - no getting out quickly for me. Also the bedroom is right up against the owner's kitchen so every word, every bark, every musical note come through clear as a bell, especially since the bed's head board is against that wall.<br />
<br />
The ocean <i>is </i>a 15 minute walk away, and there <i>is</i> a yoga studio there, and little restaurants, and cute things like families with grandparents and kids all together for a "Christmas Holiday in the Fucking Caribbean", just like what my kids are doing - thanks to ex<b> </b>mommy-in-law dearest - without me. It's lovely to sit out the rain (because rain or not, I going to go be by the ocean, goddammit) in a quaint restaurant where they make great hummus, until three families that appear so very similar to my own come in and surround me with their happy happy family time.<br />
<br />
As Alexander's mom says at the end of the book (Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day in case you didn't get that from the blog's title), "Today was a difficult day, tomorrow will be better."<br />
<br />
I sure hope so, because I just ate my last piece of chocolate.<br />
<br />
Also, "Beautiful Boy" is likely not the <i>best </i>book choice for me right now, where's Bridget Jones when you need her?<br />
<br />
<i>ps. for you who didn't look up those lyrics, you know who you are....</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">"</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If you're so funny</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then why are you on your own tonight ?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And if you're so clever</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then why are you on your own tonight ?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If you're so very entertaining</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then why are you on your own tonight ?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If you're so very good-looking</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Why do you sleep alone tonight ?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know ...</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">'Cause tonight is just like any other night</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's why you're on your own tonight</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With your triumphs and your charms</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While they're in each other's arms..."</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's so easy to laugh</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's so easy to hate</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It takes strength to be gentle and kind</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Over, over, over, over</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's so easy to laugh</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's so easy to hate</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It takes guts to be gentle and kind</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Over, over</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Love is Natural and Real</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But not for you, my love</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Not tonight, my love</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Love is Natural and Real</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But not for such as you and I, my love..."</span></i>glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-27571298983376409122012-12-22T14:58:00.000-06:002012-12-22T14:58:12.262-06:00my home and native land<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I forget the subtle things I love about Canada. I don't get home very often, and this time I'll have been here for only 15 hours on an overnight stopover on my great adventure. I'm in Montreal which means I hear more French than English. Canada is a bilingual country, and I am always amazed at how anyone from shuttle drivers to coffee shop employees effortlessly switch from one language to the other. My own French allows me to say please and thank you, ask the time, read and order food (mostly, I've had a few surprises) and the odd small saying. I'm certain my appalling accent gives me away immediately, but I still mumble my small vocabulary. Occasionally this will get me a full response in French, to which I can only respond with a politely frozen smile until the individual realizes they are dealing with an "Anglophone", and then repeat themselves in English.<br />
<br />
Canada, I don't think you realize how cool you are. People complain about having everything in two languages, everything from cereal boxes (my first French lessons) to government employees in Alberta. In Quebec the French language is legislated as the dominant language. You require a level of fluency to graduate from high school here and signs must be entirely in French, or have French in much larger letters. This and the disagreements between the Quebec and Federal governments can be frustrating. <br />
<br />
But here's the thing. I've lived in the US for almost ten years now and I hear plenty of Spanish, and in some neighbourhoods there are signs in Spanish. It seems insane that Spanish is not an official language in America, but it's not. It's seen as the poorer language, the language of immigrants, possibly illegal immigrants, and if you live in the US and speak Spanish and look even slightly Mexican, it is perfectly acceptable for authorities to ask to see you papers, to detain you, to deport you. Mothers and fathers can be arrested and sent to deportation centers with no way to contact children and family at home (home meaning in the US). I find this appalling, I am an immigrant and have never been asked to provide proof of citizenship. I have an American friend of Mexican decent who speaks perfect English, and while she was in Texas on a business trip was approached by police during a professional lunch and asked for ID. She showed them a driver's license, and was told she needed to provide proof of citizenship, and because she didn't have her (American) passport with her they "detained" her under treat of deportation until her husband arrived with her passport.<br />
<br />
Right, so I got slightly off topic there. Canada, you're cool, even if you're not always aware of it, which makes you even cooler.<br />
<br />
Also, I've got some pretty awesome Canadian friends, with whom I had a fabulous dinner with last night. Stayed way too late, but it was so good to connect again. I must get back home more often.glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-36226297843848444212012-12-21T18:34:00.001-06:002012-12-21T18:34:28.402-06:00I may have left my pocket handkerchief behindI may be the world's worst packer. Four hours with the surfaces of my bed, bedroom floor, bath room and hallway covered in "stuff I need to pack", "stuff I want to pack", four of five lists of "stuff I bloody well better NOT forget to pack" and Christmas stuff that I will wrap up after Christmas when the kids and I get to have our holiday.<br />
<br />
Even after I got it all "stuffed" I kept thinking I'd forgotten something critical and would unpack until I found what I had forgotten I'd already packed, and then, I'd have to repack it all again. This all ended up with a very late bedtime. The sleep deprivation from an early wake up time has only added my dis-organizational skills and poise today.<br />
<br />
In the airport my suitcase was 10lbs over - those 10lbs? Books. I had to unpack enough literary weight and cram it into my already poorly chosen and poorly packed carry-on bags. I "lost" my Kindle (yes, I brought a Kindle AND books, you'd understand if knew me) for about 20 minutes and was all set to march back up to the Full Body Scan Area (I'm special that's why) and see if I had left it there when I discovered right where I had packed it. I may have been somewhat of a spectacle, patting down all my pockets, walking in circles madly unpacking my carry-ons in the lounge, while everyone else sat there composed and reading, or snacking or playing Temple Run on their iPads.<br />
<br />
This adventure has turned me into a clumsy, scattered, and unorganized ditz; I can almost feel my hair turning blonde (sorry politically incorrect, my bad). Me, who is used to packing for 3 kids for extended car trips. Me, one who co-ordinates multiple complex schedules simultaneously whilst grocery shopping, driving, cleaning etc, etc. I'm Queen Multi-fucking-Tasker, and I seem to have completely fallen apart.<br />
<br />
The good news is I've made it to Montreal, and all the way to the hotel, and only had to ask 7 or 8 people at the airport for help. More good news (typing as my stomach rumbles) in 20 minutes I am meeting (assuming I can find my way back to the Lobby, but that's another blog) 2 friends I haven't seen since I moved to the US, and we're going out to dinner.<br />
<br />
The not so fun news, I have a 4am wake up call for my morning flight, I'll write about that tomorrow.<br />
<br />
*Sorry there's no pictures, only bare bone blogging tonight. Later, I will have pictures, wonderful tropical pictures, pictures of birds, plants, my feet in sandy locations.... now, it's time for dinner! Bon séjour!glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-34696082392048701372012-12-19T12:03:00.000-06:002012-12-19T12:03:52.564-06:00an adventure was about to happen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I'm getting ready for an adventure.<br />
<br />
Something I've never done before. I will be all on my own, knowing no one, in the Dominican Republic for 8 days. No kids to get from here to there. No household chores that need doing. No commitments, no errands or jobs. No morning alarm, and no bedtime. No structure to my day except what I make of it. To be honest I'm not sure how I will cope with this.<br />
<br />
Being an organized person I like to prepare. Firstly, I have had all visible body hair removed, and/or trimmed, and/or coloured. My toenails are being done today, bright red, and all those nasty callouses will be sawed off. Also, I'm actually succumbing to vanity (who am I kidding, I'm vanity's bitch) and getting a spray tan tomorrow, so when I meet two old friends in Montreal for dinner during my stop over, I will look like I'm returning from vacation instead of going to. Seeing old friends is another reason I am going to extra yoga classes, so I can pretend that I effortlessly and always look svelte and fabulous (I have never said I wasn't superficial, you can check).<br />
<br />
Aside: Spray tans, What I Only Just Found Out: it's me, naked, in a room with a 'professional' spraying every inch of my pasty-glow-in-the-dark white skin with a tan-in-a-can airbrush. THAT will be dignified, and then you let it 'cook' for different times depending how dark you want to be. I'm going for that just slightly bronzed enough to cover the jiggly parts of my thighs and tummy. I know, I KNOW, there will be people who will be disappointed in me for doing this. Who will think I should be proud of my white skin and not condone unhealthy sunbathing habits. To them I can only say, I have a Groupon, what can you do?<br />
<br />
Many people would be able to pack for such a trip with just a carry on. Not me, I've never packed lightly in my life. My Kindle will take up less room than the six or seven books I'd pack, but I may just pack the books as well.<br />
<br />
Also, I will need:<br />
<ul>
<li> art supplies, sketch books, pencils, markers, paints, special Art Doodle journal that I've had for a year and not made a mark in.</li>
<li>camera supplies, lens. memory cards etc, because you know I can't go anywhere without taking several thousand photos of it.</li>
<li>writing supplies, pretty journal, nice pens, laptop to blog and share with etc.</li>
<li>hair supplies, another reason not to check my bag, no WAY 3oz of anything will be enough to last me for 8 days, seriously!</li>
<li>yoga outfits for yoga on a paddle board, and on the beach, yes it's true, I will downward dog it anywhere with anyone</li>
<li>cute dress to flirt with local men, positive thinking here, I didn't get all that hair removed, and spray tanned for nothing.</li>
<li>bathing suits (two piece! yes, this really is an adventure).</li>
<li>several fabulous, but oh so causal "this-old-thing" outfits - see cute dress and hair removal comments.</li>
</ul>
There is more, sunscreen, passport, SHOES, but you get the idea. <br />
<br />
I hope you will all still love me after this unabashed display of vanity and superficiality, and I promise you a profound thought or two in blogs to come, till then it's packing and unpacking obsessively till flight time.glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-38279522571305083742012-10-19T12:04:00.001-05:002012-10-19T12:04:18.891-05:00the year of the dragon<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I turned 44, I let go of my inner critic (the one who warned of sagging, and distortion and of future embarrassment) and I used the money my mother sent me for my birthday and I got my first tattoo, a 5cm in diameter spiral sun burst, it sits just above my heart. People can only see hints of its edges with most clothing I wear, which is what I wanted. I wanted a sun to remind me of my inner radiance, and I also wanted to tease people, just a bit. In Yoga you see a lot of tattoos. Not so many skulls, or flames, more OM symbols, butterflies, birds, flowers, all very, well, Yoga like. In a Yoga top, in a few positions you can see all of it, which is great in Yoga, I fit right in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My mother, who owns 20 cashmere twin sets, irons all bed sheets, and who is always socially impeccable, was appalled, which made me smile, just a bit. She warned how awful it would look when I was 70 and 80, when my breasts were racing to my waist, how I would regret this, which made me smile just a little bit more into my artfully arranged salad (we were out for a civilized lunch at the time).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My daughters were awestruck with my new coolness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That was 4 1/2 years ago, and I want another, two actually. My oldest daughter, who has three (all small and very clever and tasteful) is thrilled. I want a Dragon, like the one I had airbrushed onto the back of my shoulder during a girl's weekend in Provincetown, to remind me of my inner dragon, and also to look just a little bad ass in Yoga. It's the Year of the Dragon, my year, and I am discovering the closer I get to 50, the less I worry about what other people think, or what I will look like when I'm 70, or 80, or even 90. Personally, I think I'll look kind of cool, but who knows, I'm not there yet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The other tattoo I want will go along the edge of my right foot, so I can see it when I'm meditating. It's a line from a favourite poem "What I do is me: for that I came".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Any there it is. What I do IS me. It's taken nearly fifty years of trying things the hard way, of trying to fit what I am into everybody else's definition for me, for me to realize I like me as I am, and starting from there is as good a starting place as any.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here is the actual poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As tumbled over rim in roundy wells</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Selves - goes itself, myself it speaks and spells,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Crying What I do is me: for that I came."</span><br />
glasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19190712.post-13021411659532096492012-10-16T08:30:00.001-05:002012-10-16T08:30:06.876-05:00in case you were wondering<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear World, <br /><br />I need a new job. I can write, edit, create, organize, and I am embarrassingly dependable. I have flexible hours, I'm fun to work with and I get things done on time, with a smile. I'm calm and efficient in chaos and can think on my feet, and also in more sedate environments while sitting down. I have been a Registered Nurse, Medical Office Manager, Editor, Published Writer, Artist and Photographer, and Volunteer Mentor, Teacher and Homeless Shelter worker . I have managed groups of people in hectic environments, such has hospital wards, large groups of youth, and homeless shelter kitchens. I also work happily with technology, and without.<br />
<br />I look forward to your response.<br />
<br />
Yours sincerly,<br />
Ruth Elliottglasshillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00383065075528384085noreply@blogger.com0