Trust. And A Promise.

    Trust. Promises. Promises made and broken. By me, to me. I have not lost my ability to trust whole heartedly, but I have learned to guard myself. This is why I have made the promise to myself, that in eight weeks (oh my god, only eight weeks?!!!) that I will begin, and complete my first half-Ironman. It is a promise made that I know will not be broken, unless by some unforeseeable cataclysmic act of fate. I will not break this promise, I have made the vow to myself. So I devote much of my energies towards being ready. Not only will I complete 70.3 miles under my own power, but I am hoping to do it well. I know I am unlikely to place, even in my age category. That is not the point. This is not a competition with anyone but myself. I am pushing myself far beyond what I ever thought I might be capable of. I do wish I could have started this journey 10 or 15 years ago, but I will not waste energy on could haves and should haves. Instead I am focused, pushing forward, making changes within myself that will last me throughout my life. I have chosen to change my life, and myself. I refuse to let myself stagnate, to let fate toss me about willy-nilly, to feel trapped. Instead I am reveling in the freedoms that I have pursued, found, created. Whether it is swimming alone in an emerald green lake, cycling through rolling farmlands alone, or as a solitary runner finding trails and the splendor of the woods. I relish and treasure my freedom, the kiss of cool waters, the delicate touch of the wind, the glory of my body. I have made a vow to Self, a promise that I will not break, a pact with my Spirit. I trust myself completely.

My Son

    Anyone who knows me knows how much I love my sons. They are my moon and stars, I would readily give my life for them. I don't need to tell them this, they know it deep in their hearts. Tonight my older son and his family hit the road for South Carolina. Just about as far away as they can get and still be within the continental U.S. of A. Not just for a vacation, but a permanent move. To say I am saddened by this is akin to saying that The Titanic was a bit of a bummer. When I said my goodbyes tonight and saw them on their way, I cried. I cried all the way home, until my nose was swollen shut and my eyes were puffy and burning. I will miss my child. The strong, quiet, intelligent man who I can still clearly see as the impish child he was. As much as I hate seeing them leave, I totally understand it. I get it. I know why he must go. So as much as I wanted to plead, cry, pound my fists on his broad chest, beg him to stay, I did not. I let him go, to take on this great adventure that is ahead of him. I held my tongue, knowing that what he has chosen to do is right for him, even if it is horribly rough for me. This is the hardest thing I think I have faced as a mother, letting him go out into the world and be his own man. I trust him, trust his judgement, and trust his upbringing. But g'damn, I am going to miss him. A little voice, one of my demons no doubt, makes me fear that I will never see him again. I know this is not true, just a mother's fears bubbling to the surface. Rationally, I know I am being silly. But rationality has little or nothing to do with a mother's love. I will miss my baby boy, I will miss the amazing man he has grown up to be. I don't know if he even knows just how much I will miss him, but I know he should go. He will face the world, make a place in it for him and his. That is what children do. And I cry, because that is what mothers do.

Return To Center

    One distinct advantage of being the Whirlwind is the ability to fly from one end of the spectrum to the other, and quickly return to center. I rant and rage, weep, dissolve, wrap myself around my hurt and let it mature to fruition. I analyze, pick apart, dissect, flay. I debride the wound, no matter how painful, peeling away the unhealthy layers, the scorched flesh, necrotic tissue, until I am left with a clean, though raw, gaping hole. Much as a snake sheds its skin, revealing supple, shiny scales, bigger and healthier than before. It is how I cope. How I heal. Today I feel supple, shiny, healthy, revitalized, pure. A return to center. A return to myself.

Fearless

    "You lead with your heart, strong and true, loyal to a fault." These words, spoken to me by a dear friend during a rocky patch in my past that is all too similar to my current state of mind. I do lead with my heart. I wear my heart on my sleeve. It is open, inviting, and easily bruised by careless handling. My heart does not know how the game is played, it does not understand the rules. Are there rules? Isn't trust, honesty, kindness, openness, and love enough? No. It is not. So my heart, playing fair, thinking the game is going well, is easily blindsided by the realities of a game without rules, where it seems everyone is out for themselves. My heart and I do not understand. I am beginning to think that my heart is not meant to play this game, not meant for careless hands, not meant to be shared with mortal man. I do not want to become jaded and bitter, I do not want to feel like I must hold back out of fear. In truth, my heart is fearless, it is my brain that must put on the brakes, throw up shields, protect and defend. Heart feels no fear. I do lead with my heart, and it is strong and true, it deserves to be appreciated for what it is. My heart is strong, and will find other, deserving, avenues. Heart is fearless, even when damaged, it is fearless.

Chemical Makeup

    Oh Optimism, you refuse to leave my side even when I would gladly chuck you out the door. I should have known that you, of all creatures, would not abandon me in my time of need. Despite broken heart, damaged trust, crushed self esteem, life on the financial edge, and wolves at the door, you return with your rose colored glasses. Of course, in my self analytic way, I do wonder if you are actually delusion in optimism's clothing. That would make more sense, at this particular fork in the road. But then, as I have stated often enough before, I am the eternal optimist. When I say that I am not just blowing smoke, it is an ingrained, to the marrow, element of my base formula. I could give it the chemical abbreviation of EO, you would find it in my cells along side of C, Fe, O2, and Ca. An essential, binding element that holds together the very essence of my being. Without EO I would likely shatter into a million shards, and blow away on the wind. It is the part of me that motivates, drives, restores, rejuvenates, heals. The part of me that will not allow me to permanently give in to pressures, defeats, failures, rejections. It prevents lasting bitterness, grief, dismay, disillusionment, defeat. EO picks me up when I am all alone, tends to my needs, tucks me in at night, and protects me from my demons. Even when I rage against it, beat my fists upon it, attempt to dislodge it from my system, even try to wish it away, it remains steadfast and true. Yes, it may just be Delusion in Optimism's clothing, but it is my delusion, to have and to hold, until death do we part.

Alone Again. Naturally.

    Alone again. Naturally. Some things get easier with practice. Other things it just gets easier to pretend everything is okay. One thing I have had more practice than I deserve is learning to be alone. I am good at it. As a matter of fact it is something I excel at. I have developed advanced coping skills to manage depression, weeping, cumulative stress, loneliness, and grief. Hell, I can cook a healthy, delicious meal while crying non-stop. That takes some serious skill and practice. I get up every day, take care of the menagerie, pack a healthy lunchbox, and get myself off to work where  put in a hard eight hour day, every day, maintaining a cheerful demeanor. Again, serious skill. I get off of work, come home, feed the menagerie and delve into an arduous workout, sometimes going until it is perilously close to bedtime. Then I top my day with a ridiculously healthy dinner, and maybe some homework. All the while, just under the surface, lying in wait for the slightest waver in my resolve, is the pain. Failure, rejection, disappointment, the taint of betrayal, death of trust, another battering of my self esteem. It is all there, barely contained within my skin. Oddly, no matter how deep the pain, I still analyze, appraise, dissect, eviscerate, flay, study, reflect. Assess the damage. Stop the hemorrhaging. I cannot help but turn events over and over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of it all. Trying to comprehend how life can diverge so far from where it was a few short weeks ago. Bliss to disarray, contentment to utter confusion, elation to anguish. I do not deserve this turn of events, so oddly familiar to me, a near deja vu, a disjointed feel that I have been forced down this path before. It is different, and yet the same. This feeling of being cast off, left in the ditch, my luggage in my hand as I watch in bewilderment, my ride heading off into the sunset. Leaving me stranded by the side of the road, puzzled, alone, mouth gaping in utter disbelief. How could this happen again? I think, I do, that it really is not me. Not me, but the choices I make? Am I destined to be drawn to those who need me for all the wrong reasons? Is it my desire to heal, repair, fix the damaged? My helpful, giving nature, my kind heart, the spirit that draws orphaned kittens and neglected children into my sphere. Is this what leads me down these paths? A desire to heal the broken? Is that what this is all about? Then maybe it is me. My fault. My own nature that leads me to be left alone again, naturally. Now I will turn my healing powers, my kind heart, my nurturing nature onto myself. I am the one that needs healing, comforting, repair. The damage wrought was deep and devastating, but neither permanent nor fatal. I am stronger than that. I will heal. I understand myself well enough to know that I am fully capable of standing tall and straight, and on my own two feet, alone again, naturally.

Happy Horseshit

    Eternal Optimist. Contrary to popular belief, this is more a curse than a blessing. With me through it all, thick and thin, up and down, crawling through the dark abyss or running across the mountain tops, it is a heavy burden. My optimism. It always keeps hope alive, even when I need to let it die. I cling to things, knowing it will get better, when it won't. I talk myself off the ledge when there is no one else to do it for me, as I talk others off the ledge when I would rather crawl into my shell and weep with sheer misery. Optimism does this to me. It keeps my heart wishing, hoping, dreaming, desiring, where it has no right or reason to do so. Optimism makes the happy horseshit scenarios play through my mind on an endless loop, even when I beg for them to stop. Eternal optimism brings misery and heartache more often than not. Eternal optimism makes it hard for me to turn my back and walk away. It whispers, "Where there is life there is hope." But the reality is that sometimes, often times, optimism leans precariously close to delusion. It lies to the logical, plays to the emotional, misleads the practical. Optimism lies. Not always. But often. My eternal optimism allows me to lie to myself, lead myself on, buoy my spirits, lift myself up just in time for another stumble. I wish I could trade in my eternal optimism for a more healthy realism, but that has never been who I am. I am sure that soon enough, my eternal optimism will convince me, once again, that this time it will work, this time everything will go smoothly, this time I will have the happy ending. Honestly though, I am losing faith. Even the eternal optimist can only handle so much. But ask me again in a few weeks, I'm sure the happy horseshit will be back.