Have you ever done something wrong and despite numerous attempts to let yourself off the hook, you just can't seem to? I've begun refusing to admit I'm human and fallible lately, therefore I am shocked when I take a look at my imperfections.
Tonight I decided to take a hot yoga class. It was 90 degrees in Philly roday but what's 10 degrees more inside an enclosed room with 12 other sweaty bodies and hot breath surrounding you? I thought maybe, just maybe, contorting my body into tree pose, taking deliberate deep breaths, and forcing myself to repeat, "let it go" while the teacher made us all link arms would relieve me of my mental obsessions and force me to gain peaceful perspective, but I was mistaken. Half way through the class, I resigned to my favorite pose, "child's pose" for three minutes straight and then got up to see if the water fountain was running (it was not). Yoga was not going to be my solution for serenity.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, January 3, 2013
so fresh and so clean in 2013 (i didn't mean to rhyme but that was awesome)
Hello, World. It's 2013.
Other than my extreme phobia of watching the ball drop at midnight (for reasons unknown), and the realization that I am yet another year older (and one year away from 30--eek!) I do like the idea of starting a new 365-day chapter.
In my own personal world, I was a bad-ass in 2012. I say this because upon looking back, this year looks to me in my minds eye, like one full of color. I credit my job for forcing me to speak up and be bold, I credit my on-again-off-again relationship for pushing me to decide what I really f*cking want, (and what I want is to not be in said on-again-off-again relationship anymore) and I credit red lipstick for making me feel sexy. (hehe).
This year I want to of course, grow. Don't we all? I'd like to let a little bit more roll off my back, I'd like to be more sensitive to others' flaws, I'd like to dive head first into the rest of my 12 steps, I'd like to run each morning at 7 am (maaaaaaaan, this one is tough), I'd like to work more to my potential career-wise, I'd like to stop taking prisoners and let em' fly, I'd like to somehow help kids in need and I'd like to use my iPhone less.
What I want for the world is for us all to forgive ourselves. I'd like us all to take a good look in the mirror (after we wash our makeup off/the day off) and say, "I'm human." We are limited creatures. We can't control all we wish we could. We can't always have our way. But we can try to be more compassionate today. We can start to slow down and listen today. We can look each other in the eye and get to know each other before we judge and we can smile more often. Because, yes, we've all been through some sh*t, but we are esssentially all we have. So, let's make the best of it.
Cheers to 2013. Bring it.
Other than my extreme phobia of watching the ball drop at midnight (for reasons unknown), and the realization that I am yet another year older (and one year away from 30--eek!) I do like the idea of starting a new 365-day chapter.
In my own personal world, I was a bad-ass in 2012. I say this because upon looking back, this year looks to me in my minds eye, like one full of color. I credit my job for forcing me to speak up and be bold, I credit my on-again-off-again relationship for pushing me to decide what I really f*cking want, (and what I want is to not be in said on-again-off-again relationship anymore) and I credit red lipstick for making me feel sexy. (hehe).
This year I want to of course, grow. Don't we all? I'd like to let a little bit more roll off my back, I'd like to be more sensitive to others' flaws, I'd like to dive head first into the rest of my 12 steps, I'd like to run each morning at 7 am (maaaaaaaan, this one is tough), I'd like to work more to my potential career-wise, I'd like to stop taking prisoners and let em' fly, I'd like to somehow help kids in need and I'd like to use my iPhone less.
What I want for the world is for us all to forgive ourselves. I'd like us all to take a good look in the mirror (after we wash our makeup off/the day off) and say, "I'm human." We are limited creatures. We can't control all we wish we could. We can't always have our way. But we can try to be more compassionate today. We can start to slow down and listen today. We can look each other in the eye and get to know each other before we judge and we can smile more often. Because, yes, we've all been through some sh*t, but we are esssentially all we have. So, let's make the best of it.
Cheers to 2013. Bring it.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Dreamweaving
Last night I woke up abruptly at 3 AM to the faint blue color of my TV screen clashing against the darkness of night. My dog was next to me in a sound sleep but I was as awake as I would have been had I just finished a cup of extra strong coffee. Remnants of my horrible dream began flooding me and I recognized the fear as familiar; this was the same fear I experienced as a child and adolescent when I woke up from a nightmare.
My grandmother was laying in the same hospital bed that my grandfather was laying in just a few months ago, right before he died. We were all crowded around her bed, just as we were with him. Only she was much more lucid and coherent than he. She was crying and begging us not to let her go. She didn't want to leave. She looked around at us as if we held the key to her destiny, to her life. But I knew in my heart that we didn't. That it was so much bigger than us. Than her.
She didn't say it, but she was begging us not to let her die. And the pain I felt in my heart was physical as well as emotional - if I could have, I would have given her life, just as I would have given life to my grandfather had I possessed that power.
After coming to my more rational and stable senses, the fear and sadness I felt began to pass. I scanned my surroundings again, feeling comforted by my blankets and pillows cacooning me. I reached for my dog and felt her safe and familiar body.
It's now clear to me that even when we are not knowingly processing grief and loss, our subconscious is turning those pages for us in our sleep. My inner dreamer is trying to make sense of what's passed and perhaps reminding me that more loss will come.
I haven't written much or spoken much about my Gramps' death since it occurred, quite possibly because I've never dealt with death so up-close before. I don't quite know how I feel other than missing his smile while simultaneously sighing in relief that his pain is gone. To watch someone you love endure such tribulation is something that I think most of us can't quite make sense of. Why do good people leave us so early? Why must strong people endure such pain?
There are so many unanswered questions that life presents us as is relates to death--questions we may not have the right to know. Whether you believe in a God, a Higher Power, The Universe, or yourself, you cannot argue that you have no power over death and when it comes. Something larger blows the candle out for us.
Which leaves me with one last remark: when I am able to swim with the current of life, I am able to live in the moments as they happen and fear LESS what I don't understand. I have lived so long wanting to know everything, wanting to uncover all truths and analyze all options. It began to prove to be an exhausting and distracting way of life. I struggle with "letting it be." I'd much rather just give up the illusory control I think I have and let life unfold as it should.
And if I'm struggling with something, perhaps I'll meet it in my dreams.
I love you John Staniec, Schwartz. And I love you Angela Longo Staniec just the same.
My grandmother was laying in the same hospital bed that my grandfather was laying in just a few months ago, right before he died. We were all crowded around her bed, just as we were with him. Only she was much more lucid and coherent than he. She was crying and begging us not to let her go. She didn't want to leave. She looked around at us as if we held the key to her destiny, to her life. But I knew in my heart that we didn't. That it was so much bigger than us. Than her.
She didn't say it, but she was begging us not to let her die. And the pain I felt in my heart was physical as well as emotional - if I could have, I would have given her life, just as I would have given life to my grandfather had I possessed that power.
After coming to my more rational and stable senses, the fear and sadness I felt began to pass. I scanned my surroundings again, feeling comforted by my blankets and pillows cacooning me. I reached for my dog and felt her safe and familiar body.
It's now clear to me that even when we are not knowingly processing grief and loss, our subconscious is turning those pages for us in our sleep. My inner dreamer is trying to make sense of what's passed and perhaps reminding me that more loss will come.
I haven't written much or spoken much about my Gramps' death since it occurred, quite possibly because I've never dealt with death so up-close before. I don't quite know how I feel other than missing his smile while simultaneously sighing in relief that his pain is gone. To watch someone you love endure such tribulation is something that I think most of us can't quite make sense of. Why do good people leave us so early? Why must strong people endure such pain?
There are so many unanswered questions that life presents us as is relates to death--questions we may not have the right to know. Whether you believe in a God, a Higher Power, The Universe, or yourself, you cannot argue that you have no power over death and when it comes. Something larger blows the candle out for us.
Which leaves me with one last remark: when I am able to swim with the current of life, I am able to live in the moments as they happen and fear LESS what I don't understand. I have lived so long wanting to know everything, wanting to uncover all truths and analyze all options. It began to prove to be an exhausting and distracting way of life. I struggle with "letting it be." I'd much rather just give up the illusory control I think I have and let life unfold as it should.
And if I'm struggling with something, perhaps I'll meet it in my dreams.
I love you John Staniec, Schwartz. And I love you Angela Longo Staniec just the same.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Steel beams and lyrics
You painted the picture for me once.
We are all walking along steel beams in life,
Beams like the ones that create the structure of the high-rise buildings we saw in the city,
When we walked the streets together often.
And most of us, the lucky ones, the ones who believe in love,
Once we reach the end of one beam,
Instead of falling to our deaths into the darkness below,
Are picked up by another,
That suddenly appears just in time.
These beams come in the form of new people,
New loves,
New faith,
High Powers,
Hope.
Why was it never me?
I sit here listening to, "Say Hello, Wave Goodbye" by David Gray -
A song you told me you loved.
I said the lyrics were powerful, describing a relationship with pieces that didn't quite fit together
You said it wasn't the lyrics that touched you.
I didn't believe you.
You never wanted to admit you related,
Especially when it came to lovers, to break ups,
To anything that may have related to me.
And why was I always looking?
For the answers in songs, in your antecdotal thoughts.
I was always reaching for a way to get there,
To that space that I hoped was reserved only for me and my love.
Now I see that it may have never existed.
Truthfully, I think I see that there isn't really space for anyone-
inside of you -
for someone else.
I will tell you that our kisses were just as powerful to me as the David Gray lyrics.
We were often unable to fit together.
We were often unable to catch each other as one of us fell off one of our steal beams.
We fell to the darkness below, to our deaths,
And then tried to re-birth ourselves, come back to life.
How can one do that when the other won't catch them before they fall?
How can trust be built on something that dies again and again and then tries to rebuild itself on nothing?
While I remember our devastating misses,
I will remember our kisses.
I will say hello and wave goodbye.
We are all walking along steel beams in life,
Beams like the ones that create the structure of the high-rise buildings we saw in the city,
When we walked the streets together often.
And most of us, the lucky ones, the ones who believe in love,
Once we reach the end of one beam,
Instead of falling to our deaths into the darkness below,
Are picked up by another,
That suddenly appears just in time.
These beams come in the form of new people,
New loves,
New faith,
High Powers,
Hope.
Why was it never me?
I sit here listening to, "Say Hello, Wave Goodbye" by David Gray -
A song you told me you loved.
I said the lyrics were powerful, describing a relationship with pieces that didn't quite fit together
You said it wasn't the lyrics that touched you.
I didn't believe you.
You never wanted to admit you related,
Especially when it came to lovers, to break ups,
To anything that may have related to me.
And why was I always looking?
For the answers in songs, in your antecdotal thoughts.
I was always reaching for a way to get there,
To that space that I hoped was reserved only for me and my love.
Now I see that it may have never existed.
Truthfully, I think I see that there isn't really space for anyone-
inside of you -
for someone else.
I will tell you that our kisses were just as powerful to me as the David Gray lyrics.
We were often unable to fit together.
We were often unable to catch each other as one of us fell off one of our steal beams.
We fell to the darkness below, to our deaths,
And then tried to re-birth ourselves, come back to life.
How can one do that when the other won't catch them before they fall?
How can trust be built on something that dies again and again and then tries to rebuild itself on nothing?
While I remember our devastating misses,
I will remember our kisses.
I will say hello and wave goodbye.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
26
Oh, words.
Most of my life you have been all I need.
You began with me in Winnie the Pooh diaries.
We then graduated to thick woven journals with covers etched in Chinese symbols.
The symbols meant nothing to us, what we shared in our pages meant everything.
Oh, words.
Downstairs we could still hear the turbulence of our loved ones roaring.
Other words were being used as stabbing knives, striking the heart and the gut.
Upstairs you and I met in our secret space, my tears blurring the ink of the feelings we recorded.
We had each other, words; to soothe the pain of what we heard.
Oh, words.
Do you remember when I left you?
I was lost for a bit; hiding from myself.
I was feeding an insatiable thirst that tried to destroy the me that you needed to come alive.
I forgot that I had you to comfort me, to bring me back to the place of truth.
Oh, words.
When we reuinted, I must say it was out of desperation.
I had finally starved the deadly thirst and felt a terrible void.
It was then I reached out for you; you were waiting as you always are.
We had so much to share; we had so much to say.
We wrote pages, we filled journals, we uncovered who we were again, but also for the first time.
Oh, words.
Tears are dropping on these keys, but they do not stop me.
I am needing you like I always have.
Below I hear again, the roaring of voices who are abusing you, and each other.
And here I am, soothing the pain with you, because you're always all I have.
Words.
Most of my life you have been all I need.
You began with me in Winnie the Pooh diaries.
We then graduated to thick woven journals with covers etched in Chinese symbols.
The symbols meant nothing to us, what we shared in our pages meant everything.
Oh, words.
Downstairs we could still hear the turbulence of our loved ones roaring.
Other words were being used as stabbing knives, striking the heart and the gut.
Upstairs you and I met in our secret space, my tears blurring the ink of the feelings we recorded.
We had each other, words; to soothe the pain of what we heard.
Oh, words.
Do you remember when I left you?
I was lost for a bit; hiding from myself.
I was feeding an insatiable thirst that tried to destroy the me that you needed to come alive.
I forgot that I had you to comfort me, to bring me back to the place of truth.
Oh, words.
When we reuinted, I must say it was out of desperation.
I had finally starved the deadly thirst and felt a terrible void.
It was then I reached out for you; you were waiting as you always are.
We had so much to share; we had so much to say.
We wrote pages, we filled journals, we uncovered who we were again, but also for the first time.
Oh, words.
Tears are dropping on these keys, but they do not stop me.
I am needing you like I always have.
Below I hear again, the roaring of voices who are abusing you, and each other.
And here I am, soothing the pain with you, because you're always all I have.
Words.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
it's been a while
When I neglect to write for an extended amount of time, the act of starting again can seem overwhelming and annoying. I don't particularly feel like posting right now but I know it is so good for me! I have neglected this part of me for far too long this time.
I'm not sure I've spoken in depth about my current job yet. I am now a pharmaceutical sales representative. It's funny to think back to when this blog was born; after I was laid off from a commercial real estate firm where I was a marketing assistant, also known as the team's punching bag. I remember feeling secretly relieved to say good bye to such a negative place, but also so scared of the amount of time I had on my hands! Thank God a friend introduced me to her blog which sparked such a deep interest in me to begin expressing my thoughts regularly on a blog of my own. I posted pretty much daily during my "lay off" months and absolutely adored it. I also got into painting again. Oh, I also got into unearthing past flames that I had laid to rest years earlier. So, it was a time of great decisions and then some not so bright ones.
Then! I realized I needed another "real" job. Somehow I found myself as the executive assistant to an egotistical asshole CEO at a global bank. He was cool at first, but I can't decide what happened first: he decided to leave the company and thus became a raging whacko, or I decided I wanted to leave the company and thus became a useless employee. (I believe that attitude is everything in life and when one spends 9 hours a day doing something they don't feel any passion for, well, in my case, my attitude suffered.)
I began picking my feet up and looking for something different. It became clear to me I wasn't meant for office work. At least not now -- I was too full of energy! I needed to be challenged!
I began picking my feet up and looking for something different. It became clear to me I wasn't meant for office work. At least not now -- I was too full of energy! I needed to be challenged!
I am now in pharmaceutical sales. I don't have an office. Well, that's not entirely true, I have a car-office. I drive around all day by myself, listening to kick-ass music, visiting dermatologists and forming relationships with them. I get to learn about their lives, how many kids they have, what kind of day they're having, what kind of day their medical assistants are having, whose boyfriend was an ass over the weekend, whose husband totally dropped the ball on their anniversary, who did some amazing retail therapy and last but certaintly not least, we discuss my products and how they fit into their practice.
No one bothers me or micromanages me, no one questions what I do (although I'm sure they would if I was doing a shitty job), but they don't have to because I've found something I really enjoy doing. I always thought that I belonged in an agency of some kind, doing creative work, but I have found that I feel really happy getting to "creatively" know the people I'm selling to each day. I enjoy the relationships I've built, I enjoy knowing that they like me enough to listen to what I have to say about my products and I like looking at my data and seeing that a doctor who wouldn't give me the time of day a few months ago is now prescribing my product because we struck up a conversation about how we both haven't been to Hawaii and would like to go.
That being said, I do sometimes miss the slow days of office work. Don't judge me, we all love those days at our desk where we can see what J.Crew's new spring line looks like, we can pay our cell phone bills before lunch and we can walk around the office talking to friends who work down the hall.
However, I wouldn't trade the fast-paced, appointment packed days for anything right now. And when I feel I'm becoming too isolative and blah, I find new musisc to download and listen to that brings me alive and keeps me pumped throughout the day. Most recently, I've discovered Spoon. I don't know what kept me away from them for so long but their tunes are so fun and the sounds are somehow so new.
I am so glad I've been able to check in and write tonight and I intend to continue. If anyone reading this post knows me, you're probably wondering when I'm going to dish on my emotional, spiritual or romantic life. I'm usually pouring out emo rant and raves like it's my job when I write on this thing.
But not tonight, I don't think my computer has enough juice to stay alive for as long as I would need to discuss my personal matters :)
Sunday, November 27, 2011
What Lies Ahead
I can see the cockroaches scampering across the linoleum kitchen floor just like it was yesterday. Maddie hearing me scream in horror and running to my rescue. Noticing the mammoth size bugs, she attempts to bite them before they escape behind the oven again, but she loses them.
It happened rather often so I became able to brush it off and walk into the kitchen anyway, looking for food I didn't have in the cabinets. Open the refrigerator as well, hoping there was some takeout still fresh enough to eat. Usually there was nothing.
So I either walked to Rita's water-ice down the street or to CVS to grab random snacks -- neither of these usual choices satisfied my hunger but they somehow satisfied my discontent with my living situation.
I had chosen this, though. I lived with a boyfriend before this. A boyfriend who was two years my junior but somehow made a killing at work and also had parents that were beyond gracious with sharing their wealth with him; with us. Sometimes after his mother visited, I would find $100 bills hidden in his bedside table or in the kitchen behind one of our knick-knacks; a reminder that she loved him. Maybe that she loved us? But I didn't. I probably resented his ability to be financially awesome and I definitely grew jealous of his overly loving and present parents. I also hated myself for being so ridiculously irresponsible with my money, usually unable to pay my half of the rent for our apartment.
As the smoke fumes of anger and frustration began circling my head on a daily basis, I decided to move out. And live on my own. Without him as my "crutch" I would have to force myself to be independent and financially stable. That's what I told myself.
So I moved what I owned (which was very little at this point because he had convinced me to sell my couch and bed when we moved in together because he, and I, didn't forsee an ending at that point) into my new shitty apartment down the street and painted it green and blue. I found couches on craigslist. I convinced him to allow me to keep the bed from our guest room. I bought the TV he didn't want off of him and attempted to set up shop, or home, or whatever I thought I wanted at the time.
There was one big issue at first--the smell of cats. No doubt the previous renter owned about 12.
I'm a dog person. Cats instantly make me want to grab my purse and my coat and run for the nearest door. I feel that they're always this close to gouging your eyes out or hissing until you cry. I've never allowed one to get close enough to me to prove me wrong.
So, I went mad with home deodorizers. I shampooed the rugs. It took a while but I finally felt subtly content with the smell of the place after about a month.
It began to feel like home.
Until I realized that loneliness was annoying and heavy. Physically being alone was terrifying. I felt desperate and pathetic. I began spending money to make me feel happy. But happiness was fleeting.
And then the cockroaches arrived.
At first I was convinced there was just one. And I killed it! I felt victorious and strong for a few days.
Then two or three arrived at a time and always escaped right before my sneaker smacked the kitchen floor with a murderous power.
----to be continued
It happened rather often so I became able to brush it off and walk into the kitchen anyway, looking for food I didn't have in the cabinets. Open the refrigerator as well, hoping there was some takeout still fresh enough to eat. Usually there was nothing.
So I either walked to Rita's water-ice down the street or to CVS to grab random snacks -- neither of these usual choices satisfied my hunger but they somehow satisfied my discontent with my living situation.
I had chosen this, though. I lived with a boyfriend before this. A boyfriend who was two years my junior but somehow made a killing at work and also had parents that were beyond gracious with sharing their wealth with him; with us. Sometimes after his mother visited, I would find $100 bills hidden in his bedside table or in the kitchen behind one of our knick-knacks; a reminder that she loved him. Maybe that she loved us? But I didn't. I probably resented his ability to be financially awesome and I definitely grew jealous of his overly loving and present parents. I also hated myself for being so ridiculously irresponsible with my money, usually unable to pay my half of the rent for our apartment.
As the smoke fumes of anger and frustration began circling my head on a daily basis, I decided to move out. And live on my own. Without him as my "crutch" I would have to force myself to be independent and financially stable. That's what I told myself.
So I moved what I owned (which was very little at this point because he had convinced me to sell my couch and bed when we moved in together because he, and I, didn't forsee an ending at that point) into my new shitty apartment down the street and painted it green and blue. I found couches on craigslist. I convinced him to allow me to keep the bed from our guest room. I bought the TV he didn't want off of him and attempted to set up shop, or home, or whatever I thought I wanted at the time.
There was one big issue at first--the smell of cats. No doubt the previous renter owned about 12.
I'm a dog person. Cats instantly make me want to grab my purse and my coat and run for the nearest door. I feel that they're always this close to gouging your eyes out or hissing until you cry. I've never allowed one to get close enough to me to prove me wrong.
So, I went mad with home deodorizers. I shampooed the rugs. It took a while but I finally felt subtly content with the smell of the place after about a month.
It began to feel like home.
Until I realized that loneliness was annoying and heavy. Physically being alone was terrifying. I felt desperate and pathetic. I began spending money to make me feel happy. But happiness was fleeting.
And then the cockroaches arrived.
At first I was convinced there was just one. And I killed it! I felt victorious and strong for a few days.
Then two or three arrived at a time and always escaped right before my sneaker smacked the kitchen floor with a murderous power.
----to be continued
Monday, October 24, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
realistic drama.
I've thought about you so much lately.
Words.
Freedom.
Set me free.
All of that.
I have so much to say and yet nothing at all at the same time.
I'm again in a place of change. Growth.
Struggle.
I thought to myself today, "is this what I'm all about? Is life for me this great big struggle, this holding on and letting go and trekking up the rocky mountain, sweat and tears, oh tears, yes, tears. And all for those moments, those days, maybe weeks -- never longer -- where I feel okay with me?"
Does anyone on this earth feel completely at ease, themselves, thick-skinned and warm, for longer than a breath of time?
I have this pattern, you see. A pattern that I've written about, joked about, talked about, analyzed, rolled around with therapist after therapist...
A pattern of self-destruction. Of staying even when I want to leave. Or convincing myself that it's just not good enough. I'm not good enough. Everything is just, so, incredibly, fucked up.
When in reality, there's beauty in the imperfect. I just have a hard time seeing it.
I'm still learning to stand on my own two feet and not reaching for the nearest shiny, sparkly, thing. (That usually disguises itself in another emotional entanglement with a boy, or someone in my family that I can focus on "improving". Let me roll my sleeves up and work nice and hard on you.)
I'm 27. I live at home. I still can't save money. I still can't stay single for long. I still can't wake up early for a consistent amount of time. I still can't face all the fears my therapist puts in front of me. I still can't finish my sobriety steps. And here I am wondering why my therapist asked me if I think I'm depressed?
I'm not depressed.
This is the pattern -- this is it.
I feed myself negative thoughts. I eat them down so quick, I don't even realize I have a choice.
Not to listen. Not to take them in.
To tell them to stop.
I am more than what I allow myself to think.
I don't need a man. I don't need more sleep. I don't need to place expectations on myself that are impossible to reach.
I can just be.
Free.
I have all the tools I need.
It's all about the decision.
The jump off.
The voice that I keep forgetting to listen to.
That says "you're alright, kid. Really, you are."
Words.
Freedom.
Set me free.
All of that.
I have so much to say and yet nothing at all at the same time.
I'm again in a place of change. Growth.
Struggle.
I thought to myself today, "is this what I'm all about? Is life for me this great big struggle, this holding on and letting go and trekking up the rocky mountain, sweat and tears, oh tears, yes, tears. And all for those moments, those days, maybe weeks -- never longer -- where I feel okay with me?"
Does anyone on this earth feel completely at ease, themselves, thick-skinned and warm, for longer than a breath of time?
I have this pattern, you see. A pattern that I've written about, joked about, talked about, analyzed, rolled around with therapist after therapist...
A pattern of self-destruction. Of staying even when I want to leave. Or convincing myself that it's just not good enough. I'm not good enough. Everything is just, so, incredibly, fucked up.
When in reality, there's beauty in the imperfect. I just have a hard time seeing it.
I'm still learning to stand on my own two feet and not reaching for the nearest shiny, sparkly, thing. (That usually disguises itself in another emotional entanglement with a boy, or someone in my family that I can focus on "improving". Let me roll my sleeves up and work nice and hard on you.)
I'm 27. I live at home. I still can't save money. I still can't stay single for long. I still can't wake up early for a consistent amount of time. I still can't face all the fears my therapist puts in front of me. I still can't finish my sobriety steps. And here I am wondering why my therapist asked me if I think I'm depressed?
I'm not depressed.
This is the pattern -- this is it.
I feed myself negative thoughts. I eat them down so quick, I don't even realize I have a choice.
Not to listen. Not to take them in.
To tell them to stop.
I am more than what I allow myself to think.
I don't need a man. I don't need more sleep. I don't need to place expectations on myself that are impossible to reach.
I can just be.
Free.
I have all the tools I need.
It's all about the decision.
The jump off.
The voice that I keep forgetting to listen to.
That says "you're alright, kid. Really, you are."
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Return of the whacky one
Hi blog! How are you? I think about you often, usually when I'm driving. A certain sentence or thought will arrive in my mind, and I'll get excited at the prospect of being able to knock out a nice blog post after work that night. But the trouble is, I never write it down after it comes to me. So -- sadly -- as quickly as the idea comes it leaves, because the rest of the day takes over and I've forgotten about the creative spark.
I'm in the car very often now. My job requires me to cover a certain territory of PA, and visit at least eight dermatologists a day, selling them the advantages of my products over the competition. I really do enjoy it. Everyday is different and new in the following wonderful ways: I'm in front of a different customer every day, I have to find creative new ways to start a conversation, I have to wear stylish suits and dresses (which makes me feel very womanly and pretty but also drains my bank account that I'm trying to open up a savings account from), and last but not least -- I have to make myself the center of attention each time I'm in there. My job requires me to be a presence in the office, a memorable part of the doctor's/office staff's day. Yes, I was meant for this. I am the oldest child of four and I come from a family of Type A personalities. I know how to demand the floor.
It's competitive too which keeps me focused! We all claim to suffer from adult ADD and I'm no stranger to that self-proclamation.
I wait up every Wednesday night for my sales numbers, comparing them to my fellow reps, especially the ones who began when I did. I analyze every single doctor I remember having great conversations with. When they aren't prescribing the way I hoped they would, I yell out a "c'mon doc! What's your problem?" But then it turns into, "now you've asked for it...if you think I was aggressive last time, you ain't seen nothing yet!" My family laughs seeing me this way. It's just fun. I like it.
I just feel like I want to end the post here. There's so much more to say but there's also laundry that needs to be finished, a car that needs to be vacuumed (I LOVE doing this chore for some reason) and a late lunch to be had. I'm also worried that I hate my new facebook profile picture.
Should I remove it? Gosh, such a HUGE decision. What in the world shall I do? (HE HE HA HA)
Peace love and acrylic nails (I wear those now too),
A.B.
I'm in the car very often now. My job requires me to cover a certain territory of PA, and visit at least eight dermatologists a day, selling them the advantages of my products over the competition. I really do enjoy it. Everyday is different and new in the following wonderful ways: I'm in front of a different customer every day, I have to find creative new ways to start a conversation, I have to wear stylish suits and dresses (which makes me feel very womanly and pretty but also drains my bank account that I'm trying to open up a savings account from), and last but not least -- I have to make myself the center of attention each time I'm in there. My job requires me to be a presence in the office, a memorable part of the doctor's/office staff's day. Yes, I was meant for this. I am the oldest child of four and I come from a family of Type A personalities. I know how to demand the floor.
It's competitive too which keeps me focused! We all claim to suffer from adult ADD and I'm no stranger to that self-proclamation.
I wait up every Wednesday night for my sales numbers, comparing them to my fellow reps, especially the ones who began when I did. I analyze every single doctor I remember having great conversations with. When they aren't prescribing the way I hoped they would, I yell out a "c'mon doc! What's your problem?" But then it turns into, "now you've asked for it...if you think I was aggressive last time, you ain't seen nothing yet!" My family laughs seeing me this way. It's just fun. I like it.
I just feel like I want to end the post here. There's so much more to say but there's also laundry that needs to be finished, a car that needs to be vacuumed (I LOVE doing this chore for some reason) and a late lunch to be had. I'm also worried that I hate my new facebook profile picture.
Should I remove it? Gosh, such a HUGE decision. What in the world shall I do? (HE HE HA HA)
Peace love and acrylic nails (I wear those now too),
A.B.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
you know how i feel
Dear You,
It seems you've finally caught yourself a break. Don't let your scared side take over and ruin a good thing. You've got an opportunity in front of you that you didn't think you were worthy of. Maybe, just maybe, you are. Don't be a perfectionist; at first you may need a little work. After all, you know little to nothing about the world you're breaking into. Be patient with yourself and remember that good things come to those who wait. If you keep doing that next right thing you can't go wrong. Show up for life and the impossible may become possible. Up until now you've worried that you ruined your chances at this sort of thing because of your disheveled past. You were wrong. What you were is not what you are. Maybe one day the negative thoughts will finally completely dissipate so that you can be that best version of yourself more often. Take each day and use it as an opportunity to face your fears and get creative. You're good at that remember? What you're doing isn't rocket science; it isn't even something you've really aspired to do; but guess what? It's something that you're naturally good at (or so they say): it gives you the chance to communicate, to be heard, to be challenged...and to drive around in a car you don't pay for. Being a self-employed novelist doesn't come with a perk like that. And hey, you never know, you could find great writing material in the characters you meet each day.
The world is your oyster.
To others, a new chapter like this may not mean this much. But that's their loss. Every new opportunity in your life is a blessing and a half.
Most of all --- don't f*ck this up or I'll kick your ass b*tch.
Love you more than you let yourself believe,
You
* my pre-interview jam
It seems you've finally caught yourself a break. Don't let your scared side take over and ruin a good thing. You've got an opportunity in front of you that you didn't think you were worthy of. Maybe, just maybe, you are. Don't be a perfectionist; at first you may need a little work. After all, you know little to nothing about the world you're breaking into. Be patient with yourself and remember that good things come to those who wait. If you keep doing that next right thing you can't go wrong. Show up for life and the impossible may become possible. Up until now you've worried that you ruined your chances at this sort of thing because of your disheveled past. You were wrong. What you were is not what you are. Maybe one day the negative thoughts will finally completely dissipate so that you can be that best version of yourself more often. Take each day and use it as an opportunity to face your fears and get creative. You're good at that remember? What you're doing isn't rocket science; it isn't even something you've really aspired to do; but guess what? It's something that you're naturally good at (or so they say): it gives you the chance to communicate, to be heard, to be challenged...and to drive around in a car you don't pay for. Being a self-employed novelist doesn't come with a perk like that. And hey, you never know, you could find great writing material in the characters you meet each day.
The world is your oyster.
To others, a new chapter like this may not mean this much. But that's their loss. Every new opportunity in your life is a blessing and a half.
Most of all --- don't f*ck this up or I'll kick your ass b*tch.
Love you more than you let yourself believe,
You
* my pre-interview jam
Friday, July 1, 2011
Where are you?
And so you went
To the place we don't know
Though we pretend to
We write it down
And say we've been there in our dreams
And say we're trying to get there with our good deeds
But we don't know
The way it feels to be
In between a memory
Perhaps you're watching
A telescope graces your weightless hands
You watch her cry for you in the morning
Subconsciously waiting for your morning call
That won't come
Or sigh for you at night
Missing your sweet dream wishes
I will try
Although I know I will not be much
I'm much too selfish to remember
To call her
When she's waiting for you
Thursday, June 30, 2011
some other beginning's end.
I don't know, I guess I just wish I could write as well as John Irving. If someone happens to be mulling over the perfect gift to give me just because I'm pretty, I will provide a suggestion: every novel John Irving has ever written (minus The Cider House Rules because by George, I've got it). I used to own three others but they've been lost in the madness.
Oh, and I just finished The Hotel New Hampshire. So don't buy me that one either.
Can I provide you with a quote that epitomizes the beauty of this ridiculously unrealistic yet so there book? No. Because it's not like that. It's not direct. It's the entire story -- the whole freaking thing -- the intricate nuances of each character, the obsessive attention to detail. Ah yes, I can pull a quote after all!
"You've got to get obsessed and stay obsessed."
How many times have I become obsessed but couldn't stay?
Just recently, however, I put my all into a really intense work presentation. I sacrificed my body for this work of art, spending about 16 hours on it within two days. My lower back aches, my neck is threatening to send me to the chiropractor again and my hands are sore enough to affect my tennis game (sending me reeling into a sea of expletive-filled tantrums last night at the courts). But who gives a shit right? I very rarely feel useful at work and I needed this to keep me just getting by there.
My great aunt Zi-Zi died last week. My great aunt was my grandmother's best friend. And my grandmother and I have a sort of closeness that fits into the space reserved for the love of mother and daughter. And since my mother and I haven't been able to get there yet (I'm saying yet now because I've decided that since I'm moving home in a month I should try to be optimistic about her) what my Mom-Mom and I share far surpasses where my mother and I stand. The woman is blind but graceful. She is the type of woman who makes you feel like she's been sitting on the edge of her seat anticipating your arrival with an excitement usually reserved for those who win the lottery when you walk in the house.
And her best friend died. And I cried for the loss of Zi-Zi and I cried for my Mom-Mom's heart breaking. But we all celebrated Zi-Zi's life and grieved her death together as a family and even though this may sound selfish, it felt like a little victory to me. I become instantly terrified when tragedy strikes, fearing that I will return from it losing the ability to smile ever again. It's very selfish really. Why did you die? Didn't you know I have a hard time coming back from sadness? You should think before you go and do something like that. I cried and I grieved that day with one of B's large, warm hands wrapped in mine and the other stroking my back. But I also smiled and made Mom-Mom laugh too.
Healing happens when it wants to. I read John Irving's novel with a certain tinge in my heart as he described parts of my life. And I felt the pain and the nervousness that revolve around those parts. I realized I hadn't yet fully healed. But I didn't pick at it to try to make it go away quicker.
I let it live without trying to control it.
And here I sit now, emptying myself of the words and picking the scab on my cheek to make it heal faster.
Damnit. Didn't I just say I learned that healing happens in its own time? Do as I say, not as I do.
Damnit. Didn't I just say I learned that healing happens in its own time? Do as I say, not as I do.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Learning when to zip it.
You pay a price when you decide to divulge the details of your very personal life on a public forum. I have hesitated more than a few times before pressing "publish post" after writing descriptive details of what's going on in my heart and head. Believe it or not, I have many unpublished drafts that have been seen only by my eyes and I believe they'll stay that way.
I've even posted things only to run back to the computer an hour or so later to remove what I've written. I think there's a balance in divulging your personal affairs. I've yet to master it.
In the grand scheme of things, only 26 people subscribe to this blog of mine and I am pretty sure only about 12 people read regularly. It's really NOT that big of a deal that I'm revealing my shit to y'all because I'm not going to be published in People Magazine or featured on an E! News broadcast.
I'm not that popular, thank God.
But I sometimes struggle with wondering how much I want my circle to know about my love life. I struggle because for onee, I think it's unfair to my significant other. He doesn't read what I write and he's reminded me that he doesn't want to read it because he doesn't want to influence my writing. I completely and utterly respect and love him for that.
However, those who read my blog and see what I say about the details of our relationship are able to paint their own picture of this man sometimes without even meeting him. Not to mention the fact that some of my writing is a bit fictitious. I write things a certain way or describe details a certain way to strengthen my writing. The best writing comes from personal experience and then I build off of that. And I think I've done B an injustice.
I am not downplaying the reality that our relationship hasn't been beautifully smoothsailing. There have been very powerful waves. But then again, would I like a relationship without passion? The challenge and the boldness of this relationship has allowed both of us to put cards on the table that I'm so glad we've put there before we decided to live together or get married.
What I'm trying to say is this: I think I'm going to refrain from committing the details of my very personal relationship to this blog from now on.
And a much as I love the relationships I have with certain family members, I find myself more confused than anything after speaking to too many others about what we've got going on. I feel like my family is asking for updates on us because I'm the oldest and I'm at the "marriage" age. They want to have a family wedding and so do I! I just think it should be Thumber (number two in line) that should be pestered from now on. She's much closer to that type of commitment in my opinion.
There's all this pressure. Seriously, there is. I see my close friends getting married, I see Facebook updates informing me of yet another engagement, and then I begin to compare my relationship to these relationships. Should I be engaged by now? Am I with the right man? Are we marriage material? Is he ready? Will he ever be ready? Does he love me enough? Do I love him enough? Blah, f'ing blah.
I begin to get way too ahead of myself and it's unbelievable to me that I've become this type of girl.
To ease my anxiety over this stuff, I ask others to weigh in on the ins and outs of my relationship. Mistake.
On top of all my unnecessary questions, I have their unnecessary answers.
I have no idea what my future holds relationship wise, career wise, etc.
I do know that I'm ready to try to become a bit more private.
I love this man more than I can put into words.
And it takes a lot to make me speechless.
I've even posted things only to run back to the computer an hour or so later to remove what I've written. I think there's a balance in divulging your personal affairs. I've yet to master it.
In the grand scheme of things, only 26 people subscribe to this blog of mine and I am pretty sure only about 12 people read regularly. It's really NOT that big of a deal that I'm revealing my shit to y'all because I'm not going to be published in People Magazine or featured on an E! News broadcast.
I'm not that popular, thank God.
But I sometimes struggle with wondering how much I want my circle to know about my love life. I struggle because for onee, I think it's unfair to my significant other. He doesn't read what I write and he's reminded me that he doesn't want to read it because he doesn't want to influence my writing. I completely and utterly respect and love him for that.
However, those who read my blog and see what I say about the details of our relationship are able to paint their own picture of this man sometimes without even meeting him. Not to mention the fact that some of my writing is a bit fictitious. I write things a certain way or describe details a certain way to strengthen my writing. The best writing comes from personal experience and then I build off of that. And I think I've done B an injustice.
I am not downplaying the reality that our relationship hasn't been beautifully smoothsailing. There have been very powerful waves. But then again, would I like a relationship without passion? The challenge and the boldness of this relationship has allowed both of us to put cards on the table that I'm so glad we've put there before we decided to live together or get married.
What I'm trying to say is this: I think I'm going to refrain from committing the details of my very personal relationship to this blog from now on.
And a much as I love the relationships I have with certain family members, I find myself more confused than anything after speaking to too many others about what we've got going on. I feel like my family is asking for updates on us because I'm the oldest and I'm at the "marriage" age. They want to have a family wedding and so do I! I just think it should be Thumber (number two in line) that should be pestered from now on. She's much closer to that type of commitment in my opinion.
There's all this pressure. Seriously, there is. I see my close friends getting married, I see Facebook updates informing me of yet another engagement, and then I begin to compare my relationship to these relationships. Should I be engaged by now? Am I with the right man? Are we marriage material? Is he ready? Will he ever be ready? Does he love me enough? Do I love him enough? Blah, f'ing blah.
I begin to get way too ahead of myself and it's unbelievable to me that I've become this type of girl.
To ease my anxiety over this stuff, I ask others to weigh in on the ins and outs of my relationship. Mistake.
On top of all my unnecessary questions, I have their unnecessary answers.
I have no idea what my future holds relationship wise, career wise, etc.
I do know that I'm ready to try to become a bit more private.
I love this man more than I can put into words.
And it takes a lot to make me speechless.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
I had imagined how this would transpire many times on the way to his house after work recently but always ended up with a fake smile and a kiss on his cheek when I reached his door.
Until today.
It had become very difficult for me not to feel child-like in his presence, waiting for him to tell me what I had done wrong. Whether it was the fact that I left water on the floor in the bathroom after a shower or that I didn't walk my dog for what he deemed as a sufficient amount of time, I simply wasn't doing life right.
He had picked up on the fact that I was someone perpetually jammed into 5th gear we began dating a year ago, and he noted it, but it wasn't until this week that he sent me a picture text of a box of cereal that I had ripped open, leaving the perforated tabs to fend for themselves, no longer able to interlock because of my carelessness. Yes, I agree that it must have been annoying for him to see that I was in such a state of rush that I didn't have time to open a cereal box correctly, but it was just as annoying to come home from a long day at work to his lesson of the day.
Wasn't the man I was meant to be with supposed to laugh at this maniacal aspect of my life, knowing full well that I had a lot on my plate?
I sent him a text as I waited for the light outside his neighborhood to turn green that said, "this is not how I'm built." He's not a woman so he didn't pick up on the fact that this line was stolen from Jerry Maguire, as Dorothy explains to Jerry that she knows he's not actually in love with her and she can't continue to pretend their marriage is real. She admits she's fallen in love with the idea of the relationship more than the relationshp itself.
I often wonder if he knows what love is. He admits he has never heard of unconditional love until I came along and explained the term, secretly hoping he would get the hint. Unconditional; accepting of flaws; understanding of mistakes; love knowing no bounds.
When my doorman called me last night to tell me a package had arrived for me, I knew it was from him. I ran to the elevator hoping he had returned my glasses. Did I also hope that there was at least a Dear John letter explaining that he did love me more than any other woman he's ever been with, did think I was amazing, did try, wished me the best and would never forget me? Perhaps. Did I simultaneously play a scene in my mind of me exiting the elevator to him standing there, tall and handsome as ever, smug smile slightly hidden by his beard, awaiting an embrace from me? Maybe.
What I got was a bag of junk. An old rusted razor that I had left in his shower, an empty box of dog treats that I had bought for his terribly neurotic dog (the apple does not fall far from the tree?), a few of my t-shirts, my glasses and the tiny pebble I had given him after a walk, just for fun.
Without words, he had said too much.
My first reaction was--excuse my french--a giant "fuck you, you fucking awful fucking fucked up asshole!"
However, a wave of calm - a gift from my inner self perhaps - came over me, buying me time to compose myself. I shed only about three and a half tears, laid in the foyer of my apartment with the bag of shit next to me and realized that this could not go on.
His lovely parting gift may have been his way of baiting me to react. He may have wanted me to break the silence and berate him with texts and calls and tears and screams and "fuck you's", and I will not lie -- you're damn right I thought about shipping the running shoes he got me that I don't like to his front door. I thought of driving to his house in the middle of the night to "decorate" the lobby of his apartment with aggressively ripped open cereal boxes. I even thought about cutting up the blanket he left in my car and decorating his car with the pieces. However, the fact that his deceased mother gave him the blanket stopped me dead in my tracks.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Playing catch up.
I have been putting off writing this post because every time I felt the urge to write about my life, something else happened! It has been an eventful month, full of ups and downs and this ways and that ways. For instance:
Instead of relaying every nook and cranny of the above fifteen points, I've decided that I will post photos that I've taken during these events. We'll see if I can have enough self control to keep this post concise and to the point allowing the photos to speak for themselves (other than my captions).
- My best friend from high school got married to her high school sweetheart.
- I got the worst haircut of all time.
- I had an emotional breakdown over it.
- I was a bridesmaid.
- With a men's crew cut.
- I - again - had an emotional breakdown over it.
- So did my Mother.
- I got extensions.
- No, I will not elaborate.
- My brother graduated from college.
- The family (including myself) trekked up to northern New York to celebrate with him.
- I almost died while I was there.
- I went to the dentist. This is a big deal.
- So did my Mother. This is an even bigger deal.
- Oh my goodness, I almost forgot: I celebrated four years of sobriety.
Instead of relaying every nook and cranny of the above fifteen points, I've decided that I will post photos that I've taken during these events. We'll see if I can have enough self control to keep this post concise and to the point allowing the photos to speak for themselves (other than my captions).
{Christine looks at herself for the first time in her wedding dress on her wedding day}
{The watermelon bridesmaids before the ceremony}
{Yes, my friends, those bangs are in fact extensions. They hurt. Pain is beauty?}
{Sisters with the soon-to-be graduate. This was before we owned the dance floor.}
{Basically my only calm moment whilst staying at the lake house during brother's graduation weekend in NY. There were cats there. I'm severely allergic to cats. I may or may not have contemplated jumping into the lake never to be seen again, but decided it was probably too cold.}
{A wonderfully poignant quote found in ELLE magazine while waiting for the dentist.}
{It's important that I give a little face time to my cup of coconut milk Capogiro. I can't explain why.}
{To Thine Own Self Be True. Four years of living proof.}
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Part Two
Okay, okay, okay...I have to confess.
The below song by Tegan & Sarah was discovered on a CD I found in my lover's car, given to him by his EX. I wish I didn't automatically want to break it in half when I first found the disc with cute, fat bubbly handwriting on it, but I did.
Instead I popped it in his CD player and discovered that she has good music taste. I guess I feel the need to give credit where credit's due so...thanks Shannon.
The below song by Tegan & Sarah was discovered on a CD I found in my lover's car, given to him by his EX. I wish I didn't automatically want to break it in half when I first found the disc with cute, fat bubbly handwriting on it, but I did.
Instead I popped it in his CD player and discovered that she has good music taste. I guess I feel the need to give credit where credit's due so...thanks Shannon.
my window looks into your living room.
Well kids, I'm extremely sick. I was correct in feeling weird about how raw and sore my throat was last night. It kept me up until 5 AM this morning and then chills and sweats followed, along with a headache and sinus congestion. I wasn't able to go to work today which makes me really angry, as I am so sick of repeatedly feeling like death. I used to think I had the most kick-ass immune system but this year it's failing me miserably.
Anyway, the above song by Tegan and Sarah rocks and listening to it gives this downtrodden sicky just a little bit of needed energy to keep on truckin'.
Monday, April 25, 2011
i want you to want me.
Today it was indeed sunny in Philadelphia. The temperature hung out around the low 80s, the sky was robin's egg blue and everyone was out and about.
I began experiencing what shall forever be known as THE WORST ALLERGY ATTACK OF MY LIFE and had to stay inside after work until it was dark out because I think I heard once that the air isn't as filled with allergens at night time.
What's weird about this attack is that my throat is still aching and dry and itchy and feels like what I remember strep throat feeling like.
When I finally emerged from my apartment at around 8 PM, I brought my dog (naturally). We took a walk to CVS where I had to tie her up outside while I ran in to buy my SECOND bottle of allergy medicine because--let's be serious--the medicine I have been using is DEFINITELY not working. She hates when I do this; leave her outside alone while I meddle around in a store for a few minutes. Half of me feels like a bad mother but the other "I need you to need me" half feels nicely surprised knowing that she loves being with me. I don't think that makes me a bad person.
After I purchased my meds and untied my pooch from what I think was the rain-gutter-pipe-thing (I just realized I never consciously stopped to think that commercial buildings, like homes, need rain gutters too!) we stopped at a coffee place where I tied her up again and ran in to get an ice-cold, organic smoothie called the "Peanut butter and Jelly" smoothie. It did taste very much like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich if the sandwich were to be chilled and without the bread. It soothed my allergen-wrecked throat. I had a nice conversation with the barista man who came outside after I went outside to drink my smoothie with the dog on my lap and me in a plastic chair. Barista lived in Seattle for a while but is now living with his parents in Wilmington, Delaware until he moves back to Philly in June. I could not and cannot believe he drives all the way to this freaking obsessively organic coffee shop to work everyday. He said sometimes he has to open in the morning and that means being at the shop at 5:30 AM...to make COFFEE...really??
I ran into a newish friend of mine outside this coffee shop too. She stopped to tell me that her ex-boyfriend that I know, but that I didn't know was her ex-boyfriend (got me?) said I was pretty and he's not the type to give any positive commentary on anyone and she even said that and that made me feel like I could have an extra pep in my step on the walk home. So WHAT.
Now I am going to shower and put on a pair of boy short underwear and a tank top and sleep in just that because guess what? It's finally that time of year.
GOOD GRIEF.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
My Sunday Soliloquy
I'm currently sewing. No really, I am.
There are a few items of clothing that I would love to wear on the regular but cannot because they've got annoying little holes in them. Today I wore my melon colored GAP cardigan with the hole because I was just visiting my family and I don't care about impressing them with hole-less clothing. However, I enjoyed wearing my melon number so much that I went to CVS and bought a travel-size sewing kit. Here I am, stitching away. Melon cardigan is now hole-free and I've moved on to my favorite SoLow yoga pants with a giant hole in the crotch. Can't wait to wear these again. I must admit, they make my butt look fantastic.
Easter dinner with the family today left me with a lot on my mind regarding my sick grandfather. But, it's Sunday night and Sunday nights are like, the worst, even after getting sober and not suffering from withdrawal and hangovers. Looking ahead at the work week seems daunting and ominous.
In other words, it's not the correct day of the week to be getting into sad stuff regarding my wonderful Gramps and his dwindling quality of life. Gosh, I want to snap my fingers and go back to the way we were before his health began declining last year. I looked at the sunroom on the back of their home today and it dawned on me that just about eight years ago, my Gramps built the entire room with his own two hands. A hard-working and brilliant blue-colored man my Gramps is. A fine human being. I will tell you that throughout my entire life, he has not once done anything to hurt me. I have never once been upset with him. I have never felt anything but complete and utter love and support from him and I want nothing more than to see him feel better.
Oh, see, look at me. I couldn't contain myself. A little emotion spilled out.
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