Picking the Scarier Path

Two dirt paths, each exciting in their own way. They began at my feet, but ran off in completely different directions. Both disappeared into clouds of mist. Unsure of which way to go, I was lost in that mist for a very long time.

One trail took me home to Alaska; bringing me to the place I love more than life and where I can find the only two things I love more than Alaska – my nephews. I would finally be home.

The second way led me somewhere new; a place I’d never been before and where I knew no one. It would mean the lack of a safety net and the very unlikely reality of success.

~*~

Put starkly like that on (virtual) paper, the answer seems obvious. I should go home, where I could actually be part of my family. I could witness my nephews’ lives and they could know me. I would have a safe space at my mom’s that would allow me time to get a good job and start creating a more solid, permanent life. Most of all, I miss Alaska. It is the only place I feel complete and I want to be there every single day.

Still, I just could not shake the knowing that I would be returning home without proving what I set first out to prove (to myself) when I left Alaska seven years ago. I can’t quite put into words exactly what that is, but it falls somewhere along the line of bravery and adventure and taking risks. It meant never having to wonder ‘What if…’.

I went round, upside down and sideways in my head for months trying to work out which path should become my road, and it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I really listened to what my heart was saying. Then I did, and I had to admit that it didn’t matter how many good, real reasons I had for Alaska. There could be hundreds, together equaling 99% of the driving force behind my decision, but that remaining 1% would be because just going home was easier, safer and less scary. I would have gone home because of fear and I would have regretted it for the rest of my life.

~*~

So I’m going to Washington. I know people who live there, but not any (to my knowledge) in the city I’ve picked. Bellingham is about 1 ½ hours north of Seattle. It’s right on the water, near mountains and has clean air. There is a ton of hiking trails, many waterfalls, and three independent bookstores. Also, it has a lot of coffee shops. I’m going to try to make it my new home.

I have enough money to get me there and afford a place for five weeks. I’ll give my absolute best to find a job and a more permanent place to live, but I know I face the very strong likelihood that my best might not be enough. 

Fear and terror do not even begin to describe the swirling tornado that’s existed inside me the past couple weeks. I am nervous about my car making the trip. I've been worried to tears over how Faelina will do. I'm terrified that I will end this journey with no money left in my bank account. I am facing the very real possibility of failure, and of the people in my life knowing that I failed. About once a day I get the sensation that the safe, solid ground I’m standing upon has not only become Kjeragbolten (that big rock in Norway), but the rock has finally slipped from the mountain’s grasp and is taking me with it. It's a hard sensation to come back from. And yet...

“…Every choice feeds every choice that comes after, whether we want those choices or no…”

I read this line in ‘Every Heart a Doorway’, the first of the fantastic Wayward Children’s series by Seanan McGuire. My mind and body gave an electric jolt when I first read them, because they so simply expressed what I was afraid of most.

~*~

Three years ago, I was confused and so unsure of what I wanted. When my best friend offered me the chance to come live with her I agreed. In part, it was because I loved the idea of being able to see Stephanie more than a couple times year (if that), but it was also the easier, less frightening alternative to picking a state where I knew no one. I don’t regret that decision but I also didn’t want to continue down a path wherein I always chose the easier option. Doing that turns a decision into a pattern and then a habit, one that becomes increasingly hard to break with each successive choice. Washington my not work out, but I'll at least know that was brave enough and capable enough to go for it and doing so will feed into future opportunites to chase after new adventures as they arise.

If I can't find work, I should have just barely enough cash to get me and Faelina home. I'm ok with that alternative. Like I said earlier I miss Alaska. I miss my nephews, and there is a big part of me that despises myself for choosing me over them. I have to do it this way though, because I can't live with myself forever wondering and I will not live a life driven by fear.

*~*~*

Change, Adventure, Dreams - Round Two

"Don't get me wrong, I am very nervous about being unemployed. I’ll still have rent to pay, student loans, and all the other miscellaneous bills that come with being an adult. But if I go through life making choices based solely on fear of how I’ll pay bills then I know I will wake up 20-30 years from now to a life that hasn’t truly been lived. And isn't that kind of what life's about - to seek out the tumbling dance of your dreams and laugh at fear if it tries to stop you? ... It's been too long since I've left everything completely up to chance, so accustomed I've grown to my normal habits and routine, pulling it on each day like a comfortable old sweater. It's time for me to take that off for good, to say hello to the unknown."

~*~*~

I wrote those words just over three years ago for a different post. Much has happened since then; a tremendous amount of good, a decent share of bad, and somewhere along the way I forgot what I had written. Instead I began clinging, not to an old comfy sweater but a threadbare rag; one that lulled me into a daze and promised a few shreds of security. I have an income that allows me to support myself. I have a little home that I love. I have my best friend. These three things fed my worst fears and overshadowed the aspects of myself I love most - my free spirit, my love of adventure, my belief in bravery.

Thankfully, my mind has decided to snap into clarity. Ultimately it comes down to this: I am not happy in Utah, nor have I been. There is a great deal of beauty and wonder in this state, as well as some phenomenal people, but it is not the place I am meant to be. So I've given notice - to my work, to my landlord, to myself. A new kind of journey has long been calling, and while I'm scared I'll find it a Siren's song, I finally see I have no choice but to answer. I must be brave. Three years ago I set out "to find my dragon". This time around I searching for a different creature, say a mermaid or perhaps a selkie.

Stay tuned...

*~*~*

Tell the Truth.......and zombies

“The difference between the truth and a lie is that both of them can hurt, but only one will take the time to heal you afterward”

The world is ending. The zombie apocalypse is actually going to take place. I say this because I am not only reading a book about zombies, but I’m loving it! For years, I have dismissed the zombie craze. I found nothing even remotely appealing about the reanimated dead hell bent on nothing but taking a bite out of living flesh. I have refused to watch movies and TV shows, and turned away from any book on the topic. I just did not get the excitement. All of those things remain true, and I think it still fairly unlikely that I will now start devouring zombie stories with the same fervor that they do flesh. But sometimes two completely conflicting truths decide to set up camp together and the person whose brain they’re using as a campsite will just have to deal with it. This happens to me all the time.

The book in question is ‘Feed’ by Mira Grant (aka Seanan McGuire), and it’s the first in her Newsflesh Trilogy. I did not set out to read a book about zombies, rather I wanted to read more by Mira Grant. A few months back, I picked up “Into the Drowning Deep” and it all but turned my world upside down – in a good way. Then I went to Barnes & Noble and saw ‘Feed’ on the shelves, and bought it without even glancing at the description on the cover. I’m about two-thirds of the way through and am completely obsessed. Grant has a way of creating worlds and characters that seem wonderfully possible in the most horrific of ways.

The purpose of this post however is not to wax poetic about my (high) level of excitement over this book. It has to do with the sentence I found buried deep inside it’s pages. It began this post and I’ll type again here:

“The difference between the truth and a lie is that both of them can hurt, but only one will take the time to heal you afterward”.

I wish I could say that I have never uttered or acted out a lie, but that of course would be another lie. When I was young, I didn’t get the damage that lies could cause to others, or myself, and I regrettably acted accordingly. Over the years though I saw, and felt, the pain lies cause. I’ve worked hard to better myself and do my level best to never speak an untruth. While I am not perfect (and never will be) I know I’m improved and will only aspire to continue to.

Still, I know not everyone shares that same goal. Each day I am forced to face the cold reality that some people are deceptive to their very core and, even worse, a few of those actually take pleasure in hurting people with their dishonesties. Sometimes I hear those stories on the news or read them in a book. Other times I experience it first hand in my own life and it hurts like hell every single time.

It is partly because of this and partly due to other life experiences (that I still don’t fully understand) that I’ve come to realize I have some serious trust issues. The older I get, the more I place increasing emphasis on the importance of truth and honesty, but there are very few people I would say have my true trust. I value those select few more than I would their weight in gold. Most people though, I take all they say with a grain of salt knowing there’s likely an ulterior motive beneath each word.

So I have a favor to ask. Be honest. At the very least let people know where they stand. I’m not necessarily recommending total brutal honesty (I'm definitely not advocating for you to cuss your boss out), but don’t pretend to befriend someone only to stab them in the back. Don’t say you’ll do something when you have zero intention of actually doing so. Don’t act like you’re 100% behind a plan or project and then do your level best to undermine and promote it’s failure. Be true to yourself too. Don’t be afraid to embrace your interests and passions and weirdness. Don’t invent a false image for the world to see. It not only hurts you in the long run, it can also create a sense of betrayal in those you’ve lied to once the truth comes out (and it always does). It's hard to do sometimes, and I'll say again that I'm definitely not perfect in this, but try.

There are some individuals I know personally, who lie and cheat and deceive with the best of them. I walk away from every encounter second guessing each word that came out of their mouth, and I hate it.  I would so much rather be around people who I know disagree with me politically, or tell my I’m nuts for liking Harry Potter so much, or who simply say they’re not my biggest fan. Because then I know I can trust them when they do agree with me on other issues.

 Grant’s words are true. Someone walking up to me to say they think I’m stupid or I’m horrible at my job or that I’m a complete utter failure will definitely sting. But at least I know my place in their world, which will allow me to adjust their place in mine and heal.

~*~*~

p.s. If you like zombies definitely check out ‘Feed’ and if you like mermaids – and think you could handle a little horror entwined with the myth – go get a copy of Into the Drowning Deep. I cannot recommend it enough!

*~*

Poem

I put this together for a project a Benchmark teacher initiated in honer of National Poetry Month. Since it's been a minute since my last post I decided to share it here. Make of it what you will...

I drift through this world

Fighting for balance between

Veiled mist and mediocre visibility

Searching for …. what?

                        Euphoria?

                Serenity?

                           Understanding?

I find only elusion; stumble instead upon

the serendipitous buzzing of bees

the anemic clang of forgotten bells

the realization that I am nothing

but an innocuous

Disaster

*~*~*

Simply Sitting

It was early and a layer of frost threatened to show itself, as I climbed into my car this past Sunday and pulled out of my driveway. Arriving at my destination a few minutes later, I parked and carefully zipped a thermos of coffee into my purse before walking inside the large building. I handed my purchased ticket to the taker and a minute later, was comfortably ensconced in the seat of my selection. As the lights of the vast room darkened, I leaned back, raised my newly freed cup of coffee to my hands for a sip, and spent the next 134 minutes blissfully content.  

~*~

Last January, I went to the theaters and saw a movie. I was fresh returned from a visit home and desperate for anything that would curb my mind away from the homesick sadness threatening to devour my wellbeing. When a a co-worker told me I just had to see La La Land I thought Why not?. I'd never gone to the movies alone before; I really enjoyed it. A week later I saw another movie but went to a different theater, one with those luxury recliner seats. I fell in love with those seats.

I've made many more visits to my local cinemas over the year, almost always with a contraband cup of coffee stowed inside my purse. Usually, I'll visit the Kaysville Theatre; it features films already out on DVD meaning cheaper tickets for me, but sometimes a movie looks too good to wait months for so I treat myself to a big-name theater with luxury seats. I've decided it's a fabulous way to kill a couple hours, with certain movies especially, but I've uncovered something else, a deeper benefit lurking beneath the fun.

Sitting is a struggle for me. I’ve shared that before. Since my eating disorder so graciously decided to call my brain was home, I have lived with a constant, ceaseless stream of orders that I stand all the time and move every single second of every single day. I fell prey to the lie that Relaxation = Bad, and spent so many years believing that to be true I have an incredibly hard time thinking otherwise.

I have made progress since going to Mercy. I sit more often at work. I can curl up in my home library and read for hours. I am able to spend a day in the car without dissolving into a full-blown panic attack. I still though, cannot dispense with the whisper; the hiss that underlies all those restful actions commanding me to ‘get up and walk around for fucks sake!’. (apologies for the language) It is so strongly compelling that more often than not I listen and any sitting hours are interspersed with frequent breaks to wash dishes or reorganize cabinets or even go out for a walk.

Going to the movies does wonders in helping to me to not hear those words, to discount the vicious ruse they so strongly promote. I'm not sure why, perhaps the speakers are too loud for me to hear anything else, or the fact that I know moving will disrupt others fun. It has become one of my favorite forms of self-care. A therapy of sorts,  slowly but surely helping me to re-discover how much joy can be found by simply sitting and doing nothing. That it's actually ok to sit in one position for more than 20 minutes at a time without hating yourself. That Relaxation = Wonderful = Important = Good for you!  Who knew.

So I will keep going to the movies. Not every week, perhaps not even every month, but often enough that I don't lose sight of this new (re)found knowledge. That there is peace to be found by watching a movie, simply sitting.

*~*

Parentheses Between Lies

You are sick. You’re not sure with what (yes you do) so you go to the doctor. The nice nurse takes you in the back, checks your vitals, takes a weight. Depending on what kind of day you’re having you either stare obsessively at the number on the scale or look resolutely away. The doctor enters the exam room, notes down all your symptoms. Finally they set your chart aside, look you in the eyes. ‘You are very sick’, they state, ‘if this continues there could be serious damage to your health’. They proceed to list some of the more severe outcomes: substantial bone density loss leading to early onset osteoporosis, body muscle being eaten away – muscle that includes the kidneys, brain and heart, and heart issues. “You could”, the doc goes on to say, “Fall asleep one night and never wake up. Or drop dead from a heart attack in the middle of crossing a crowded street”.

 You’re scared (petrified), understandably so, and ask the doctor about a cure. “Eat”, is their reply, “and not just fruits and vegetables. High protein is important and a lot of desserts. Initially you’re excited (so excited). I mean who doesn’t want to be told – by a doctor no less – to eat more ‘unhealthy’ foods. You leave the office, heading for home you make a quick stop at the grocery store. You grab a basket and pile it high with yogurts and peanut butter and your favorite cookies. Back at home, you take special care to put everything away, almost like it’s a ritual (your deep mind knows it is). Finally, the moment has come; you reach for your favorite plate, split open the papery package, and pull out a cookie. You set the remaining cookies in the cupboard for later then, turn to eat.

 Except you can’t. You stand by the counter. You stare at the plate. The cookie looks amazing; as big as your palm, thick, a bit of a crunch round its edges but soft and chewy closer to the middle. Chocolate chunks galore sprout from all surfaces and you know – from experience – that no other can best it in taste. Yet you can’t bring yourself to take a single bite, not even the edge of that chunk of chocolate sticking up higher than all the others.

 More time passes, minutes or possibly hours, and you ultimately decide that you just don’t feel like eating a cookie right now (a lie). You wrap it up carefully, put it back with the others. Decision made, you devote yourself to easier actions like jumping out of a plane or running barefoot across shards of glass. You’ll eat the cookie later, after you’ve earned the right to do so (you don’t need to earn it).

You never do. It never seems like the right time (it’s always the right time). After a few days you throw all of the treats into the dumpster. After all, you don’t really deserve them (yes you do) and you were probably misremembering how delicious they were (you’re not). The yogurts you bought too disappear, only down the sink drain instead of your throat. The peanut butter is saved, but you’re only allowed it once a week and only after you’ve exercised an entire day and not swallowed any food – or water come to that.

You recall, almost hourly, what the doctor told you. It does make you nervous, truly, because you love your life. You don’t want to die. There are nights you lie in bed for hours afraid to fall asleep, so worried you are that your heart will decide it has had enough and simply stop forever. The fear eats away at your already starved stomach.

The terror always fades in the morning (no, just hides). It’s replaced by dancing elation because you have felt a fluttering of heart pain or spotted a blue glimmer of veins shining through too thin skin. You shouldn’t be able to see those veins or glimpse bones protruding where they weren’t before. You know it’s bad (so bad), but you can’t help but feel a sick, twistful glee. Your body is crumbling. You might have a heart attack. Both are good things (both are terrible).

Some people notice but you discount their comments, evade all questions. You respond; half-lies and sliced-truths tumbling out of your mouth in such chaotic confusion you’re able to refocus their gaze, change what they see. You laugh at this victory and decide to skip your weekly peanut butter in celebration. You are in control, you are shrinking, you are winning (you are dying).

The day comes though when you’re not given a choice. You’re so weak you can’t think straight and you can barely rise from bed to workout (you shouldn’t, your body needs to rest). Someone comes and suddenly it’s no longer just the doctor who knows the truth. Suddenly, another’s strength overpowers your own (finally). You’re forced into a cage (you step into a car) and driven to a dungeon (hospital). Strange people (doctors, nurses) are talking to you, poking and prodding in all the wrong places of your mind. They say they want to help you get better; you tell them they’re nothing but deceptions (they’re not, they are good). They have you sit at a table and set a plate in front of you. A single chocolate chip cookie rests on top. It’s different from the first but still looks incredible, you can almost feel the crumbles melting in your mouth.

 The strange people speak, “You have to eat this. You have to choose to fight” (you’ve known this all along).

“This is dumb”, you yell, “I’m perfectly fine and eating a stupid cookie isn’t going to prove anything. Besides, even if I was sick, I wouldn't want to get better” (false, you have never been more scared). You would shove the plate off the table but you just don't have the energy.

 The people are used to this. They have seen the parentheses between your lies, have heard the suppressed wishes in your heart. They wait. More time passes, minutes become hours. You’re tired and so full of terror it’s hard to transform feelings into thought. That is when it happens. That is when you realize how sick you have become (yes). It wasn’t the yellow brick road you followed; it was a rabbit hole and it dropped you straight into hell (Yes). You decide to stop listening to the evil voice in your head and instead pay attention to the words of your heart (YES!). You reach out your hand. Each finger trembling, from fear or anticipation? (both) You pick up the cookie, bring it to your lips and take a bite. It tastes incredible (it tastes like freedom).

~~~

I started writing this last year. I was at the height a fairly serious rough patch and writing always helped, but for some reason I couldn’t seem to get words to form themselves into the appropriate order.  I took a break and life began to smooth out, but I always intended to finish. An idea came to me recently. A way to reframe this whole piece entirely and I returned to it with new vigor. The words came easy this time. For those who’ve read the first post I shared about my disorder, you’ll know this is not a chronologically exact account of what happened. However, on a deeper level it is just as real and true as anything else I’ve ever written.

~*~*~

Blue Butterflies

What this is, and where it came from, I cannot say exactly. I did just spend 516 pages living in Bordertown and I believe my mind was a bit overwhelmed with the wish and wash of the magic that breathes life into those city streets. Either that or a bit of the Mad Red River water was slipped into my own tea just before I sat down to write last night.

~*~*~  

I saw butterflies today.

Blue ones.

Forget-me-not sapphires that sparked against the sun like diamonds on fire.

Did you know that faeries live in shadows?

Crazy I am not; though I've no doubt I it. The way people sick with sin have no song. Yet let me assure you I am perfectly sane; I’ve simply been sung from the stars. It is their violet light what allows me to see the metal shapes in the glooms; the dark eyes glimmering like crystals of madness.

Iron heart, iron cold, iron soul. The very air is iron, poisoning their homes. It is why they shrink away from all but blackened gray. Why they cling so close to the nightmares they don't yet know they have become. They do not see, cannot realize; even silver glass has forsaken them. They are the twisted terrors now. A song has shattered in it’s flight.

Oh, sing me into sunbeams and falling tears to crystal drums. The very air’s a porcelain heartbeat resounding with an iron thrum. I pray each night for madness. Insanity’s cooling balm would bring such sweet relief against the fears what be burning to ash my heart. Instead, I’m cursed inside a cerulean cacophony of truth, refusing naught but flawless understanding to enter into my consciousness.

I hear the crickets, taste their magic thoughts. Echoes of Efland come to life and I catch each one.

Stolen iron's being sent to slay my song and I sense battle will breed this night.

I am not worried. I have prepared. Snowflake pearls kiss my toes and I rejoice,  

I saw butterflies today.

~*~*~