The Little Black And White Dog escaped yesterday. It was my fault: while trying to fix the front door security code; I let him out, thinking he’d stay in the front yard, not help himself to a jaunt around the reservoir ponds in the neighborhood. Luckily, I had thought to jam the house keys into my jeans pocket so I wouldn’t lock myself out while fixing the door lock. However, as I shuffled after The Little Black Shit, I didn’t think of my phone which remained on the kitchen counter, or proper shoes, as I stumbled along, trying to run in my flippity-floppy Korean-style house shoes. After 100m or so of the chase, I kicked them off, abandoning them on the sidewalk so I could run without falling. They waited patiently, as though they held the small feet of a ghost, standing invisibly in the sun. Going barefoot was the ultimate regrettable judgement call, as the chase turned into a game for The Goddamned Dog. Each time I came within a few meters of him, he’d jump up from sniffing and shoo off. By the time we had passed several of the ponds, my feet were beginning to feel meaty-raw, purple-bruised, and bloodily slashed. I’m not used to going barefoot, and the adrenaline from fear and anger was working hard to cover the pain. Being midday, temperatures in the Mile-high City of Denver had begun their climb above the 90-degree mark; the sun in the cloudless sky was cooking me through jeans and t-shirt.
Not having my phone made things worse, as I got lost in the cul-de-sacs and curves and cut-throughs of the community that surrounded these pseudo-ponds. After a couple miles of circling, returning, running, limping, walking, while continually hollering out The Little Shit’s name, I was near tears from fear visualizing the dog getting hit by a car or permanently lost. After all of my dog-sitting experience — most recently, nearly two years of full-time animal caretaking — I have never lost an animal! And really, it wasn’t The Little Black and White Shit’s fault; it was mine. It was my fault for letting him out in the front yard. It was my fault for giving chase when dogs usually think they are playing a game when a human gives chase. When my feet had passed the point of feeling raw and I could feel my heel bone and metatarsals pounding into the pavement as though my feet lacked any skin on their soles, I began the circular journey back toward the house, limping back to get the car and continue The Search for The Damn Running Mofo Who Won’t Come When Called. The curly-haired terrier dog had run toward a park about a mile from the house; I knew I was getting close to the point where I could no longer walk at all. It had been at least half-an-hour or more of pavement and asphalt assaulting my poor feet — hot, midday cement, at that. Having already asked people for directions back to the house — a few folks were out in their yards, and either perversely inquisitive about my yelling or sincerely attempting to help — I had to flag down a guy driving by and ask for directions on how to get back to the house. I was so desperate, I almost jumped in front of his car to get him to stop. After an additional 20 minutes of limping and hollering That Goddamn-Black-Dog Little Shit’s name all the while, the Damned Dog finally appeared at my heels, although still running away if I tried to catch him. I finally lured him close enough and nabbed the Little Fucker. Bloodily barefoot, overheated, dehydrated, and traumatized, I trudged home, carrying the 20-plus pounds of the finally acquiescing Little Black Fucking Fur-ball, all the while enjoying a violent vision inside my head of beating the shit out of him; enjoying that fantasy for as long as I could, because I certainly would not act on it. I did, however, get some satisfaction while quietly cussing him out for the entire limping walk home. The language in this vignette is nothing in comparison! The rest of the day I spent lying on the couch, feeling traumatized about nearly losing someone else’s dog and having to give chase for an hour; in pain and barely able to walk when I got up. Over the course of the day, I watched blisters grow to an obscene size on the soles of my heel, from toes to heels. On both heels, I’ve got blisters that cover 3/4 of the heel. Blisters that cover the entire area of the bottom of my toes bubbled up, some filled with blood. And the soles of my feet are so swollen it looks like I’ve had a pedicure because the skin is so soft and smoothed out from the swelling. Needless to say, I won’t be going for hikes any time soon, and the Damned Dog sure as hell isn’t getting walked for several days. He spent the remainder of the afternoon in his kennel, safe from my rage and pain. The errands I needed to run, I postponed to the following day, but as of today (the following morning), it is still difficult to walk. I have to decide whether to pop and drain the blisters or leave them alone. I’ll spend most of the day with my feet propped up again; maybe soak my feet in salt water or a concoction of apple cider vinegar, and take some pain medicine. I have more Visa Shit to do that requires meeting a notary and visiting the post office. The stress of meeting so many repeated obstacles while trying to get all the required documents together for my Chinese work visa has been taking a toll. I recognize these injuries are the way my mind and body are telling me I have crossed the limit of my stress threshold and am over-reacting to these repeatedly stressful situations. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have re-injured my lumbar disc a few weeks back nor gotten myself into the Dog Chase situation. With almost every action to obtain the visa, there has been a setback or roadblock. This process has been a struggle the entire way, and I feel like I’m beating my head against a closed door, which is counterintuitive to how I intend to live my life. I believe I am encountering too many closed doors on this path back to China… too many for my comfort-level... so many that the situation is sending up Major Red Flag Warnings; that is, my Intuition Warning System is on High Alert. I know better than to ignore these. But for now, I’m in a holding pattern: doing what needs to be done to apply for the work visa, but remaining cautious about how events are proceeding. If the Red Flags continue to light up in a Screaming Display, moving from Level 5 upward toward DEFCON Level 1, and I keep having this niggling sensation in my gut, I’ll heed the warning and back off, choosing another school in another country. I still love the school and feel a deep sense that it is an excellent match for me, but is this all worth it? The communication problems with the school’s HR department (lack of clarity, lack of thoroughness, and outright contradictions in instructions) give me the opposite sense. I will keep my options open. If everything I owned that is important to me was not stored in China, would I be so eager to return? For now, I’ve decided it is time to go pop some blisters and bandage up my poor feet. I forgave The Little Black Dog; he’s very sweet and well-behaved despite the lack of training by the owner. Maybe I need to be kind to myself and forgive myself for the mistake I made in letting him escape, too. In general, that’s the answer to all My Life Trials: be kinder to myself. Be mindful. Be self-compassionate. Allow what comes. But that’s Another Topic for Another Day.
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That's ref-yoos, as in "garbage", not ri-fyooz, as in "deny".
I arrived in China with just enough trauma and emotional baggage to make it impossible for me to deal with more; although I had built up some emotional resilience and was excited at the prospect of new job, new city, new country, new possibilites, I wasn't ready physically, emotionally, or mentally to deal with the Thor's Hammer of challenges that would soon come smashing toward me. At the cusp of a healing shift as I departed the U.S., I had been steadily tramping forward out of darkness and into light; however, repeated respiratory illnesses due to the poisonous, polluted air ... continuous stress in a toxic, miserable work environment ... injury in the form of a broken arm, all became a repetitive sledgehammer blow against my re-born spiritual and emotional defenses. I was, effectively, being beaten down, down, down, to the point at which I currently slump and cower: I am disempowered physically, mentally, and emotionally. Now I deal with this legacy of refuse in my body and soul, incapacitated for so many months, unable to stand in my former heralded strength to pull myself out of the muck that was sucking me toward the inert: the darkness and fear that bound me immobile. Although standing in recognition of the actions I needed to take, I was unable to perfom them; instead of healing, I suffered worsening of symptoms to the point that my body is this broken Thing I do not recognize and actually refuse to acknowledge. What I thought was recurring pain from torn rib cartilage was symptomatic of something much worse awaiting me these past few months. Realization crawled slowly out of the dark alley of stagnation and loss of will my body and mind had become; I began to see that the pain signified an emerging and acute problem that manifested terrifyingly fast these past few months. As the physical pain and lethargy worsened, fear joined immobility in my heart and mind to act out the Fight-or-Flight response using my body as their stage -- I became this Frozen Thing sitting on my couch, sinking deeper into fear and darkness. What is happening to me and my body?!?! Too terrified to move out of the blinding light, oncoming with the speed of a Chinese bullet train, I froze in the headlights, and like the deer, was rammed and impaled by this physical tragedy. Yet, I have survived the metamorphasis from healthy athlete to physical wreck ... unfortunately??? So many forces have crashed down on me and into my life, leaving me pinned and unable to react or escape. Now, my symptoms can no longer be ignored as I stand on the cusp of a new beginning, one where I must -- I must -- act and reclaim my health. For I am not an infirm person and I refuse to live in an incapacitated, unhealthy state! I am miserable! I have regained some of my Light and Power, knowing that I am soon to escape the torturous hell that is this job. I realize I should have never let it go on this long: I should have quit the toxic workplace 6 months ago, accepting that things were never going to improve. In retrospect, I should have cut my losses and said "Fuck You!" and dealt with the consequences while standing on a platform of power, rather than reacting from fear and weakness and the frozen state where I cowered. This job has disempowered me in so many ways: professionally, mentally, creatively, emotionally... resulting in physical illness and emotional fallout. And I let it, without realizing how far it was dragging me down. With so much to bear, I didn't even have the energy to quit. I knew I was falling deeper and deeper into a morass but could not summon the strength to use my battle-proved tools to extricate myself, pull myself up out of the refuse, shake off the negativity, or protect myself from the black toxins that fill the both the atmosphere of the school and this city. But finally, I am leaving! It is not too late! Although my diaphragm is adhesed and my rib cage imprisons my lungs between steel bars, athough my lower ribs are filled with chronic pain and I feel the compression of organs and the compression of fear, although I am sick to my stomach several times daily with gastrointestinal distress, although I frequently awaken with headaches or experience a sudden spike of pain in my temple for no reason, although my good habits of diet and exercise have fallen to nothing, although this is the worse health crisis-- the only health crisis-- I have ever experienced, although this is the first time in my life to experience serious health problems to the point where I wonder if my life will continue even into the next year ... despite all of this, I know that shortly I will be climbing back up out of this dark legacy refuse strewn through my body and back into the light of health and well-being. Quite literally, in 9 days I will be boarding a plane and escaping from this grey, polluted city to climb mountains, to climb toward a new career in writing, and to climb my way back to health and emotional well-being. In 8 days, on July 22, I will arrive to Hong Kong to spend 5 days hiking the mountains of Hong Kong Island while awaiting approval of my Chinese Tourist Visa application. The following Saturday, I have reserved a seat on the high speed train BusinessClassBeeyotch! to Kunming, in Yunnan Province. A few days of exploring and then I will continue west to my planned basecamp of Dali to prepare for my trek north. I will be in clean air and away from the toxic noise, light, and energetic pollution that is Chengdu. My healing will begin in earnest next Friday, which will be my first day of freedom from the hell that is the school at which I have been employed for 15 horrible months (actually, only these past 12 months of school year sucked because of a horrible, bullying, non-collaborative co-teacher) ! I can't wait to be in the mountains and surrounded by greenery and the noise of nature and small towns!! It’s been exactly three weeks since I arrived in Chengdu. Feels longer—but in a good way, not bad at all. When I think of all I have learned, all I can now accomplish on my own, and how much I have acclimated, it feels much longer. I was thinking about all that last night and felt surprised when I looked at the calendar to realize I had just finished my third weekend. I was even more surprised when my sister texted me that my Dad had died a few hours previously. That was around 3pm yesterday, Sunday in Chengdu. He died a bit before 11pm CST Texas time, on Saturday. (Click “read more”)
I’m crying a lot, but don’t yet know why. “Your Dad just died, dummy! That ‘s why you’re crying,” you say. But that’s not completely accurate. Prior to my departure, he had deteriorated mentally and physically to the point that I knew he would most likely die while I was in China; but not three weeks after I arrived, to the day. If figured he’d hang on stubbornly, torturing my step-Mom and half-sister for at least another year. Soon enough, you’ll learn the reason for that last comment. I LOVED my Daddy when I was little, he could do no wrong. My parents divorced by the time I was 5, and my mother spent the next 13 years doing her best to get me to hate my Dad as much as she did. She had valid reasons, but after years, all the hate did was poison her and ruin our relationship. For reasons that need their own blog post, my Dad lost custody (he was an every-other-weekend-fun-Dad by the time I was 7 anyway) and I didn’t see him again until I was 18 and had left (literally run away from) the toxic physical and mental abuse I endured within the walls of my Mother’s house. My Mother had kept most of the letters my Dad and his family wrote to me, so I pretty much didn’t hear from him for 11 years, and tried with all my might not to drink in the resentment spewed at me and force-fed to me all those years. But as an adult, I began to see my Father’s failings. Through decades of therapy, emotional healing and maturity, and forgiveness, I have finally come to realize that both my parents did the best with what they knew. They were crappy parents because they had crappy abusive upbringings themselves. They either didn’t have the luxury of therapy, or were too far gone themselves to get therapy, or they had so much blame and denial that they didn’t think they needed therapy, or their life was just too hard for them to dissect and look at clearly. I freely admit that without years of therapy and self-work and self-esteem rebuilding, I would have ended up as miserable and abusive as both of them are—were. One day, yes, I’ll write the autobiography and you’ll be amazed at how far I’ve come and you’ll be surprised that I’m even alive. My life is a miracle. My emotional resilience and ability to love and nurture is a miracle. I thank all the gods for all the work I did to be the opposite of both my parents. And as an adult, I grew to like my Father less and less. He was verbally abusive and critical to his wife, me, my half-sisters... when I really began to see it and receive it myself, it was hard to be around him. Especially the past few years, when I was having so many personal struggles of my own, I certainly did not need criticism and personal rejection—I needed support, love, and nurturance. We all need that from our families, right? I’ve learned to give it to myself and get it from my friends. The upside is that my Dad’s family has always been loving and supportive and kind to me, even though I didn’t—and still don’t—get to see them much. I have to say, I didn’t LIKE my Dad very much, and that dislike grew over the last few years. When I was unemployed for a year in Austin, dead-broke, living with a gf, and really down in the dumps, I got told I was “always so negative”. See what I mean? The strange part was, he would acknowledge his shortcomings but then do nothing about them. He admitted to being mean to Okhee and Tiffany, my step-Mom and half-sister. He admitted to being physically and verbally abusive with all three of his wives, and much more that I wish I didn’t know. But he refused to take steps to change, sometimes stating he didn’t need to change. Aargh. It’s one thing to be effed up; it’s another to be effed up, know it, and refuse to get help or change. That is one personality trait I cannot abide in ANYONE. Be a jerk, but if you KNOW you are a jerk and hurt other people, but refuse to change, you are shit in my mind. (That comment is more directed to a few people with which I have had relationships.) With the comment “I didn’t like my Dad very much” put out there for the world, why then, do I grieve and cry? I cry for the Daddy I had when I was little, who loved me and showed me that love. Who never once hit me in anger or otherwise. I cry for the Daddy that showed me and taught me so many amazing things in life (take apart circuit boards and how to play Chess and pool). I grieve the good memories I have of my Dad and all the adventures he took me on, like walking miles on railroad tracks to find treasures of spikes, spelunking, roller coaster rides, hiking and camping all over Texas, and the good times we had when I was in Austin and we got reacquainted as adults after so many decades. When we first started knowing each other again, I think he was on his best behavior and not showing me his “bad side”. But I saw it clearly when we were all together, him, me, Okhee, and my sisters. I have a lot to be grateful for in regard to my Dad. I inherited many, many, many of his qualities — proof of nature over nurture, since he was not part fully part of my upbringing from age 5 to age 18. I wander the globe, so adventurous; I am highly inquisitive and intelligent; I’ve got Dad’s blonde hair and blue eyes (Mom had blues too, but Irish-red hair); physically, I resemble him ( and my grandma—very much); I am extremely creative; and I love nature. That’s all I’ve got right now. I can find gratitude in the grief. I can sift out fond memories from the pollutants. I hope to find forgiveness in the future. Above all, I grieve that I don’t have a family — not a close family I mean. Both my parents have been —and the ones that still live are—toxic, so I stay away from my Mom and Step-Dad. My Step-Mom has been so beaten down by my Dad that she just became accustomed to the maltreatment; complaining but never doing anything to change it. Ironically, both of my step-parents, while having their own deep co-dependent issues, and not protecting me from the abusive blood-parent, were nicer to me than each of my biological parents. OkHee still is the kindest to me of all my parents. My brother is a ranger and alcoholic, so while I love him and my sister-and-law and my niece, I have to stay away because it is just like watching my upbringing repeat itself. He was raised by my Mom and Step-Dad, so who can blame him for being so effed up. He’s what I was and would be without introspection and evolution. Thank all the gods again that I have grown and changed and become the best version of myself, instead of a hateful, angry, resentful misanthrope. So while I have loving, distant relations of my Father’s, I don’t really have family that is close to me, that is loving, nourishing, and supporting. I don’t have anyone except my friends to call upon when I fall or need help (and let me tell you, that circle is quite tiny, but I am grateful for them). I am not really part of my Dad’s family because we were estranged for too long. I am not my Step-Mother’s child. With my Dad gone, I am an orphan. And that’s what I grieve. I grieve my childhood. I grieve having had a terrible upbringing and having no connection with my parents and being prevented having connection with the family that didscare for me. I feel estranged and alone. It is grossly magnified here in my flat in China: no family and no friends are here except my “new” friends (who are extremely caring and helpful and supportive, but we have not known each other long enough to establish an authentic friendship that will last beyond my time here—although I know this will change with some of them over the course of the next few years). I feel so alone now. It is not a new feeling. Both the feeling and the knowledge pulls out flowing and steady tears. I am grieving for loss. I am grieving for all of my losses. I am grieving for the crater in my heart carved by the loving family I never experienced. Never will experience. I am grieving that I have no loving companion to hold me and offer me comfort while I cry. I am grieving that my only solace is crying on my couch, drinking a glass of wine and eating some choco and numbing myself with a movie or a trip to Ikea to avoid the pain in my chest. I am grieving that I don’t miss my Dad, but that I miss the idea of my Dad and the memory of my Dad when I was 5, 7, 10 years old. Well, I figured out why I am crying now. And now that I have poured all of this pain out, I will go to Ikea. I will sit at a table and have a meal on my own. Maybe sit at a coffee shop. I’ll try not to cry too much when I’m out in public. I’ll look at all the little children I pass, walking with their parents, and I’ll hope to all the gods that those parents are loving and kind to those kids, while ignoring the fact that my hope is futile for some, maybe many. Dad, I hope you have a better life next time. I’ll work on forgiving your shortcomings and remembering the fun times we had together. I’m glad that I closed my last email to you with: “I love you”. I hope you are somewhere at Enchanted Rock, breaking the rules by riding your bike all around the Rock, and enjoying sunny skies, fair winds, and a fast ride. I love you, Daddy. I was there. That day. We stared each other down across the lines. A decade later I wondered where he was, although I could still see the bright green clarity of his eyes. The lucidity of fear. We were the same, and yet we would kill each other in an instant, without an exhale.
Regret comes later. I learned courage there. I learned of death as I watched them burn. Death choked me as I watched others drown in the sea, later-- and far away, covered by NBC. I imagined myself shooting... killing. For patriotism...?...for "my country"...? Yet I still see his eyes, envisage his brown skin, warm. We are the same, but I will kill him without an exhale. Without an exhale. Without an inhale. And I find, these decades later, that I cannot complete that inhale or exhale. It is shortened -- sliced to quarters. Shallow, so shallow, just like my life is now. For everything, now, in the present, is thin and transparent. This present life does not seem to exist; ghostly, people move through each other and through me, I see them through the surface--they are always far away and muddled in their proximity. I remain underwater, looking up through the blurred ripples; cold, untouchable, knowing. That "patriotism" formed a monster of desire in me -- a desire to bleed. I welcomed all enemies, for I would mow them down with my "patriotism". I became both omnipotent and ignorant in my allegiance, as my friends died beside me for The Cause. Those Green Eyes follow me today ... to date... and I sing your song of farewell and youth. Not much later, many miles away in the safety of warm relations, frying bacon, outdated carpet, and brightly-lit Christmas trees, I watched others of our kind burn and drown, a world away. I read of deaths and struggle and justified rebellion in black-and-white print. The pictures were in color, though. I still wonder why the print was set black on a striated-creamy white background of newsprint, while death was splattered in color. I can taste the saltwater of the drowned. The painful winter before, we regaled each other in that plaza with songs and guitar of the Eagles and Scorpions: "Welcome to the Hotel California.. such a lovely place..." and, "Is there really no chance to start once again? I'm still loving you..." In that circle of warm welcome, I learned to embrace other songs, foreign to my tongue. A season later, I watched you all burn. I watched others drown. I became drenched in my own rage and sputtered in helplessness. I still suffocate 3 decades later. Yet I seek out your green eyes. And I thank you for that one bright memory among the Horrors. I awoke with the mind-vision of my truck rolling and rolling along the concrete of I-35.
Rolling as in CRASHING SOMERSAULTING METAL SCREECHING CLANGING GLASS SHATTERING type of rolling. Not the other kind of easy rolling, rock-n-rolling, roly-poly bug rolling. A deep intake of breath brought that vision to further clarity, and from there, I breathed no longer. Here in the "real world", I held my breath as the physical sensations of being crushed by my car crushed my ability to breath. It was too real. In the dream world, I was flung, unseatbelted, up and down, side to side, slashed with the glass and crushed with the metal. I could see the world upside down as vividly as if it were so. Was I in an action movie? It felt as 3-D as one of those horror scenes. Then I realized I did not want to die like this. I do not mind dying, but as my torso was crushed, and thus my capacity to take in air ended, panic set in. I did not want to die a tortuous death of suffocation. Then I awoke fully and sat up. I pushed this grim vision from my mind as best I could, though the apparition visited me throughout the day, against my will. I don't think I'll drive that highway anytime soon. I am wondering during loss.
I am wandering during loss. When you lose someone, are you mourning the lost person or are you mourning your own loss? Do you cry that the person is gone, the relationship is over, that they no longer experience life as they once did? Or do you cry over your own selfish needs no longer met? The biggest heartbreak robs your soul of its life-spark and you are left alone. There is anger and fear and remorse and bitterness and regret and determination and denial and depression. They go about their daily life as though you never even existed for them, while your sink down toward the ultimate nadir of darkness. It seems you are mourning what you have lost, not that they are gone. It could be anyone who has left. The feelings are the same. A bittersweet childhood experience births antipathy and ambivalence. When that parent that claimed they loved you while beating you dies, why are you sad? When that parent that uses one breath to love and the next to diminish, how do you ever know what love is supposed to feel like, except confusing and bad? If you don't feel sad, do you feel guilty for not being sad--like you are supposed to be? When you finally break down in heart-clenching sobs, is it over the traumatic childhood and not having loving parents like everyone else does? Are you mourning the fact that you never had a kind family and never will? That you face the world bereft not only of parents, but of any true, close family to share, support, and love? Are you grieving for their pain or your own box of aloneness in this world? Are you wishing you had been better? Would being better have even made a difference in a dysfunctional relationship? You know that the right answer is a NO that cracks like a whip. In the end, the pity you feel is for them, who lies there: in their pain, or their disability, or for the life they missed. In the end, the sadness and grief you feel is for yourself and what you missed and will always miss in your own life. When you wonder during loss do you clam up and hold it and remain strong, refusing the tears that fight against the dam of willpower? When you wander during loss do you finally let it go and crash into the depths of your sobs, run into your room and fling yourself into your pillows that you can wail freely? Do you call your friends and tell them you need a shoulder to cry on without even being able to finish that sentence before bursting into a new set of cries and tears? As you wonder and wander through the grief and pain and self-pity and anger and sadness, do you visit the hospital and face the demon within yourself? Do you pull the strength up from within -- it's always resided within -- to do what needs to be done to take care of your very own heart, your own precious soul, your being? Own the pain and suffering, but question the story behind it, while taking extra good care of yourself in those days of wandering. |
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