Day 159: Can a Silent Keyboard Equal a Healthy Mind?

I forgot to write my blog yesterday – or today, because I’m going to cheat and make this day 159 and write another one later for today, day 160. It’s not so much that I totally forgot, I mean I remembered that I needed to write it and I was planning on it, but I just never did it. Also, I had a solid night’s sleep (with the aid of Nyquil), which is rare for me. The only conclusion I can draw from this unprecedented lapse in blogging after 158 days of consistency despite depression, drunkenness, vacation and illness is that I’m in a better place. Which sounds stupid even to me, but possibly true nonetheless.

I started this blog because I felt lost. Lost in my personal relationships, lost in my career, lost in the world. Writing centers me in a way. I allow myself to confide intimate details of my life and emotional health to a public forum and in that way it is like releasing a bit of the burden I keep lugging around. You are my very own 12 step program, except I am far from helpless, I don’t believe in a higher power and it has 365 steps instead of 12. Even so, I feel like this is my safe place and that rather than the accompanying anonymity necessary for a typical 12-step, it is the very public nature of this forum that gives me my anonymity.

Sounds contradictory, I know, but such is my nature. I moved to New York City to get lost and feel anonymous and this blog is my replacement Manhattan. Only in a truly public forum can you give your inner self flight. A typical program like AA allows you to bare yourself in front of your peers and the comfort in that, is the fact that because they are your peers, they cannot judge you. The addict remains secreted away, safe in the knowledge that no one knows and therefore no one else can judge. It’s different for me and this blog. I heal not because I’m a secret, I am healing because for the first time in my life I’m letting you in. You get to see all the crazy, all the insecurity, all the raw emotion usually hidden behind my tough exterior.

I guess the fact that after 158 days of self-indulgent whining I forgot and did so rather peacefully, is indicative that it’s working. I feel stronger, more focused and more like myself. Judge away, I’ve given you all more than enough material and I’m okay with that. Should you decide to judge (and in some small way we all judge each other all the time), it will not weaken what I’ve built. This is what my ability to forget led me to and in a way that is a blog in itself. The public disclosures and clumsily written missives are giving me what I need most: the ability to feel okay despite a silent keyboard.

Day 158: The Personal Side of the Business of War

Five years of togetherness and I learn more about the husband’s profession via stilted conversations over spotty phone connections than I have living with him. Sometimes you hear more in what is not said. Here’s a recent example, I don’t know if anyone else will find this interesting, but it continually surprises me how normal his world is to him and how unfathomable it is to me.

“Why are you calling so late, it must be almost 4am there?” I ask.

“Mission,” he responds.

“Another one? You’re leaving in a little over week, why are you still doing missions?”

“I’m doing ops right now, I’ll be going out in a bit.”

“So you’re safe, you’re still on base?”

“Right now. This is a good one, we need to do this.”

“Are you capturing someone? What are you going to do with him if you catch him? Do you torture him?” I ask naively.

“What? We don’t torture people, who do you think we are?”

“The Army,” I say simply.

He laughs, then to someone else he says, “My feed is frozen, are the guys still there?”

“You have a feed? What kind of feed are you looking at?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Then, again to someone else and slightly concerned, “Hey, what happened?”

“What’s going on?” I ask, trying to be matter of fact.

“The power went out.”

“On your feed or at the base?”

“The base.”

“Are you okay, what does that mean?” Now I am a little panicked.

“That’s not good. I’ve got to go. I love you.”

“Okay, but call me when you get back or email. Let me know you’re safe.”

“It will be a while, but I’ll try.”

Then the line goes dead and I’m left to wonder about the mission, why the power is out, and when I will hear from him.

This is a far cry from the life we led in New York. The most covert thing he did back then was to try to look sober while hailing a cab. This is a strange life and I don’t think I really understand it very well. He seemed genuinely shocked that I might think they torture people and I am equally shocked that at least one part of the mission has them watching some sort of video of the guy like shoplifting security at Target.

Eight hours later the phone wakes me up. It’s Jeff.

“Hi baby. Just wanted to let you know I’m safe because I promised to call.”

“Were you successful, did you get what wanted?”

“Yes. We caught a very bad man. A very, very bad man.”

“Well what happens to him now?”

“We turn him over to the Iraqi’s.”

“What do they do?”

Silence. I know this game well enough to know that he disapproves of the answer to that question. From my own reading of various articles, I presume that the Iraqi’s will drag their feet for a few weeks or months and then let him go for lack of evidence.

Instead of answering he says, “okay, go back to sleep. I just wanted to let you know I got back okay.”

And that’s it. This is a typical conversation in which not a lot is said, but I understand some things I didn’t before. I wonder if the soldiers who suffer PTSD suffer more because they don’t talk about it, or because they do talk about it and keep reliving it. Jeff has never had those types of problems and I think it is especially telling that while he is able to discern that one person might be “very bad” he also approaches a mission to capture said man as another work task. This is all part of the job to him. So while my mind swims with media induced visions of torture, death and mystery, he’s just going to work. Still, I guess it’s not really my fault. I mean, my next mission involves a marshmallow and hot cocoa, so we may not be on the same page.

Day 157: Can the 6-Year-Old in Any of us Survive?

So after the last week of feeling sorry for myself because I am sick and unable to get off the couch I now not only have a cough, sore throat, running nose, congestion and a headache, but I have a serious case of shame. I just read a story about 6-year-old Elena Desserich who died from brain cancer. She lived 120 days longer than the 135 day diagnosis she was given just before her sixth birthday. During that time Elena wrote hundreds of love notes and hid them throughout her house for her parents to find. Her Mother says each time they find one it is like getting a hug from her.

Well hell, that kind of takes the wind out of my pity party sails. I have lived 31 years longer than Elena and have a nasty cold and headache, but have not done anything more ambitious than make a fruit smoothie to sooth my throat. A story like this is so uplifting, so positive, so heartwarming . . . how do you function in a world in which a spirit so strong was extinguished so young? Elena was a truly amazing little girl and it only makes me wonder what kind of woman she might have become. Could something that pure and strong and full of love even survived adolescence? Do we all start out like that only to have life beat it out of us?

I believe in natural selection, but when someone so full of all the qualities of good and righteousness loses her journey at such a young age it makes me wonder. Survival of the fittest yes, but fit for what? If the good and pure are dying before their 7^th birthdays then are those of us who survive fit only for a tougher world, a world where pure love and hope has no place? We all become somewhat jaded as we get older, but reading about Elena it makes me wonder what a world full of Elenas would be like. Is there even room for an Elena in the every day reality of a harsh world? I hope there is and I hope that same spirit and strength exists somewhere inside all of us, if just a little. Maybe in that way Elena will live on and every time one of us does something good just for the sake of goodness it will be like we are giving Elena a hug.

***Elena's parents have published her notes in a book to raise money for the charitable foundation they started for pediatric cancer. For more information, about Elena, the book or the charity use this link: http://www.notesleftbehind.com/

Day 156: The Sickness Quiets the Voices and Brings Out the Uglies

I am part of the walking dead or half-dead or just those that feel like they are half-dead. It’s this stupid cold. Every day I think this is the apex of my cold-dom and then I am surprised anew when on the following day it is worse still. For five days I have had increasing bouts of coughing, sneezing, headaches, runny nose, sore throat, loss of voice and a general ugliness about the face area. At this point I realize that my life has taken on a new set of priorities and they pretty much all consist of nouns.

My day starts like this: dead asleep dreaming about mullets to a wide awake coughing fit causing full body spasms that shake me so hard the blankets slide to the floor and my abs are sore as if from a workout. Then the mental discussion sets in. "Awake. Coughing. Shower. Ugh. Pajama pants. Robe. Cat. Sneezing. Shower. Couch. Juice. Pillow. Ugh. Coughing. TV. Cat. Tissue." On and on it goes for five days straight. I am so sick and exhausted at this point that adjectives, articles and most verbs are just gone from my vocabulary. How and why does this happen? I can type well enough, I mean most of what I’ve blogged the last several days has been in complete sentences, so why am I unable to communicate fully with myself? It is through this that I realize now just how fully I vary from normal people. Whereas I spend my time talking to myself in a ceaseless internal (and sometimes external, who am I kidding) monologue, other people realize that they are actually only one person and do not need to tell themselves things.

For instance, as a normal person you probably just think “juice” to yourself then go the fridge and pour yourself a glass. Not me. Oh no, in Ame-dom I have a discussion with myself first.

“Hmm. I’m thirsty and my throat hurts, I need a beverage.”

“What do you think, water, Cherry Zero, hot tea? What do you want?”

“I don’t know. Juice. Do we have any juice, I want juice.”

“Well, let’s amble over to the fridge and see what we’ve got, maybe there’s juice. Did you buy some at the store last time?”

This is my normal conversation WITH MYSELF. Apparently, this is not how the rest of you interact with yourself. In fact, I’ve been told that most people don’t really interact per se, because they recognize they are just one person and therefore you don’t need to “interact.” Whatever. I have always talked to myself and been willing to admit that, but it wasn’t until I got sick this week and started communicating with single words and without the discussion that I actually started to understand. I think I am so sick that my other voices are all out of commission. I’m hoping none of them have the swine flu; that would suck. I’m planning to rebound in a day or two and I’m going to need someone with whom to discuss that juice situation.

Day 155: A Bit of This and a Bit of That

Lot’s of stupid little things running through my mind today. Nothing coherent enough to create a blog out of on its own, so I’m slapping them all together and calling it Day 155. So this is what’s on my mind right about now.

Legalizing marijuana. Some blogs and articles I’ve recently read suggest we are very near to a point that the legalization of marijuana might actually happen. I am trying to come up with a position on this as it is a rare occasion that I am sans perspective, but honestly, I’ve got nothing. I just cannot be bothered to care about this. I think hemp is great as a plant resource. It has something like 25,000 uses aside from getting college kids high. As for smoking it, I don’t think it’s the worst thing you can do and it doesn’t actually seem difficult to procure so does it really matter? On the plus side if it gets rid of annoying dealers than I would be for it. I know a couple who deals, both of jobs out side the home and despite being together for a long time and having children, including a young one at home, they continued to deal fairly openly and now surprise! Their kids are a mess. They do drugs, drink, had children while still teens, didn’t finish school or go to college and have little prospects aside from hourly wage work at back breaking jobs. Dealing drugs illegally creates a vicious circle of the economically depressed. They deal to make extra cash, but the association with the drug prevents them from being successful in other ways which resorts to their dependence on dealing. Aside from the dealing aspect though, and medical use which of course I am in favor of, I really don’t care. I don’t smoke and it rarely enters my life view. Smoke if you got ‘em, whatever.

The other night, I happened to catch an episode of a television show called “Ghost Whisperer.” If you haven’t seen it, this show stars Jennifer Love Hewitt as a chick who sees ghosts and helps them crossover. I’ve watched it a few times and every time I think to myself how stupid it is, but the husband character is hot so what the hell. Anyway, I’ve got a beef with this show and specifically with Love Hewitt’s eye makeup. This is an attractive woman, she doesn’t appear to need a lot of help to be pretty and yet in every episode I’ve watched she has so much navy and black eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara caked on as to make her eyes look like endless pits of blackness. To make it worse she has ridiculously long hair that is always curled in a massive sheath around her fairly small head. Way, way, WAY overdone Hewitt and who the hell wears that much makeup and hair in a tiny town at nine in the morning? The last few times I’ve watched this show (okay, sometimes I catch a rerun in syndication too) it’s just to marvel at how much freakin’ makeup this chick has on. I know there have been days when before I head out the door I think, “Hmm, do I have on too much for a Tuesday”? If I’m thinking that of my neutral toned cosmetics how do you look at a chick who looks more like a stage performer at Vegas show and pretend she lives in small town USA and is normal? Uh-uh. Ain’t happening Hollywood.

Rhianna is all set to talk about her Brown beating on some morning show Tuesday. I have no beef with Brown being punished for his vicious attack; abuse is never cool. What I have a slight objection to is the fact that no one seems to remember that when this story broke it also came out that the couple had physical altercations in the past, including that night, in which Rhianna punched or hit Brown. Personally, I never think it’s okay to hit anyone, but if I hit Jeff (or any other guy) then I believe that gives him the right to hit back. Just because I’m smaller or a woman it’s okay to hit a guy? Um, what’s the point of equality if we only employ it when it suits our purposes? Now there is a caveat. If I hit Jeff I don’t think he should necessarily lay me out, I mean, he is quite a bit bigger and stronger than me so that would be overkill, but turn about is fair play. It’s not cool to lose your temper and wail on a guy just because you know he can’t hit you back. Maybe Brown wouldn’t have had to raise the pimp hand if Rhianna hadn’t hit him first. Okay, I’m totally kidding about that, he was brutal and clearly needs help.

Hailey Glassman is making me somewhat sad. For one thing, I am sad that I know who Hailey Glassman is. I don’t want to know personal details about Jon and Kate Gosselin, but they are everywhere so it’s difficult to ignore. Last night I saw a photo of Jon and Hailey and I just felt so bad for Hailey. Not because of Jon, no, she got herself into that nightmare. I feel sorry for her because she’s what, 22? The girl is at an age when most of us look our best. It is unlikely she will ever look better and yet she’s not looking good. No sense of style, bad body and not attractive and dude, her parents are plastic surgeons. That just made me sad. She has every resource available to her, money, plastic surgery, and youth and she’s a train wreck. Wait till your metabolism goes and the wrinkles start at 35 honey, you’re in for a long road.

Finally, and this might be my favorite. There was a story about how Kate Moss has a fuller figure these days rather than her stick then frame of the past. Shocking. Perhaps the media is unaware of the effect coke, heroin or crack has on the weight of users? Doesn’t really seem to require a braintrust to figure out that when Moss stopped being a cokehead she might return to a normal weight. Hell, why do you think I want to be a cokehead? Super skinny and energy to burn? Hell yeah! If I had the cash, a dealer and the ability to remember where I put things, I’d be snorted my way to a size 0.

Anyway, that’s just what’s on my mind. Cheers.

Day 154: Thanks for Appreciating an Acquired Taste

Sometimes we search and search for what we need and just when we’re about to give up, turning away empty handed, we find it in the unsought corner. Today I learned an important lesson from a friend and it is a friend I didn’t even really know I had. Friendship is formed and found in the unselfish acts, a kindness done simply because someone needs us. Yet why is it we so often define for ourselves what we need and where to find it without ever really considering if it’s true? Expecting one outcome does not guarantee its arrival. We do this all the time, we fall in love with someone and despite no encouragement from him or her we convince ourselves they are who we need. We are willing to forgive all sorts of things, or even to believe things, based not on truth, but on what we want to see and to believe. What I am learning, however, is to stop trying to find what may not be there and instead, to recognize what is.

Life is not lived as a solo activity. We need people and we are responsible to and for other people. Sometimes though, we get so fixated on certain relationships that we miss the truth and supplant it with one of our own. People can’t be who we want them to be and we focus so minutely on trying to make something work – the clichéd square peg in the round hole – we miss out on what we already have. This too, I believe is a formula used commonly in the romantic comedy genre, but cliché or not, it is still true. When you realize you have been beating yourself up for disappointing all the wrong people make sure to also notice all the others who cherish you and support you just for being flawed person you are.

We define ourselves through our flaws as much as our wonderful and easy to love characteristics, but more than that, our true friends are defined by how they react to the discovery of those flaws. It’s easy to love perfect and happy, that’s why everyone loves babies, they have yet to develop annoying character traits. When was the last time you heard someone call a toddler an asshole? Well, there’s a reason for that, toddlers and babies have yet to learn to offend people or to have strong opinions outside of liking pears and hating peas. It’s easy to like what doesn’t offend, I mean come on, everyone hates peas. Some people are more like Brussels sprouts, they are an acquired taste, but for those smart few who take the time to appreciate them something wonderful is waiting to be discovered. Thank you, unexpected friend, for taking the time to care about Brussels sprouts.

Day 153: Horrors of Halloweens Past

Halloween evokes a variety of horrors for people: scary movies full of zombies, blood, supernatural forces and maniacal killers; haunted houses with unexplained noises and moving objects, demons and goblins possessing the living or animals. Whatever your horror I can promise you it does not come close to the real life Halloween horror I lived through as a child. Year after year I was forced to face my fear head-on with no supervision, guidance or protection. Each year as Halloween approached I felt the knot tighten in my stomach and that feeling of dread slowly spread through me. While other children excitedly ran about with fantasies of their costumes and parties I was left alone to ponder the nightmare I would soon face. What would I dress up as for Halloween?

Not like other children, I never enjoyed the dreaded holiday of Halloween. I loved the candy, but not the costume part of it. My Mother, though a thoroughly domestic woman, detested sewing and never learned how to make costumes, nor was she creative in helping to design them. That meant that every year while other children excitedly paraded around the school Halloween party anxiously awaiting the results of the costume contest, I was trying to make myself invisible, horrified at my catastrophic get-up and wishing the whole nightmare would soon be over.

The combination of no creative talent and being relatively poor meant that my costume was always either the plastic store bought one that came in a box off the shelf at Walgreen’s or else one that I was forced to cobble together out of my own clothes and whatever homemade accessories I could find. Children love Halloween because they relish the opportunity to show off their talent at playing dress up. Parents too, get in on the act and take pride in having the best-dressed child at the party. My Mom was not the type to use her children to make herself feel good and she never quite understood the importance it held in a child’s eyes. This was likely because my Mother was bedridden for three years as a child and did not get to experience Halloween like we do now. Her own particular horror I suppose as she lay in bed withering beneath the sheets in a darkened room, year after year.

For me, Halloween calls up memories of embarrassment and cold sweats from the stress of trying to not be that kid with the dumb costume. Many a year I went as a gypsy utilizing my Mom and Grams’ jewelry, long skirts and even those crocheted doilies as bracelets or weird collars. Past years also saw me dress as a garbage bag, a ghost (simple sheet with holes cut in it) and even a cheerleader with crepe paper pompons because we couldn’t afford to buy those plastic ones everyone had when we were kids. I don’t remember what my brother used to dress up as, but I think Mom helped him more (she was of the generation that believed women were there to help and serve men). He was a cowboy once, I think, and a cute one. I do remember him loving Halloween and always hauled in twice the candy I collected.

Still, there was never enough candy to make up for the embarrassment of being the kid in the ghetto costume. As an adult I have enjoyed one really good Halloween and that was a few years ago with my husband. We went all out with our costumes and had a fantastic night with friends, but even that one great year cannot stamp out the dread I feel each year as this day approaches. Now we don’t even have candy to ease the pain of a bad costume. No one really trick or treats anymore. It’s become another organized activity with too much parental supervision. I prefer a quiet night at home. Should I feel the need for horror I’d rather pop in “Dawn of the Dead” then relive the nightmares of costumes past. Just the fact that I once coveted the role of cheerleader, as bad as my homemade costume was, makes me shudder. No amount of candy is worth that humiliation.