The Brilliance of My Own Small Shipwreck

LJ Idol: The Other Side, Freedom

bewize — Fri, 01 Nov 2019 16:20:05 GMT

For my 40th birthday, I gave myself the best gift I have ever been given. I gave myself permission to Not Give a Fuck about anything that didn’t deserve them. This gift comes on the heels of nearly a decade of therapy, of tearing myself apart from the inside and rebuilding myself as I want to be, and has cost me nearly everything, $1000s of dollars and enough deep breaths to float the Hindenburg.

You see, somewhere about half a decade back I realized that so many things I did to protect myself actually harmed me. They felt good – or at least normal. But they harmed me all the same.

I was afraid of too many things – and I don’t want to be afraid like that anymore.

He’s thinking you’re an idiot. Stop talking now. You have nothing to say that won’t put you in danger.

Ah, there it is. The crux of so many of my current maladapted behaviors – fear. Fear of being judged, fear of being hurt and harmed by someone that was supposed to care about me, fear of proving them right (and an even deeper fear of proving them wrong, because how could they be wrong? They are supposed to love me, goddammit!)

Fear used to be my ally. It used to protect me from inexplicable mood swings, the occasional backhand from left field, the disgust and disdain of those that claimed to love me more than anyone else ever could. Fear was my friend. Fear helped me survive. Fear guided my steps and made me so aware – hyper-aware – of other’s moods. I got so good at reading people that it felt like I could read their very minds.

Quick, be cute! Quick, be quiet! Quick, be gone!

That look means he’s frustrated. Time to be soothing. Offer to get him a drink.

That look means he’s angry. Time to go outside. Forget your shoes. Forget your jacket. Forget everything and just GO.

That look means he’s happy. Go and hug him, so he knows you love him so so so much and he won’t hurt you later.

Once I left for college, I thought I left fear at home, unpacked amongst the clothes that I no longer wanted. It had been years since I needed fear on a daily basis. I grew, I thrived, I became someone that I liked.

But fear lingered insidiously. It cropped up in places that I never thought I’d need to root it out. It happened in the moments my boyfriend frowned at me and I winced. It happened in moments when my boss asked to speak to me, and I had to swallow bile. It happened in moments that my friends looked to me for strength and my knees shook.

Unchecked – because it was ignored – it grew. Relationships faltered. I stopped thriving and started to wilt.

No more.

I fought back – but fear knew me. It knew everything about me. It had built me in my youth after all. The process of rebuilding was painful and long. It took as much time to undo the damage as it had taken for the damage to be done.

30. 31. 32. Tears. Anger. Therapy.

33. Rage. 34. Denial.

35. No one knows you. You don’t even know yourself.

36. Healing. 37. Hope.

38. Grace.

39. Forgive yourself. You saved yourself with fear. It is a tool that you no longer need. Lay it down.

40. Trust yourself.

Fear is the old friend that you nod at when you see them in the grocery store. It still knows me. It built me after all, cared for me, saved me.

Fear is my enemy. It harms me, cuts me off from the life I want, whispers lies about cowering when I was born to SOAR.

We are many things, fear and me. But we will never be strangers. We have an uneasy truce at the moment. Maybe it’s the best to hope for, but going forward, when my guts clench, and my breath hitches, and my brow sweats – I will ask myself if I give a fuck.

More times than not, I don’t.

Time to be free.

This entry was written for therealljidol 05: “My enemies are all too familiar. They're the ones who used to call me friend.” If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.

My title is taken from the following quote by Marilyn Ferguson: Ultimately, we know deeply that the other side of every fear is a freedom.

LJ Idol: Six of One, Half a Dozen of the Other...

bewize — Fri, 25 Oct 2019 20:13:25 GMT

“Parenting is the most humbling thing we will ever do in our lives,” someone once told me. “You are inevitably going to fuck up and it will hurt the ones you love most in this world.”

Ouch. Talk about a reality check.

When I look at my child, I see everything good in the world – and then he spits a mouthful of water in my face. (It’s funny now; at the time, it was less so.)

“Take this A-Hole from me,” I remember saying to my partner-in-crime-and-parenting. Of course, mothers are not the only ones with inherent survival instincts about their kids, so said A-Hole’s father was already reaching to take him out of my arms before I throttled him to Z-Hole status. “If you were anyone else in this world,” I growled at the aforementioned A-Hole and let the threat trail off as cartoon like visions of punching someone and sending them through a wall floated through my brain.

And there it was – the Impossible Conundrum – wanting to kill your child and loving them to death at the same moment.

Quite frankly, while I am not a pacifist, I don’t choose violence – but the odds are astronomically high I would have hit anyone else on pure instinct fueled by disbelieving rage. But, not this A-Hole. Not MY little A-Hole. Him, I wanted to survive to another day.

I walked into my kitchen and wiped my face with a towel. I could hear A-Hole’s father, “That’s not nice. You hurt mommy’s feelings.” I could hear A-Hole as he started crying in earnest, foolishly thinking that the worst thing I could have done to him was walk away. “Say you’re sorry.”

Not likely. A-Hole is barely 2 and not at all cognizant of some of the more subtle social niceties – like not spitting in someone’s face, or apologizing if you spit in someone’s face.

He cried. I took deep breaths. A-Hole’s daddy tried to parent. “Be nice to mommy,” I heard. “Don’t spit,” I heard. “That’s yucky,” I heard.

But that all drowned out into background noise as the true upset in my son’s voice became more and more clear. I heard him scramble down and I heard his feet as he ran towards me. I turned and watched him come, his face squashed up in real misery, and all my anger vanished. I knelt before he even got to me and he literally threw himself at me, desperate to feel loved, safe, secure.

“It’s okay, baby.” I said. Truthfully, it wasn’t, and it was at the same time. There are other days to tackle social boundaries and bodily fluids and germs, but it wasn’t this day. This day, this moment, my job was to love that little A-Hole with all my heart. So, I did.

Or, maybe I just fucked him and let him think it was okay to spit water in people’s face. It’s impossible to know at this point. Wish me luck!

This entry was written for therealljidol 04: "Impossible." If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol: Tempered, Like a Fine Steel

bewize — Tue, 15 Oct 2019 16:15:40 GMT

"Okay, here we go. Focus. Speed. I am speed. One winner, forty-two losers. I eat losers for breakfast. Breakfast? Maybe I should have had breakfast? Brekkie could be good for me. No, no, no, focus. Speed. Faster than fast, quicker than quick. I am Lightning."

~ Cars, 2006

Any parent of a child who has been a toddler since this movie came out just cringed. I know this. I have a toddler and even before he was alive, I watched this movie about 10,000 times with my godsons. I sympathize with all those cringing parents, but... I empathize with Lightening in this moment.

Picture it:

The alarm goes off at 6. You roll over and turn it off. It goes off at 6:10 - what can I say? You know yourself. You hit snooze. Repeat this pattern until 7:45, when you suddenly jolt awake. Crap! You're late. No time to say hello, goodbye, you're late, you're late, you're late!!!

This was my life for so long. On any given day, this could still be my life. I am not a morning person.

"I don't want to work. I don't want to get dressed in anything but yoga pants. I don't want to eat healthy breakfast. I want fast food. I don't want to pack up my leftovers. I don't want to floss my teeth. I don't want to wear make up, do my hair, pick out jewelry, shower... Just, no. Today, I don't wanna adult! You can't make me! I can't even make myself!"

And so, it begins. The day is inevitably gross. I'm flustered. I feel caught off guard every time I get an email or my phone rings. My anxiety gets so high that everything sets it off. By the time 5:00 rolls around, I'm bolting out of the door, with emails unread, and phone messages unheard, and projects incomplete for the next day. Just gross all around.

The alarm goes off at 6. You roll over and turn it off. You roll back to your lover and give one last kiss, then you hoist your butt up out of bed. Gym. Shower. Music. Feeling good, today. Breakfast? Oh, that's right, you bought a smoothie and put it in your fridge waiting for your drive to work. Coffee, good! Water, good! Banana, good!

That was my morning this morning. It's a work in progress, but the difference is noticeable and distinct.

I'm totally wearing this cute dress. I think I'll try that new eye shadow trick. That dress looks good with this necklace. I'm glad I ate that banana, I feel so much better than I do when I skip breakfast! Today, I'm killing it. Today, I'm going to knock off every one of my to do list projects. Today, I'm going to get ahead.

And so, it begins. The weather is gross, but you know what? We desperately need the rain. Dude is emailing me every five minutes, but I've got this. He can chill. There... now he's laughing. Much better. I'm grooving to the music today. I can probably work until 6 and be totally set for tomorrow, or hell, the week! I've got this. Today, I am a mother-effing hammer. You can't stop me! Don't even try!

"Okay, here we go. Focus. Awesome. I am awesome. I'm a winner. I eat failure for breakfast. Breakfast? In a minute, but right now, focus. Awesome. Smarter than smart, tougher than tough. I. Am. KILLING. It. Today!"

Tomorrow? I guess we'll see.

This entry was written for therealljidol 03: "Everything looks like a nail." If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol: The Me in Your Mind is Your Responsibility

bewize — Mon, 07 Oct 2019 22:40:20 GMT

A Facebook meme floated across my feed a few days ago. "The version of me you created in your mind is not my responsibility," it said. "Holy shit," I said back.

Not my most eloquent moment, true, but definitely a real light bulb for me. Not so long ago, someone I was close to told me that I was gas lighting her, that I was causing her anxiety so severe it was crippling to her.

I felt... so many things in response, but at the end of the day one fact was crystal clear in my mind. I was not trying to make her believe anything in particular except that I only had good intentions. After a few rounds of anxiety, guilt and depression on my part - and I don't know what on her part - I stopped caring if she even believed that I had good intentions.

I wish I had known then what I know now - I wasn't responsible for the version of me living in her head. My actions had always shown that I wished her no ill will, that I accepted her for all of her flaws and limitations, and that I asked only for honesty back.

My demands for honesty - a fairly low bar - eventually proved too much and the friendship cracked and failed. From the dust of that experience, no phoenix rose.

I was angry. I was bitter. I felt stupid. I felt guilty. I felt responsible.

The repercussions of that failed relationship spread out from my center like rings from a stone thrown in a pond. It affected everything, because I could not reach the conclusion in my mind that what she thought of me was beyond my control.

First, after many conversations with those who had my best interests at heart, I let go of letting her live in my mind. I knew what I had done and why. If she didn't believe me, that was her issue. But more than that, I had to finally reach the point where what she thought of me became not a reflection of me - but a reflection of her.

In other words, what she thought of me was not only not my business, but on a deeper level, also not my fault, nor was i responsible for fixing it.

That was a very hard pill to swallow, and I choked on it for months, maybe even the better part of the year. It took me until that silly little Facebook meme to put it into words, because a part of me just quit caring well before this lesson was fully understood.

So, at the end of the day, what this woman thinks of me is not my responsibility. I did my best by her at all times. I'm sure others could have done better, but I could not have. She can either believe me or not, but what she believed of me... that's all her.

This entry was written for therealljidol 02: "Living Rent Free In Your Head." If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol: Bewize, in the Dark

bewize — Thu, 19 Sep 2019 14:11:58 GMT

And if thou gaze long at an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Yesterday, as part of my year of 40 x 40 (40 awesome things I’m doing for myself as a gift the year I turned 40), I went to a spa and had a float in a sensory deprivation chamber. The mechanics behind it are simple – dump a bazillion pounds of Epsom salt into a water tank, put in ear plugs, get naked, climb into the tank, shut the door behind you – and voila! Very little sensory input.

I spent 90 minutes floating the dark with nothing but myself, the dark, and my thoughts – and I will tell you this: 90 minutes of unadulterated (if slightly salty) Bewize is a lot of Bewize to take in. Even for Bewize.

My thoughts went something like this:

“Wow, it’s dark! Let me open my eyes more… nope, still dark! Close my eyes, open my eyes, close my eyes, open my eyes… no difference.”

After I heard a dripping noise rig to my ear, because the tank apparently gets condensation on it and it drops back down, “Holy shit! There’s something in here with me! The Devil…. I don’t know if I believe in the Devil… maybe it doesn’t matter if he beliees in me… holy shit, I can’t get out of this 90 seconds in, that’s total chicken shit behavior….I bet this is like the beginning of space and time, all this nothing darkness…. It’s probably God in here…. I don’t know if I believe in God, but if anything is in here, it’s probably God…. I wish I could see stars like God would see at the beginning of space and time….”

“I’m floating so intensely I can’t go underwater…. Let me twist this way? Nope, still floating. That way? Nope, still floating. I guess that’s why they call it a zero gravity experience. I wonder if I sit up… yep, there’s the bottom. Ha!”

“Don’t hold your neck so tense. Your head won’t sink. This is why you get headaches.”

“I wonder how long I’ve been in here.”

“They said I might get hot. I’m a little cold. I really am a freak of nature.”

“Sex thoughts. Sex thoughts. Sex thoughts.”

“I’m hungry. I can hear my stomach growling through my body, since the ear plugs are blocking everything out.”

“OMG, this tastes like the worst thing on the planet! I’m dying! I’m dying! Okay…. It’s better now. DO NOT LICK YOUR LIPS.”

“I think I’ll get sushi for lunch.”

“How long have I been in here? She said the music would start when its time to get out. No music…. She said I’d hear it for sure, so I could sleep.”

“Relax your neck!”

“Sex thoughts.”

“I wonder if my boss got that thing done he said he’d get done. I wonder if he thinks I’m a giant idiiot. I wonder if he knows I’m faking it all the time….No, don’t say that! You’re not faking it, this is imposter syndrome. You’re good at your job, stop telling yourself you aren’t.”

“I cannot believe my baby is two! I don’t know if I want to get him a fish for his birthday or not. The cat will eat it…”

“I love my baby so much.”

“I SAID DON’T LICK YOUR LIPS.”

“I’ve probably only been in here like 10 minutes. OMG, I’m never getting out of here.”

“What was that noise?! Am I snoring?”

“OMG, I can’t breathe…. Yes, you can, relax, fool. This chamber is like 4/5 air, and they aren’t trying to kill you in here. … Are they? NO, OF COURSE NOT. STOP THINKING SCARY THOUGHTS! Puppies! Kittens.”

“That book I’m reading says emotions are like puppies – even the good ones will wreak havoc and you have to put them away to focus on getting things done, so you don’t live in constant anxiety. I think that’s really wise. That’s definitely the best way I’ve ever heard it described. I’m going to work to remember that.”

“Didn’t Eleven get locked in a sensory deprivation tank in Stranger Things? I think she did. Poor Eleven.

“I should probably think about important self-improvement things in here.”

“Was I asleep? It’s hard to tell.”

“How long have I bee in here? What happens if I just… get out? They can’t force me to stay. But, I’d feel like a big ole loser.”

“I’m definitely having sushi for lunch.”

“I wonder if this is what it’s like to be an unborn baby. I wonder if they are cold. Poor babies.”

“My skin feels slimy to the touch. Eww.”

“Wheee, it’s fun to shift around in the tank.”

“I read somewhere most people in small dark spaces follow the edges to figure out the space. I wonder why I didn’t do that? … OMG, what’s that pipe thing?! That’s why I didn’t do this! I don’t want to know.”

“Relax your neck!”

“I wonder if this is like tripping… cause I’m kind of seeing colors now. In all this darkness.”

“I’ve probably only been in here like 5 minutes. OMG, what if this is the end of all things and the “real” world doesn’t really exist?”

“I think I was asleep for sure. I wish I’d slept more.”

“I wonder if I could float on my stomach… nope! That’s a big ole negative!”

“What’s that noise? Oh, the music. Time to go!”

Outside, in the real world that was, in fact, real, I felt utterly disoriented, off balance, and sluggish. But, by the time I’d showered off, and realized I would find dried salt on my body for the foreseeable future, I was also very relaxed. My back didn’t hurt. It felt like I’d been asleep for a lot longer. My friend was waiting for me and said that she’d not made it through the full 90 minutes of her soak. She said 60 minutes would have been enough.

Perhaps 90 minutes of unadulterated anyone is too much. When I was leaving, the lady at the desk reminded me I have 2 more soaks. I felt equal parts anxiety and excitement. Can I handle that much me? Guess I’ll find out.

This entry was written for therealljidol 11:00: "Introduction." If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol: Homecoming

bewize — Tue, 10 Sep 2019 15:42:59 GMT

I am in.

I was on the fence for a while - not gonna lie. I'm busy and I have a lot going on, and writing, while a major love, is not something that *can* take up a lot of time in my life now.

But, the title and idea of this season got to me. Homecoming.

This year has been a lot of things, but the end of this year has felt very much like a return to myself - a return of the things about me that I like and discarded for a while to try and be something/someone else.

I have grown; I am not the same as I was; I never want to go backwards - but, going home? That sounds wonderful

So, I am in.

LJI: The Unread Riot Acts of Bewize

bewize — Wed, 24 Oct 2018 13:48:35 GMT

Did you ever see the Disney cartoon where Donald Duck went to Mathematics Land, which looked a lot like Disney's version of Wonderland? That cartoon really impressed me as a child, but not the bits about math or science. No, I was struck and forever branded with the image of the brain being a storage room. In the cartoon, Donald had to "clean out" his brain to make room for more important things (like math), but the cartoon image showed brooms and dustpans magically going to work.

Viola.

I have forever thought of the brain as that storage room (only more updated and modern now, like from Inside Out, of course).

All of this lead up should help explain why there is a file in my brain called "The Unread Riot Acts." Simply put, it's the storage space for where all of my unspoken outrage goes. I literally will picture binding it up, like a book, and putting it on that shelf - rather than speaking my outrage aloud into existence in the world.

For example, let's take dinner last night. The boyfriend, baby and I took a really good friend out to dinner. We went to a new restaurant with good reviews to receive probably the worst service I've had anywhere in a while.

The server kept vanishing - and the restaurant wasn't that full. She wasn't in the weeds - she was just not on top of her game. The food took a long time to come out. The plates the food was served on were extremely hot - probably to disguise the lukewarm food.

So, picture it. Three adults in a booth. A baby in a highchair at the end of the booth. The server kept setting EVERYTHING in front of the baby. Now, if you have children (or have been a server), you know this is a poor choice. Everything - and I mean EVERYTHING - is immediately grabbed, groped, crunched and eventually hurled to the floor.

The three adults keep moving things out of his reach, but this server just kept setting things down there, oblivious.

By the time my food came out (which was second to last, because it made perfect sense to feed the baby last), there was no space left on the table to hide another hot plate. The server marched over, hot plate firmly grasped in oven mitts and prepared to set it on the only clear space left - right in front of the baby.

Now, she was present and (theoretically) cognizant of the discussions we'd had about the two previous hot plates She witnessed our scramble to keep the baby from putting his hands on them.

So, I said - and I was speaking mildly - "You cannot set a hot plate like that in front of the baby."

She looks at me and said, with some attitude, I will add. "Well - where do you suggest I put it?"

Just like that - BOOM - the Riot Script was written.

I had suggestions of where she could put that plate, y'all. I had SO. MANY. SUGGESTIONS.

I also had commentary on her service, her attitude, the speed of service and a few other choice observations.

I am not normally reticent to share my suggestions or observations. That's not my speed. But... we were celebrating and I didn't want to make a scene. So, I took a deep breath and said...

NOTHING.

I just stared at this girl until she suggested setting the hot plate on an empty table behind us. I nodded my head, pursed my lips a bit, and said, "That seems like a wise choice."

I am not sure how she interpreted that interaction. I am sure that the manager was the one who served our table for the rest of our meal. I am sure that my friend across the table was amused at my superior show of self control. I am sure that, as I sat there and mentally wrapped up the Riot Act for the shelf in the brain, I suddenly knew what I was going to write for Idol.

I suspect that this naive (idiotic), young (moronic), unobservant (clueless) server (nitwit) felt the icy breath of her demise on her neck. I suspect she realized that she nearly experienced what I call a "Come to Jesus Moment." I suspect that she couldn't quite settle the shake in her knees and thus, had to be excused from serving us for the remainder of our meal.

I also reinforced my own belief that sometimes, an unread Riot Act is as effective - or even more so - than one that is read aloud.

So now, the shelf has one more bound act sitting, gathering dust. It's next to the Unread Riot Act of "Explain how 'I'll do it Tuesday' means Friday," and "If you're late to the doctor, we cancel you and charge you; but if you sit here an hour, you just have to eat it." It's stacked on top of "Amazon promised you'd have this package tomorrow, but they lied," and "So what if you asked for no meat, that bacon is just a garnish."

If we're lucky, the shelf will remain untouched and un-added to for a while. At least the remainder of the day. If we're lucky.

But, who among us is that lucky?

This entry was written for therealljidol 03: "Tsundoku." According to Google: Tsundoku (Japanese: 積ん読) is acquiring reading materials but letting them pile up in one's home without reading them. If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJI: Carved in Stone

bewize — Fri, 12 Oct 2018 15:54:42 GMT

I have never seen Mount Rushmore, except in photographs and film. While I wouldn't necessarily refuse to go if it was convenient, it's not some place that would feature high on my dream vacation destinations. I'm tired of going to see "Old White Man History," white-washed and devoid of the richness and significance the Mountain held for those who came before Charles E. Rushmore and his guide, William Challis named it without thought. (“What’s the name of that mountain?” Rushmore allegedly asked. Challis is said to have replied, “It’s never had one...till now...we’ll call the damn thing Rushmore.”)

Danish-American sculptor Gutzon Borglum is much more interesting to me than Rushmore and Challis. Borglum had the wild and crazy dream to carve a mountain. Consulting only his son, supposedly, Borglum decided to choose subject material that would stir the nation and picked four presidents, hoping to capture certain characteristics of each man and literally carve them into stone:

George Washington, chosen because he fought to create something new and better than what had existed before; Thomas Jefferson, chosen to represent growth and inherent values; Theodore Roosevelt, chosen to represent conservation; and, lastly, Abraham Lincoln, chosen to represent perseverance.

I am no artist. I can't draw a stick figure to save my life and I wouldn't know which end of a chisel to use. But, when it comes to moving mountains, each of us has our own experiences to draw from and while our final product won't be carved into mountains, for many of us it will be carved in a final stone, summed up in a pithy epithet.

Here lies Bewize. too bad she died; she was a keeper.

At least, that's what I hope my figurative headstone would say. Forgetting the fact that I have chosen cremation, headstones come with a certain pressure to have a final word. Since we don't get to necessarily supervise the carving, we have to rely on others to make sure it's embodying our best selves.

Bewize the Daughter. Bewize the Mom. Bewize the Sister. Bewize the Friend. Bewize the Lawyer. Bewize the Entertainer. Bewize the Author. Bewize the Lover. Bewize the Student. Bewize the Band Nerd. Bewize the Cat-Owned.

These are all faces that you'll see carved into me, if you look at the right angles, with the perfect squint to your eyes. I wear them proudly - and so many more.

But, the faces of my life that I want to see (figuratively speaking, but I'm not above being a ghost) are the one that capture the values most important to me.

Bewize, chosen to represent Honor. She did her best to keep her promises and worked hard to be worthy of your respect.

Bewize, chosen to represent Integrity. She was true to herself and honest, sometimes brutally so, but she worked her whole life to learn how to speak Compassionate Honesty, Kind Honesty, and Caring Honesty more than the too oft-revered Brutal cousin.

Bewize, chosen to represent Loyalty. She would move mountains for the people she considered hers. She would stand with you, even when you couldn't stand anymore.

Bewize, chosen to represent Nurturing. She showed others how to move mountains on their own.

These are my ideals, not my reality, alas. I'm all too human, all too flawed. But, that's okay. I've got the rest of my life ahead of me, and I'm armed with dynamite, jackhammers, and determination.

What values will someone carve into stone to represent you someday?

This entry was written for therealljidol 02: "Mount Rushmore." If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJI Voting: Week One

bewize — Mon, 08 Oct 2018 17:19:23 GMT

I have no idea how to post the links. I don't do DW very well!

But, if you're so inclined, you can vote for my entry here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/999752.html

My entry: "What comes after the end?" - https://bewize.dreamwidth.org/665605.html

LJI: What comes after "the end"?

bewize — Fri, 05 Oct 2018 14:48:30 GMT

This has been a difficult year.

Turmoil. That's the name of the game.

Beginning. Middle. End.

A sick father. A dying father. A dead father.

An infant. A baby. A one year old.

Post-partum depression. Relationship turmoil. Emotional disconnect.

A friend. A liar. A heartache.

This is how my year is gone. Beginning. Middle. End.

Of course, it's not over yet. I'm still here. Still standing. Still fighting the good fight.

But, y'all. I'm tired. And sometimes, I cannot help but wonder if I'm fighting battles because it's important to win them, or if I'm fighting them, because that's all I know to do.

Sometime in the past months, I've gotten... numb? Calm? Resigned? Resolved?

I don't know what it is. I don't know what it means. I do know that the fear I had is gone, though.

I see things more clearly now. The fog is lifting and the great unknowable future looks less foreboding.

This year has been fire. I've lost many things that were important to me. My people. Some of my freedom. Friends that I valued. Pieces of inner-peace. Certainty that my relationship would hold firm. These things have burned away in the ashes of this year.

I spoke to a friend about this recently and she commented, "I know you must be so upset... but you don't sound upset."

That's what I found in the fire. The truth. And the truth is, I'm not upset. I'm not feeling like I've lost; or at least, I didn't lose more than I gained.

Underneath everything else, I found myself again. The ME that is actually ME. The Me that stares down the Future and feels nothing but a firm and unshakable belief that I'll weather those storms, best those demons, and land firmly (if not gracefully) on my feet.

I spent ages trying to figure out what came after "the end," because I wanted a pithy title to this post. I googled. I asked the Facebooks. I got lots of great suggestions: postscript, epilogue, coda, aftermath.

But, in re-reading my post, I realized the answer all on my own.

"What comes after the end"?

"A new beginning."

This entry was written for therealljidol 01.01: ""It's hard to beat a person who never gives up." If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol X.24: DANGER, DANGER, BEWIZE!!! (Or, Vulnerability Triggers and Tools to Disarm Them)

bewize — Mon, 17 Jul 2017 15:12:11 GMT

"Your godson was a total shit last night," the BFF summed up, as she ranted about his behavior at karate class. "He cried and whined and acted like an idiot, so I yanked him out of the class and took him home. He has to apologize to the instructor tonight."

"What was going on?" I asked, somewhat distracted by the work I was doing.

"He was hungry and tired," she said. "I know those are his vulnerability triggers."

She had my undivided attention all of a sudden. "What are those?"

Startled by my sudden directed change of interest, she nevertheless switched gears into her professional therapy mode and began a slight lecture. "Everyone has vulnerability triggers - they are states of being that affect how well you process negative emotions. For example, you're pregnant - that's definitely going to affect how well you handle anything that would cause you to have a negative emotion. Hunger, illness, being overly tired or stressed - all of those can turn a normally annoying situation into something pretty grim.

When my clients call me for phone counseling, I always ask them if they've eaten and taken a shower. If they haven't, I usually tell them to do that and call me back. Normally, by the time they call me back, they are much calmer and able to reason through whatever situation they face without lapsing back into negative coping strategies."

This, my friends, was a true light bulb moment.

*****

A close look in the mirror reveals some pretty clear Vulnerability Triggers - Hungry (HANGRY!), Angry (at someone else, at myself, at a situation), Lonely (Feeling abandoned, feeling unwanted, feeling in the way), Tired (OMG, there is no tired like pregnancy tired). (For those familiar with the acronym, HALT is a real thing! Halt all conversations if you're in HALT mode!)

Some others that aren't as obvious - stress, overwhelm, heartbreak/ache.

I'm sure there are others. I'm sure that I'm oblivious. But, knowing about these "triggers" and actively identifying them has done me a world of good in a short week in dealing with negative situations.

******

For example:

"I'm at Lowe's," he texted two days ago, when I asked where he was at 8 p.m. at night. He was supposed to be putting shelves up in the garage. I knew what this meant. No shelves. Again.

I felt a swell of pure, evil, rage swell and I should be awarded a medal for inner strength for setting the phone down and turning away. Taking deep breaths, instead of driving home - where there is NO CHANCE I would have not had a screaming melt down of an argument, I turned into the Texas Roadhouse. I took my happy ass to the bar and I addressed the three triggers I felt at that moment. I was hungry - so I ordered snakebites (don't judge me!). I was tired after a long day at work - so I watched some of the baseball game. I was feeling overwhelmed - so I made a prioritized to do list to help me focus.

Then, I drove home and was legitimately able to say, "Thank you for helping me with so much. I really appreciate it." He was pleasantly surprised. I was very pleased. And we had a wonderful rest of the night together.

******

Saturday, after finishing with the shelves in the garage, the boyfriend was hot and sweaty and grumpy as only a hot and sweaty man can be, when he hangs shelves in a garage in July in Georgia. I asked him a question about a different project, and let's just say he got pissy.

I felt my ire rise to match his - and then I took a breath and noticed that he had literally sweated through his shirt. So, I asked him if he wanted some ice water. He accepted - still grumpy - but I got it for him. Then I suggested he shower, which he did. I kept some distance between us while he showered and cooled down. Then, he was all better. It was like magic.

When I brought up the different project again, he was much more straightforward and much less emotional about it. I was pleased. And we had a wonderful rest of the night together.

******

Sunday (y'all I'm pregnant and hormonal and doing the best I can, I swear!), we hit a snag in our day's plans. I got very worked up and emotional about something, recognized that I was feeling like he felt I was in the way (a trigger of mine, even though he never said anything of the sort), and I decided to remove myself from the situation.

I texted him that I was going to get a slushie and would be back in a while. Then I went and walked a local trail (in flip flops, because I was too upset to put on sneakers), battled through mosquito swarms, and dealt with the inevitable phone call from the hospital about my father (which was likley the real cause of my stress).

Then, I saw a woman walking a ferret on a leash. I had no idea such things happened! So, I sat down on a bench and played with a ferret and made a friend. By the time I drove home, I was less emotional. By being calmer, I was able to meet him halfway, accept his comfort and hugs, and the rest of my emotional angst melted away.

And we had a wonderful rest of the night together.

******

Once is random. Twice is a coincidence. Third time is a pattern.

I know that not everyone is as fascinated by the hidden workings of the human mind as I am - and some people are content to live in a constant cycle of blow up, make up. But that shit is exhausting to me and I'd much rather find tools - like identifying and addressing vulnerability triggers - so that the rest of my life is calmer.

It's not a magic emotion erasing pill. I was still frustrated, hurt, angry, upset, annoyed, etc. But, rather than let my emotion manage me, I feel like I had the chance to manage my emotions.

It was liberating, y'all. I'm adding this one to the box.

And we had a wonderful rest of the night together.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.24: "Tool Box," defined as rumor or unsupported tale. There will be another entry for this week as well.

If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol X.24: That Old Canard

bewize — Wed, 12 Jul 2017 19:23:09 GMT

A million years ago, during my stint in law school, my Wills, Trusts and Estates Professor made an offhand comment that I accepted without reservation. "If you can get your clients to communicate their wishes to their families, the end of life decisions will be much easier for everyone involved."

This idea made sense and I promptly told my family my wishes.

"I understand DNR means that if my heart stops beating or if I stop breathing, no medical procedure to restart breathing or heart functioning will be instituted.

I understand this decision will not prevent me from obtaining other emergency medical care prior to my death.

I understand I may revoke this directive at any time by destroying this form and removing any "DNR" medallions.

I give permission for this information to be given to the emergency care personnel, doctors, nurses or other health personnel as necessary to implement this directive.

I hereby agree to the "Do Not Resuscitate" (DNR) order."

I filled out the paperwork, gave it to the people who needed it and promptly forgot about it.

*****

"The hospital wants to know if you want to sign a DNR," my aunt told me over the phone, back in February when this nightmare began. "Your dad's breathing is really erratic."

For a moment, it was like watching a heart monitor give a flat line, and I had to struggle to breathe myself. How was I making this decision? Why couldn't my aunt? My brother? My sister? Why me?

Of course, the answer to that is half legal and half practical. My aunt can't make that decision - she's not the next of kin. My siblings won't make that decision, because then they couldn't blame someone else for the decision being made.

Life and death literally hung suspended in the air before me, and I took a deep breath. "Yes," I said, proud of the calmness in my voice. "I want to sign a DNR. He would want that, I think."

"I agree," my aunt was crying and all I felt was a lot of nothing.

*****

It is no secret that my mother, a retired nurse, has more opinions than hours in the day to share them. She has not been shy about telling me all of the wrong decisions I've made in caring for my father, who was diagnosed with rapid onset Alzheimer's in March.

She disapproved of me becoming his guardian and conservator. She disapproved of me allowing my aunt to have so much say in my father's care, despite the fact that there was literally no one else stepping up to the plate. She disapproved of his caregivers. She just disapproved - but she never had any good suggestions.

Yesterday, my aunt called with news that my father had an infection. He refused medical care by the ambulance, but he was so agitated that his tenuous grasp on reality slipped even further away. "Where is the bathroom"? he asked in the house he's lived in for 50 years. Then he tried to feed his beloved dog a napkin. He also fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand (yes, I've allowed him to keep smoking).

The ambulance was called - he would not voluntarily go. The barriers of time and distance meant that I could not be there to force him (something I can do as his guardian) and my day quickly got lost in phone calls with lawyers and ambulance servers, and ultimately a very supportive and sympathetic ambulance company CEO.

But, I chose to wait. He was on antibiotics. He was resting. I figured we could see how the evening and next day progressed.

"Your aunt made the worst decision of her life when she didn't take him to the doctor!" That was my mother's assessment today.

*****

"He's not responding to anyone... just stares at the floor... won't answer questions... isn't even looking at his dog... he's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone..."

I called the CEO. He'd given me his personal phone number. This time, the ambulance drivers didn't have to try and convince him. He just was taken.

"The doctor thinks it's a UTI," my aunt said. "They asked if he was on dialysis. They said he's having respiratory distress. They want to know if he's DNR."

"He is DNR," I texted back. To myself, I admitted that this must be fairly grim, indeed.

I called my mother.

*****

"Your aunt made the worst decision of her life when she didn't take him to the doctor!"

"Not my aunt," I said, voice raising as I reached the end of my temper with her continued viciousness towards my aunt. "ME. I made it. It was MY decision. The ambulance wouldn't take him against his will and once I got that sorted, I elected to wait. So, if you want to yell - or blame someone for his illness and maybe death - yell at me! Blame me! ME."

*****

"Do you consider dialysis to be something under a DNR?"

My mom was calmer now. "No," she said. "That's regular treatment."

"Do you think he'd want that?" I asked the woman he'd been married to once, already knowing the answer, but still wanting my mother to comfort me.

She was silent for a long time. "No," she finally said. "He wouldn't want any of it. He didn't even want to go to the hospital."

*****

"He woke up and fought when they wanted to put a catheter in," my aunt texted. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"That's more like his old self," I wrote back.

"Yep."

*****

In a few hours, the doctors will call with their guesses and recommendations. And I will have to make decisions, because - after all - that's what I do.

"If you can get your clients to communicate their wishes to their families, the end of life decisions will be much easier for everyone involved."

I wonder if I would feel better about this if he'd actually told me it's what he wanted in the calm and cool reflection of health and peace.

Somehow, I doubt it.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.24: "Canard," defined as rumor or unsupported tale. There will be another entry for this week as well.

If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol X.23: The Difference Is Knowing

bewize — Wed, 05 Jul 2017 18:07:18 GMT

I mentor several women who are trying to figure out how to live their best lives. As this is a work in progress for me, too, it is always interesting to see where our struggles overlap. By and far, the biggest difference is knowing certain fundamental truths.

This one has by and far been the most common lie I've heard people tell themselves: "I'm broken. I'm too broken to succeed."

It is mind-boggling how insidious this lie can be. "I'm too broken to keep a job, have kids, raise kids, be in love, be loved, be happy."

With the benefit of distance, it's easy to see the real culprit is fear. We hold ourselves back, out of fear. Success is alluring, but failure... That's just to scary to entertain. It's so much easier to excuse a lack of effort (why bother?) than failure (I tried my best and did not succeed). The first we can blame on others - parents, teachers, coaches. The second rests squarely on our own shoulders.

For the women I mentor, I simply say, "This is your best life to live. I'm just here to cheerlead."

To myself, I say, "What would you rather wrestle with on your death bed? Failure or the knowledge you never cared enough to try?"

Seeing others struggle with demons I know intimately is morbidly fascinating. I know the sweet sickness of its words. I have tasted the fakeness of its offerings, and starved myself nearly to death. Worse, sometimes, it wins and I leave a stone unturned and an adventure unhad. I will carry those ghosts of "if only" to my grave.

But, I'm uniquely blessed. Coaching others means leading by example and I've found myself ignoring that voice more often. What I tell them is "Try. Fail. Try again. LIVE your best life, because it's your only life."

If you want it - go and get it. Unchain yourself and run that four minute mile. And, it's a tiny miracle when they listen, because when they succeed, I can see the moment that blind faith turns into knowing, and everything changes.

There are broken people in this world, truly broken people who cannot hold jobs, raise kid, make relationships work. I've met them. Drugs, booze, homelessness, severe mental illness. These signs accompany many of the broken and they deserve and need every grace and kindness in this world.

Most of us just need a sharp kick in the rear, so that we take that first step, and end up knowing what we can really do in this life, our best life. I was lucky enough to get that kick. I'm even luckier to have kicked people and seen their success.

For those struggling, believe in yourself. It'll keep you going until the day you realize that you have traded belief for knowledge. Until then, Godspeed on the journey.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.23: "Bannister Effect". If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol X.22: No Way Back

bewize — Sun, 25 Jun 2017 23:59:09 GMT

"I heard voices in my head, telling me to do the most horrible things to my baby girl."

My blood ran cold, when I read that line in Ina May's "Guide to Childbirth." So far, the book had been filled with stories about women overcoming obstacles to give birth to wonderfully, healthy babies. This was the first story that included any information whatsoever about what came next.

"It was like being able to hear a battle taking place on a spiritual plane," the woman telling the story wrote. "I didn't know who was going to win. I was so terrified that I would do something to this perfect wonderful little girl that eventually, I tried to take my own life."

I put the book down, shaken in a way that I cannot really describe. This woman's birth story had been normal - successful - one of the better ones I'd read in a book of cherry picked stories designed to encourage and support.

Seemingly out of no where, she'd been struck with postpartum depression so severe that I had little doubt it was postpartum psychosis.

A week later, and I was still thinking about that woman's tale - but not the part where she overcame the illness in an age where depression was still a dirty secret and needing "help" was the ultimate sign of weakness. No, I became obsessed with the terrifying thought that your own body could betray you so that you heard voices in your head - that didn't sound like your own voice - telling you to harm someone.

For the first time in six months of pregnancy, I wanted to opt out. How could I take such a risk with this little life, that I loved so much already? And the stories of women drowning babies in tubs, and leaving them in cars driven into lakes tortured me. These women, I'm sure, heard these voices.

Of course, six months into a pregnancy is too far to actually turn back. The only way forward is forward. What dark forests and dangerous monsters lay ahead?

It took me a week to even realize that I wasn't just sad for this woman - for all women who've gone through this - but I was genuinely afraid.

I've spent some time in the dark and with the damned. I've faced demons that had no name, and those from whom I hid to face a different day. What if that day comes three months from now? What if those demons are named Post Partum Depression? Psychosis?

What if I hear a voice that sounds like my own, telling me to do the one thing in this world that I cannot make my sane brain understand?

What would I do?

For a week, I did very little. I pushed it aside, reassured myself that it wouldn't happen to me, and when it inevitably crept back in to torment me once more, I began to wonder if I was already caught in the grips of depression.

There have been some signs, familiar like the ugly sweaters that pop up in your closet year after year, that you don't throw away because they came from family. Insomnia, my old friend, are you here because I'm pregnant? Or are you back, because you're wrapping your dark tendrils around me with the intent to choke the life out of me? Or, are you here for the baby?

No where to go but forward.

I must remind myself that I am not this woman - at least not yet. I have alternatives that she didn't have. I have a safety net that wasn't available to her.

Now, I just have to find the courage to face this demon, should it show up. Being prepared is half the battle, after all.

Talk to my therapist now. Make a plan.

Talk to the boyfriend now. Make a plan.

Talk to myself now, and convince myself that it's okay to be vulnerable this way. That admitting I'm scared isn't a failure. It's a step, a vital one, and perhaps the only thing that stands between the horrors of that woman's story and my own life, is finding the courage to admit that perhaps the small demon that is staring me down now is much bigger than I ever want to admit.

I hope not.

I hope my story is different. I pray for it, to a God who I doubt listens or cares, but I pray anyway.

God, please.

And, for the sake of myself - and the sake of the love of my life - and the sake of the tiny life that depends on me more than anyone else in the entire world, I will find the courage. And we will go forward.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.22: "Turn Back or Forge Ahead? ". If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol X.21 - "Dear Bewize, We're Sorry to Hear About Your Death."

bewize — Thu, 15 Jun 2017 16:42:24 GMT

"Dear Bewize,

We are so sorry to hear about your death. It's a tragedy that cannot be undone at the government level (because government). So now, you no longer exist. There are endless opportunities available for you as one of the Un-dead. Please allow me to suggest a few.

First, we are always in need of People Who Aren't Alive to actively haunt those of us who are. More than a few people deserve to have Someone Who Isn't There follow them around and tell them the error of their ways. Of course, as the Un-dead, you could always encourage them to make more errors, this is really beyond our control. You may find yourself subject to exorcism, however, without notice.

If haunting people isn't your thing, we also have multiple positions available for location specific hauntings. There are countless abandoned buildings, prisons, and mental hospitals looking for solid employees with a real "go get-em" attitude towards intruders.

A second opportunity exists for Customer Service positions in many branches of the government and in the corporate sector. It's a perfect opportunity for someone who won't return calls, answer emails, make appointments or be accessible in any way! The hours are flexible - and we won't know if you show up or not!

If you're inclined towards television, there is a surprising growth in positions for "extras" who aren't supposed to be there. Made famous by the Three Men and a Baby Ghost, which was sadly proven to be false, there is now a hot market for "cameos" of this sort.

As for other professions where the Un-dead thrive, please contact one of our Mediums at the number below. They will happily supply you with information about where your services are potentially needed.

There are a few unfortunate side effects, of course. Your bank accounts and personal property are subject to seizure and your ungrateful relatives will flood out of the woodwork to claim whatever it is they believe they are entitled to claim. We suggest you carve out time to "deal" with them appropriately (think "Poltergeist"). Even if they claim to see you, no one will believe them as it is a common side effect of grief. Naturally, you can always take things back - who is going to stop you? It will be considered most likely that your spirit is refusing to let things go - which is, of course, the truth.

We aren't really sure about the religious implications of this Un-Dead state. It depends strongly on your beliefs when you died, we suspect, so good luck and Godspeed, if that's not too forward.

Regardless, we welcome you to this next stage of your Un-Life and wish you all the best!

Sincerely,

The Government

PS - If you've received this letter in error, please contact our customer service department."

Inspired by Cobb veteran gets government letter telling her she’s dead, I couldn't help but drift down the wormhole of "what would be different if I Un-died?" This is not "It's A Wonderful Life" remix here, though. I don't think I have a candle on George Bailey, but it's still an interesting concept.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.21: Current Events. If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol X.20 - Behind the Masks, Find the Soul

bewize — Mon, 05 Jun 2017 14:59:40 GMT

I could feel his little feet kicking in my belly, kicking, kicking, kicking... incessantly, constantly, dear God this child is never still and he's not even born yet.

"That means he's growing stronger, aren't you glad?"

Of course I'm glad! I'd be devastated if something happened!

But something about feeling this child of mine move, live, grow... holy fuck. I mean, HOLY FUCK.

He is due in three months and suddenly, where before he was an idea, he is real.

And, ladies and gentlemen, I am unsure whether to be ashamed of the fact that I had a total freak out about it.

****

I'd been fighting with my aunt about my dad. And she was ranting and raving about the chaos her adult children and grandchildren are causing her, and I heard it as, "Make the same mistakes so I don't feel so goddam guilty." And I panicked, because what if...

What if I do pass down all the things I've spent 20 years trying to overcome? What if my legacy isn't progressive thought, but crippling anxiety? What if I raise an incompetent man-child who will expect his future wife/husband to do all of the emotional heavy lifting? Or chores? Or what if he's so emotionally stunted, that he never even risks looking for a spouse?

What if I cannot shield him from the negative qualities of his father's family? What if he refuses to accept reality and instead insists on rose colored glasses that show a pack of lies? What if we never figure out how to cope with the inherited OCD that may come from that line? What if they win his thoughts and he believes in the status quo?

****

And since I'm panicking about everything, while sitting on the edge of the guest bath tub, crying my eyes out at 3 a.m. while everyone (including the cat) sleeps blissfully unaware - let's just go on down the rabbit hole.

What if my SO dies? Can I raise this baby alone? Can I afford that? Can I handle that? Can I not fall apart at the seems, when the thought alone has me hysterical (and keep in mind that the SO is healthy and fine and sleeping, unaware that I'm no longer curled in his arms)?

What if I lose my job? I'm the breadwinner. How the fuck will we survive? How we will make ends meet? What if I lose my house? Where will we live? Where will we go?

What if I get sick? My immune system is compromised, so it's not so crazy a thought. How will the SO raise him? Will he insist on the same things I would have? Will he teach apathy and expecting others to take care of him is ok? (I love my SO, but I'm not blind to him.)

Hell, what if the SO just decides to leave? He swears he won't, but no one goes into a baby thinking that they are destined to be single parents. What if he walks away, care-free and scott-free and leaves me with the day to day struggles of raising a son? Will I be able to handle my own bitterness and not teach my son to hate his father? Will I be able to deal with the resentment that might arise from having no freedom, while the SO has it all? Will I be able to teach grace in the face of rage?

****

Is this hormones? Is this normal? Am I a total freak? Am I having a psychotic break? WTF is happening to me right now???

****

Eventually, I calmed down and went back to bed. I sat down on the side and took a few deep breaths. If I was lucky, I'd get maybe 3 hours of sleep before I had to be up. The boyfriend rolls over, groggy, "You okay?" he asks.

"I can't sleep," I say in response, neither lying nor being totally honest, but he's so cute when he's sleepy and I can tell him about the details later.

"Poor pumpkin," he pulls me down and into him, warm and comforting, his arms providing me a respite from the storm raging in my mind, and I bury my face in his chest. His breathing turns into snores, and to my surprise, I feel sleep climbing out of the abyss to claim me. Willingly, I fall into it.

"Be happy with what you have. Don't worry about the future." It's advice, so freely given by so many, and it mocks me as I slip into unconsciousness.

But really, what choice do I have?

****

The next day, in the gray overcast light that leaked in through the bedroom window, I ignored the people in my house for 30 minutes and climbed into the SO's arms and told him all the things that had tormented me the night before.

Open and honest communication. It's a goal in my house. It's a standard. It's often impossible and I often fail, because I would gladly suffer physical mutilation before I would be vulnerable this way.

I have screwed my courage to the sticking point, however, and I sob into his shoulder as quietly as I could so I wouldn't alert the others as to my current state of complete mental fall apart. He listens non-judgmentally, hugging me and rubbing my back.

"Are you afraid of losing me?" he asks.

"Not usually," I say back. And it's true. 95% of the time, I know that he isn't leaving me and that even if he did, I'd be fine.

"There's only one thing that will take me away," he promises and I nod. I believe him - at least, I believe his intention. Goddamn baggage from my own past is heavy and is threatening to fall out of the closet I've packed it in. "What we teach our son is our choice," he reassures me. "Do you not think you'll be a good mother?"

BAM. There it is. The FEAR that I couldn't even name the night before, cold and hard and unyielding.

"I do," he says, when I start crying harder. "I've spent my whole life looking for the woman I wanted to have babies with. I found her. You're her. You'll do a wonderful job. You've helped raise your godsons and they are happy, fun, well-adjusted kids."

The rewards of open and honest communication - faith, trust, reassurance, courage.

I was out.

Thankfully, he had enough for the both of us.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.20: “Open Topic." I have no idea what has possessed me to spill out my complete mental breakdown of the past weekend, but I suspect it has to do with the compliment and support the SO gave me last week, before any of this happened, about how "honest" I was being in these entries. I am not in the habit of sharing my feelings this freely and the anonymity of the internet has given me a mask to hide behind that seems to be enough to let the other masks down. I don't know, but I do feel like I should maybe apologize for the melodrama here. I genuinely do blame hormones. However, this is my journal and my journey - and this is one of the bumps in it.

If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.

LJ Idol X.19: You Do, In Fact, Need A Gilded Invitation

bewize — Thu, 25 May 2017 16:31:46 GMT

I had heard the rumors in advance. I'd seen snarky comments float by on the Facebooks and interwebs at large. I am passingly familiar with the phenomenon myself.

But, then... it started to happen. In real life. In my life.

My belly grew outward, the child inside pushing into visibility even as he still hides from plain view, and BAM! People are literally coming out of the woodwork, with octupus arms flailing wildly, as they desperately seek to TOUCH ME. It's like a Prime Directive. TOUCH THE PREGNANT BELLY.

If I am lucky, I get a hastily asked, "Can I?" as their greedy hands are already stroking my belly like Dr. Evil petting his hairless cat.

The reactions (from both of us) have been wide and varied. Honestly, I'm not generally squeamish about being touched by people I know. For the most part, I don't mind having those people reach out - asked or unasked - to rub the affectionately named Buddha Belly for luck. But even among friends, the conversations have been become completely awkward and totally absurd. Somehow, the Belly makes people lose their common sense and they say things that make them seem totally absurd.

"I love you, you know that!" Rub. Rub, rub, rub. "But you can't be all around me while you're all pregnant. You know we can't have a baby and I just can't..."

Congratulate me, people, because I held my tongue out of a sense of compassion and sympathy, rather than pointing out the very obvious fact that this grief stricken woman had approached me and was touching </i>me</i> and not the other way around. I mean, I can't avoid people that are hurdling chairs to get to my stomach. I'm not that fast on my feet anymore.

Then there are those, when I go to hug them in our traditional greeting style, that duck down to hug the belly instead. "Oooooh!" It's always a squeal. "You popped."

Cue the forced grin. Yes, I do indeed look like my stomach is exploding out of my body. I can see that in the mirror. Every. Single. Day. It's as plain as the top of your head, as you cuddle my belly underneath my outstretched arms. I get it. I'm just the baby carrier.

Let's not forget the "pokers." The people who are all, "Where is he?" as they jam pointy fingers into my stomach like they are trying to find the secret latch.

Seriously? What is this one about? I have never felt the urge to ram my finger into a person's stomach - pregnant or otherwise. What kind of weird sanctification does this bring? If you give the baby a black eye in utero, do you win Life Points? Did I miss the rules of the game? Just... what?

Also, ouch.

Some people approach like grope ninjas. These are the folks who come up from the side or the back, and whose hands just happen to slip around the belly and give it a jiggle. "Is he awake?" replaces "Hi! How are you?"

By and large, I respond to most of these people with a lukewarm smile and an inane comment about whether I can feel the baby kicking. Of course, they are better than the people who...

HELLO BABY!" screamed into the belly can't be good for the baby. I know it's not good for me. My blood pressure goes up.

"He's not talking yet," I usually respond, through gritted teeth. Of course, this group of people are so busy screaming at my belly button that they usually do not notice my expression. If they bother to pay me any attention, they usually laugh and continue to stare at my stomach like they are waiting for that scene in Alien. You know the one.

Still, I will accept any member of the above group of people with more grace than the Great Unknown.

Some people are just downright creepy, their tiny Carnival like clawed hands (okay, not really) extending from their bodies like Bela Lugosi rising from the crypt. I swear, I almost didn't believe these people existed.
After all, who is so foolish as to take their life in their hands by approaching a hormonal, prengant woman they didn't know.

Turns out, plenty of people. Like, for example, the Grocery Store Stalker, who followed me up and down the aisles of the grocery store, commenting on my food choices and my pregnancy, the other day. Then, as he finally parted ways, he couldn't resist a tentative "brush" against me, hand sliding over my stomach, with a hastily muttered, "Oh sorry!"

There was room for him to get past. I'm not that huge. And just... what the actual hell? It was honestly a little dirty. Made me need a shower and all.

There's also the Ole Granny Gossip types, who have clearly given birth lots of times. Up hill. Both ways. In the snow. And they want to grope you and tell How It's Done.

Of course, they completely ignore the fact that the number of infant deaths and women's deaths during childbirth have declined significantly since "the good ole days," while making sure you know that you're weak and you're doing it wrong. Why they can't tell you this while NOT touching you is one of life's great mysteries. But they can't. It's like they feel entitled.

The Baby Crazy Hippy Dippy Types always make for a laugh, as they stare at you like somehow behind the bloat, constipation and pregnancy-related carpel tunnel, you know the "Secrets of the Universe."

For example, the 21 year old baby crazy woman-child who wanted to hold my belly with both of her hands and cry at the miracle of life. While we stood in a crowded hallway in a Mexican Restaurant. Waiting for the bathroom. And the busboys kept walking by staring at us. Yeah...

Also, the hyperventilating is uncalled for. It's more reminiscent of the conception days than my current state of affairs.

In short, if you don't ask, don't touch. If you do ask, there's a decent chance you probably shouldn't touch. And an even bigger chance that you should keep your mouth shut.

Of course, if you get the open invitation - go for it. The weirder, the better, because we will all talk about you on the Mommy Blogs. And that shit is funny.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.19: “Invitation." There may be voting; if so, I will link to the poll.

LJ Idol X.18: The Right Spot and the Right Time

bewize — Thu, 18 May 2017 23:58:38 GMT

I stared at the plastic test in complete and utter disbelief. I was still sitting on the toilet – hell, I was still peeing. “It said three minutes!” I told it, like it could hear me. “It’s only been three seconds! Not even!”

Still, the two blue lines glared back at me, smug in their self-righteousness. I looked at the box again. One line, negative. Two lines, however faint, positive. That second line wasn’t faint. It was accusatorily bold – screaming from the mountain tops.

“Oh, fuck,” I said, still talking to the test. Carefully, I wrapped the gross side in tissue paper, then stuck it on the window seal and finished my business. Standing up, I left it where it was, to think about what it had done, and I went and washed my hands.

Then my hands went to my belly. “I am the only person in the whole world who knows about you right now,” I whispered. “You’re a miracle and no one even knows yet.” I felt a great pity for the rest of the world.

Then, I took the test, gross end still wrapped up, and I left it on the sink for the boyfriend to find later. After all, he should also get the shock of a lifetime. Right?

I grinned. Then I laughed. Then, to my total surprise, I started crying.

My hands held my belly, clutching tiny pieces of stardust covered miracle buried in the extra pounds I always carried, and I laughed and cried until I heard the bedroom door open.

Washing my face, I went into the bedroom and gave the still unknowing daddy-to-be a kiss. “What was that for?” he asked.

“I just felt like it,” I said. “You were in the right place at the right time.”

******

“So,” my doctor entered the room with a knowing grin on his face. “What brings you to my office today?”

“Eh,” I shrugged. “You were in the right place at the right time.”

“Hold on. Everything changes really fast at this point,” he said, handing me the pee cup. “When was your last period?”

After a few quick calculations, he came up with a date. Then added, “Well, why don’t you go pee in the cup and we’ll confirm.”

Who knew that pregnancy involved so much peeing on things? Sticks, cups – and eventually myself, although I didn’t know that yet – various medical instruments. I obliged and he stuck his head in when I got back to the exam room. “These things can take up to 20 minutes,” he said. “Get comfy.”

He was back in two minutes. “It didn’t take 20 minutes,” he was grinning. He handed me a piece of paper. “Pregnant!”

I took a picture of his diagnosis and sent that and the picture of the positive test to my bestie. She’d been having a crappy few days. This would cheer her up - or, make her drive off the road, if she was foolish enough to text while driving.

I got a return text before I was even out of the doctor’s office parking lot. “Are you trying to tell me something????”

I laughed and called the daddy-to-be. After all, he should get the confirmation from me first. Besides, I was headed to the bestie’s house to hang with the godkids. She’d be up close and personal in a minute and I could see her face. It’d be better that way – for me.

******

We didn’t tell anyone else until after the first trimester. Of course, that didn’t stop me from acting suspicious. Picture it – grocery store check-out line. The man in front of me had a rotisserie chicken. I love rotisserie chicken – or I had before the little parasite was killing me from the inside.

My friend stood next to me, chatting away blithely, unknowingly, and I took deep, focused breaths. “I am not going to puke in the grocery store,” I said to myself, over and over, a mantra and a lie wrapped in one. “I am NOT going to puke in the grocery store!”

Then the line shifted and the smell of chicken hit me hard – like a wrecking ball of roasted fowl goodness – and I looked at my friend and said. “I’ll be right back, please hold our space.”

I shoved past the guy in front of me and bolted to the parking lot, losing the, admittedly limited, contents of my stomach in the trash can that was left there for what looked to be a combination of cigarette butts, greasy wrappers and soda cans. I puked my guts out, to the disgust of several patrons walking by me.

“Trust me,” I muttered in response to one woman’s audible, “Eww!” “This ain’t fun for me either.”

Going back into the store, my friend stared at me suspiciously and I avoided eye contact. We paid and drove to my house, and she finally broke the silence. “Are you pregnant?”

“Do you really want to know?” She nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Flat voice, flat faced, flat eyed. There was no pleasure here for my sake. “Ok.”

******

“So,” the boyfriend’s mom sat down across from me. “I have a question. Is he,” she gestured towards her son, sitting next to me, “your baby-daddy?”

I choked.

“I mean, what do you call him?” she continued, oblivious to the hysterical laughter I was fighting to contain. The boyfriend was no fool. He picked up his cell phone and opted out of this conversation.

“That’s an accurate phrase,” I finally managed, sounding strangled, as I tried to keep from laughing in this poor woman’s face. “But I generally go with boyfriend.”

“Well, people keep looking at me weird when I tell them that my son and his girlfriend are having a baby.”

“Ahh,” I was tickled now and I was going to play in this field to my heart’s content. “The ole side-eye. They probably have a problem with it. Good thing that’s their problem and not mine.”

She stared at me and I raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a problem with it?”

“I just don’t understand what you’re doing!” she burst out. I steeled myself. I guess we were about to have this conversation. On Easter Sunday. While lots of people milled around us. The boyfriend didn’t look up, but I noticed his dad perk up to listen.

“I don’t want to get married,” I started.

Of course, she had opinions about babies and marriage and I listened with all the respect due to my son’s grandmother. Then I nodded and interjected, “Oh, I don’t have a problem with people getting married. I know people love to get married. Some do it like 10 times!”
She stopped to glare at me. “I hear you,” she said stiffly.

“Good,” I replied. That was that.

******

I stared down at the orange cat in my lap suspiciously. For a few blessed hours, we were alone and relaxing. He was staring down at my belly with wide eyes. “Was that you?” I asked.

Obviously, he did not answer, but his posture was answer enough.

I felt a second kick, a tiny movement inside, and I gasped.

“Stardust baby,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer either.

I had the pleasure of working with the wonderful flipflop_diva on this intersection. Please read her entry The Distance Between Us. I am blown away by her honesty and graciousness as she wrote this particular entry.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.18: “Location, Location, Location."

LJ Idol X.17: Surrender, Under Protest

bewize — Sun, 07 May 2017 20:21:28 GMT

As a litigator, and a Type A personality, I don't like to lose a fight. It's been trained into me, "Bewize, you never leave a trench in battle without bodies into it." That is a literal quote from my first boss.

But, also being a person who values peace and quiet, as well as my relationship, it sometimes behooves me to drop it.

As I am certain that I am not the only person with the need to tactically gracefully concede on ocassion, I am sharing my Top Ten Surrenders, Under Protest.

1. If you say so. I feel like this make both the points that I acknowledge that the other person's opinion is different than mine, and that I'm ok with allowing him to be wrong.

2. Whatever you think. I don't have the time or inclination to dispute your stupidity, and it doesn't affect me anyway.

3. The Smile and Nod. The smartest thing to do is not engage. Heaven help you if this fails, because that thing that fell out of your mouth is complete crap and I may have to beat you with your own words.

4. I see that. You have made a stand. I see that. I can't believe it, but good for you. Don't ask me to agree, though. Please, for both our sakes, don't.

5. Let's agree to disagree. Because I will never think that level of ridiculousness could possibly be right.

6. I have no opinion. We both know I have an opinion. This is an escape hatch to avoid an unpleasant discussion.

7. I don't think so, but I don't know. I know. You're wrong, but I don't want to have this fight.

8. It's/I'm fine. Nothing is fine. This is a warning shot across the bow. Heed it, back away. This is our last chance to avoid open conflict.

9. I'm not talking about this. Self-explanatory. But you can bet I'm thinking about it. And judging it.

10. Whatever. The absurdity of this has rendered me temporarily speechless. Take advantage and distract me. It'll be better for us both.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.17: “Surrender Under Protest." There may be voting; if so, I will link to the poll.

LJ Idol X.16: Thunder Hidden Inside

bewize — Thu, 27 Apr 2017 18:11:13 GMT

If you're lucky, in a weird sort of way, you can live your life and hold onto ideals that you never have to test. You can call yourself any number of adjectives - brave, fair, kind, compassionate - and never actually know the truth of it. Ignorance is bliss, they say, and maybe it is.

I am not that lucky.

I grew up in a household with a bully. He was big and strong and alternately mean as a snake and charismatic as the snake charmer. I cannot count the number of times I heard shouts and slaps. I cannot count the number of times he made others cry. I cannot count the number of times I hid in the shadows of being his "favorite" and the "one who didn't cause problems."

I was a child and while I do not look at my childhood fear with disdain, I ache for that little girl, who so wanted to be brave, but couldn't find a way.

As an adult, I promised myself I would never walk away from someone being bullied and not do what I could to help. It sounds simple, pretty words and a pretty premise, but it isn't simple. Sometimes, it's impossible - and I have failed countless times. Those failures gnaw at my marrow, weakening my spine, and bowing my head.

To my surprise, I find that each test of this resolve happens in the same way. First, I see something - and I always wish to God I hadn't. "Please," I pray to no one. "Not me. Don't make me responsible for this."

Too late. It's always too late.

Second, my brain jumps like it's been struck by lightening. My heart races, my palms sweat, my knees start knocking, my belly threatens to lose its contents and my throat tightens to the point I can't breathe.

Third, I look for an out.

"Self," I say. "You can pretend it didn't happen. "La, la, la,"I say, you can sing to yourself, "Nothing is wrong here. Ignore it! La, la, la!"

"You can always tell yourself that's what everyone would do. You can bury it deep down, with shame. "No one will ever know," you can lie to yourself, pretending that you don't count.

Often, I will get belligerent. "This is Not-My-Problem! This is the Not-My-Place! This is Not-My-Job!"

I think, if you're really lucky, you never have to test your mettle against something that will grab hold and rankle you to your soul for your own perceived failure.

I don't know anyone that lucky.

Fourth, I make a decision. "Who are you, Bewize? Who are you, in your secret heart?"

My therapist recently told me that there is a special kind of dissonance that comes from needing to take care of a parent. It's worse, she said, when you're taking care of someone who never took care of you.

That man who used to be such a terrorizing force in my life, is bent and broken now. He doesn't know what year it is, he doesn't know how old he is, he doesn't remember how to take care of himself. It happened so fast, like a lightening strike on an otherwise clear day.

"Who will take care of him?" The Judge asked.

There was silence, with my siblings and his siblings, staring at their hands and feet. I prayed.

Then, I stepped forward. "I will."

That was not the answer to my question, by the way. "Who are you, Bewize? Who are you, in your secret heart?" is dangerous. It's loaded.

I stepped forward for one simple reason, because, that is the person I want to be. It is not the person I am and that is a dramatic difference.

Now, a month has passed, and I still hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. I don't know if the storm has subsided, if we're in the eye of it and have nearly weathered it, or if this is the first round.

And that's where the terror lies. You never know. You never how things will turn out.

The fight I stopped to monitor, to make sure that the woman was okay, could have turned ugly. The runaway child on my doorstep could have been a cover for a thief - or worse. The screams for help could have led to bodily injury for me, as I intervened.

Taking care of my father may be the biggest mistake of my life. Maybe I should, as my mother suggested, let him become a ward of the state.

But, I had to ask myself more question. Who do I want to be? Not, who am I. Never again, who am I.

Because, truth be told, I am a coward. I am a 9 year old girl, in a grown woman's body, wishing so hard for covers I could pull over my head. I am a conflict avoider, a pacifist, a person who takes no pleasure in wading into battles. I am afraid of being hurt. I am afraid of losing my property. I am afraid of dying.

But, I'm more afraid of being a person who stands to the side and lets someone treat others the way I was treated as a child. That is not who I want to be.

"Get stepping, Bewize," I tell myself. And against all odds, I listen.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.16: “Thunderclap." There may be voting; if so, I will link to the poll. The title of this piece is taken from "When I am quiet, there is thunder inside."
~ Rumi

LJ Idol X.15: "Give it a try," whispered the heart.

bewize — Mon, 17 Apr 2017 19:45:00 GMT

"It's impossible,"
said pride.
"It's risky,"
said experience.
"It's pointless,"
said reason.
"Give it a try,"
whispered the heart.

~Author Unknown

Dear Stardust Baby,

I can feel you, your little feet swishing in the darkness of my womb. I can feel your little hands, exploring your world. I hear your heartbeat every time we go to the doctor now and my soul soars free in a way that I had no idea it could.

We had a scan last week, to look at your perfect little body. Your bones, growing strong; your brain, thinking already; your heart, beating so steady.

I saw into your chest, Stardust Baby. Lubdublubdublubdub. It beat so fast, so furious, so determined to make you flourish. Four little, anatomically correct chambers, pumping and moving, dancing. The ultrasound showed my blood, coming through the cord and into your body. It glowed, like magic, like a miracle and I was awed, Stardust Baby. The same magic glowed through you, coming and going and proving that you're alive.

But, the truth is that while I saw your organs, I didn't see your true heart, Stardust Baby. That hasn't been made yet. I am so excited to see who you are, what makes you smile, what makes you laugh, what makes you cry. I want to see your true heart, Stardust Baby. I want to see you wear it on your sleeve and encompass all that you love.

I hope you have your father's patience and faith in people. He always believes that people are good and that they mean well. He loves others in a way that very few are privileged enough to see, and even fewer are blessed enough to do. It would be an incredible foundation for you.

I hope you have your Grandma R's ability to love steadfastly. Her love is so unwavering, even when it is tried, that it must be god-sent. I hope you have your Grandpa F's faithful love. He believes so much that his love can change people for the better that it must be true.

I hope you have your Nana L's appreciative love, Stardust Baby. Her love catches the tiny moments, fleeting by so fast, and holds them and builds them to be truly magnificent. I hope you have your Granddaddy G's open love, so that when you meet strangers, they quickly become friends. I hope you have your Papa D's mischievous love, so that no matter how badly someone lets you down, you can find the humor in it.

I hope your heart grows from knowing your Aunts R, T, B and N. They love you so much already, Stardust Baby, that I believe it holds you in grace until you arrive. I hope your heart carries pieces of your Uncles C, B, N and A, so that you learn how to protect and cherish others like they do, and hold them close to you.

I hope your heart is as compassionate as your godmother's and as generous as your godfather's. I hope your heart is as caring as your god-brother M and as adventurous as your god-brother J. You would do so well, Stardust Baby, to learn these traits from them.

As for me, Stardust Baby, you have all my love, and I hope it wraps you and protects you, but never hinders you, nor binds you. I hope you love your life as much as I love mine, knowing you're coming into it. I hope you're as strengthened by this love as I am by the miracle of you.

I hope you get the best of all of us, Stardust Baby. I hope your heart, pieced together from the love given to you, reflects your past, but lights your future. May we provide you stepping stones, so that your heart will heal when bruised, pump when broken, and believe in miracles despite all evidence to the contrary. I hope your heart leads you to happiness.

I hope you love with all your might, Stardust Baby. Follow your heart, it will change your world. It's already changed mine.

Love always,

Mama

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.15: “Patchwork Heart." There may be voting; if so, I will link to the poll.

LJ Idol X.14: Campfire Stories for the Desolate Soul

bewize — Mon, 10 Apr 2017 19:47:31 GMT

I want to run away. I want to leave behind all my responsibilities. I want nothing more than a comfortable and warm place to sleep, food that will nourish me and this baby in my belly, and a fire pit with an endless supply of wood.

I want to wake up in morning, stoke the fire, and watch as the smoke curls to the sky, taking with it my stress and fears. I am so afraid. I am so afraid that I'm not enough. I can't be good enough at what I do, and right now I want to watch everything burn.

I'm tired of trying to make sure everyone is happy. I want to be selfish.

I want to smell bacon frying over the fire, and eat eggs outside. I want to burn sticks and write letters to God with the ashy tip.

I want to burn sage for healing, cedar for protection, sweetgrass for the female divine. Let the smoke of lavender protect me from evil. Thrown in Frankincense and myrrh for guidance and enlightenment.

I want to roast hot dogs and marshmallows. I want to idle away the hours, with nothing more pressing than whether or not I need to feed the fire.

I want to loose my soul and let it soar above the trees, carried high by the plumes of my escape.

I want to stare at the embers and imagine that I have snapped. I want to picture the world burning and me burning with it.

I want to be entranced by the flames' dance, and wonder down the various paths of my future with enthusiasm and hope. I want to see happiness in the flames, and health. I want prosperity and grace to warm me. I need the heat to tighten my skin so that my sins are burned away.

I want to toss small pebbles into the center of the pit, and watch as they disappear in the flame. I want to envy them even as a I fear for them.

And, I want to tell myself a story. I want to believe that when I finally return home, it will be better, easier. I want to lie to myself that I will suddenly be enough, that I will not consistently fail. I want to pretend that the smoke and the fire has made a difference.

But mostly, I want to believe it for a while, in the deep and silent places in my soul, where the fires no longer burn brightly, but are banked in the hope that someday, it will be better.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.14: “Campfire stories." There may be voting; if so, I will link to the poll.

LJ Idol X.13: No Happy Endings Here

bewize — Mon, 27 Mar 2017 23:19:32 GMT

There is a certain unpleasant tang in the air. I can feel my nose wrinkle before I even walk through the double doors, which whoosh open at my passing. My shoes make an unpleasant squeaking noise on the floor, which at least looks passably clean - if you don't look too hard, anyway.

There are chairs to the right, arranged in a mockery of a pleasant living space. The television is too loud, but the three old men supposedly watching the screen don't seem to notice or care. The game show announcer's voice is forcibly cheerful as he urges someone to "Come on Down!"

There is a desk in front of me, and I walk in that direction, more hesitantly than I would like to admit. I can feel my hands shaking. "Excuse me," I say to the two women behind the desk that haven't even bothered to look up at my approach. "Can you direct me to Room 238?"

One of them glances at me, judgment gleaming in her eyes. She knows what I've done. I can feel a cold sweat break out on my spine, trickling down uncomfortably. She tells me to turn left, take an elevator and go to the right. But first, I must sign in and prove to the world that I am not as horrid as they may otherwise think.

Proof that I was here, after all.

Wordlessly, I scribble my name and then hurry away, following her directions.

There is an old woman sitting slumped in a wheelchair. I look at her face and then away, hurriedly. She is drooling and my stomach is clenching in alarm. Everything in my whole being wants me to run out of this building and never come back.

I push the elevator buttons, my fingers shaking a little. Some unidentified, but almost familiar tune is floating down from speakers. The elevator is slow. When the door opens, I take a deep breath, and immediately cough on the smell of astringent, cleaner and something less pleasant.

I turn right, my eyes scanning the doors for the number I need. 230, and on the inside, I can hear an old man yelling at someone, or no one. The room is empty except for him. I keep walking.

232. A woman is asleep in a chair in the corner. She looks too young to be in this place, but the massive machine hooked to her suggests a different tale.

234. This room is empty, and I suspect one of the aimless tv viewers downstairs is the occupant.

236. My steps slow, not because I'm here for the woman who is staring out of her window with a desperation akin to a starving person seeing food, but because I'm terrified of what will be behind door 238. My destination.

That door is closed and I knock hesitantly, before I hear a muffled, "Yeah?" His voice is almost unrecognizable now. I push the door open and hesitate, unsure for a moment.

Blue eyes, cloudy and confused, look me over. "Can I help you?" he says after a minute and I can feel the despair well up inside.

"Hi, Daddy. I came to visit."

"Do I know you?" He sits up in the hospital bed, a little more interested in this conversation now.

"I'm Bewize," I say, smiling a forced, fake, teeth shattering, screaming grimace. "Remember?"

"Oh," he visibly brightens. "Do you know my daughter, Bewize?"

I want to cry. Instead, I nod. "I do. Very, very well. She says hi and she loves you."

"That's so sweet," he says, leaning back and fidgeting with his pillows.

"Can I help you?" I move closer to him, wanting to hug him, wanting to scream at him, wanting to destroy this whole building from the inside out, and settling for helping him move his pillows to a better angle. "Are you cold?"

"I am cold," he sounds surprised, but smiles when I fetch a blanket from where they are stacked on a chair.

We sit in silence, not awkward as much as it is mystifying. He doesn't know me, and I wonder if I ever knew him. Bills and bank accounts; court hearings and guardianship; angry family members and dysfunction. How did we ever come to this?

Suddenly, his eyes sharpen, "Bewize?" He knows me. I can hear it in his tone.

"Hi, Daddy." I get up to give him a hug and he clings to me, a weak man where once he was strong and terrifying.

"Please take me home," he begs and my heart shatters. I am dying on the inside. He's dying on the outside. I'm not sure there is much difference. "Please, I want to go home. I miss my house. I miss my dog."

"I can't, Daddy," I am literally choking on tears. "It's not safe for you there. Your memory isn't good anymore. You'll get hurt."

He sighs and as quickly as it came, his memory leaves. He lets go of me and looks at my tears with some surprise. "Do I know you?" he asks, letting go of me. I take a step back.

"No. But, I love you and I hope you know that."

He doesn't. I can see it in his eyes.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.13: “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here." There may be voting; if so, I will link to the poll.

This is a story that is made up of parts of reality, parts of my nightmares. It's neither fiction, nor nonfiction.

LJ Idol X.11: a sanctuary safe and strong

bewize — Thu, 09 Mar 2017 14:20:50 GMT

When I envision my soul, as I am wont to do from time to time for reasons which remain unclear to me, I see a small room, with pews of wood. At the front center is a pedestal, much like the pulpits of the church I long ago abandoned. It's not surprising, I suppose, that even in my post-organized religion life, I still link the imagery and pedagogy of the American church with ideas of my soul.

Always, I enter the room in my visions. Always I am barefoot. After all, this is sacred ground. Nothing else ever stays the same about me. Sometimes, I'm in rags. Other times, I'm dressed in riches. Coiffed, unkempt, young, old, dressed, naked... it varies.

There is nothing remarkable about this room's floors, ceiling or walls. Sometimes, there is color, mostly it is muted and gray, like the sky at twilight in the places where the sun no longer reaches. There is, though, a large and ever-changing stained glass window that illuminates the small soul-chapel, offering a back-light to the pulpit where no one ever preaches.

From any of the pews - and I've sat in them all - you can watch the colored light stream across the room.

The colors shift and change, perhaps matching my mood, perhaps matching the day's facts, perhaps indulging some flight of fancy. I am never quite sure. Still, some things are obvious, even in the midst of my most confused days, and when the light streams all shades of blue, I know that grief lies outside.

Grief from the loss of a pet, the death of a grandparent, the end of a dream and the breaking of reality - it matters not. Shades of blue streak forth, impossible from window glass tinted red, green, yellow, but true all the same.

The blue hour stretches into eternity and passes in a moment. Time does not matter in the soul-chapel. My breaths sing a song, punctuated by the percussion of my heartbeat, and for this time, I can just be, sitting, not bowed, not cowed, but resting, until the light fades into darkness.

The night lasts for the length of the night, and dawn always breaks. My eyes, often blurred with tears, turn to the window and I watch for signs that the window has changed. Sometimes, the window remains awash with the colors of the sky and I know that my time in the chapel has not ended. Sometimes, the grief lingers, with blue dappled shadows coloring the otherwise vibrant window.

Eventually, though, I know that the stained glass will shine with offerings of gold and green and red and pink. My soul has healed, never completely as blues will always streak through the room at unexpected times, but enough so that joy exists again.

Every hour eventually ends.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.11: “The Blue Hour." There may be voting; if so, I will link to the poll.

I have borrowed a line from Billy Joel's And So It Goes for my title.

LJ Idol X.10: Wherever you go... there you are.

bewize — Thu, 02 Mar 2017 22:38:57 GMT

God in heaven, hear my prayer
I love my family. I know that they love me.
Thank you for those blessings.
But, Lord, we don't like each other.
We don't understand each other.
We don't think alike.
We don't value the same things in this world.
We are blood, but truly, it may be thicker than water,
but it is not thicker than apathy, resentment, regret, blame, shame, neglect...

I left, moved away, hours distant.
I never looked back, never asked for help.
I struggled with handicaps they'd given me that I didn't understand.
I've worked so hard to overcome, to thrive.
I'm preparing for my life, for my future, for me and mine.

I kept my end of the bargain, Lord. I'll ask for nothing;
I'll get nothing. They ask for nothing, too.
Only, no. They are asking, demanding, begging, pleading...
And I'm so angry I don't even know who to tell to go fuck themselves.
My dad, for being sick, for not taking care of himself,
for not having the foresight to make end of life decisions,
even though we buried his parents little more than a year ago.
My aunt, for taking everything that anyone offered her, and
now telling me that she can't... she won't... she isn't able...
My sister, for settling, for lying about what she'll do, for being untrustworthy.
My mother, for always, always picking everyone else over me.

What the fuck, Lord? You, too. You're on the list.
Because I kept my end of the bargain, but now you're having the last laugh.
Make sure Daddy doesn't know himself, can't take care of himself,
doesn't have anyplace to go, but is still kicking (and cussing and throwing books).

Then give them the bright idea, "Bewize, do this. Bewize, do that.
Bewize, we want to move him to where you are, so you can be responsible.
You be responsible. YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOUYOUYOUYOUYOUYOUYOU...
Because you may have left, gone away from us, but -
you'll never be far enough away that you'll be free."

Family Ties. Guilt. Shame. Responsibility.

Amen.

Fuck.

This entry was written for therealljidol 10.10: “Take a Hike!" There may be voting; if so, I will link to the poll.

Alas, this is a true story. I don't know what's going on or what will happen. It picks up from my last entry in week 8, If You Don't Have Anything Nice to Say...