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I’ve been away, elsewhere and not here since 2015. Or the last time I was here, the calendar year was 2015.
And now I must re-familiarize myself on how to even post an entry. Learn all of the new fancy bells & whistles of the blogging world. Who am I kidding? The most I will probably do is figure out how to add an entry. At least for now, unless I re-commit to daily (or almost) posts.
While being not here for the past two years I have been a busy bee & much living & multiple adventures have washed under the proverbial bridge or down the river & multiple new moons have transitioned to full ones. The most significant changes & life events have been moving out of state & then back again within a 12-month cycle. Beginning a new job, accepting a promotion & then immediately resigning from said promotion within a month & returning to the ‘home’ state. Within that 12-month period, I also lived in three different rentals, committed to the last rental & began putting down roots. Literally. Succulents were purchased, repotted & ultimately re-homed. Furniture & home furnishings bought & assembled as needed & within three months, released.
Yes. The Big Purge of Material Possessions took place, AGAIN.
Another very long Road Trip happened, AGAIN.
My daughter’s medical emergency. She needed her mama. My daughter needed me. And so…
And seven months later, I remain a virtual stranger in familiar surroundings & homeless to boot. Not in the literal sense of the word I suppose as I have had a roof over my head & even my own bathroom as I have been existing (aka living) in my ex-partner’s whom I am still legally married to, condo. I have not worked or earned any money for the past seven+ months. My biggest accomplishment has been surviving the last seven+ months.
Huge. This accomplishment. Very large. Being still alive. Humongous. Weathering grief, winter’s frigid darkness.
Today I can believe spring has arrived or at the very least is well on its way. I can believe that Old Man Winter cannot & most importantly, will not, last forever. Today the return from a long long hibernation continues, fueled by renewed energy & long daylight hours. Ahhhh, yes. The light has returned to the Far North Land. Finally.
And I begin the preparations for or at the very least the hope of leaving ‘home’ once again. Yep. Yup. Affirmative. Yes. This tumbling tumbleweed is hoping to move, to blow this pop stand, to relocate, to begin anew, to head down the old highway. AGAIN.
A second job interview, this one in person, is scheduled in three weeks in a faraway place. I am on the path to a new adventure. AGAIN.
Oh my gosh, I have been absent for far too long from my beloved blog. My absence has not been due to laziness, lack of interest on my part, being in a pissed off mood at the blogging community or a churlish attitude in general. Here is the true unvarnished, un-spun, authentic deal ~ I have been ill, very ill, for a very long time. For over two years now. I have shared about my Unwanted and Un-invited Bastard Buddy Vertigo (BBV) who swooped in for an extended visit and decided not to depart, right? Well, nine months ago a new uninvited health hazard Bastard arrived on my doorstep and the BBV invited him into my home and my body.
All of this is to say, that I have been fighting, literally, for my ability to remain in my physical self on this Earth plane. However, when I finally hit the lowest of my low a couple of months ago, I chose to re-claim my healing and to stop looking outward to supposed “experts” such as Western medicine and naturopaths, etc., who were not helping, to say the very least. I also made the decision to place the focus of my energies on my spiritual practices and return to my creative writing and visual art, both of which spark my will to live and make the most meaning in my life. Throughout this entire journey, I have continued to work and provide psychotherapy services to adolescent youth and their families.
I have missed my little blog. I have missed being a part of the blogging community and the connections I have made here. I maintain a Facebook account using my legal name, however, due to the nature of my professional life, am not comfortable co-mingling the two worlds. What I am hoping is that now that I have taken this step of writing a post today that I will be more active once again with my little blog. Most likely not daily but more frequently than once every quarter.
I am thrilled to report that my creative writing is on fire and there is much movement in that area. There is goodness in this world and even though my faith and spirits come and go and I am a fickle creature, I do believe that my struggles are not in vain. Sending out love, compassionate caring and peaceful energy in these early morning hours this Saturday morning.
My absence from my blog has been due to my physical health related problems. That, and my ensuing depression. All of which have gotten me to the place I am today ~ inside the House of Truth. At least The House of Truth as I know it today, in this moment at this particular juncture in time, at this fork of this road.
I have returned to therapy. About time. That’s right. About motherfucking time. Or would that be about mother fucking time? Whatever. It is time. And I am doing it. Not fucking. Not even fucking around ~ not this time. I am participating in therapy in a different way than ever I have done before two weeks ago.
Meaning? I am raw. real. no pretenses. no good girl persona. no bad girl disguise. defenses, gone baby gone. Why? How? Why now? I am just ready. That. And writing a check for $175 for a 50 minute hour seems to keep me on point. Cuts through the bullshit. Stops the spin before the tales get spun, if you receive my meaning. And I hope she does. My treating psychologist that is.
50 shades of grey. 50 ways to leave a lover. 50 episodes of whodunit. 50 ways to lose a life.
50 megawatts of power. outage. ongoing. no end in sight.
50 methods to one’s madness.
Mad for the series Mad Men, that is. And I suppose if the truth be known, mad as in pissed. Off. Sort of. Kind of. Every now and now or then. Then there is the full on rage, mad. Slow simmer ~ full boil ~ lid blown off the pressure cooker, mad raging through me and all over the damned place. Just every once in a decade or day.
I wonder what the odds are that I could get Don Draper to come over and knock the everliving shit out of this mad.
A snowball’s chance, you say? Okay.
Back to mad.
My spirit and mood have been vacillating, wildly and erratically at times, between gratitude for life and wishing to be finally done with this journey. Folded in among this particular ping pong game of emotions there burbles nostalgia for what never was but wished for anyway, moments and times. Like say, the throb of deep connected love with the same person for a long period of time and the resulting imagined passionate lovemaking. And let me not forget to write of the fear, dread and anxiety brought on by considering medical procedures, tests and surgeries meant to return to me my health and maybe, may I hope, my sanity.
Where does one go when the well is dry. Bone dry. Yet the body still thirsty and the spirit weak. Prayer feels too hard. No, not hard, just not for me. Not now. I suppose I feel undeserving somehow of asking for help. Hard to do this earth journey; seemingly impossible to bridge the worlds or universe.
For now, I dwell in the land somewhere in between.
Somewhere and sometime along the way on this journey of mine on this particular circuitous path that I tread called my life, I let go of the hope of finding my first mother, my omma. In the beginning as a child, I barely dared even think of her even when I was sleeping ~ dreaming about this most precious woman in the whole wide world. And then in adulthood, I defied all that I had been taught and brainwashed to believe by my adoptive mother, and took the lid off the hole in my heart where this yearning for my birth mother lived. This hope was faint but thrumming with the rhythm of my heartbeat and sprang fully alive with urgings from my thoughts, dreams and fantasies of this mystery woman’s face, touch and fragrance.
So today the realization that the hope is reduced, once again, to barely a flutter now and again, is startling.
Hope and hunger, however, are two separate states of being. For I still long for this woman, my creator. Longing that aches to my very soul. Even with my dim hope that I will ever find her on this planet, in the form of my first omma, the yearning is still present. She is somewhere. Perhaps over the proverbial rainbow. Maybe existing on another plane in a different form. But, somewhere there exists is at least a remnant of this one whom I have gone without for ever so long.
Happy Mother’s Day Omma from your daughter aka Korean adoptee, junemoon.
All hands on deck.
Both hands on the wheel at the 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock positions.
we I have am the situation.
Multiple choice. Correct answer ~ all of the above.
Maybe I am unemployable.
Maybe I am incapable of working for someone else; for very long. And maybe I am not cut out to be a government worker.
Today has been an exercise in watching and listening to people whose main priority was and is to cover their own asses, thus ensuring proper coverage of their government employer’s ass, which by the by is a very large ass. Meaning there is a lot of ass covering to ensure.
Meanwhile, my ego and self-worth both became larger and more trampled on as the day progressed. Funny thing how wanting to be ‘right’ and its accompanying desire of wanting others to acknowledge one’s own rightness creates a big brouhaha. Inside one’s own head, at least. The one in this case, is me. Time to deflate the old ego mania; to take off the eyeglasses of judgment and inhale a big cleansing breathe.
Oh yeah. Reminder to self ~ remember to exhale.
Yesterday I sat in my friend’s car and visited for about 3-1/2 hours, give and not take an hour or so. That’s after we had sat across from one another in a restaurant booth, eating breakfast and visiting for about an hour and eleven minutes. We had not seen one another for a goodly amount of time and when we do get together, we talk. For a long time, we talk. Our best conversations have taken place in one or the other of our vehicles throughout the years. And our friendship spans multiple years and encompass umpteen life changes and choices of both the minor and the major variety.
So it was not uncommon that our tete-a-tete included the revisiting of past romantic relationships. For me, one love affair in particular still has a hold in my heart. A flame, if you will, that has not gone dark and cold. My little meander down memory lane seems to have knocked some emotional debris loose and onto my path or into my heart like little sparkling diamonds swirling around in a gold pan mixed all in with the fool’s gold. I think in this scenario, I may be the fool and that all that sparkles is definitely not diamonds but instead perhaps a woman-made synthetic imposter.
Nonetheless. My heart is a bit blue. A bit bruised from the memories of the long ago infidelity, deceit and not enough love. The saying that time heals all wounds is not really true. What is true in this narrative is that time has softened the heart pain and there is distance even in the nearness of the flame.