Rube's Musings: Just Add Water and Stir...but Don't

I’ve been asked a question (a few times) through my life in various social/online settings that always confounds me and today I’ve taken the time to really think about it as well as address it. 

Here’s the question:  What do you like to do/What be your hobbies?

I’m lumping these together although I understand the nuanced differences between the two questions.  Laziness is a total disease and should be diagnosed and treated.  I’m willing to be the test dummy for this particular study.  And I’m sure there are other folks about me who would be relieved as well because they too are affected by it, thanks to me.  But moving on to the question…

This is why I become all befuddled when someone asks these particular types of questions.  Sure, as a young’un I could have answered that with some bit of alacrity, such as, “um….I love to bike *pause*…and to read *pause*…and play the flute *pause*…” (wow, seriously though how much of a geek was I?!).  But as an adult, nyet.

I just don’t think life is so interesting, wait, scratch that, I’m not that interesting (life is just fine) anymore.  I’m still a geek and boring as hell.  I like to read…still, and I like to write…more than ever, and while I don’t play the flute anymore…I like listening to it.  But this sorta boring stuff isn’t what makes me interesting to other adults, I don’t think.  It makes me, as I said, boring.  Most are looking for “well I like to go hiking and then kayaking and then maybe run 610 miles in an hour and then maybe wrangle some sort of wild animal and then…etc, etc, etc….” 

Good gracious.  Really?

And how does one staple all this down to just a few interests anyhow?  For instance, if I was truly forced (as in someone holding a gun to my head) to answer this sorta question, it would be more on the lines of something like this:

I like to go on long drives, alone, where I blast my music and ignore the world and indulge in my guilty pleasures of song choices (like Mylie Cyrus).
I like to sit and blog on a sunny patio somewhere listening to my ipod and sipping a cool glass of something.
I like to read a good book, curled up on a piece of comfy furniture and get lost.
I went horseback riding, and liked it.  Does this count?
I once went ATV’ing and was a speed demon.  Does this mean I ‘do’ this?
I like to laze on the beach and feel the wind on my skin.
I love long hikes during the fall when the colors of the world is in the midst of changing and I capture it on my camera.
I love cooking all sorts of foods, when I’m not feeling lazy (really, that study needs to be done already before this becomes an epidemic).
I like to color, paint (which I do badly), doodle, sketch, try anything artsy for the first time.
I like to debate…that’s it…I like to debate.
I like to research random crap so that I feel more enlightened and can hold a conversation.
I like to try on different make up techniques which I use once and then never employ again because I forget them at the time or because of…yes, laziness. 
I like to put on crimson red lipstick when I’m feeling down because it gives me a personal ego boost.
I like to post nonsense on FB that makes others laugh.
I like to go to the Asian grocery store to wander the aisles and discover all sorts of new things.
I like to watch documentaries and cry, alone. 
I love to talk philosophy with just about anyone.
I like to sit and watch people because isn’t that the best thing in the world?
I like to be sarcastic and I’ve honed the art form hence I use it, with relish (and mustard and ketchup).
I like to be in the kitchen with my mom as she cooks and the house is filled with familiar scents of childhood.
I like to go to Dunkin Donuts with my bro and the cousins so we can gossip.
I love to sit with my dad and learn the music of my forefathers.
I like to text/chat with my besties and then when I see them, act as if we haven’t texted/talked in forever. 
I like decorating Christmas trees, putting out Halloween decorations, watching clouds float across the sky, listening to morning birds chirp, laugh while watching kids playing (in a completely non-creepy way), listen to the rain against the roof, gaze at snow falling and blanketing the earth…

You see what I’m getting at here?  I like all sorts of random (and not so random) things and sometimes nothing at all.  All these things and so many other things makes me…me.  I am a complex person who has yet to discover so many “possibilities” I may love to do and won’t know until I try.  So how can I tell you?  Life presents a vast array of options that to pigeonhole myself and say ‘this is what I like and don’t like’ is foolish to me and not giving myself credit.

For instance, I may not ever entertain the idea to go flinging myself off great heights but if someone binds me up and throws me off a plane with a parachute, who knows…(okay but this isn’t an invitation of any sort to do this because I will exact revenge shortly thereafter even if I loved the experience.  Just sayin’).

Here’s my suggestion (because I’m positive that absolutely everyone is waiting for it breathlessly): if you feel so inclined to know someone and ask them what they like to do?  Don’t.  Just don’t.  Make conversation.  Take the time to discover them.  Ask them about life and experiences because through that you will easily find out the rest of it all and it’s not a forced subject where they have to shove everything into a few generic sentences.  Half the fun of meeting anyone new is to discover who/what they are and it’s not in one swift ‘go’.  Watch as their eyes light up, as their posture change, as they lick their lips in anticipation because there is something they’re dying to reveal about themselves and someone who seems legitimately interested and (miraculously) listening.  Treat them like they are a fascinating package, a wonderful surprise, which you slowly open and with great anticipation. 

Stop living in a ‘just add water and stir’ world, basically.  We crave instant gratification and that in the end, isn’t gratifying at all although we’ve convinced ourselves it’s what we want/need. 

Slow the hell down, Folks, it’s as simple as that.

Blog Challenge: Wrestling/MMA

I’m up late all the time, as most know, and often take to watching any sort of documentary which zings my interest that’s available either on Netflix or TV.  These rots the brain much less than “Real Housewives of…” or anything of the same ilk.  Admittedly once in a while I’ll become absolutely captivated by an infomercial where my hand itches to purchase whatever nonsense is being offered but those are few and far in-between.  Otherwise I’ll opt to read or write.  I’m so evolved and mature, aren’t I?  Yea, right. 

And the best thing about watching documentaries?  You learn so bloody much!  Like for instance, last night on CNN, I watched a new show called “This is Life” with Lisa Ling.  She explores and delves into what one would call unconventional lifestyles and explores the inner workings, uncovers dark secrets and gets to the core of the life itself.  The one I caught sometime around 2am was about MMA (Mixed Martial Arts).  Let me preface the rest of this blog with this:  I’m not badass enough to say that I know anything about this sport or even follow it.  I watch it on occasion because I recognize pure skill as opposed to it’s predecessor, Wrestling Mania or the Wide World of Wrestling, which is a joke as we all know now.

Side bar:  I remember when I told P how wrestling was all acting and staged.  He staunchly refused to believe me until I showed him a documentary (see how that works) which basically busted the whole darn thing open and exposed wrestling for the fraud it really was.  That basically shut him up.  I admit I felt bad for like, a second, because the devastation ran so deep and then I thought, ‘suck it up, Buttercup’ and moved it along. 

But back to what I was saying…as I laid there stretched out on the sofa steadfastly ignoring my body screaming for beddy-bye in the wee hours of the morning, my epic laziness won over the need to change channels as I settled into watching the show referenced above.  Surprisingly enough, and hours later as I pretty much dragged myself to bed, I was thoughtfully pondering about what I had watched since initially I hadn’t found the topic all that appealing yet it had me wondering how myopic my world truly was in so many ways. 

This particular show was not simply highlighting the inside world of MMA fighters but specifically female fighters and a part of the segment was dedicated to girl fighters, as in children.  So apparently there are junior female MMA fighters (just to be redundant).  Color me shocked.  Yes, and there is blood and pain and in fact just watching the fight on the tube made me flinch something mad and as Lisa pondered, I too did the same speculating, as to who these parents were that allowed their child to get pummeled in such a brutal fashion.  And really I’m not exaggerating when I say brutal.  With every kick and jab my stomach clenched thinking, “I would never, ever allow my kid…”  First, don’t have a kid so that’s that but if I did…just saying.

But this is where I speak so freely of my myopic vision of the world even though I think I’m broadminded.  I was being so dang judge-y of these parents yet as I watched I realized that I didn’t and don’t know squat. 

There was a little girl who was being interviewed, she was…I don’t remember her age, but young, maybe 12?  She had bushy brown hair and thick glasses with a face full of pimples, awkward and soft spoken with a pretty yet unsure smile.  She reminded me of me when I was that age.  She elaborated about being bullied, about her insecurities and then about her world after it was exposed to MMA.  The transformation of this child was, well…gratifying.  No, this wasn’t some Molly Ringwald sorta moment because she still looked the same but without a doubt she was clearly empowered and confident, finding a passion and love for something that although far outside the norm of a girl her age, probably was teaching her focus and discipline.  Her parents, who stood on the sidelines indeed watching their daughter get thrashed (she lost the match that she was preparing for), spoke bravely of supporting her, worrying for her, fearing for her but still, supporting her regardless of what others thought and sometimes even what they thought.  I found them to be brave, to be honest, unable to imagine the demons they battled within themselves every time she got into the ring.

My take on this was that I have a long way to go in truly being non-judgmental.  And I mean a long way.  There I was, in a snap thinking how horrible these people were, what could possibly possess this kid to do that to herself and yada, yada but in reality, I was so hugely wrong.  If I have to be honest (and I try that every now and then) I was rather enveloped with a sense of awe at the parents’ unflagging support of their kid who was finding her own individual and unique self.  Ironically, I posted a blog earlier about finding just this, one’s true self even against the odds and others opinions but I didn’t make the connection (which shows you yet again how limited my vision can be) and glad that I did via this blog.  Oh, and I have to thank my girl S, once again, because I asked her for a blog topic and she immediately spat out “wrestling” and although this isn’t precisely what I’m writing about (hey, I mentioned it above) it made me recall the documentary from yesterday and started to piece my thoughts together.

And about that young little girl…she’s amazing.  Like I mentioned, she lost the fight but I feel like this little one is going to definitely win the battle in life. 

If you haven’t caught the show, I recommend that you do.  I can only say that it opened my eyes.  Now, I’m onto more enlightenment.  I believe this is gonna be a difficult road. 

*Sigh*

You ARE Beautiful...No Matter What

To the sisters of my heart, to those I know and don’t know, to all the women out there…this is for you…

Embrace your…

Supple flesh, round and abundant or diminutive slim and wispy bodies, for the flesh is a gift to you;
Wrinkles because they bespeak wisdom and experiences;
Blemishes which add character and depth;
Pock marks that tell of stories and struggles;
Big or small ears from which to dangle baubles and bling (or not);
Bulbous or pug nose to smell wonderful smells from which memories are created;
Eyes in all shapes and sizes that observes all the wonders of the world;
Height, Tall or short or in-between because at the end of the day, it’s the one you’re supposed to be;
Bow-legs or knobby knees;
Thick ankles or muscular calves;
Long hair with split ends or short pixie cut or the beautiful bald;
Lips that seem too thin, or equally too thick but which smile either way;
Complexion, so light that one can see the veins running beneath the alabaster of the surface or as dark as the velvety midnight sky or any glorious shade that creates a rainbow of humanity;  
Boobs that are perky or ones that have nurtured and given sustenance;
Shaved to perfection or all natural because either you’re all about your natural self or attentive;
Feminine by instinct or masculine by attitude (and sometimes disposition);
Fashionista side, tomboy unaffectedness or even the non-descripts who prefer to stay under the radar;
Gregariously extroverted self, quietly introverted being or even hanging somewhere halfway;
Bookworm side, social divaocity, closed-off walls-up ways, opened up to every adventure-ness, traveler/nomadic spirit or home is the only hearth kinda human being…
Or everything and anything else in-between…

Embrace yourself.  And believe it or not all these differences, every single last blessed one of them, is what makes YOU beautiful, whoever you are and whatever you look like and wherever you’re from.

Ladies, I’ve gone through a lifetime of self-doubt and self-loathing, comparing myself endlessly to her, or her, or even her.  I’ve been force fed to believe in order to be attractive I had to look a certain way, behave a certain way, speak a certain way and I failed.  The consistency of these failures repulsed me, made me feel weak and worthless.  I deserved to be ignored, overlooked, to be treated as if I were invisible.  I trained myself to look down at the ground, not making eye contact, never engaging because I was afraid of the disgust I would see in the gaze of others as they beheld the embodiment of what a loser truly was and that…sucked. 

I used to stand in front of the mirror and stare at myself, wishing, plotting…I would change everything!  A complete overhaul and it was all focused and centered on everything external.  Maybe liposuction, a jaw lift (if there was such a thing), or could they put in some sort of stilts under my skin to be taller?  I scoured every news outlet and pursued every avenue of information that would lead me to the best way to go about doing this and it never really worked.  I still failed.  And once again a cycle of self-loathing began.

However, and to my credit, aside from my closest friends no one really knew how deep this dislike for myself coursed through my very blood.  I avoided pictures like the plague, as I mentioned before in a previous blog, and would beg people to tear up or cut me out of ones they wanted to display to the world. 

I was exhausted.

So when did things change then?  When did I learn to embrace me?

Funny how one tragedy can lead us out of another and that in essence is what caused me to take a good long hard look at myself. 

I’ve spoken at length about a lot of personal tragedies and pains in my blogs.  It has never been in order to garner pity or sympathy but rather to help anyone else who may be feeling alone and struggling.  So to that degree, I wrote at length about my childlessness.  Those blogs where I’ve referenced it were never ones that I wrote with a bounce to my step.  Rather the opposite, I often found myself in tears as I put thought to paper.  The return though, private messages and emails thanking me for sharing, was worth the price of the tears. 

Just to recap though, after a lot of medical procedures and multiple forays into the world of reproductive therapy, I came out at the end childless and heartbroken, being told in essence that becoming a mother would be unlikely.  I retreated into myself for a long time trying to grapple with this news, blaming myself squarely for the biggest failure of my existence while at the same time knowing intellectually that it wasn’t my fault, it was simple biology.  That didn’t matter.  None of it mattered. 

Through the course of those nightmarish years (and yes, I mean years, not days or months), while I smiled through every bit of that excruciating pain, receiving news of my own friends getting pregnant, watching bouncy babies being born and cuddling them close while wishing for my own, trying to be there for those who needed me, be the person I had been, never thinking my pain was more epic than anyone else’s…I was dying a little inside, manically searching for something that would put balm on my wounded spirit and fill the void in my heart.

I’ll tell you now that never happened, not really.  The void will always be there and I will always, always yearn.   To-date I never willingly speak of this particular topic.  Yea, sure I will reference it when it’s important, to help someone else through it but I personally do not need to discuss it in reference to myself or my own emotions.  It’s terribly closed off of me but that’s okay, this is my coping mechanism.  That’s not to say I’m in denial, it’s simply that I’ve dealt with it and have moved along (somewhat). 

But this comes right back to why I’m even writing this blog.  With the advent of this ultimate failure of my very reason for existing (for some would argue that’s why we, women, exist, on a biological level and that’s for procreation) I had to fall back on something to help me live on and I assure you that was the trick, how to continue to breathe. 

Thus with little other option, I started to begin the journey of self-realization.  Oh god, that sounds so cheesy but it was precisely that.  Now, Folks, everything I’m about to say is no real big secret, nothing you do not know or haven’t heard many times over but it helps to sometimes read it in context as opposed to random inspirational quotes, memes, wooden block etchings…I needed to answer these questions:

What was good about me?
Would I want to know me, if I weren’t me?
Were there any redeeming factors in me even when I did wrong?
Did I have some sense of morals?
Was I selfish or self-centered (beyond what is human and normal)?
Was everything that I saw in the mirror really that bad if I broke it down piece by piece?
Did it truly matter what others thought of my body, looks and what did that say about themselves if they did?
Who was I trying to impress beyond God?
What purpose did outer perfection serve if the inside was ugly?
What was beauty really worth?
Did I need to learn to love myself despite all these flaws?

And there were way more questions but I systematically started to go about seeking out the truths about my own psyche and it was wondrous because I began to shed all these notions about beauty that I had so adamantly clung to throughout my life.  Now that I reflect on it, maybe it was because there was still hope that if I changed enough, improved, beautified myself to the extent where it was socially acceptable, I had something to look forward to and that this…me…wasn’t it.  I would be admired and adored and fawned over and somehow I would attain nirvana, the Holy Grail in a way. 

But because I hadn’t been able to attain that ultimate body that I wanted, or everything else that was supposed to be on the outside, it reflected in my attitude both on the inside and out.  I didn’t like me so there was no way that others would want to get through the barriers/walls I had erected around myself.  I hid my true self away from the world.  Yet, as these questions, one at a time, were being answered I let go.  I laughed a little more freely, I wore what I wished instead of fretting that I was being judged.  I went without make up and let my hair be and stay greasy because I was just too lazy to do anything about it.  More importantly, I started to speak my mind, share my knowledge, wit, smartassary without caring one wit.  In essence, I was slowly releasing myself.  And it was glorious.

Do I still fight these demons?  Yea, of course I do.  I still avoid the mirrors and when someone wants to take a full length picture, I hide.  I post pics of myself on FB and wonder if one day a person won’t meet me in person and say I totally misrepresented myself.  And I can tell you that I often feel like the step-child from fairy tales who is ignored, even at the age of 43.  But here’s the thing, it’s okay to feel this way.  I’m okay with it.  Because I can only be who I am and anyone who wants me in their lives will have to accept me as I am.  That maybe the biggest lesson learned here: self-acceptance.  I can’t, in fact, be her, or her, or even her.  I can be me and that, to you my dearest sisters, is the message here.  Be your authentic self.  Let go of these ideals in which we bind ourselves.  Free the mind first and everything else will follow.  Slay some of your demons, don’t let them control you.  Fix which you can, embrace that which you can’t.  Accept you will have your good, and bad days because you have the right to having them but do not allow anyone else to make them good or bad days.  Take that power away from them and keep it for yourself.  And know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this journey of self-loving is a long and complicated one full of barbs and walls and scary monsters that try to push you off course and have you doubting yourself.  Don’t let anyone/anything win.

I hope this blog helps anyone who is struggling.  Again, you are beautiful, however and whoever you are.

Lots of love going out to all my ladies.   

Naps and a Bagel (or 3)

Last night, I think most of the world tuned in to watch the clusterfuck that was the first Presidential debate between Hillary and Trump.  I could write something pretty scathing in description of Trump and his idiocy, but I shall refrain…for now.  Suffice it to say that this, in my humble opinion, was no contest and no surprise at all as to who would trounce whom.  I’ll leave this topic alone after saying that I do not care how dishonest Hillary has been, I still refuse to vote for the orange-faced buffoon, period.  Don’t bother to argue with me on this point, I have other reasons I support her as well but again, I don’t need to justify my decision and nothing on earth will convince me to throw away this particular vote, that to in a swing state, just to make a point that neither are good choices and I wish there was someone else (who I would legitimately want to vote for because the other two options?  Just no).  And as I explained to someone recently, I wish I was thinner and richer right at this moment but that’s not the case so I have to deal with reality as it is for me right now.

Because the debate wasn’t enough, I stayed up till 5am watching the pundits and “experts” expound and dissect the hell out of the 90 minutes till I finally decided, or rather my body demanded it was time to sleep otherwise it would stage a mutiny of sorts.  Alas even though I listened to it immediately, I believe it still wanted to exact revenge as my eyes popped open at the repulsive hour of 7am.  7 am.  SEVEN AM!!!!!  In case you’re not good at math that’s pretty much 2 hours of sleep.  And trust me, I am not, and I repeat not, a morning person. 

Many of you who know me may be thinking, “okay so what’s the big deal, you’re an insomniac anyhow” but even we insomniacs make up the sleep somewhere, like while driving, under the desk at work or even behind a potted plant…but I assure you we definitely need some significant amount of it, not necessarily 8 hours (because that’s just insane) but more than 2 is all I’m saying.  Truthfully though, and knowing my body, I never ever make up sleep.  As in if I get two hours, that’s all I’m gonna get and will have to suffer through the rest of the blasted day exhausted out of my mind, closely resembling a zombie.  This has sadly become my normal.

This morning I lay in bed praying I would doze back to sleep but the grey cells were firing at all cylinders as I pulled myself out to get on with the rest of the day.  I don’t want to or need to bore anyone with the mindlessly boring crap that I did but at one point I stretched out onto the sofa to read some information sent to me by a friend and apparently I feel asleep.

Remember how I mentioned I don’t nap?  Well, I really don’t.  And if you hear that I’ve napped know that I’ve managed to hit a wall of exhaustion pretty hard and my body gave me the mental middle finger and decided to shut the hell down.  This was precisely what happened today. 

15 minutes later I woke up with a jerk, my heart beating out of control, body shaking, and the overwhelming urge to puke.  And this, my friends, is precisely why I loathe napping.  I have never, ever, EVER felt rested after resting.  It sucks big ol’ hairy….um…yea this is a pretty PG blog so I won’t finish that thought.  You know what I mean though.  This is also the reason my mom and I would get into epic showdowns when I was a child as she insisted I take an afternoon nap (probably because she needed ‘me’ time and I was a lunatic kid who followed her around like a shadow and ask her such questions as “why is the sky blue?” and “why can’t I color my hair pink?”).  Now that I think of it, I was a really annoying child.  Thank God I’ve shed that, eh?  Shut up. 

Anyhoooo…the reason for my resistance was, and I know this now although not then, that my mind rarely rested.  But my mother wasn’t having any of my demands to make brownies or going to the mall and would command me into bed and force my eyes closed (she would gently put her fingers over my eyes in desperation at times).  My eyelids would eventually start to hurt not from her fingers but from keeping them closed on my own because I would start to feel bad that she even needed to force my eyes shut.  And yea, every once in a while I would fall asleep only to wake up with a start and all those horrible feelings I described above zinging through me.  This is the sole reason I hate napping and now at the age of 43, nothing has changed.  I like to fantasize about it though.

Knowing that my stupid body has never been down with the whole napping concept, I decided today to shake the lethargy and leave the house to run errands after quickly sending off a few emails and checking job boards.  Best to be as far away from the bed or sofa as possible in sheer fear.

If you bothered to read yesterday’s blog, you will recall that I spoke about how cool the weather had turned but also mentioned that Mother Nature had been terribly fickle as well of late.  Well, today she decided to turn up the dial.  As soon as I stepped foot outdoors I knew once again that MN (That’s short for Mother Nature because we’re pretty close and I can be all casual when referring to her) had betrayed me.  Did anyone notice how unseasonably warm it was?  Off came the scarf and sweater in an instant as I sat in the leather interior of my sweltering car jacking up the AC.  I would love, love, LOVE it if for once the weather would reflect the actual month it was.  Thanks, Global Warming.   Oh wait, that’s right, there’s no such thing as Global Warming [insert major eye roll here]. 

At Trader Joe’s (for those who have no clue as to what this is, it’s basically a fancy grocery store where you can’t get generic toothpaste but has the most kickass frozen meals and a plethora of chocolaty treats not to be found anywhere else), I was thrilled to find a spot under the one tree in the blasted parking lot.  Industrialization really does suck, doesn’t it?  I headed into the store and as I weaved down the side walk a gentleman in front of me craned his neck in the most exaggerated way to gaze at a woman who was at that point striding past me.  I figured she must be beautiful or something like that and decided to peak.  He hadn’t looked at her because of her looks but rather because…wait for it………….she was wearing a Kevlar vest, above her clothes, and muttering rather loudly to herself.  She was not sporting a uniform either.  Um…

*Pause…crickets…scratch head…shrug shoulders* 

This was basically my reaction.

Amazing the ridiculous shit you get used to seeing when you live in a pretty overpopulated area.   Nothing seems to faze me anymore.  Not even Kevlar worn over the clothes.  I wondered though why she felt as if she had to and then realized I was, yet again, overthinking stuff and needed teriyaki chicken instead.  That’s what I did.

Now, I’ve written entries before about my obsession with Panera’s cinnamon crunch bagels.  I would post the original blogs for reference but I kinda don’t want to scroll through to locate them so either you can do the honors or just take me at my word.  But I’ve put this (the famous bagel obsession) on the backburner for many months now.  It doesn’t help with the waistline in the least and I got pretty sick of it after having at least 3 in the span of 3 weeks (which is a lot for me).   But then…

Alright, I’m either really easily influenced or my mind is weak.  Now that I think of it, the two probably is linked.  This is a sad realization for me, I have to admit because I’ve always thought I’m pretty safe from too much external influences.  Oh how wrong I was today because earlier as I sat on the sofa scrolling through Facebook, I had stumbled upon a video of a bunch of people being asked how they liked their bagels.  It was an advertisement for cream cheese hence they were expounding upon how much cream cheese to bagel ratio these consumers preferred then had the audacity to actually have them show the audience what they liked and then...consumed it...slowly, happily, blissfully...oh god...  I was riveted, my mind screeching to a stop and my mouth flooding with saliva.    

I really should find the marketing genius who created that video and smack him upside the head and then tell his boss to give him a raise because oh wow was I Jonesing for a bagel and schmear (I don’t think I spelled that correctly but then again why should I start now, right?), right then.  

Subliminal foodie messages works on me like a charm, apparently.  This is something I know but love to deny.

Anyhow today was also Tuesday which meant music classes and the realization that I was yet again woefully unprepared and that I needed to practice…a lot more…like a lot, lot more, as in I should be busting out the harmonium on a daily basis and going at it for 4 hours at a time kinda practice more instead of the zero practice I actually do.  Thank my lucky stars that I have musical genes within me otherwise I’d be screwed.  I’m still astounded that my wonderful father, ustad, music teacher doesn’t throw his hands up in frustration and simply fire me as his student.  I wouldn’t even be mad at him. 

Now it’s nearly 3 am.  Yea, still working on 2 hours and 15 minutes of sleep.  I'm surprisingly awake...darn it but on the bright side I’m finishing up this blog.  You know what, it’s not all that exciting, sorta boring, just a silly entry of my silly life in this silly platform.  And yet, I’m smiling because my fingers are flying across the keyboard, something that hasn’t happened in so long and you know what else?  It really, really feels good.  Even if there isn’t much substance to this blog, it doesn’t alarm me.  It’s a simple testament to the fact that a few blocks have been removed mentally from my cranium.

I have some weighty topics in mind that I may end up posting soon.  Let’s see what tomorrow brings other than coloring out the white in my hair and eyeing my treadmill as the enemy.    

Till we meet again…

 

Once I was Lost...

And here I am, sitting at a quaint little neighborhood coffee shop not far from where I reside.  The floors in this particular cafe is blond wood, the walls are painted a calm soft gray with white trim and the proprietress along with the barista are charming ladies who chats pleasantly but doesn't overdo it.  The coffee is yum, the ambiance relaxing, the music a mix bag of popular covers in soft tones and eclectic whatever and there's free parking to boot.  If you know what this area is like, you know what a huge bonus free anything is and one shouldn't turn their noses up at this minor fact.  

It's turned cold here in NVA/DC, almost instantly as one day we woke up and realized, we need sweaters.  But Mother Nature is a Fickle Friend so who knows what tomorrow may bring.  As for today, it's dreary with a hint of rain in the air.  My iPhone boldly displays raindrops but they have yet to be felt or sighted.  I'm okay with this.

Staying home is not an option though in fear that I may opt for snoozing the day away on the sofa or snuggled under the covers as opposed to doing what needs to be done, mainly applying for jobs.  Besides, I needed a change of scenery due to the blues, which I've had.  Note, I've mentioned that I'm applying for jobs...still...a year later.  Yea, now you know where the blues are coming from but moving right along...

Last night on FB, as I was looking through "on this day" I reconnected with some of my own musings from years past which inevitably led to opening up this very blog (back then and now).  The reception of those thoughts had been so well received that maintaining a digital diary seemed to be something that was doable.  I was wrong in so many ways.  Although there is proof that I've blogged plenty through the years, it really isn't much at all in comparison to others who make the blogosphere their universe.  Life and laziness, both in spades, got into the way of my ponderings as I found days and then weeks slip by without typing even a single letter towards an entry.  Let me be clear, this is no excuse really but rather a fact.

Clearly I've been MIA for a while now if you go by the last thing I wrote.  In a post yesterday on FB I expounded at length about how I needed to get back to it (nearly a daily bellyaching from yours truly) and figured I needed some sort of motivation or even possibly a muse, inspiration.  I couldn't understand what stopped me over and over again from finishing up those entries I had already started (and there are many that I've saved on varied subjects).  Why did they remain unfinished, unwanted even when the topics were relevant in many ways to what's happening in the world, even to my life?  I wasn’t sure.

Then today, as I texted via Whatsapp with my girl S from Germany (I told you I'd mention our convo), I had an epiphany: I had lost the joy of blogging somewhere along the way because it was no longer fun.  I had lost the very purpose as to why I opened up this thing in the first place.  Initially it had been sharing bits and pieces of my life.  The mundane, the boring, the normal, the everyday.  But I had a unique way of looking at things (or so I was told), in how I observed the world and would spit that back out in words that would amuse others.  All this was in a way to prove that although I was of a different race, a different religion…my experiences weren’t all that different from anyone else’s, regardless of where I hung my hat.  It was my distinctive way of proclaiming “hey look, regardless of everything, we really are the same, I mean look at my life…”   Think of it as a bridge in this world where everyone seems to be on an island all by themselves with their own outrageous thoughts with no will to see similarities, only differences. 

The gain from it all was that I would enjoy the reactions I got from readers.  At times I would get commendations for making readers smile, giggle or laugh and maybe that's what I really wanted, what I liked.  The bonus would be some sort of personal epiphany or ‘aha’ moment that was delivered via my thoughts.  Commonality was achieved, a meeting of minds, a connection.  It was wonderful.  The small joys were often in watching my Google Analytics display that at least 20+ people had read my writing and it always astounded me without fail that anyone would even take those few seconds out of their world to read my rubbish.  Maybe…it wasn’t rubbish, huh?

What happened then because it seemed to be going so very well?  Truthfully, along the way I became big headed.  Yes, I said it:  Big headed or otherwise known as egotistical.  I convinced myself that my thoughts about religion and politics and world issues were important and I needed to, no...no HAD to, put them out there, to deliver a message along with every blog because otherwise what was the point of writing anyhow if not to get across something important, ground shaking, foundation rattling?

I was severally deluded.  While my thoughts are important, to me and a few close friends, the reality is that it doesn't make a damn bit of difference in the larger scheme of things.  Who precisely was I going to transform?  What was I trying to achieve other than saying "look at it from my point of view" and whereas that is important because every revolution and change starts with a simple "my point of view" I wasn't saying anything that wasn't said before.  But this need to get a message across overshadowed the fun of why I started to do this in the first place.  And now...sitting in this charming coffee spot, I realized that I didn't always want to be mired down in the 'heavy'.  Yes, I’m soul searching.

I know this much about myself and this writing talent (if you wish to call it that at all) which is that it is organic and free flowing.  Sounds super hippy dippy as if I'm burning sage and twirling around in a tie-dyed skirt with a big ol' crystal around my neck to balance my chakra or whatever, right?  Trust me, not my thing.  But truly my strength has always laid in observing the world around me with a humorous angle/twist.  At one time when I wrote, I wrote with no agenda or topic in mind (unless it was a challenge), allowing my fingers to fly freely and a stream of consciousness to prevail rather than rigid hypothesis' that requires evidence.  I have always wanted people to read some of my blabbering and think to themselves, "I've never quite looked at it like that" or "she's funny" or "maybe everything isn't so terrible/boring, it's just about perspective".  And I know now, after today, that I need to, actually have to, get back to that frame of mind in order to validate why I write at all and bring back the joy. 

And yea, I need validation.  I'm not above that. 

So here's the first entry after so long that I'm enjoying writing.  Truly enjoying.  I've been sitting here for about 3 hours enjoying the coffee, although now I’m onto a mango flavored iced tea (super delic).  The place isn't crowded at all, the music is still lovely and I had a great convo with the barista, a young woman who just moved back to the East coast from San Diego about 3 weeks ago.  We commiserated over the weather and I gushed on about how much I love this place.  It was in all honesty a sincere expression of my thoughts.  I was feeling mushy.  Did I mention that the food is good too?  It is.  There’s outdoor seating as well!  And this joint offers wines as well so if that's your thing, I say check it out.  Here's the info for my local friends: 

Emma's Espresso and Wine Bar
106 Hume Avenue
Alexandria, VA 22301

 

Here's a pic for reference of what I'm looking at: 

 

 

If you're all about helping out our local business owners, than I say take a chance and come here.  You won't regret it. 

Oh, it’s worth backtracking for one minute:  I will still write here and there about heavy, weighty topics.  I could never really give that up, particularly because it’s a way of me purging and at times my stupidly analytical brain needs to vomit thoughts all over a blank Word page.  But I won’t restrict myself any longer or stuff myself into some serious box that I can’t get out of when all I want to do is rant on about how hot/cold/whatever it is outside.  Or how the neighbor’s stupid dog barks at me and only at me every time it sees me, which I find to be rude because otherwise dogs generally love me.  Or how I stood at Ross for 10 minutes debating whether I needed to buy another pair of cowboy boots that were on sale for $22 (yes, I bought them).  But that’s for another blog.

Ramadan '16 - Preping for the Hunger Games

It’s 7:41pm and Magrib (sunset) is still a good hour plus away.  A storm, like an unexpected and unwanted guest, has been threatening to descend for quite a while now but has yet to arrive.  I believe like myself people have been watching the skies trying to gauge whether to venture outside and like myself they are deciding to play it safe and stay home. 

And it would have stayed that way had today not been a bit significant.

What’s going on today, you may be wondering?

Well…it’s the eve before Ramadan.  You know, the holy Month of fasting for Muslims around the world.  One of the 5 pillars that define the very foundation of Islam.  Yup, that.  By now I’m sure that whether it’s been through social media, random articles, word of mouth or even the news, you know what Ramadan is all about…somewhat.  And if you don’t, I’m always here to help.  How?  Why via blogging, of course.  I will be a fountain of information throughout this coming month and will share the trials and tribulations, like I have done in the past.  Hopefully I can put a humorous twist on it, making the experience human and relatable on the way to informative.

This here's the Black Chana

Now my mother saved me the pain of having to do too much prep by sending me a few staples that we break our fasts with, namely dates (not the type you have to get dressed for) and black boot (not footwear but rather a small bean of sorts that you have to cook forever) also known as chana.  Of course these two things are more or less staples in Bangladeshi households during the fast breaking.

All around the world though, from various cultures, other Muslim’s have their own staples but I’ll blog more about that later.  For now this is about me and today so back to my story...

Regardless of Ammi’s generosity, I had to make my way to the grocery store for my own goodies.  Off I went to one of the larger halal stores in Falls Church, VA hoping to score some chicken keema (ground chicken).  Not that I couldn’t get the same thing in like 100 stores between my home and that spot but I wanted the drive as well while I had the energy to drive and sing.  It wasn’t till I walked into the otherwise quiet grocery store that Ramadan came and smacked me upside the head.  Oh like so many others I knew it was on its way, mentally if not physically preparing myself, but the fact that it’s here, that it’s knocking and we have to open the door wide and welcome it, didn’t quite infiltrate my active consciousness until the doors of the market swooshed open and I was immediately greeted by a kindly old man holding a big box of dates (again not the type that you gotta groom for) offering me one with a toothless smile. 

Now I’m not a “sample” kind of girl.  When others go to BJ’s or the food court of malls and they are offered morsels to try, I’m the person who waves off the hawker and keeps it moving.  Maybe to that extent alone I’m a bit of a germaphobe?  (Incidentally there’s a red squiggly line under the word ‘germaphobe’ so I’m either making up this word or my dictionary is stupid, either way it stays). But this old dude was such a cutie that I wanted to pinch his cheeks, an action I’m certain he would not have appreciated. 

Instead, shuffling my phone and purse around in my hands I took one and smiled at him, wished him a Ramadan Kareem, stuffed the tasty date into my mouth and moved along.  Will admit though that the date was indeed good but I had nowhere to throw the pit so kept it in my mouth like a moron as I shopped.  Yea, so that man?  He somehow brought Ramadan front and center to me, along with the scads of humanity that were also purchasing foods to prepare for the holy month.  The air itself was actually charged with a repressed excitement as the meat counter was inundated with customers 3 or 4 deep vying for service and well stocked shelves were being wiped clean only to be restocked.  What did this trip to the store yield for me?  2 tubs of yogurt, 2 mango juices, 2 cans of mango pulp and 1 baklava box.

Right.  I went to get chicken keema, remember?  The damn shelves of the meat case was darn near empty and when I asked the butcher if he had more, he shrugged and said in a very thick Middle Eastern accent that if there were none left, there was none left.  I wanted to ask him where his Ramadan spirit went to but bit back the comment.  He didn’t look happy as it was and I wasn’t about to push him over the edge by adding to it since I could imagine the chaos that day must have brought.  No one wants to risk being beaten by a skinned goat leg anyhow. 

In my endeavor to pick up the rest of whatever I needed, which turns out wasn’t much since I mentally calculated those things I already had at home, I again noted how crowded the aisles were.  This one woman, who had a perma-scowl on her face, practically knocked me over in order to snag yogurt while not bothering to apologize and another group of glaring women cut rudely in front of me in line at the register.  I shook my head and paid for my own purchases, leaving the store with a few heavy bags in hand.  I couldn’t help but wonder that if these folks were so bad tempered now, what would happen when we were in full blown fasting mode.  Yikes.

But here’s the thing, even if I didn’t get the things I was looking for, and I nearly was assaulted twice, I felt Ramadan finally for the first time.  The energy, even the excitement, remembering that millions of folks just like me were all preparing to get to the business of doing the exact same thing…namely going without something that most people just took for granted, eating.  Does that sound weird?  I know the sentence structure could be improved upon.  Dunno but to me, there truly is a solidarity in numbers.

Let me just say this now, and I promise I will repeat this on many, many occasions to come:  I’m not such a great Muslim. 

Yup, there I said it.  No shame in that admission I don’t think.  I don’t pray 5 times a day, shamefully hardly at all.  I don’t thank Allah for his blessings daily as I should nor turn to Allah as I should.  There are a lot of other things that I’m not mentioning here that I do that I shouldn’t but I have no interest in scandalizing everyone who is reading this, nor do I feel the need to reveal that much about myself.  Hey, we all have skeletons, right?  Anyhoo…I really am not a good Muslim.  I strive to be but I fail, all the damn time (maybe using the word “damn” proves precisely how much a lousy Muslim I am?). 

And I watch others, online or in person, who seem to embody the true meaning of being a believer far better than I and I feel nothing but admiration.  When I read that people are excited about Ramadan, looking forward to it, downright giddy about it, I’m left feeling even worse.  Here’s what I’m pretty much thinking, “what the heck is going on?  Folks are looking forward to 17+ hours of starvation?  No water, no coffee, no nothing but a debilitating headache? What am I missing here?  What in the world is wrong with me??  WHY CAN’T I BE BETTER AT THIS???”  (The voices are pretty loud in my head too and real accusatory.) 

That’s a great deal of disgust for myself, not others.  Sure I’m not a good Muslim, but this bad?  Really?  My ability to get jazzed was broken, clearly.

But what I couldn’t recall, because often these thoughts are pre-Ramadan, was that once I’ve surrendered myself to the holy month, once it has arrived, I find my mind transforming slowly.  Yup, it’s a fact.  Call me a Ramadan-Muslim, which incidentally I didn’t know was a thing until like two days ago, if you wish.  I don’t care about anyone’s opinion on this one.  (What’s a Ramadan-Muslim, you may be wondering?  Apparently it’s a person who otherwise doesn’t follow many of the tenants of Islam throughout the year but during Ramadan it’s on like Donkey Kong.  Many followers who are true devotees scoff at these interlopers, these fakes, but to me I think to myself, well at least they try and who are we to judge anyhow?  It’s between them and Allah anyhow so Imma keep my opinion, to myself.)

I know you’re just DYING to know what I’m like during the oncoming month, right?  RIGHT??  Well allow me to enlighten you…As I begin the submission process, allowing my body and mind to adjust, I will become quieter, more introverted, my thoughts more reflective.  I will read and immerse myself into the study of my religion to gain knowledge and clarity, I will try to speak softly (which anyone knows is not an easy thing for me), be gentle and find patience.  I will spend a lot of time prostrating in front of Allah asking for forgiveness as well as seeking the peace that eludes me nonstop.  I will educate myself so that I glean more awareness than I did the year before regarding Islam and pray that it stays with me well past Ramadan. 

Here are some other more realistic, really, really human things I will do or become:  I will drag Muslim bootay.  And I mean, lethargic city.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, will be done with any sense of urgency or energy.  In fact, I will want to lay down on the floor of wherever I am, work, grocery store, 7-11….you name it and I will want to lay down right there.  The struggle is to stay upright.  I will crave coffee like a mad woman.  The very smell of it will cause my eyes to glaze over with a maniacal gleam.  This yearning never goes away, I won’t lie, even if it’s day 28.  I will pray for my period (yes, I know you’re cringing but I think my Muslima sistah’s knows what I mean) so that I can indulge in daylight eating which almost feels like a naughty, naughty thing to do.  And I will hide it from everyone that I am eating even if I can, even when there’s a legit reason.

I will go to the grocery store and buy the most ridiculous food products that would otherwise never be consumed if I were not fasting and I troll the internet for new recipes, gazing at pictures of dishes as if it were porn, and to an extent it is I suppose.  I will endlessly fantasize about gracing various restaurants that boast a plethora of different cuisines even if in reality my exhausted butt wouldn’t make it to even one.   And yes, I will miss a few prayers here and there as I try to sleep long hours away in hopes that the breaking time arrives faster (it never ever does).  I curse the fact that I’m an adult and often times it falls to me to make the fast breaking food unlike when I was a child when Mom took care of it.  Oh childhood how I miss thee sometimes.

Reading becomes a headache, writing becomes damn near impossible.  Splashing water on my mug is the only way to rouse myself to pray, which is harder this month than any other although it’s far more rewarding.  You end up hate on anyone who can eat and you seriously consider snatching ice cream from the hands of babes only to run away to eat it in private, closely resembling Gollum and that damn ring.  Wait, I mean me…I want to do that.

I’ll watch TV with a sense of incredible guilt that it’s not something ‘Islamic’ but yet not stop myself because it’s several moments of mindless nothingness which exerts zero verve.  Oh, and throughout the day?  I will dream of the meal that will put me out of my misery.  My temper will always be on tight reign as I pray over and over again to Allah to bestow on me patience so that I don’t snap someone’s head off and when someone who is a non-Muslim tries to ‘sympathize’ with me that they know what fasting is all about because they forewent eating meat for a Friday…well I want to lose it on them.  This is ME, not anyone else, Folks.  I’m just telling you how I feel.  Remember, I’m not that great a Muslim.

I will take that first sip of ice cold water and breathe a sigh of relief as I count down the days that I have left.  The night prayer will be the one I most fear for it goes on FOREVER and ever, and ever.  I will obsess over what to eat at night often settling on a piece of fruit and a glass of water and then…it all starts again.

Yes, and even as I do all this stuff which to me is not so pretty reality, I will remember the meaning behind why I’m doing it which is what will propel me into the next day and the next and then another…

Why am I even telling y’all this?  I guess it’s because knowing that I sorta suck at doing my religion, I’m giving a prospect of reality…from my POV.  Maybe there are plenty of believers who feel the same, find themselves struggling with the same issues, secretly nodding their head and grimacing.  I don’t know.  If you’re out there, just let me say, you aren’t alone.

I’m going to be hopefully posting more blogs during this month.  Now don’t hold me to this promise because last year I think I lasted a whooping week before giving into total lethargy.  Hey, at least I’m being honest. 

OOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, one last thing:  For those who are not Muslim’s, and there are a LOT of you out there…it’s okay to say “Happy Ramadan” to your friends.  I can assure you, those who are observing the fast will appreciate the kind gesture.  It’s on par with how you feel when a non-believer of your faith wishes you a “Merry Christmas” or a “Happy Diwali” or “Happy Passover” or whatever holiday you hold dear…got my drift?   

Okay, peace and Ramadan Kareem to one and all. 

Let the Hunger Games begin and may the odds forever be in your favor!!

Pretty Much..

 

Reappearance and the Ugly (Personal) Truth Revealed

There’s something that I can reveal about being a semi writer, a true struggle to some extent.  Oh mind you it’s not a terribly big secret but I’m going to treat it as one just because.  So here goes:  writers often lose their mojo and it’s a tragedy.

Yes, so as you see I’m writing.  Something. 

Since my last blog, I can honestly admit that the words did dry up.  I found myself on so many occasions staring at a blank screen which afforded so many possibilities and yet…nothing.  I struggled with questioning myself as to how dedicated I was to my craft (at least I like to think of it as such).  How could I call myself a blogger when I failed to post anything for months and months at a time?  Where had the passion gone?  Even when inspirational struck, I couldn’t manage to get thoughts down.  There was no use.  I had failed.  I told myself this but then again after reading the rest of this entry, you’ll know that this is something common I’ve been feeling of late and precisely why. 

So what’s kept me so preoccupied?  What’s happened that has made those elusive words escape me as I search high and low?  Besides the regular every day annoyances of life which everyone suffers, what could possibly keep me away from the one thing that I’ve always felt most at peace while doing?  Well here’s a not so hidden secret (another one, so bonus!):  I was laid off (again) back in September.  Some of you out there will be nodding, knowing already what has happened.  Others will be taken aback, surprised.  These will be those who are my Facebook friends.  And the last bit of you who only know me as the writer of this blog, you may be shrugging and saying to yourself, ‘okay, and…?”.

But let me talk to those of you who haven’t ever gone through a layoff, to those who have no clue what this particularly lovely experience is like.  Let me talk to you folks.  Let me expose the quiet reality of it, in all its psychological backlash-y ways. 

Back in September, on a day that had gone down in infamy anyhow, I was called into the HR admins office at about 3pmish (why does everything nasty happy at 3?  3pm or 3am doesn’t seem to matter) and told in a very comforting, calm and sympathetic voice that I was no longer needed.  My position had been terminated (even though there were others in the same position and they were clearly not being targeted).  I was also told that I would get a nice severance, and assistance to find a new job and…it was at about that point where the buzz started in my inner ear.  Her voice sounded like the adults voices in The Peanuts…wohn wohn wohn…  The buzzing was soft at first, slowly getting louder and louder as she spoke.  My mouth had fallen open initially at one point, staying that way, possibly giving the impression of a grade A idiot.  Initially whereas I stared at her with eyes large with shock, later those same eyes must have strayed, unable to look at her any longer, focusing instead on the bottom of the desk.  There was a piece of dark lint against the lightness of the carpet very close to the trashcan.  I don’t know why I stared at that or even remember it so very clearly.  It’s funny the small details we take as mental snapshots yet are completely befuddled by what was being said or the more important words thrown at you.

I heard everything though, somehow maybe they sunk in because they were ‘important’ yet still I had so much trouble really focusing.  Questions zipped about in my cranium, what to do next, who to tell, how would I handle this, how would I say goodbye...and she must have been clued into this because she kept asking me if I was okay.  She handed me a tissue box.  I didn’t know I had started to cry.  Or at least that tears were slipping down my cheek.  My Director, who was also sitting there silently avoiding all eye contact, suddenly leapt up, mumbled a ‘good luck’ and left.  Nothing more.  This was the man who I had been so close to, who had mentored me and I had consulted and even advised when he asked.  He said nothing.  Ties broken.

After the door closed behind him, the HR person asked softly, “you really had no idea this was coming?”

Lifting my head up to look at her was so hard….so very hard.  How I did it, I have yet to recall but I managed to connect with her and say in the softest voice ever, “not at all”, choking back a broken sob.  I was humiliated.  Not tears.  Not in front of this person.  Not in the face of no reason for this abrupt parting of ways.  Not without any answers, which I knew I wouldn’t get.  That fact was in her banal words of ‘economic decisions’ and a ‘bad year’.  The tears may have been the reason for the flash of something in her eyes, maybe heartburn/indigestion, who knows, before it disappeared swiftly.  I was glad.  I didn’t need compassion from the very person who had suddenly made me homeless.   I wanted to scream, shout, throw things, even threaten, but my professionalism held me back.  The tears had really been bad enough.  So instead I took a very shaky breath, squared (no, really I did, snapshot) my shoulders and told my frantic mind to shut up.  After all, now I had plenty of time to freak out at my own leisure.

Soon I was handed a packet, told to look through it, sign the right forms and to return it as soon as possible.  Then I knew what was next:  The walk to collect my belongings with my own personal escort. 

It was a surreal experience to be treated like a criminal, one that had been tried and convicted without any form of defense.  The halls of the office were eerily quiet, everyone having been sequestered into one office while the deed was done.  I had no chance to say goodbye, to hug those who had been my partners in crime, to even act like I was brave or that everything was okay.  I was robbed.

The rest of that day was a blank.  But I remember the tears.  If truth be told, the last few months have been blank as well, yet I assure you the tears have also dried up, much like the words.  It’s sad that I don’t know what I do daily anymore.  I send out resumes, a lot of them, I am always interviewing here and there, I get my hopes high and then they crash like water breaking on the surf.  I have spent hours and hours taking courses to brush up, supplement, educate, hoping that someone would take me in and give me a new home.  I ponder and muse, I accuse myself, I talk to God, although that was something I did much more in the beginning, not-so-much now.  So many have reached out from the company to talk, reassure, calm, assure some more.  I’ve heard all sorts of things that range from “what the hell happened” to “you were the best project manager here” but not surprisingly I remained a quiet mess.  The doubt piled/piles.  If I were so damn good, then why was I laid off?  The questions…oh my but the questions were/is nonstop.

I didn’t give any of this away, I am proud to say, other than to a select few.  And what I mean by that is talk about this new found status of my life.  Even to them though I revealed my initial shock, confusion, anger…then that too stopped.  I couldn’t stand to hear my own voice.  Have you ever had that happen?  When your own voice grates and irritates you to the point that you want to hear it stop?   Yea, well it’s not pleasant.  I found my mute.  When friends would ask, my standard response was “let’s talk about something better…”.  I meant it to some degree and to another I wanted to scream out that I wasn’t okay and that this sucked.  That I was no longer a viable member of society.  I was, in reality, completely useless.

And that’s still how I feel.  Sometimes the deep sense of not belonging haunts me.  I’ve spent a lot of time alone and I mean a lot.  If I said it healed me then I would be lying blatantly.  Time alone is a mixed blessing.  No matter the need to be with people is overshadowed by the fact that I want the quiet so that I can continue to belittle myself.  I mean why not admit this?  After all that’s precisely what’s happening.

A lot of you reading this last sentence are probably flinching, feeling bad for me, thinking that someone should tell me not to do this to myself, dare I say pity?  Truth be told, it’s okay.  I am self-aware enough that I can intellectualize that what was done to me, was a business decision.  I have little pride in my abilities for the most part but when it comes to work ethics and a job well done, well I am good at what I do.  Period.  No one is going to take that away from me, that’s for damn sure.  I also can comprehend that what I’m going through is not unique and that eventually things will turn around.  I know that forever I will not feel this way and that I will find a job, indeed soon enough I shall be bitching nonstop about the crazy work hours I must suffer through.  For now though, I need to do this.  I need to hit bottom with nowhere else to go because at that point, I’ll have no other choice but to start to rise again somehow.  Okay, that was mighty lyrical of me, right?

All I can tell you guys at this point is, don’t feel bad for me.  I’ve shared all because there maybe someone who is going through a similar situation and feels this terrible sort of solitude and worthlessness.  To them, I suppose this entry is to help understand that we all eventually face struggles that bring us to our knees.  I am not ‘glass half full’ enough to say that life is still beautiful and you should count your blessings and blah blah blah…I mean those are things that you should be doing even when everything is going your way.  I’m not here to be your therapist, after all unless you want to wire me some duckets and then heck, I’ll tell you whatever you would like to be told!  What I will advise, however, is that you realize that nothing is status quo.  Things eventually will change and you will look back upon the time of your greatest struggles in astonishment and wonder how you got through it. 

As for me?  I’m freakin’ lookin’ forward to that moment.

Yea, that’s what’s happening in my world.   The silence is broken, the secret is out, my behavior, who has detected a slight change, answered.  Sorry for the suspense.  I’ve long since realized that I’m the sort of person who needs to deal with what’s going on with my life, really digest it, before talking at any length regarding it or handling my feelings.  This blog doesn’t mean though that I’m past this particular low.  Nope, I’m still walking around with a dark cloud over my head specifically.  If I laugh, then I thank God for that moment because it is indeed rare.

Hopefully this is a breakthrough for me, posting this blog.  I can’t make promises but working at the laptop and getting out these thoughts have been cathartic.  I am recalling why I did this before and why I may just do it again.

For now, good people, I wish you adieu.