Scars....

...we've all got them right?  And, each one has a story.  I don't know a single person that can look at their scars and not know how they got them, or when, or where.

"Oh, that scar?  Yeah, I got that one when I was 9 and trying to teach myself how to ride my bike with no hands.  It was super hot that day and I thought I could drink my water while riding.  Slammed into a Geo Metro parked at the corner of First and Beech streets.  Rolled about 12 feet on the ground and came up bleeding from both elbows and my knees.  It was awesome!"

I happen to have a scar on each wrist that I got from surgery to remove ganglion cysts when I was only 12 years old.  I have had them so long now that I usually don't even think about them.  Today, though, I happened to have noticed them for some reason and started thinking about all of the history of those scars and how so few people really even realize they are there.  There was a time when they were red and obvious and would illicit stares and uncomfortable remarks or questions.  I was only 12 but I distinctly remember being brought to tears because I overheard two grown people discussing them in whispers and wondering what happened to me that would make me slit my wrists.  Even then, I knew the more adult things to do would have been  to a) ask me about them or b) shut their pie holes.

Now that I am a mom I look at them and think about what it must have been like for my mom and dad as I was going into surgery.  It was out-patient surgery, but I was under general anesthesia and being operated on within millimeters of an artery (the reason they were being removed surgically instead of just drained of fluid with a needle).  Thinking about this, I realize, I might have the physical scars from surgery, but I know my parents have the emotional scars.  My oldest needed stitches when he was three and three years later I still choke up at the memory of that day.  He healed nicely, the scar is barely visible, but the emotional pain for me and his dad is still very much there.

I also have a c-section scar.  That scar carries very deep emotional wounds for me.  I had my heart set on an all-natural, intervention-free birth, but after 9 hours of pushing, I had to give up.  For my second labor, I tried really hard to not have a repeat c-section, but it did not work out.  I can barely see that scar, but every time I have to say the words, "I had two c-sections" I feel as if I am being stabbed right in the heart.  I deal with jealousy towards others who have "easy" births or get the VBAC (vaginal birth after c-section) they had hoped would help them heal from the trauma of their first labor and surgical delivery.  It is getting better a little all the time, but I still cry about it sometimes.

I guess the point I am trying to make, in a somewhat convoluted way, is that physical scars really are nothing.  If you feel something when you look at a scar on your body, that is the emotional connection you have to the circumstances surrounding that scar, not the scar itself.  That is what makes psychological scars so tricky to deal with.

When it comes to our emotional scars, it is sometimes hard to tell what is going to trigger a reaction, right?  It could be lyrics to a song, a scene in a movie, a phrase that someone says...anything.

And that is where I am at now.  Dealing with emotional scars that are 15 years old.  Things I never dealt with while they were happening, but are now reeling around in my brain like a bad movie.

Just when I think I have dealt with it all and the scar is fading, something happens to make it flare up and hurt all over again.  So, when will it be done?  When will the ghost of my former life leave me alone for good?

poetry #001

I dreamt of you last night.
Or is it “dreamed"?
Either way, it hurt. 
I was listening to you read to me, which is weird because you never have
I don’t know if it was poetry or a novel
but it was heartbreaking - just the way I like it.
"Shall I go on? You’re crying."
"Please."
So, you kept on reading
and I kept dissolving
I heard you say

"Oh, she’s gone.  I must have only dreamt her here. Or is it ‘dreamed’?"

Please share your foot fungus and herpes

Facebook has opened up a whole new world for me.

Not in the "Wow, I can now keep up with all the people I never really cared for from high school" sort of way.  Or even the "Goody!  Now I get to see all the ignorant political posts by people who I know barely passed history and civics in high school."

No, my world has been infinitely broadened by the sale pages.  You know what I mean, you probably belong to one, "(insert town name here) Buy, Sell and Trade"  or "(insert town name here) Yard Sale Group."   These groups are often run by power hungry admins who have nothing better to do than yell at people for one too many bumps or ban people for calling a piece of crap a piece of crap.

I have seen a lot on these sites over the last several months.  BBQs with rusted out bottoms that the seller will assure you is an easy fix or doesn't affect the use.  VHS tapes of old 80's movies and Jane Fonda workouts.  50 year appliances that "work like new!" Etc., etc., etc.......

But there are two items that intrigue me to no end.

First, used shoes.  I don't care how cute a pair of shoes is, I do not want to walk in something someone else's foot has sweated in.  Furthermore, they all have captions like "Only worn twice!"  but it looks like someone hiked the Pacific Trail in them during the rainy season and you swear you can see a hole.   I can practically smell them through the computer screen!

I have a hard enough time trying on brand new shoes in a shoe store and have seen plenty of eye rolls from employees when I say "I'd like this in a size 9, and can you please get one from the bottom of the stack that hasn't been opened yet?"  So used shoes, no thanks!

The second, and by far most horrific items in the sales groups - used bathing suits!  Ack!!

Ewwwwwwww......  I don't even try suits on at the store anymore!  I find one I like in a size I am sure will fit and then I find the one that looks the least messed with.  I make a stop at the first aid section of the store (cuz I get my suits at classy places like Target) and pick up hydrogen peroxide and latex gloves.  When I get home I put on the gloves to remove the paper liner thing that is supposed to somehow protect my lady parts from possible crabs and herpes infections.  After it is removed, I douse the bathing suit with peroxide to kill germs and then toss it in a super hot wash.  I know, it goes against the cleaning and care instructions, but I don't care, it needs to be disinfected!

A used bathing suit is like used underwear!  Most people would not even think about putting a used bra and panties up for sale, but a bathing suit?  Sure!  Why not?

Seriously, how hard up for $10 do you have to be to sell your old bathing suits?

And, every time one of those pops up in my feed, I just think to myself, "Grody!  Keep your herpes to yourself, sicko."

Here is one final thought for you if you ever consider buying a used bathing suit online - people could have had sex while wearing it.  It's true!  I won't say how I know it is possible or true, but they could have.  Ew.

I am way funnier than that!

I always thought that I wanted a blog that allowed me to express the deeper parts of me that I am afraid to show others - the artistic me, the poetic me, the tortured me - and I do.

But, I also love making people laugh.  So, I have been trolling the web to find some funny blogs so I can kind of see what it is about their style and humor that I like.

Things I like:

• embarrassing stories - I can totally do that
• odd observations on life - check
• funny/precocious child - times two
• wacky family members -um, duh!
• lots of stupid pictures

Things I hate:

• people who think that just because they talk about drinking a lot makes them funny
• people who are not funny at all
• people whose stories read like it was written by a third grader
• typos and grammatical errors
• when they center their paragraphs

So, I have decided to post at least one funny blog a week.  I am anticipating a photo essay of my most recent embarrassing injury.  Please stay tuned. 

What do you look for in funny blogs? 

timing is everything...

She always thought she saw him just around the corner or walking up ahead of her on a crowded street – and she had chased down several unsuspecting strangers, each time positive it was him.

It was always like that with them.  The timing was wrong.

This time, it was her who was unavailable, but that didn’t change the fact that she wanted him.

But, like every other time, he got just close enough to make her long for him.  Even worse, it took less and less contact each time.  It seemed that these days, all she needed was a simple “Hello” and she had already run away with him in her mind.

One thing she could count on in her life was that he would show up at exactly the wrong moment.

And, each time, he pulled away – and he always pulled away – the hurt was fresh and new, yet oddly comforting in its familiarity.

He would never be hers.  She would never be his. Yet, somehow, they belonged to one another.

Existence

There are so many things I want to say to you. I want the words to be beautiful and poetic, but all I have are the simplest of phrases echoing in my brain. Things like “I want you” and “I need you” and “more than I ever thought I could feel for another person.” Fragments of cheap country music songs, at best. But, the truth of the matter is, I feel these things so deeply that I cannot even come to the surface long enough to look for a better description for the emotions that I am feeling lately. I am drowning in the feelings I have for you, and I am enjoying it.

I want to feel your soul touch mine. No, wait, that sounds so cliché, does it not?

I think, more accurately, that my soul has suddenly realized it is missing a vital chunk. My survival depends on finding this piece. Up until now, I have been able to endure this life because I did not even know it was missing. Now that I know, though, I am obsessed with trying to fill this recently revealed void. No, I don’t love you because I need you, or even need you because I love you. I need you because without you there can be no me. Without you, I cease to exist.

words........

They were
the kind of words
that begged to be read

breathlessly

and

desperately

Whispered into willing ears
and mingling with
beads of sweat
They were words for
candle lit evenings
and foggy Sunday mornings,
hotel room trysts
and long goodbyes.

Heart Breaker

I don’t know.
It seems that you have cast me in the role of “heart breaker.”
Maybe I am deserving, after years of making you feel like you can’t get over me
But what about the things you did?
Lying, cheating, leaving, returning, telling me to leave
You told me to leave, so I left
Now, I am the bad guy for leaving
It’s all so confusing and wrong
Am I happy with life? Ecstatically so.
Do I have regrets? Not many.
So what of this hold we have over each other?
After all this time, isn’t your arm tired of carrying that burned out torch?
Just as when we were together, your ideal cannot possibly match up to reality
You put me on a pedestal, and the fall was long and humiliating, and caused earthquakes.
I glued those shattered remains back together as best I could, but there were chunks missing and still others rearranged
I was different.  Changed,
My eyes were reconstructed with lenses that saw our life differently than before
I had to leave - not because I didn’t love you, but because I didn’t love me.
You say that you still love me, have never stopped.
What am I supposed to do with that?  Where does that fit in? 
And this is how the one with the broken heart becomes the heart breaker, by continuing to live and function and not remain broken
Would you feel the same if I was still that broken pile of marble on the floor?  or would you have swept me up and discarded me long ago?
I just don’t understand how YOU get to be the one hurting in all of this?  After all that was said, all that was done, all the ways you tried to destroy me? 
How is it that I am now the one to carry the burden of your broken heart?
You loved me
You loved me how you needed to love
Not how I needed to be loved
You needed so much more from my love than I was able to offer