Balls!

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My inner 12 year old enjoys the abundance of balls in the kitchen right now. My roomie’s mom likes to send him things like huge tins of almond rocha and boxes of Ferrero Rocher candy, the chocolate hazelnut balls wrapped in gold foil. This leads to lots of jokes about holding my roommate’s balls, eating his balls, enjoying them and so forth. (Hey now, note the disclaimer of inner immaturity above)

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A few nights ago I was making some sort of rice and leftover mystery bean soup/chili I found in the freezer thing. As I’m working my magic, I pop a chocolate ball in my mouth. Yum! Well, my roommate also usually keeps bags of meatballs in the freezer…… you can see where this is headed, right?

J: (Walks in, opens freezer) You know, you can add some of these if you want.
Me: Oh my god! What do you want me to do with these? I’ve already got one of your balls in my mouth right now!
J: (Snorts) Just put them in the toaster oven.
Me: ALL OF THEM?
J: Sure. That would be good.
Me: How long do you want them in for? The package says 30 minutes.
J: They’re already cooked.
Me: So you want me to try warming your balls for what, 20 minutes?
J: That sounds good.
Me: That’s what HE said!

Never gets old!

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Anyway, dinner was quite tasty mmmm. We enjoyed my roommate’s tasty balls!

It seems like balls were just everywhere this week. The next day, I had boba tea and sucked a lot of balls, gelatinous but firm, into my mouth.

Then this happened:

I was just minding my own business watching season Two of,  Sneaky Pete on Amazon, when the internet glitched for a moment.

The scene: Giovanni Ribisi stepping out of the shower and when surprised, he quickly covers his naughty bits. Then he removes his hands and….

Frozen, full frontal.

Um…..For a moment, I feel like a perv, but then I think of all the opportunities men have taken to freeze (in the old days) VHS tapes of Jamie Lee Curtis (and other actresses) nude in films and now just do screen grabs and somehow 10 seconds of staring at naked man junk attached to a nice bod (which may or may not actually be Giovanni Ribisi’s) doesn’t feel so gratuitous.

Um. Thanks Comcast, Amazon, Internet fairies…I guess?

Balls. Everything full circle.

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Thoughts on Loneliness

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I’m not lonely. I just feel lonely in this moment.

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Why are we humans so afraid of being alone?
Why do we perceive loneliness as an undesirable thing?
Why is the act of taking or being given a moment of solitude where our hands, eyes, mouth, mind and heart aren’t busy so disconcerting?
Why is an uncomfortable feeling automatically viewed as negative or detrimental by so many of us?

Loneliness in the moment is a good thing. A moment passes.
The loneliness reminds us of our desires, our needs.
It allows us to feel grateful for moments that are shared, moments that are full.
It guides us, gives us perspective.
Loneliness is contemplation.
Loneliness has been the fuel for periods of productivity, personal growth and great art.
When loneliness is shared through art, we all can identify with it because loneliness is a universally shared feeling. Experiencing loneliness is a big part of what it is to be human. It drives our desire to reach out.

Loneliness is what we choose make of it. We can embrace it and put it to good use or we can spiral down into it until we are lost!

I recently saw an article that conflated the correlation between loneliness and shorter life span to not having a love relationship and shorter lifespan. It completely missed how many people in relationships are heartbreakingly lonely. I am not involved in a  romantic relationship at the moment. Sure, there is part of me that would like to be, and oh do I miss sex which for me needs meaningful connection if I’m going to enjoy it, but the realities of the situation are that I do not get out much to meet people, online dating is an additional layer of hell for people my age.  I would rather hold out for someone who actually sees me for the amazing person I am with all my flaws and all of my glories and will treat me with respect and be able to feel the same about a partner than settle simply because I do not want to be alone. I have wasted a lot of time putting up with partners dumping abuse and baggage on me, I think it’s reasonable to prefer being single to doing that again.

But none of this means I am fully alone or that 24/7 loneliness is a given. Yes, I am lonely, but it is usually fleeting. There is so much that is not lonely about my life. My loneliness is not hollow, it is rich and present. I have learned to see it as a gift.

Disclaimer: This does not mean I have stopped hoping for a Scottish husband (or lady). You’ll have to pull this fantasy from my cold dead hands. *Those who know me are aware of my lifelong desire to visit and move to Scotland. There is also a running theory that the reason I have not found my true love is that they live in Scotland and I, alas am stuck here.

My Shoes!

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I’m finishing and loading up a bunch of things today, because I had that marvelous combination of time, internet access and my neuropathy being veddy, veddy quiet. Enjoy!

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“You can’t understand someone until youve walked a mile in their shoes.”

What a ridiculous idea! I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes for two steps and I won’t let you walk a mile in mine. I wouldn’t even let you walk around the block in them.

This is my path. My pain. My difficult road. And sometimes, it’s my easy street. You couldn’t stand to wear my shoes for a minute. Stop looking at them.

This isn’t some kind of challenge. And walking in my shoes won’t make you more empathetic or less judgemental. You’ll just end up pissed off with sore toes and a twisted ankle.

Oh, it’s possible the whole experience would give you some fleeting respect, a little awe for how I’ve managed to traverse such uneven ground in mismatched shoes for all these years. You might marvel at how most of the scars from my falls ended up on my insides instead of on my knees. But your appreciation won’t last because after you’ve taken your pity tour, you’ll be tottering along in your own shoes again, feeling quite superior. While you’re strolling easily or scrambling over debris in YOUR path, you’ll forget all about walking a mile or a minute of mine, although from time to time it may cross your mind that you’re glad you don’t have to.

I’ll let you in on a little secret because I know you won’t remember it next time we meet. I don’t always walk in my shoes either. Sometimes I kick them off and run completely off track for a while plunging my bare feet in sand or wiggling my toes in the grass. Sometimes I stop and lie flat on my back and thrust my feet into the cool night air and laugh at the sensation of lightness.

Sometimes I think subversive thoughts about not putting them back on again or just buying a new pair. But, no, they’re my shoes. Sometimes; a comfortable old friend, sometimes a particularly cruel bully that shadows me home, taking my refuge. Some days they hurt me to my bones, other days they soothes my soles.

I’ll walk in them until they become ghosts. When they fall off in tatters, I’ll walk barefoot until the sun sets.

LM – 2014 / 2016 /2017

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Some Thoughts About Motivation

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I am, as Carrie Fisher used to say about herself, an over-sharer. I have been jokingly referred to as, the Queen of T.M.I. I share liberally and personally. I process out loud, frequently about my health issues, how I wrestle with depression, anxiety and PTSD, abuse I have taken the brunt of, family, life experiences.

Sometimes people balk or take offense at this. They tell me it’s too personal, that I should keep it to myself, that what I share is inappropriate for Facebook or a blog. This used to be something that occurred more frequently. But now, I think the people who were offended have gotten used to it, given up or it’s just finally sunk in, why it is appropriate.

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I do it for me.

I learned a long time ago that returning the shame to the person it actually belongs to, means no more secrets and no more silence. I don’t have to name names, but speaking about my experience out loud makes it real, makes it less painful and it means I am no longer a conspirator. I separate myself from the person who put me through the trauma and become the person surviving it. Why should I be ashamed for what was done to me (or for the resulting life issues) or worry about embarrassing the perpetrator? I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed and embarrassed about. That shame belongs to them! Continue reading

Not Even A Monday

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Sometimes things get so dark and for stupid, completely avoidable, reasons.

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I believe this illustration is by an illustrator named, Laura Barrett

Too late; you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. Even worse, you followed someone else down the rabbit hole!

Ironically, it makes sense to you now. You know what all the fuss was about and it was ultimately kind of insignificant, but you went there anyway! You dived in headlong, stupid girl! Now, it’s dark, slippery and you’ve got a root wrapped so tight around your ankle that it’s not going to be easy, in fact, it just might be impossible to climb your way out.

Damn! That hurts! Oh, Damn! That was humiliating too.

As you are stuck down there you can’t help but think about how you got yourself into this pickle. You know it’s going to be a good while before you can extricate yourself and scrabble your way up out of the gloom. After a while you start to wonder if you even want to bother attempting to extract yourself. You’re bleeding pretty badly and it just doesn’t seem worth the effort.

This didn’t have to happen. It was a perfectly good day. It’s not even a Monday.

LM 2013/2016

*Since I haven’t been posting in some time I am combing through things I wrote and didn’t post and expanding on them a bit.

Trickle

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desert
I am weary of being scared. Fear is simultaneously very real and just plain pointless. Fear is a bully!
 
Freedom is at once with me and illusive. I would like to be free but freedom without the means to choose my situation is just another kind of trap. I keep thinking there has to be a way; a way out, a way ahead, a way through or even a way to accept, Yes, I keep thinking there has to be a way, but I have not found it yet,
 
I keep thinking if I was younger, prettier, more energetic and able; if I was less ethical I might be able to use those things to my advantage. However, I am not any of those things.
 
I have tools. I lay out the tools I have on the table in front of me but my fingers merely fumble with most of them.
 
I look back over my shoulder into that dark and treacherous place and I refuse to go back. I look forward into the shifting fog. I look up at the blinding sun. I look down at my feet and I can for fleeting moments I can feel my roots. I am strong and grounded. Then the earth cracks, breaks and rumbles to remind me that it is difficult to keep my balance. I look inward at my wounds, some healing, some tenaciously festering and I see where I have been. It is a place and time where angels covered their ears and would not tread.
 
I find myself marvelling at all the brutality I survived with astonishing resilience. How did I manage to keep opening up my heart? How did I determine to keep trying to trust, to forgive, to love? Yet, now my heart finally closes, hardens, becomes wary, cynical over much smaller offenses! The clock is winding down and I have more happiness yet more frustration than ever before.
 
All I ever wanted was to be loved and cared for. All I ever wanted was to give love, to share, to help others by word, deed and through my art and music. I wanted to let all this creativity and care flow to the ocean in a torrent but all I can do is let it trickle through a straw in the hopes that someone who is thirsty will find it and drink.
 
-LM September, 2015