Finding My Words

Last night I sat in a room, surrounded by other damaged people; a support group of sorts.  The moderator posed a question for us to consider.  Where is your healing place? While my comrades seemed to ponder their answers with a twinge of uncertainty, I knew my answer without hesitation.  Writing.  Writing is where I bleed and where I heal.  I have other healing places, such as the beach, rain, trees, creative projects and solitude, but writing is where my real medicine is. 

I think this may be the reason for my long bouts of literary silence.  Sometimes I can’t find words.  Other times, I don’t want to.  I don’t want to spill my soul out.  It’s a mess that I rarely feel I have the time or the fortitude to deal with.  Reliving my thoughts, penning (or typing) them down, means I have to think them.  I have to give them life.  

It’s foolish for me to think they don’t have a life already, regardless of my acknowledgement.  Those wounds exist with or without my permission.  But, what if I can’t contain the emotional deluge that inevitably accompanies their exposure?  If I start; if I unlock those gates, I might just fall to pieces.  Truly.  So, I leave the space.  The void.  The blinking cursor on the empty screen. 

Time passes, and the blankness remains, and I function.  I do the stuff of life.  Kids to school.  Dinner.  Bath-time, diapers, dogs, toilets, mail.  I write my nutrition papers – the ones that pay the bills.  I watch my shows, and laugh, and cry.  But, when you’re a writer, you’re always writing.  It’s there in your head.  ALWAYS. Words float around and bump about, occasionally forming clarity, but usually they tease.  It’s an internal conversation that persists regardless of the stuff.

A good portion of the time, writers are introverts.  We live in our heads.  We relish our solitude, despite a very clear need for social interaction, support, and friendship.  We prefer to present ourselves from a distance; from behind our pens.  Those who know me well, know that I struggle with social interaction, even talking on the phone.  I’d much rather text, email, or write snail-mail.  It’s a quirk, and I’m aware that it alienates me more than I want it to.   It’s a social anxiety, I’m sure.  It just is. 

So, when a writer doesn’t write, the words can become overwhelming.  And that’s when the fear of writing them down becomes real.  And their release, necessary.  Like letting the steam out of a pressure cooker.  In her song, 'Breathe', Anna Nalick has a line that describes this experience well:

“2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song

If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer

Inside of me threatening the life it belongs to”

It is a torturous and honest… and beautiful necessity.  It is medicine.  When I let them out, my words, my closest companions; the pain seeps out with them.  I am suddenly aware of my heart pulsing; my cheeks are wet with tears; my soul exposed.  It is the truth inside of me, and it is rarely pretty; but it is my truth.  And as the pain filters out, the space that remains begins to expand.  And, in that space, I heal.

Facebook and The OTHER Head

I recently asked for input from my nearest and dearest on the subject of circumcision um.. I posted the question on my facebook status... because I'm THAT smart.  I was immediately made aware of the passion behind this issue.  Understandably so; it has been of great concern to me with the impending arrival of my Biscuit and his perfectly intact penis.  


One of my favorite responses came to me in a private message from my very special friend, Pam... seen below with her precious Zion.

Kinda forgot to ask if I could use this photo...

After reading her message on this subject, I had NO choice but to share it with the world.  I did get her permission to quote her.  So please, enjoy Pam's thoughts on Circumcision.  

"Our final decision came after much research and finally on the basis of the fact That the APA (American Pediatric Assoc) said there's no SOLID reason to do it.  Once can come up with reasons that might make circumcision a favorable decision - like 1. Their parts should look like their dad's (where is this rule written I wonder?)  2. It's cleaner...(perhaps, if one isn't taught how to take care of it) or 3. STD's/AIDS (again, if you don't intend to teach him about such things anyway.)

I think a lot of it just comes down to the fact that most men at least used to do it. I don't know that that's true now.  Tradition, basically.

But one good reason for NOT doing it, according to our pediatrician, is that there are, let's just say, more pleasurable sensations for those who DON'T have it done (which may or may not explain my boy's frequent need to gyrate on the floor, regardless of the setting).

That just leaves one with the question of, do I really want to do anything to increase the capacity for my man-child to think with his other head than he might already be prone to?

We decided in his favor.  :)"  

More Tid Bits of Possibly Useless Information

On Sunday I decided to take myself out on the town.  I drove up to Walnut Creek which is only about 25 minutes away but an entirely different atmosphere.


 **When we first moved to the Bay area we lived in Poet's Corner on the boarder of Pleasant Hill and Walnut Creek.  I loved it.  After the first year, I reluctantly agreed to move to a newer townhome in Dublin.  It was nice to live in a more efficient home, but I really miss living among the trees and culture of Walnut Creek.**


Anyway, the town was buzzing, as I expected on a sunny weekend.  Parking was scarce so I had to park on the roof of a parking structure.  I appreciate that WC still offers free parking structures - a rarity these days.  I really didn't mind parking up there because I've been needing exercise.  I'm proud to say I used the stairs both down and back up!  The wheezing and moaning didn't seem to attract too much attention.

I was excited to browse one of my favorite chain stores, Urban Outfitters.  UO and Anthropologie are sister stores which is obvious by their merchandising.  They have done a fabulous job of creating a genre all their own.  I like to linger in both shops just to soak up the atmosphere, although I like the music and scents in Anthropologie a tad more.  


UO is the more economical/youthful of the two.  I like to dig through their sale racks for treasures.  On this visit, I went specifically to check out their home decor.  I love their quilts.  The prices are reasonable, but still too much for me, so I have to wait for clearance.  Of course, I LOVE the duvet covers at Anthropolgie, but they are WAY out of my budget right now, so not even looking...

I did make one awesome purchase.  I found a fun top!  This pregnancy, my wardrobe has required a lot of 'out of the box' thinking.  I have managed to spend a grand total of $13 on maternity clothes thus far (thanks to generous friends, freecycle, and garage sales).  BUT, it felt really good to buy something NEW.  UO is great for maternity finds since they offer a variety of longer-than-average tops and tunics.  And with style! 

I attempted to take a self portrait to show the "belly fit" of my new top, but had trouble capturing it (arm not long enough for obtuse belly).  Of course, I didn't think of taking the pic till after I had washed my face for bed, so... it is what it is.


While still feeling proud of myself for the stair climbing, I chose to go with the healthy thing and make a nutritious dinner of potatoes, pea shoots, green beans and watermelon.  Yes, pea shoots.  I've never cooked with them before but my sister-in-law gave me a big bag of them so I gave it a shot.  Stir-fried them with a bit of salt and YUM!  Outside of the tough to chew element, they have earned a place in my vegetable heart.


So, I washed the dishes, watched an uninspiring TV movie, and made a desperate attempt to ignore the siren call of the salted caramel ice cream in the freezer (with oreo cookie).  FUTILITY, I tell you!!  BUT, I did make it a smaller portion than usual.  I get points for that, right??  


Oh well, it's a new day, new opportunity to resist one of the few sources of joy in my life temptation.

OH!  Before I sign off, I'd love your input.  I'm considering a hair cut.  As I've mentioned, this pregnancy (and possibly a few cheap bottles of hair dye) has done a number on the health of my locks.  They are VERY dry and need a trim.  I haven't wanted to cut my hair, but am thinking I might have to.  SO, I found this pic of a possible style.  I know I'm no Sandra Bullock, but use your imagination.  What do you think?  I'd love any suggestions you have.  Need to take action soon.


Ok, so that's a little bit of nothing for ya.  Have a great day.  Peace Out!

Day Trip

Wednesday was doctor day again. About every six weeks I make the pilgrimage to Chico to meet with my Lyme doctors and evaluate the progress of my treatment.

I tend to drag my feet leading up to D-day, knowing that it will be long and exhausting. It's a three hour drive both ways. But, I like road trips. Always have. Provides an excuse to do nothing

but sit and watch the world go by. So I forced myself out the door and, after a necessary stop by Starbucks for a Venti-sized cup of motivation, I was off.

I listened to loud music on this trip. Had to change stations three times along the way in order to keep the groove going. There was a lot of angry chick music, which I found exhilarating. Even sang along. This is note-worthy because, over the past several years, I have not tolerated the sound of music well. Not just music, ANY noise. I find all of it agitating. It is just one of my many 'Princess and the Pea' idiosyncrasies courtesy of Lyme disease. So my recent ability to find pleasure in rocking out to Pink is a welcome milestone in my treatment.

On my first visit to Chico I discovered the best grilled veggie sandwich EVER at a Bakery called The Upper Crust. It was very upsetting when I stopped by the bakery on my last trip only to find that the grill was closed. Ended up eating a substandard replacement and vowed never to make that mistake again. So, on this trip, I made plans to leave early enough to allow plenty of sandwich time.

The problem with high expectations, of course, is the potential for not meeting them. The bakery was as I remembered it. Glass case full of delectables and a long line of locals. When the sandwich arrived, it was

beautiful, but, at first bite, my heart sank. Disappointment. It wasn't BAD, just not the best EVER like it was before. The bread still melted in my mouth but the peppers were too crunchy. I didn't even finish it.

Maybe certain pleasures are only meant to be experienced once. Sealed in the memory with all of the other spontaneous moments that we treasure and ponder now and again. Not sure if I'll return to The Upper Crust on my next visit. Guess I have six weeks to think about it.

With a bit of extra time on my hands, I decided to tool around downtown Chico. Being a university town, it's littered with trendy vintage shops and used bookstores.

Dreadlocks and bohemian apparel are definitely the mainstream. I love it. Although, I have to smirk at the notion that they actually seem to think they are rebelling against fashion. They ARE the fashion in Chico. They set the standard and all the new-comers clamor to fall in line.

But let's not get distracted by my tangents. The purpose for my day trip was to see the doctor. It's an appointment that could probably be done over the phone but they feel it is important that I sit in their depressing waiting room with all the other damaged mortals and then be transported to a quiet, sterile, cave to be left alone with my thoughts.

It's always unnerving when the silence is broken by the chatting hallway nurses, laughing about their recent outings or exchanging salon information. I usually try to keep myself occupied by reading a magazine or playing Scramble on my phone. This time I thought I would play with i-photography. I titled this pic of myself, "Reflections in A Doctor's Office."

The appointment was typical. Went over my improvements and current complaints. The night sweats have stopped, the sound sensitivity seems to be lessening, and I am much less aware of my foot pain. Doctor was encouraged and decided to add a new med to my list. This one is a hard-hitter and will probably knock me on my ass for a while but I only have to take it for 30 days. Doctor was a little concerned about the new growth pattern of my fingernails. They are turning up, away from the nail bed. He also thought my skin looked a little off. So, I'll be donating more blood this week just to make sure my thyroid is in check, etc.

With new scripts in hand, I was done and ready for the journey home. I had a pounding headache and was keenly aware that my Venti motivator from the morning had not done an adequate job, so I really felt a carmel frappuccino was necessary. Along with several Advil.

I took it slow on my drive home. I loved all the trees, farms, orchards, and hand-written signs advertising produce and flowers for sale.

On my way in, I had passed a cemetery along the 99. I didn't want to miss it on my way out. It wasn't a sad place. It was peaceful. It touched me. I don't want to be buried when I die, but there is something very comforting about a cemetery for those left behind. It's a place to visit. To feel like somehow you can still connect with that person that used to fill a tangible space in your life.

It was a long, exhausting, GOOD day...

Just for me.

In the Clouds...

This is my perch. One of them anyway.

I love to open up the windows, feel the breeze, and listen to the outside.

Cars swooshing by, kids squealing, dogs from the near-by dog park reminding me that I still have to fit that outing into my day...

This is what surrounds me when I'm perched. It's a comforting space.  So comforting that I sometimes find the hours of the day escaping me without my awareness. This is, of course, when kids are at school and dogs are asleep, leaving me without the necessary external cues to go and do.

While I find the practice of "being" to be healthy, I'm told that regular physical activity is vital as well. I am also aware that a fit and healthy body has a better chance of fighting off the bad bugs like Lyme.

I felt optimistic, when we chose to move into a home with six flights of stairs, that I would be kicked into shape by merely performing the day-to-day necessities of life. Let me tell you, it's quite a feat to unload a van-full of Costco groceries into our third floor kitchen!

However, my scale and mirrors have assured me that this plan of mine is not living up to it's potential. So, I have been forcing myself out of my cozy place and down the stairs to join the sounds outside.

In truth, I have always loved walking/jogging. For a while I was even going on daily bike rides. I'm not talking fitness guru-type stuff, just pleasure riding. I love being out there, alone, quiet, but among everyone and everything else. I like it best when it's overcast and cool. Clouds seem to bring out the colors in all the earthy things. And the smell of rain... It's healing.

I take my iphone with me when I go. I feel an ounce safer with it on my hip. Because, if assaulted, I can... call? hit? stab?... my assailant with it. There's also that nagging paranoia that the one time I leave without my phone will be THE time some unspeakable tragedy takes place and I cannot be reached.

Anyway, the real beauty in wearing my phone on my hip is my ability to capture all the images that I just can't stand leaving behind.

Ya, there's an app for that...

Tick Talk...

I attended a boarding academy for high school. The campus was located down the coast from Santa Cruz and was amazing. We were nestled between a serene private beach and a lush wooded area. We had a dairy (complete with aroma) along with strawberry and kiwi fields.

As you might imagine, the potential for teenage escapades was huge! My memories are full. Sliding down the ice-plant bluffs on cardboard remnants, beach fires, romps through the woods to secret forts... I fondly remember hiding in the brush on Zill's (Zell's?) road with my best friend, waiting for our ride for some off-campus play. Some of my most treasured memories are of my close-knit group of friends (we called ourselves the Ferts - long explanation). We loved climbing out Dawn and Allysa's window at night and ferting around the campus. We inevitably ended the night, or morning, with a "Bitch Fire", our description for our girls only beach fires.

Early in my senior year I was hit with the most unholy of head pains. I sincerely thought I had a brain tumor or an aneurysm of some sort. I remember sitting in the nurses office, begging for relief. The headaches continued throughout the year and joined forces with extreme fatigue, episodes of blacking out, and anorexia. The nurse took me to the local doctor who just figured I had migraines and sent me home with a prescription for Cafergot.

The headaches, and prescriptions, continued to plague me over the years along with other mystery ailments. I even had surgery in 1995 in an attempt to find relief. None was found. Doctors labeled them as Severe Episodic Cluster Headaches with a Migraine element. Many doctors were seen and tests run. TOO MANY. They said I had some sort of idiopathic dysautonomia. It means my autonomic nervous system isn't working properly and they don't know why. They offered me little that helped, but I eventually discovered that antibiotics seem to keep the headaches at bay.

Over the past few years, my dear friend, Leanne, has been encouraging me to go see a doctor in Chico who, she thought, could help me. I've been to many doctors over the years and have developed a deep cynicism in regard to the practice of medicine. I was attempting to manage my mystery illness on my own, but in the midst of another flair of symptoms, I contacted Leanne for that doctor's number.

After some long phone interviews, I made the trip out to Chico and donated some more vials of blood. The consensus? Lyme Disease. Apparently, Lyme Disease is endemic in Santa Cruz County. It would seem that, at some point during my campus rompings, I picked up a small tick. A tiny little speck of evil which proceeded to steal huge portions of my youth away from me.

I remember a classmate of ours giving a presentation to the school about the dangers of Lyme Disease and it's presence in our own beloved woods, and yet, it never occurred to me or any of my doctors over the years.

So now, I'm attempting to kill the beast. Many shifting antibiotics and other meds are at play. They, and the Lyme, make my life... well... entropy. Doctor wants me to go on IV antibiotics. He says it may be the only thing that will do the job since I have many neurological manifestations of the disease (after 20 years of hosting it's party). Of course, insurance doesn't want to cover it because, turns out, Lyme and it's treatment are highly debated issues in the medical and insurance communities. Great.

Frankly, I have my doubts that I'll ever get better with these treatments. I've had this for so long and have tried so many remedies... just don't know anymore. All I know is, I'm 36. I'm too young to be this old. So, I'll take the magic potions and hope...

Was it worth it? All the misadventures which seem to have paid off in 20 years of ouch? I don't know. I guess I'm still glad I didn't behave. I figure, I could have just as easily picked that tick up on a nature walk.