My life has become fodder for a reality TV show. Well, actually, I think it has been fodder for the past 5 yars and a lot of the drama is from all those damn Lifetime movies. What kind of man watches those daily? I mean, REALLY?! So... yeah, even before I knew it, my life came straight from Hollywood.
Fast forward to the set up for the sequel. My life had become too boring for TV, so obviously a change was needed. Heck, even I could figure that out without any help. And I was working on it. Some force in the universe didn't trust me to make it interesting enough, and now I've been told the ex's ex wants to set me up with someone. I think God has a wicked sense of humor. You can call it karma if you want. Anyway you look at it, though, this is hilarious. And cheesy. In fact, I am SURE it has been written into a script in some form - soap opera, reality show, or "drama series."
And yes, the conversation with my friend, who works with the ex's ex, did happen on the way to choir practice. Yeah, you call it karma all you want!
Monday, November 7, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
on the way to the next chapter...
I was moseying along, mostly doing the right things for moving on: counseling, affirmations, gratitudes, getting out with friends, yoga, cardio, and saying NO to the old thoughts, wounds, hurts, and memories that cut like a knife. I knew I would eventually get to where I wanted to be - completely free of the drama, turmoil, hurt, anger, and disgust. It had only been 9-1/2 months; I thought I just had to get through the rest of this year. And then karma hit. I heard about it from 2 sources. POP went the last shreds of the negative feelings I was hanging onto inside of me.
I always knew in my brain that karma would hit. But my heart didn't trust my brain. My heart thought it really was my fault and that I got what I deserved for overlooking the signs, burying my head in the sand, closing my eyes, and hoping for the best. My brain was starting to win the battle, but it was still a tough fight last week. Until I got the email that said, "Well it didn't take long for karma to hit." I still have no idea exactly how it hit - who found out what about whom. I have absolutely no interest in the details. They don't matter. Those words set me free. FREE!!!
So now I'm going to enjoy the freedom and look forward to the rest of this year, even the holidays which I feared would be covered with thick gray clouds. That fear is gone. The celebrations won't be like past year's celebrations. That is ok. I will find new ways to celebrate.
Thank you karma!
I always knew in my brain that karma would hit. But my heart didn't trust my brain. My heart thought it really was my fault and that I got what I deserved for overlooking the signs, burying my head in the sand, closing my eyes, and hoping for the best. My brain was starting to win the battle, but it was still a tough fight last week. Until I got the email that said, "Well it didn't take long for karma to hit." I still have no idea exactly how it hit - who found out what about whom. I have absolutely no interest in the details. They don't matter. Those words set me free. FREE!!!
So now I'm going to enjoy the freedom and look forward to the rest of this year, even the holidays which I feared would be covered with thick gray clouds. That fear is gone. The celebrations won't be like past year's celebrations. That is ok. I will find new ways to celebrate.
Thank you karma!
Saturday, September 24, 2011
on the way to being funny
I developed comedic laryngitis.
Yes, I lost my voice. The one that has faint - VERY faint - echoes of Erma Bombeck and Dave Berry in it. I found it years and years ago as a stay at home mom with four kids, a husband whose career and interests kept him out of the house a lot, and a brain that felt it was going to mush from too much Barney, Sesame Street, and Pocahontas (Disney animated version). I took the minutiae of our lives, added a dash of sarcasm, sprinkled it with simple literary techniques, and garnished it with fun. I used email to carry my voice - mostly to our parents, who loved hearing about their precious grandchildren.
Then my marriage was over. The voice disappeared. It was covered up by thick layers of anger, bitterness, martyrdom, and self-righteousness that repeated themselves like lasagne. Depression was the sauce that penetrated every bite. I overdosed on that acrid dish for years. I even served it to my children a time or two.
I finally realized that acrid dish was poison and I threw it out. Oh, all right, I kept a small amount in the freezer and occasionally microwaved a small piece for myself every now and then... And one day I thought I was ready to move on. I listened to my favorite band and waited to let love in. I threw away the leftover poison. And waited for the voice to return.
Well, it wasn't love and what the cat dragged in was a big rat in a cheap disguise that fooled only me. After finding the truth and taking out the trash, I was thankful there was no poisonous lasagne lurking in my freezer. After some months I started to feel better. I started to hear the voice again. The voice came in ideas or themes, but not complete messages. Then one day it was back in full volume before it disappeared again. One day... really?! I guess the joke is on me.
I have decided to continue to look for humor throughout my day. Humor has always been one of my favorite ways of seeing the world. If I can't find it within, I will find it outside of myself. It's time to go to the library, check out videos on YouTube, watch TV and movies, and listen to the conversations of others. I know that as I read and listen to other people, my voice will have something to say back to them. And to me.
Yes, I lost my voice. The one that has faint - VERY faint - echoes of Erma Bombeck and Dave Berry in it. I found it years and years ago as a stay at home mom with four kids, a husband whose career and interests kept him out of the house a lot, and a brain that felt it was going to mush from too much Barney, Sesame Street, and Pocahontas (Disney animated version). I took the minutiae of our lives, added a dash of sarcasm, sprinkled it with simple literary techniques, and garnished it with fun. I used email to carry my voice - mostly to our parents, who loved hearing about their precious grandchildren.
Then my marriage was over. The voice disappeared. It was covered up by thick layers of anger, bitterness, martyrdom, and self-righteousness that repeated themselves like lasagne. Depression was the sauce that penetrated every bite. I overdosed on that acrid dish for years. I even served it to my children a time or two.
I finally realized that acrid dish was poison and I threw it out. Oh, all right, I kept a small amount in the freezer and occasionally microwaved a small piece for myself every now and then... And one day I thought I was ready to move on. I listened to my favorite band and waited to let love in. I threw away the leftover poison. And waited for the voice to return.
Well, it wasn't love and what the cat dragged in was a big rat in a cheap disguise that fooled only me. After finding the truth and taking out the trash, I was thankful there was no poisonous lasagne lurking in my freezer. After some months I started to feel better. I started to hear the voice again. The voice came in ideas or themes, but not complete messages. Then one day it was back in full volume before it disappeared again. One day... really?! I guess the joke is on me.
I have decided to continue to look for humor throughout my day. Humor has always been one of my favorite ways of seeing the world. If I can't find it within, I will find it outside of myself. It's time to go to the library, check out videos on YouTube, watch TV and movies, and listen to the conversations of others. I know that as I read and listen to other people, my voice will have something to say back to them. And to me.
Friday, July 8, 2011
on the way to depression...
Depression has always been part of my life. I didn't know that is what it was. I thought it was just being a bored teenager with no social skills and no social life. Then I thought it was just the tedium of being a stay at home mom with four kids - dishes, laundry, picking up the house, laundry, dishes... Then I got dumped. And a label: clinical depression. Treatment: counseling.
I trotted myself to my weekly, then biweekly appointments, rattling off whatever I wanted the counselor to hear, occasionally asking for help, basically thinking I was engaged in a game of emotional bumper bowling. I rolled down the alley of therapy every other week and her words were the bumpers that kept me out of the gutters - literally and figuratively. It worked for years until my kids yelled, "Mutiny!" They wanted to live with their father. The bumpers weren't big enough any more. I was rattling down the gutters at every turn.
It was time for stronger bumpers called antidepressants. Thankfully the bowling alley owner, aka counselor, called in a repair expert, aka my primary care physician, and they conferred. They found the right bumpers and told me to give them a try. Less than a week later I was back to bowling spares about 50% of the time - the other 50% I averaged less than 10 pins per frame. I've never been a good bowler...
Six months later I met the man of my dreams, everything I ever wanted in a partner, etc. I was in love. Totally, completely, blindly. Four years after that I found out who he really was and my world imploded with a force that knocked me to my knees. I'd been seeing my counselor still but once a month, just to make sure the bumpers were holding up. Sort of like a warranty package. I crawled my way back to biweekly visits. Thankfully, the medication reinforced bumpers held, but barely. I realized my biweekly visits were not being spent checking the bumpers for defects. We started fixing that ... and the bumpers.
It's been six months since I tossed the douchebag out. The bumpers are in pretty good shape but we inspect a different area of them every other week. My friends come bowl with me more often. They are much better bowlers than I am. They don't mind my 50% spare average or how easily distracted I have become. They even offer to help bury the bodies. But, I'd be worse in jail than I am in the bowling alley, so I thank them and send the bowling ball down the lane as hard as I can wishing karma really was a bitch and that we could become best friends...
Today brought another aftershock and I was thrown off balance, sort of like a 5.0 earthquake at the bowling alley. The bumpers deflated at first and I was starting to roll into the gutter. Thankfully, the bumpers reinflated and I caromed across the lane knocking the number 10 pin over and leaving the other 9 standing. I took a deep breath and sent another ball down the lane. This one banked right and shot across, knocking the #7 pin down. I told you I sucked at bowling.
I stomped around a bit in the seating area, taking some deep breaths. Aw, who am I trying to kid?! I sat down on the bench and stomped my feet like a 2 year old, bawling and wailing. I am a LOT better at bawling than at bowling. After a few minutes though, the tears dried and I knew I could do better. I took some more deep breaths and started another frame. Ok, so I didn't get a spare. But 5 is better than 2. At least in bowling. That was the 10th frame for today. I'm going to call it a night and enjoy the fact that my mind won't let me give up. In fact, I'm already planning strategies for tomorrow.
I trotted myself to my weekly, then biweekly appointments, rattling off whatever I wanted the counselor to hear, occasionally asking for help, basically thinking I was engaged in a game of emotional bumper bowling. I rolled down the alley of therapy every other week and her words were the bumpers that kept me out of the gutters - literally and figuratively. It worked for years until my kids yelled, "Mutiny!" They wanted to live with their father. The bumpers weren't big enough any more. I was rattling down the gutters at every turn.
It was time for stronger bumpers called antidepressants. Thankfully the bowling alley owner, aka counselor, called in a repair expert, aka my primary care physician, and they conferred. They found the right bumpers and told me to give them a try. Less than a week later I was back to bowling spares about 50% of the time - the other 50% I averaged less than 10 pins per frame. I've never been a good bowler...
Six months later I met the man of my dreams, everything I ever wanted in a partner, etc. I was in love. Totally, completely, blindly. Four years after that I found out who he really was and my world imploded with a force that knocked me to my knees. I'd been seeing my counselor still but once a month, just to make sure the bumpers were holding up. Sort of like a warranty package. I crawled my way back to biweekly visits. Thankfully, the medication reinforced bumpers held, but barely. I realized my biweekly visits were not being spent checking the bumpers for defects. We started fixing that ... and the bumpers.
It's been six months since I tossed the douchebag out. The bumpers are in pretty good shape but we inspect a different area of them every other week. My friends come bowl with me more often. They are much better bowlers than I am. They don't mind my 50% spare average or how easily distracted I have become. They even offer to help bury the bodies. But, I'd be worse in jail than I am in the bowling alley, so I thank them and send the bowling ball down the lane as hard as I can wishing karma really was a bitch and that we could become best friends...
Today brought another aftershock and I was thrown off balance, sort of like a 5.0 earthquake at the bowling alley. The bumpers deflated at first and I was starting to roll into the gutter. Thankfully, the bumpers reinflated and I caromed across the lane knocking the number 10 pin over and leaving the other 9 standing. I took a deep breath and sent another ball down the lane. This one banked right and shot across, knocking the #7 pin down. I told you I sucked at bowling.
I stomped around a bit in the seating area, taking some deep breaths. Aw, who am I trying to kid?! I sat down on the bench and stomped my feet like a 2 year old, bawling and wailing. I am a LOT better at bawling than at bowling. After a few minutes though, the tears dried and I knew I could do better. I took some more deep breaths and started another frame. Ok, so I didn't get a spare. But 5 is better than 2. At least in bowling. That was the 10th frame for today. I'm going to call it a night and enjoy the fact that my mind won't let me give up. In fact, I'm already planning strategies for tomorrow.
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