Okay. New followers will likely think I’m a bit odd, but that’s okay. They haven’t read A Body of True Confessions, My Aching Loins, or Prude to Sexy, Yet. So they are likely thinking all types of thoughts. Truth is, I’ve really broken out of my shell.
Photos removed since original post. See links above for more information. š
I don’t even recognize me! Ā I’m wearing my after glow from having kayaked yesterday for the first time, my Maui tan from May, and the confidence I had when I was a kid. Yay, me!
Prude to Sexy Check Off List:
Check…..Guitar purchased
Check…..First Kayak experience (1.5 hours)
Check….Kayak paddle purchased
Check….Closer and closer to buying a bikini
Oh, and I got a really cute pedicure today. See? This was not an easy shot to take. Trust me!
Iāve been perusing the Internet looking for an appropriate word for how I feel about myself at the moment. I tried to find the root origin of āsuck eggsā and concluded I am not a canine who has trouble with stopping myself from sucking chicken eggs nor am I in an uncomfortable situation that makes me look odd. I searched for the word āsuck,ā to grasp a greater understanding of the word, and ended up with synonyms like ādrink from straw.ā I was about to ask Google God about ābitch,ā but decided Iād had enough reading about dogs. So here I am, debating in my mind what I am feeling, who I am, and where I belong on this damn earth.
Some things Iāve decided are very hard for me today:
1)Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Being married
2)Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Eating food
3)Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Moving my body
Hmmmmm. No wonder Iām a mess.
I try to be very positive and upliftingāother people tend to be appreciative and accept me when I wipe on my smiling face. The problem occurs when I wipe off the smile; not everyone tends to stick around so readily when disgruntled Sam appears. Silly, really, how folks like the fair-weather Sam, and run from the storm in meānatural instinct I suppose. Maybe thatās why my good friends are the types that arenāt too much afraid of natural disasters: living in earthquake zones, flash flood areas,Ā and potential tsunami states.
I am in a potential tsunami state right now. Iāve been triggered, and am thusly harboring a wave as the ground shifts beneath me. Some of the ground shifting is a result of my short list above. I can sum up number two and three on my list fairly easily. Eating is hard because I am sensitive to everything I put in my system. Moving is hard because of chronic pain. Every food affects me at a physical and mental level. When I consume wheat and most grains, I become fatigued, depressed, and sometimes border on thoughts of paranoia about my health. Sugar often causes instant pain. And any type of food, except perhaps a piece of cooked fish with no seasoning, causes my stamina to decrease by half. Precise to say, sometimes I avoid eating all together.
Doctors and other health professionals have diagnosed me with about ten or so different health conditions; and each condition can harbor a strong potential to cause chronic pain. But I like to pretend they are all wrong. And can do fairly well at faking it till I make it, until the wave sets in, and I feel like Iām about to crash, and take out an entire village with me.
When the physical pain hits hard, my immediate reaction is always the same: denial. How can I be doing so well for a month and then, out of the blue, feel like I got run over by a truck?
Then blame sets in. What did I do wrong? Did I eat something wrong? How did I allow this to happen? Am I stressed? Why am I stressed?
Then resentment comes with her evil head. Why me? This isnāt fair. I hate this.
And then I collapse. A curled up not-so-friendly kitten on the couch, unable to move, unable to do anything really, but complain and act like a personĀ whom hasĀ had her favorite treasures stolen: energy and serenity. The trick for me is letting go, and letting the cycle pass. If I could learn to shut off my mind, stop the fight, and just surrender to a day of not moving and not getting āanythingā done, then I would be all the better for it. But I have this thing about controlā¦especially control of my own body.
This leads me to marriage. The original title of this post was going to be: Why It Sucks Being Married to Me. But I thought that was just a wee bit too self-demeaning and seriously similar to putting a firing-squad to my ego. Not that ego doesnāt deserve to be taken down every once in a while. Iām just not ready to annihilate him all together.
But I do know Iām not an easy person to live with. I sometimes wonder ifĀ life would be easier if I was single. Mostly so I could retreat in isolation and wallow in self-pity. I lived alone in my early twenties. I remember. I was in a constant state of panic and fret. Anxiety lurched around every corner. I was even afraid to leave the house and walk across the parking lot to do laundry. Iāve grown and matured some in the last twenty years. I think I could manage a laundryĀ facilityĀ okay on my own. I wonder about all the other elements of life, though. Too many to mention, or even list.
Donāt get me wrong. I like me. I have plenty wonderful qualities to offer a spouse. Itās just, living with me, is like living with a lion let loose from a cage at a circus. Iām trained and all. Iāve learned how Iām expected to act. I try my best. I even love the people around me: they feed me, they provide shelter, they even give me a stage in which to receive praise. And I love them for their unique spirits, too. Itās just I long to be in the wild and free, without restriction, without having to follow a role, having to be something I am not.
And I tend to lash out unexpectedly; from an onlookerās point of view, I probably appear to lash out from nothing. But there are always triggers. Whether the food intolerance, the surmounting physical pain, or my non-stop brain, something is always about that causes my reaction. Sometimes my reaction is to other peopleās words and/or actions, a direct result of my rigid thinking. I carry high ideals. I cannot help this. I find it difficult to tolerate lies, betrayal, aggression, passivity, gluttony, rudeness, and avoidanceĀ behavior. And I have a hard time understanding why people do the things they do. I try. I try to be flexible and tolerant. Trouble is this brain of mine is hyper-sensitive much like my gut. And all this rubbish going on inside of me, turns me into a prickly pruneāall wrinkled up inĀ poutiness and spiked out with defense weapons. Picture a shriveled plum withĀ sharpened toothpick spearsĀ stuck about.
Thatās why a cave near the sea sounds nice about now. A warm cave that smells like real wild flowers, with soft organic bedding, no insects or other lurching animals, temperature of 76 degrees, no wind factor, no dampness, absolutely no mold, low humidity, only the sound of ocean water nearby and birds chirping, and absolutely a non-tsunami zone. Thatās all I need. I semi-dark luxury-cave on an island inhabited by smiling, quiet, private people. Until the wave passesājust until the wave passes.
The new theme for my life, I have decided, is breaking free. Breaking free of rigid restrictions I set upon myself. Breaking free of old tapes that replay messages that no longer serve a purpose in my growth. Breaking free of the box I put myself into in order to avoid living and feeling. Breaking free of fear. And breaking free of secrets.
Today I decided to break free of this idea that I can only post once a day. I notice that us poets sometimes need to post more. It’s our hearts, I gather, exploding with passion and angst, and this surging creativity that seemingly is rebirthed daily.
Sometimes I wait until the magic hour of midnight to post; just so I can post twice in a day, butĀ IĀ don’t really countĀ thatĀ as posting twice. Turns out I’m aboutĀ twelve days ahead of myself…myĀ blog is living in the future.Ā Ā And I kind of wonder how I will catch up. Wonder what Sam is doing ahead of me.
I’m quite tired of living by structure and rules, especially my own. Tired of routine, expectations, and people-pleasing. Realizing I want to please myself—toĀ honor my desires, wants, and dreams. And thusly, I’m posting again. And breakingĀ free.
My ten-year-old son just handed me this sweet story he wrote.
Bunny
Turtle loved to play with his buddy fish. But one day a stranger came up to them while they were playing splash. “Hi. My name is Bunny can I play, too?”
“Yea. You can play.”
They were all playing but when they started to play under the water hide-and-go-seek, Bunny couldn’t breathe. Bunny asked if he could play another game.
“Can we play a different game?” he asked.
“No. We can’t. We like to play this game.”
Bunny came home that day very sad. His mom asked what was the matter. “Well, I was playing with some kids and they were playing a game I can’t play. So I asked it we could play a different game and they said, ‘no.'”
“Well, that wasn’t the nice thing to do,” his mom said.
“What’s nice, Mommy?”
“Well nice is being kind and caring and being polite.”
“Oh. Okay, But what do I do about it?”
“Find new friends that are nice to you. Okay?”
The next morning the bunny was hopping around and found the squirrel. “Hi. Want to play?”
“Yes. Let’s play!”
And they did, all day long.
When bunny got home, he was so happy.
His mom asked him, “Where were you?”
“Playing with squirrel!”
“Great. You found a new friend.”
“Yes. And he’s cool. Thank you, Mom.”
~ Robert C 2012
Thanks for being my new friend and being so flippin cool ~ Sam š
I talk to my higher power a lot. All day really. I talk to my angels, Jesus, nature, God, my guardians of light, people who have passed on. And I continually examine my mind, my thoughts, my actions—all the time. I don’t know how to breathe without focusing on the light, on my journey, on my life’s calling.
But I am human. I falter. I stumble. I become fixated and obsessed. I worry. I forget. I forget my purpose and the gifts I carry.
Then the guilt comes. The analysis. The fret and worry. And I am engulfed in should and should nots. How I could be better, more perfect, less human. My mind spins in review of all the reasons I am not enough. All the sources I turn to instead of lightāthe things, the people. I make validation my idol. I make love of self my goal. I forget why I am here. I forget to release expectations. I forget I am love. I am perfection. I am pure light.
My gift is in my message. In my story. In my words. In my ability to share my truth from the depths of me.
But I forget.
Sometimes I realize that I am writing for my own interest.
Sometimes I write only to be heard or seen by one special person, a friend, a lover.
Sometimes I write in hopes of discovery.
Sometimes I write so someone, anyone, will take note.
Sometimes I write to count the number of like buttons hit on my blog.
Sometimes I write in hopes of the perfect comment from a reader.
Sometimes I write because if I do not I will absolutely explode.
I think of these reasons. And I weep.
I think these are wrong. I think I am wrong.
I cry and beg for forgiveness. For forgiveness for being human.
I plea to be led back to source. For release from my selfish ways.
I weep and weep.
I beat myself up.
My light dims.
Until spirit gently answers.
Like he always does.
In the kindest of ways.
In the form of a gift sent by a distant friend.
A box
that opens
To bubble wrap
Filled with
A mini-zoo of Ā plastic animals
Each animal with a small uplifting handwritten note attached
Like the rhino ~ stamina, solidity, a creature of substance and expansive power.
Each with a special message for my spirit
Like the Polar Bear ~ The embodiment of the spirit of the north–one who holds ancient wisdom and shamanic powers.
Everyday Asperger's 