Oblivion

She suffers from anxiety, like many of my favorite people.  She said to me, "I heard that someone had died, and my first thought was, 'Lucky them.'"  She insisted that she had no desire to off herself.  I believed her.

I believed her because I immediately recognized that feeling -- the sweet Siren's call of oblivion.

Probably the same day I saw her, I was walking down the street considering how easy it would be to just . . . not be.  How comfortable to just fall into oblivion.  I pictured a placeless place, through a black hole and a universe away from everything.

Let me assure you, I have no wish to go and seek oblivion.  There are moments, I think, when all that is unsettled in my world speaks with its many-headed voice and gestures with too many hands to count, and the only way I can find a space to breathe is to consider the possibility of Nothing.  Nowhere.

To imagine that emptiness is to clear out just enough room to breathe again.  And to breathe is to take in life itself.  And life trumps oblivion. Every time.

While I was travelling, I heard and thought much about the Buddhist concept of dukkha. (Most simply translated as "suffering.")  Our lives are unsatisfactory at times, this is the nature of existence.  Without dukkha, there can be no happiness, joy or contentment.  Contrast brings focus.  Touching the idea of oblivion illuminates the hunger to live.

So as I continued my walk, thinking of oblivion, I breathed into that space and caught the first whiff of thawed ground and the return of spring.

Chaos

I am traveling again.  Much further afield than I ever have before, and I will be gone for longer.  This trip is happening in two parts. The first part is all about exploring my profession, and the second part is about my enduring hobby-that-is-essential: bellydance.  I have barely arrived here in part one of my trip, when I am longing to be at part two.

I have the unique opportunity to spend a couple of weeks learning from a great teacher.  Today was our first day at his school.  I felt unsettled for the better part of the day.  Jet lag.  Lack of sleep.  Too much time in a group.  All of these were true, but the truth came to me at the end of the day.  I think I'm done with my profession.  I love it.  I will always love it.  The thought of leaving it to do something else breaks my heart into a thousand pieces.  But this work does not bring me joy in the same way that it used to or in the way that I need it to.

So I sat in the back of a crowded public transport truck in this foreign country, stuck in traffic for some festival or other, and I sat with the idea of changing professions, to see if it is right for me.  And I realized that I'll never know if it's right for me.  I have to make a decision and prepare to be wrong.

And it occurred to me that this must be how the Ex felt when he finally made the decision to end our marriage.  He loved me.  The thought of leaving me to go and be with someone else broke his heart into a thousand pieces.  But I did not bring him joy in the same way that I used, or the way that he needed me to.

Ah, empathy.

The question now is, am I willing to work on saving my commitment to this profession more than the Ex was willing to work on saving his commitment to me?

And resentment.

Travel is exhausting.

I Don't Want Your Sympathy, Except When I Do.

Recently, my final living grandparent died.  She was 93 years old, and having lived a long, difficult, but loving and good life, she died in her home, just how she wanted.  She had a heart attack walking into her kitchen and was gone before her body hit the floor.

When I heard that she died, I was just returning from a weekend away with Most Recent Man, and I was consumed with accepting just the right level of comfort without revealing too much emotion.  (Most Recent Man is now Most Previous Man, but more on that another day.)  Later that evening it hit me -- I should tell the Ex.

My grandmother loved the Ex.  Loved.  Him.  The Ex shared the same first name as her father, and she would often comment on their similar, gentle, quiet natures.  I swear she thought The Ex was her beloved father reborn.  For his part, the Ex treated her with gentility, kindness, and the patience that only a non-blood relative can bestow on someone as they age and grow more pessimistic.

I hadn't communicated with the Ex for months.  Our business was done, and I had reached the decision that I didn't want to be his friend, so there was no need.  The night I got the news, I sat cross-legged on my sofa, perfectly still, for a very long time trying to untangle my true motivation for the urge to contact him.  At the end of it all, when all the strands were combed and gleaming, I decided it would cause me more anxiety to keep it from him than it would to tell him.  I sent him the shortest possible text message, including my father's address in case he or his parents wanted to send a sympathy card.  Almost immediately he sent the shortest possible text message back, kindly expressing his sympathy and thanking me for telling him.  Done.  I thought.

Last night, after several days with too little sleep and too many people demanding my attention, I got home late and opened my mailbox.  Inside were two cards with the Ex's last name in the return address.  Sympathy cards, one from him and one from his parents.  The kindest of small gestures, but in that moment of feeling bombed out and beyond rebuilding, I only had anger for a reaction.  I stretched my hand towards the garbage, intending to throw them in without looking. I stopped just before dropping them in, and clutched them against my abdomen as I went up to my apartment.  They reopened the wound by showing some kind of caring.  I would use their unsought messages to stop my own bleeding.

Once inside my door, I opened the card from his parents first.  I couldn't read the whole thing through my still-angry eyes.  I only caught the last sentence -- "We miss you very much" -- and, seeing black, I threw the card away.  The card from the Ex was lovely, expensive -- one of those super-fancy, classy, non-religious, arty cards.  He had written a short message, and still seeing black, I could only make out the word "hilarious" before I also threw it into the garbage.

Today I am a little ashamed of myself, but I still took all the trash to the compactor without attempting to read their full messages.  I am deciding whether I need to send a thank you note to them.  I think Emily Post would want me to, or is it that I want to?  That the cleanness of the break is an illusion?  I am still clear that I don't want to be his friend, but, goddammit, even after all this time, I want to be missed.  Shit, let's be honest:  I want to get to reject him a little bit.

Now, after a few clean hours where no one wanted my attention for their aches, or their learning, or their anxiety, I am finding the compassionate home for this childish emotion of mine.  Poor little neglected-feeling child, I thought I had soothed you enough, but clearly you needed another minute.  Now the child in me is calmer, and I feel I can acknowledge the grace of the gesture.  I have the thank you notes all written in my head:

Thank you for your remembrances.  Your kind thoughts are appreciated.


Fini.

Heart 8

I had acupuncture yesterday.  The diagnosis was Liver Chi deficiency.  Based on the acupuncturist's guess at my physical symptoms, that was an accurate finding.  During the consultation, the fact of the recent divorce came out. (Question: "How do you feel about the weight you are at right now?" Answer: convuluted expression of overall discomfort ending with revelation that I have lost a lot of weight very rapidly due to emotional stress.)

Before I got on the table, the acupuncturist pointed to a spot on her palm, just below her pinkie finger.  "This is Heart 8," she said, "Normally, I try to avoid this point, but I think you need it." It didn't occur to me to worry.

Once I was on the table, she put needles in several points on my ears, scalp, feet and ankles.  I felt a mildly unpleasant electric warmth when she needled my third eye point, and thought that would be the most intense.  Finally, she went to Heart 8.

When she inserted the needle, I cried out.  The pain was exquisite, both mild and unbearable.  Immediately, without any control, I started to weep.  Even thinking about it now, I'm starting to tear up.  It was as if the needle went not to a point on the heart meridian, but directly into my physical and emotional heart.  As loud, wracking sobs gradually calmed to silent tears, the sharp pain calmed to a dull ache.  Eventually, I was able to focus on the flow of energy from head to feet, as she had directed me before leaving the room.

I thought I was strong.  I thought I was well.  Mostly, though, I thought I was healed enough that nothing would break open again.  Today, there is still a small bruise on my palm, right over Heart 8.  It reminds me that I am starting to take care of myself, just myself.  It reminds me that strong and stoic are not the same thing.

Ginger Problems

Laugh and the whole world laughs with you.  Cry and the cat gets scared and bites.

Or something like that.

So, the event went about how I expected.  It was beautiful and uplifting and I walked around the whole time feeling like I had a knife stuck in my chest.  I stayed just long enough for the Introduction of the Practitioners, then I sneaked out into the rainy night while the strains of "I Will Survive" drifted out the open door.

I am not kidding.  The ultimate woman power anthem was playing in the background while I walked to my car, sobbing into my hands.  Great, gulping, gasping sobs.  Did you think I'd lay down and die? Oh no, not I.

When I made it home, I knew I was going to eat my feelings.  I needed to stop into the store down the block and get something to eat.  I checked the mirror before I left the car, and came on another disadvantage of a fair complexion. -- the way crying reddens the face for a very long time.  Well, into the night with my red-face ginger problems.  Sugars and trans fats trump all.