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Updates for Real Life

It occurs to me that my friends and family don’t really understand where my life is at right now. Even though I’m fairly regular about posting to facebook, I understand not everyone is as glued to that medium and might miss out on some pertinent details. This post is meant to rectify that, so if you don’t know me in real life, it won’t mean that much to you.

Ro and I (and all three dogs) have been moved in to a 900 sq. ft. duplex since mid-May. It’s tiny as hell, but allows all three of my dogs and is in a conveniently-situated part of town. It’s also affordable. These three items generally outweigh the numerous inconveniences, which I don’t want to complain about because my landlady is a good friend and went out of her way to make this place as accommodating as she could. I’m immensely grateful, and will learn to live with the things that are difficult.

I’m in college full time now. 10 credit hours over the summer, and 14 in the fall. It is utterly exhausting. My brain just hurts all the time now and every second I’m not studying or walking my dogs, I’m sleeping. This will get worse when I get accepted into the Physical Therapy Assistant program which starts in January. There wasn’t any other way to work out my school schedule – the “luck” of my ex-husband’s choices put me in a precarious position and I had to just do the best I could. That means working hard, which I’m no stranger to, but it’s a lot different at 41 than it was at 21.

Speaking of exes, I expect my divorce to be finalized within the next week or so. It was a drawn out, expensive process with a few arguments, but ultimately I got what I asked for, which was a temporary, modest living stipend until I finish school. I also kept my car and my IRA, and the dogs.

Which brings me to my next point: modest living. I’m back in a financial position I haven’t seen in over 14 years, which is scary-poor. Not nearly-homeless poor, thank goodness, but that is only because my daughter is gainfully employed and can pay the rent and utilities. But because I had to pay for some of my school out of pocket, which ate up the last of my savings, I’m now in “Oh Zeus please don’t let anything bad happen to me, my dogs, or my car or I am up shit creek” poor. I am uninsured, medically, and I don’t qualify for state aid by virtue of living in the state of Missouri (yay red state conservatism that doesn’t give a fuck if you die!). Every cent I have goes toward living expenses, which even shared are not negligible, and I’m literally holding my breath that nothing unexpected happens. Which is usually a strong indicator that it will.

I have no time, no money, and generally no patience. I am stressed out most of the time, living on a razor’s edge of catastrophe, but at least I’m too tired to freak out about it very often.

Somebody recently said how proud they were that I was “living my dream”. They meant pursuing my education, and I’m grateful for the sentiment in that respect, but this was most definitely not my dream. My dream went up in flames with my marriage and I haven’t had the energy or optimism to form a new one. I’m living my survival right now, and that’s all.

If you know me in real life, please don’t tease me about any of the above. My sense of humor has taken a scarily long hike and anything that resembles “blue skying” from you is going to be interpreted as willful ignorance about the reality of my situation. If you literally have no idea (and if you haven’t seen me face to face in the last 4 months, you don’t), kindly keep your “advice”, “cheering up”, or any other form of platitudes to yourself.

I’m in survival mode, and that leaves nothing left over at the end of the day for nonsense.

Joys of Snack Size

A year ago, I wrote about the Dissolution of Snacks and its somewhat surprising mark on my journey through grief and the loss of my marriage. Today I want to talk about the joys of snack size.

I moved, you see. Downsized from 2400 square feet to 900 square feet, with all the attendant miniaturization of appliances one would expect. My plates don’t fit in the surprisingly tiny cupboards so the door never completely closes. It’s annoying. Peek-a-boo, I see you snarky little reminder of a once bigger life. I keep giving it side eye, like the cupboard is suddenly going to feel shame and quietly swallow the back of my plates so the door can shut completely. (If that happens, the nature of this blog is going to change drastically.)

The refrigerator is tiny. I can see the top without standing on tip-toe and it lacks a meat drawer. I thought I’d feel bad about that, because I’ve spent so long filling up a family-sized fridge that even after the family was downsized, I was still trying to fill it up. Like the refrigerator itself was making my shopping list based on its capacity. But here’s the thing – I don’t feel bad at all. Right now apartment-fridge holds a bag of pre-chopped salad, a 6 pack of flavored water, a bottle of wine and the smallest size sour cream you can buy. I honestly didn’t know they made sour cream containers that small. It’s adorable. It’s me-sized. It won’t get gobbled up by my housemate because somehow I raised a person who doesn’t care for sour cream. It is mine all mine. This is notable because two years ago I would open up the fridge to use a spoonful of sour cream out of the GIANT ASS TUB I bought three days prior only to find it gone, sacrificed to the lunch nachos my ex-husband was so fond of. I would buy industrial sized vats of sour cream and there would NEVER BE ANY when I wanted some.

Today, I had sour cream. A small amount, out of a tiny cup that I bought four days ago and that nobody has touched in the interim. I felt like the star of a commercial that plays during Gray’s Anatomy – some ideal of a single adult woman who delicately spoons out a condiment and never once wonders where it could disappear to if she’s not guarding it.

Likewise I find myself hanging pictures in my bedroom without regard for how they’ll be accepted by my bedmate – a sixty pound mutt of dubious artistic taste and even less preference. Pens go where they are most convenient for me, as do batteries and wash cloths. A brief survey of the other members of this household revealed that they don’t particularly care where I put my shoes, so long as three of them can stick their snouts in the really stinky ones and the fourth need not trip over them. I share my closet with no living thing, and even better, no ghosts.

After years of anxiously verifying my choices with another person (especially when that person had opinions but only reticently shared them – preferring the more quixotic option of silent resentment when I couldn’t read minds), the peacefulness of feathering my own nest can’t be overstated. The delight in single serving anything will never be taken for granted by me again. It’s mine all mine, and ghosts don’t eat sour cream.

Mine

There are many ways to measure milestones in personal growth. My favorite is the one where you stop caring about other people’s expectations. It’s then that you truly find yourself, that you truly realize what it is you care about.

It’s hard to do that when you don’t feel safe. That’s why it’s so important to cultivate your family if you’re not lucky enough to be born into one that fits just right. I’ve cultivated my herd – we’re a mismatched lot, with baggage and foibles and handicaps and little glimpses of greatness. But we know how to build support. We know how to dump outside the circle. We know how to be honest. And we know how to love. Some of us took the circuitous route to get here, but being in this place with these people… it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. For the first time in my life I feel safe. Safe.

Letting go of old expectations was hard, but ultimately the most beautiful gift I’ve ever given myself. I am responsible only to me. I carry no one’s weight but my own. It only took me half my life to reach this particular milestone, but I am determined to hang onto it with all the stubbornness I’ve developed, too.

Goals

What’s a New Year’s Day without the obligatory goals post? Of course, we’re all so busy sharing our goals that we’re not looking at anyone else’s, but that’s okay. It’s a vast internet and this is going to be more a reference point, anyway.

School starts in 16 days. I am unemployed. There are numerous appointments this month I must keep. (Remind me to update the calendar in my phone.) I have to get serious about tying all my social media together so I can start to diversify my revenue streams and make myself available to alternate sources of income. This blog will likely take on a new look, as I no longer have the luxury of paying for space to ramble. I’ll keep my domain, but in addition to my personal posts, there will be pages and/or posts devoted to my creative work, as well. Exciting stuff, but also intimidating.

I had my first paying photography gig last week, and it went really well. Portrait photography isn’t something I have a lot of experience with yet, but I may have found my niche among people who aren’t typically well served in this part of the country. Same with my embroidery art – I love to dot a fabric canvas with flowers, but add some socially conscious imagery or verbiage and suddenly I become a subversive crafter. Which probably doesn’t mean much in places like my hometown in northern California, but here in southwestern Missouri? Yeah, it creates a stir. Looking forward to capitalizing on that, if I can.

If 2016 was the home of my darkest moments, then 2017 promises to be the impetus of my forward momentum. I’ve never found the changing of the calendar year to be particularly significant, but even I have to admit that the symbolic shedding of last year’s misery is affecting. Being forced to wait during long, slow, tortuous lulls in my journey effected me in ways I’m still identifying. But all of the things I had to wait for are coming at me now – not so fast that I’ll miss them, but quickly enough to keep me eagle-eyed and limber over home plate, waiting to catch whatever comes next. Thanks for watching this game with me. It’s about to get exciting!

…and hardly ever what we dream.

I’ve been lax keeping up this blog. Life – it keeps happening all around me, and I haven’t had time to stop and reflect on it much. Even more so in the coming months.

Election news dominates. Yes, I’m voting for Hillary Clinton. I’ll probably vote a straight blue ticket, since the GOP is now reaping 25 years worth of sown ignorance and bigotry. Jim Wright said it best here. I’m tired, I’m moderately nervous that the necrotic pustule masquerading as a human in a stolen orange flesh suit will leave a rancid stain that will never, ever wash out of our country. I’m deeply disappointed in many of my fellow humans.

But on a personal level, things are continuing to look up. My plan proceeds apace, with just as much uncertainty as ever. Dark days are now just dark, not the all-consuming nothingness that plagued me a year ago. Reminders are popping up on my social media – “Memories!” I could turn that feature off, but I need to see it. I need to see that I am alive, and whole. If, as Emily Dickinson claimed, hope is the thing with feathers, they are finally smoothed. And my storm was sore, indeed. There is an ugly bruise on a part of me, but if I can manage not to poke it then most days I can pretend it’s not there.

Staying in one spot to live my grief has been the greatest challenge of my life so far. Sometimes the memory of the grief is worse than the cause. Drowning, suffocating are such apt descriptions. Conversely, breathing has become newly precious to me.

I am grateful beyond words for the people who showed themselves to be my personal heroes. People whose support has been unflagging and unconditional. At the same time, it’s been healthy to redefine the boundaries with those whose erratic orbits are… unequal to the task. And that’s okay. Not everyone is cut out to handle me at my worst. As it turns out, other people have boundaries of their own (or should). I am unbelievably lucky to have connected with people whose boundaries mesh with mine so seamlessly that their support became integral to my coping mechanisms. Their beautiful humanity carried me when I had little of my own. I have a Tribe. I need them.

I’ve never been this person before, but at the same time, I feel more “me” than I ever have. It’s terribly liberating, wonderfully frightening. It’s like being 18 again, only knowing everything I know at 40. Youth isn’t wasted on the young, it’s previewed. And now, ladies and gentleman, our main feature begins.

The true secret in being a hero lies in knowing the order of things. The swineherd cannot already be wed to the princess when he embarks on his adventures, nor can the boy knock on the witch’s door when she is already away on vacation. The wicked uncle cannot be found out and foiled before he does something wicked. Things must happen when it is time for them to happen. Quests may not simply be abandoned; prophecies may not be left to rot like unpicked fruit; unicorns may go unrescued for a very long time, but not forever. The happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story.
― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn