Friday, June 21, 2019
But this post isn't about me. It's about you. I actually think about you a lot.
I'm thinking about the two divorces. You didn't come right out and say, but I noticed the changes, and the absence left behind by former spouses. You stopped talking about them.
I noticed two long term relationships ended. And when someone healed your hearts and made you happy again, those relationships failed and left you hurt and angry once more. More photos to delete.
I saw the financial struggle, and the difficult fix.
I see the grief for lost parents. Is it three or four fathers this year? A wonderful mother has gone as well.
I see the tired moms, and the PISSED OFF voters, the frustrated feminists.
Two of you are sick and yes, I've noticed your silence. You have me worried.
Someone is planning a wedding, but I don't know why you're upset. I'm still waiting for that PM.
I want to reach out and ask you all, but I tell myself that if it was my business, you would tell me.
Don't think I don't care, I do. But I don't know where to start. There's so many of you. You know how to find me, right? I'm always on Facebook, six days a week. I'm a click away, and you can have my number if you don't already.
If you see yourself here, please reach out. I'm thinking of you
Friday, April 5, 2019
You've been gone for two years now, as of Tuesday. We still dream about you, see signs of you everywhere. The loss still hurts, but your random messages help us through. I see all of your 'elevens', the angel numbers.
Your mother is overcoming pneumonia, at 96 she's still part part sugar, part solid rock. She scares me when she sees you in dreams. I know how much she misses you.
Your brother Arnold is fine. I watch him especially carefully, and now I can see the ache in his bones when he walks.
Mom and my sister are fine. Today I found them the perfect apartment--only twenty minutes away from me, in a community built for convenience with a bus stop outside and a shopping center next door. There's a grocery store, a clinic, an optometrist, a bakery and much more. The apartment is on the ground floor, so Mom never has to worry about stairs or if the elevator breaks down. Oh, and it's huge!
I have a new job. It's part time and intimidating. I like it. It allows me unusual freedoms--like allowing me to make my own schedule, so I can help mom and Jody move and I can help take care of things. The troll is working too, so we're okay.
Your loss was so painful, so profound. I remember who reached out, and why. Now I use my experience to reach back whenever I can. It's odd how something so terrible can bring so many interesting and wonderful changes. We're recovering. We're growing again.
I'm still trying to write, but these days it's mostly editing. I know now it will be okay. I know soon things will be as normal as they can be in light of the circumstances. I know someday soon, I'm going to breathe again and I'll find the peace I need to create once more.
You may be gone, but you'll always be a part of us. We're already recovering our strength.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
|The red with the black tips.|
"I'm in a rut." I tell them. I haven't written, edited or even opened one of my files in a few weeks. Why?
Is it because I'm tired? Been off for three weeks. Is it because I'm still grieving? No. My heart has settled, and I'm dealing. Is it because it's January, and everything is cold, dark and dreary? Maybe. Everyone around me feels that too.
My birthday is around the corner, and there's a new meme circulating on Facebook. It wants to know how we AGED.
Oh dear God, if you follow me on Facebook, Twitter, Linked In or Instagram you may have noticed that there aren't many pictures of me. I don't like how I look. I have an oval shaped head. I have acne in my wrinkles and Rosacea on my acne scars. My dislike of sitting in a hairdressers chair means I frequently need a haircut. And I'm bored with blonde, I only keep it now because it's easy--
"You're bored with blonde?" Rita asks. "Do you have a different color in mind? What did you feel confident in?" We talked about the red. We talked about the red,black and blonde and how hard it was to maintain. We talked about the red with the black tips.
Remember the eighties? All those wild hair colors? I remember wishing I could wear them, but I was too young then and I wasn't really allowed. And I wished I could do that now.
"Why not?" Rita asks. BECAUSE, I tell her. I'm almost 47 years old. It's going to look stupid. When I was seventeen, I saw a thirty-something soccer mom in a Metallica T-Shirt, and it insulted my eyes. I knew her too....No way that women owned a Metallica album.
"People like you can still pull that off." Melaida says. "Some people still have that spirit with them, and it doesn't look silly."
I thought of an old friend of my husband's, who envied my metal shirts. "Why don't you wear them?" He asked. I felt like I was too old for them, I explained. I was afraid of looking like I didn't belong in them. "But you do." He said, "Those are your bands. That's part of who you are."
The more thought I give to all this, the more I became convinced that I am denying my true self. I'm in a rut, because the real me has to bust out. So here's what I did...
|Holy shit...I feel pretty!|
You know what? It's exactly what I needed. I needed the bright hair and the shouty black lipstick. I realize now, I'm not comfortable with looking normal. It makes me feel frumpy. I don't see me applying for jobs or hanging in pubs looking like this, but it feels good. Yeah, I've grown older, but who says I have to feel or look old?
I can honestly tell you that this is the very first time since I had my photo taken professionally that I've liked a picture of myself. Oh, it feels AWESOME! I feel like I can conquer those worlds I love to blurt through my fingers. I'm excited to be myself again.
If you'll excuse me, my blue hair and I have some snarling, sassy bitches to create.