Under Pressure

Deflecting all the energy today. Trying to stand by my self and my needs. I'm trying hard to fit in here. And somehow the idea of seeing people who aren't here in this with me every day is causing me to crack. I'm obsessively trying to think of what kind of excuses would be acceptable. Because radio silence is clearly the worst thing I could project. Listening to Runaway by The National. Runaway is a title I can relate to. As soon as I'm safe and secure, I can't help but think about bailing out. It happened 3 weeks into my new job. It happened 5 years into my marriage. 50 pages into Jane Eyre. 2 years into piano lessons. Love/hate. Living on a razor's edge here.

Fantasizing about going back to Chicago. Living 4 blocks away from my daughter's dad. Home schooling. Being free of my old ties. Lighter than when I left. Golden highlights in my skin and hair, trophies to prove my endurance in the elements. And then I think, I'm winning. Why retire? Why go back to the pollution and scowls and desperate anger and tears. I can never return to what I knew. It only exists in the matrix like an etched record of what was, and can only be replayed on the victrola in my mind. New sounds and pictures are all I have in the now, new explorations and experimentations.

The mountain will know what I mean.

feels

Grief is contagious. I eat it up, actually, the aroma entices me. Feeling bad is feeling, and sometimes it's delicious to feel. My friend is grieving now, and she's not talking about it. I sought some evidence of her thoughts by reading her blog. And now I'm guilty by association, for knowing what's going on in her mind. I asked her if she wanted to have coffee, as in quiet time, as in let's just sit on your deck and listen to the wind and feel the warm mug in our hands together. I don't blame her if she ignores that message and chooses to have coffee solo. We have an understanding. We fly under the radar in times like this, and the other understands. I guess I felt compelled to ask. I already had coffee. To be honest.

Feeling good seems to give some people the wrong idea, that I want them along for the ride. Someone I knew 25 years ago randomly contacted me because she's wandering around my town. My reaction? Anger. "What makes her think I'm just sitting around waiting for a last minute invitation to socialize?!" Ok, but I'll try to take it down a notch. Feel less. Less. Even less. Ok, better.

Rehashing the past

I sent a message to M this week. I wanted to give him the news that I had been offered the job I told him about. After being told that saying "I miss you" was too painful for him, I pulled way back. Stopped making the first move in conversations. I only asked about weather, kids, work.

His answer was arrogant. He's really good, actually. He's "seeing someone, which is strange to say" to me and "kinda sad, but time." His life is so full at the moment, yadda yadda. It went through me like a bullet, tears started streaming out of my eyes before I could even process the words. I can't feel jealousy, we've been apart for 9 months, a few quick and dirty meetups in that time. It was just the way he said it, so much like when I would hear him telling Buddy to shut up or quit sniffing trees. For someone who is such a do gooder, that was a hurtful way of saying something that didn't even need to be said. If he thinks it's strange and sad to tell me about it, then it's even stranger and sadder for me to be sitting here hurting over it. He treated me badly. He guilted me into everything. Made sure I knew every time I overstepped or understepped. He tried to instruct me about being Jewish, how to eat and socialize, who to be friends with, who to work for and why.

I often wonder why I was attracted to a man like him. Or if I truly was attracted, or just infatuated with the notion that an older, smarter man wanted to sleep with a divorced mom in her 40's. I let him treat me like garbage. He left me alone to pay the bill at breakfast more than once. He hated my driving and even took the wheel of my car because he didn't want to be a passenger. He constantly worried about his bowels. He had narcissistic bowels. His bowels were the third wheel in our relationship. Our "relationship" was nothing but a band-aid. I'm plagiarizing Orange is the New Black here. He was nothing but a band-aid, during a time when I was hurt, bleeding to death from my shame and misery. And now that I'm getting better, I've ripped off the band-aid, and all I see is a scar. I'm ready to heal, and looking at the scar is a painful reminder of how hurt I was in the first place.

I don't need him, he gives me nothing but superficial reassurances, followed by shallow-grave references to how I took something away from him. I'm doing us both a huge favor by never speaking to him again. New season, new home, new job, new friends, new authentic self.

What's not to love

This anxious feeling is nothing new. I used to dread Saturdays because this awful terror would arise like clockwork by noon. When I was married I would have spent the early hours of the day drinking coffee and doing projects quietly so my husband could sleep till 10 or 11. I'd get so impatient to be out in the world that I'd scribble a note and go, often returning moments later because I forgot my wallet or phone, only to find him awake on the couch enjoying my absence, usually watching the dvr'ed game or race from the day before. What a shitty realization that my partner was scheduling his waking hours around when I'd be least available. Now I live with his daughter. Our daughter. She is even more agoraphobic than her dad. It makes her happy to sit indoors with windows sealed and blinds shut. All of her favorite activities take place indoors. She shuts down on the weekends when nothing is required of her. I'm the exact opposite. I bought her a phone plan so I'd have more freedom to come and go, leaving her safe at home with neighbors nearby in case of emergencies. It hasn't planned out that way. Today I spent a 77 degree day--with 99% sunshine--indoors, waiting on her. Just now she changed her mind and decided in fact she does want dinner. Ten minutes ago the answer was "no, leave me alone!"

Fuck. My. Life.

Lost: confidence

http://glynissherwood.com/how-to-survive-sudden-loss-of-confidence-syndrome/

http://glynissherwood.com/self-acceptance-the-key-to-self-worth/

Some days I take the intellectual approach to analyzing my state. On those days I feel present, accepting of all that got me here, aware that none of these emotions I'm feeling are permanent. I'm able to complete tasks, even take on new creative projects. I've done some writing, painting, photography, spontaneous cooking. All these things are therapeutic and pass the time effortlessly.

But the majority of days are like this. I wake with teeth clenched and head fogged. I wander over to the kitchen and start pushing dishes and trash out of the way to make coffee, one of my only reliable comforts, like a daily prayer. The passing of time feels agonizing, as if each moment takes another piece of my youth with it, never to be recovered.

The trauma of selling a home, quitting a job, saying goodbye to friends, moving across country, and breaking my leg have taken a toll. My hair is thinning, and my skin is ashy and riddled with new bumps and wrinkles. I don't recognize the person I see in the mirror. I can't remember who I was when I boldly left everything behind and took my little family on this journey. It's confusing. I feel cheated.

These articles tell me that I need to be an agent of change, rather than a reactor to what is happening in my life. Could be small changes. A therapist I used to know, the sister of a boyfriend, once wrote an article suggesting that self care could come in the form of rubbing lotion on your tired feet. I could start using a loofah in the shower. Get that haircut I've been waiting for. Switch from torturous uphill hiking to gentle yoga stretches. Eating more nourishing foods and drink.

I imagined a different scenario for my 40's. Honestly, this isn't a decade I ever clearly envisioned for myself. I remember when my grandmother was in her 40's, working full time to save for retirement. My mom was an aide at a preschool in her 40's, returning home every afternoon to fix dinner and offer an ear or a shoulder to cry on during my teenage years. My aunt had her second child in her 40's, relocated, and changed careers, with the help of a dedicated partner.

Me...I'm a divorced mother of a precocious and independent 10 year old. I left a 14 year career as an art restorer due to the psychological pressures of working for a family whose priorities I couldn't understand, under conditions that threatened my personal growth. I regret that I learned too late in life about boundaries. I let too many people tell me who and what to be for too long, for fear of forging my own path all alone. I started my 43rd year with the intention of figuring out how to be my best self, a slave to no one. I tossed away a lifetime of rules and expectations. I stopped apologizing.

I am flawed: overweight, lazy, lacking impulse control, afraid to express myself. I daydream instead of doing.

I am also: sensitive to others' emotions, intuitive, insightful, able to remember odd details about nature and music.

I can be: an agent of change.

Agree to disagree

Hi Dad,

I've read a lot of interesting arguments about the tilma. The church has never authorized a scientific study to be released, but there are plenty of well-researched arguments that this is a copy of a traditional painting made by a converted Aztec who would have been educated by the Spaniards who conquered Mexico in the 1500's. Certainly it is one of the most important images ever made, just like the Sistine ceiling or Guernica, and it helped the church thrive because its beauty equated with a miracle in the eyes of peasants who had never seen European artistry. I don't think the paranormal explanations are believable or necessary, but at that time they would have easily convinced the uneducated Indians to convert to Christianity (just like the Pagans in Rome and the Celtic people in Ireland etc). In fact, I read that there was already a shrine dedicated to a pagan goddess on that spot, so it would be likely that the story of the cloak was used to unite the old beliefs and the new. Even her features are said to reflect those of indigenous Mexican people, rather than a Jewish woman which Mary was. Most people today don't realize that humans were very sophisticated by this time, and with God's intervention, they were finally able to share knowledge far and wide, there were enormous triumphs in music and art and science...just look at any art or engineering that came out of Italy during this time. Italians painted on wood panels and linen, but the tilma is said to be blended with hemp which is one of the most durable fibers, and possibly preserved by the minerals on the surface (calcium and magnesium resist oxidizing of natural fibers). The colors are indeed earth pigments that are probably unique to that region, so couldn't be explained by European scientists. One of my co-workers from Oppenheimer uses an ancient technique of mixing egg yolk with found mineral deposits...red and yellow pigments from South Dakota and lapis lazuli from Turkey--to create some of the most exquisite, colorful paintings of molecular structures, and no brush strokes are visible-plus the minerals all have different opacity and reflectivity properties that can be layered for different subtle effects...if that's a miracle then I know plenty of miracle workers. It's a skill some artists have, an ability to manipulate materials in ways most of us wouldn't imagine. The fun in looking at art is not only seeing and interpreting the end product, but imagining the layers and reading into the construction. I'd hate to crush anyone's belief in miracles (I still haven't told Zoe that the tooth fairy is made up, just that she is unreliable lately?!) but I like what one person wrote, which was "the miracle of the tilma exists in the hearts of those who believe." Thankfully there is no harm in it, no one is starting a jihad because of this. My landlord and her family just drove across the border to the Baja region where they'll be living for the next few months. I'll be interested in hearing about her travels there, maybe it will convince me to visit someday.

Love
Sus

It's bad, that's all.

Disconnected. I'm looking at the most stunning sunrise I've ever seen and wishing I could sublime into the clouds. It was dark before the dawn. It remains dark even as I shield my eyes from the burning rays. I'm trying to focus on the rock that soars from the mountain's edge, saluting and absorbing the sun's warmth on its blade. Casting a lavender shadow on the mountain's bushy green brow. Too much beauty and I'm on the verge of succumbing.

These dips make everything that is good-fade into a haze. My heart, my spirit, my whole being is shattered, pieces floating in a soup of garbage. Lacking even the courage to cry. Dreaming of hell. Bloated purple bodies and brown, oil-stained memories of meaningless rituals and empty praises. Confounded at how an infusion of undivided free time in an unspoiled land can feel so confining. Stomach in knots. Fearful that I won't ever touch the earth again, or the sea, or even the air. I'm nowhere, dissipating/disappearing into the space between everything.

I'm lost in a maze of chemicals. Slashing at everything and not even sure why. I'm slashing at the pills that are supposed to free me from this, to which I owed my life at one point. A regimen that once pulled me out of despair is now trapping me inside its walls. I want less. And I want more. I feel nothing but it hurts so much. Even crying hurts. Loneliness hurts, and companionship hurts. Hairs dropping from my scalp. I'm traumatized down to my pores, and completely numb.

Started writing this on my personal web site, then cut and pasted

It's been an unbelievable 2 months since I turned the page on the longest chapter of my life.
I spent 42 years in Illinois. Half of those years I lived in Mount Prospect, in the  "Triangle" to be specific, a one square-ish mile of land that was the birthplace of the town. The land was settled by hard-working Germans along a direct train route between downtown Chicago and the Wisconsin border. I never questioned my purpose growing up in a town like that; I had the same goals as most other kids. Do well in school, attain a respectable job, marry a responsible person, and have a family of my own. Gender roles were changing in the 1970's, so one of the harder things to imagine was how I was supposed to be equal to my brothers, yet still be as dedicated to parenting as my own mother was. Throughout my teenage years I fought with the notion that I had an impossible task ahead of me.
I pushed through my adolescent years, mostly copying the friends I liked most. I blended in well enough in my 20's, making friends and trying new adventures like living on my own in the city, traveling to deserts and small towns to see what else the world had to offer. In my 30's I started "checking off" the same grown-up to-do list items that my older brother and friends had already accomplished. Marriage. Child birth. Day care. Schools. Doctor visits. Work anniversaries.
I was the first in my circle of friends to get divorced. For the first time, there was no one I could copy. This was a foreign land where I had no answers. I coped by seeking out others in my position, but no one had the same history or struggle that I had. My one comfort was living in a large city where I could sink into anonymity each day on the train. I could pretend to be just like everyone around me for a while, and let my guard down.
I gave up my anonymity when I moved back to my home town. I needed help with after school care for my daughter, and the only people I trusted were my parents. It was the path of least resistance, and I relished it. Asking for help has always been challenging for me. They didn't require me to ask for anything. In the course of those three years, I became so comfortable allowing others to choose for me, that I lost my ability to express what I wanted. During the short time I lived in parents' home, my mother and I got into a discussion about the course my life was taking. Frustrated at my inability to make a decision, she asked me "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" and I tearfully responded that I didn't know! I thought I knew but it all turned out to be wrong. I was paralyzed by fear and lack of confidence.

After a couple of years, I got back on my feet, bought a home nearby, and got the hang of being a working single mom again. I was dating again, but only on the weekends when Z was with her dad. It was the fall, and my boyfriend asked me if I could get away to attend a conference with him in Vienna. My parents had agreed to care for Z when I went away with him a couple of years earlier. But this time, when I asked for their help, my mother gave no explanation except that no, they could not do that. It broke my heart. It was obvious that they felt it was a frivolous trip, that the relationship itself was frivolous. So I turned him down.
It wasn't a complete disappointment. Deep down I knew I didn't want to leave Z a second time to go to Europe without her. But saying no was very hard for me. It carried the shame of giving in to my parents' wishes. But saying yes meant I would be succumbing to my boyfriend's wishes. Ultimately I began to realize that all of my choices culminated from my being controlled by others.
I did eventually get away on a trip. Not the Vienna trip, another one. To Italy. A real vacation, not a conference where I'd be a tag-along. That was exactly a year ago. Same week that my best friends in Mount Prospect packed up their car and moved to Colorado.
It came as a shock. They had talked and talked about moving there, for the wilderness and liberal way of life. But they just did it, got the kids in school, rented a house, boom. When I got back from Italy, my best friends were gone. I could barely get my head around it. How do you just decide one day that the comfort of family and friends and a nice home you've worked so hard for isn't good enough? I chewed on that question for months. But I got to see how happy this new life made them. New challenges, new rewards, new horizons, new everything. That's when I started to understand. That's when I replayed my mother asking me that question in my brain, years later, and this time, I knew the answer.

New friends

Entering our 7th week now in Colorado...it still feels like we are groping around in the dark, or in the blinding sunlight to be more accurate. Today is the day I enroll Z in school. I'd have done it yesterday, but the events of the day gave me some reason to pause and rethink my original plan. We moved here, to this most coveted and costly neighborhood, to be eligible to attend Whittier school, the oldest continuously operating school in Colorado. Zoe's friend Jordan is enrolled there, and his family loves it. For years we have felt like an extension of their family. We have traveled together, conquered fears, drunk our way through traumas and obstacles, and pulled close together during hot summers and cold, miserable winters. Now we hardly know them. They haven't visited us once in the time we have lived here. Our only time together was on their terms, their turf. It's no longer a mutually beneficial relationship. Even Z feels let down.

It was these friends who suggested we rent a studio from a nice couple who I happened to meet just as I was leaving a party back in May. If that was our parting gift, I am grateful. We did rent that studio, and in genius fashion, the homeowners rented their adjoining home to a delightful family of 5 from the east coast. Their daughter is my daughter's newest and sweetest friend. Their sons are a whirling dervish of grinning and mischief-making, and their dogs are a couple of geriatric piles of love. We're still getting to know them, but all signs point to us having a spectacular few months nestled into our mountain hideaway on a cushion of friendship as we grow new roots.

And as far as growing roots, this could mean shifting our original plans a bit so Z and her new friend can attend the same school. Nothing would please me more than to see Z with a partner in crime as she embarks on the 4th grade in a new city. Today I'm making the necessary calls and filling in the necessary paperwork to get the ball rolling.

Then it's time for me to settle into my own new routine! Living off of my savings this long was a frightening possibility, but now that my leg is healing...I need to push ahead.

You have the right to remain silent

I can't remember the last time I felt so detached. I was lying down looking at the clouds today, thinking about how it felt to be 9 years old in the summertime. On a typical hot summer Saturday my parents would be reading or sleeping upstairs, while my brothers and I watched tv, played with Legos, or rode around the neighborhood on our bikes. It felt like a wonderful gift to be surrounded by my family at home.

When I chose to sell my home and quit my job, I wanted it to fall early in the summer. This, I hoped, would allow me some time to be close to my Z as we both adjusted to our new environment. I was told "just get here!" And that the rest would work itself out.

I know you can't predict everything in life. I thought I could plan my pregnancy in order to have a Pisces child, who would be sensitive and musically gifted. Ha! Or better yet, a Cancer like me, so we could snuggle up in our little shell and surround ourselves with art. I certainly don't regret that fate gave me a Virgo child, in fact I couldn't be more grateful for her, exactly as she is. This summer, though...I'm curious how fate will reward my patience. I'm keenly aware of my disabled-ness right now. Deep down I feel vindicated for freeing myself of an unfulfilling job, and reaching this mecca where anything is possible, and there is no history to hold me back. But here I sit, taking in the same view day after day, all plans on hold indefinitely.

I'm succumbing to the idea that I will begin emptying my savings each month. And because money is a concept I don't grasp in a concrete way, I feel nothing. I should be guarding my prize, that's what I'm told. I should invest my savings, and aggressively go after a partnership or business opportunity so I can continue my financial growth. I really should be doing that right now. Instead of daydreaming and journaling.

Lies and how to inhabit them

We have art so that we may not perish by the truth. -Friedrich Nietzsche

So that's it? That's why I'm lost without a book or a film character I can latch onto? I guess it's fair. At least I have something, a life preserver, to keep me from drowning in all this truth.

A life saver, like the one my brother nearly choked on as a toddler. Or at least that's the artful version that is filed in my memories. Mom said he choked on a life saver, a green one, I remember the cylindrical package, and even the fresh taste of the one I'd just eaten, and he couldn't breathe and the firemen's shoes got our carpet dirty but it didn't matter because they needed to save him fast. A life saver almost, well, how's that for irony.

I need a mountain of art, an ocean, a galaxy filled with art to distract me from the pain of seeing all the truth, or is it lies, that surround me every moment I'm awake. Lies engulf me the moment that sleep leaves my eyes. Burning, searing pain. Joan of Arc on the stake.

Give me that art then. Just load me up with it, squeeze it over my eyes, stop this burning, for chrissake.

Reinventing Susan

I started reading about how narcissistic people manipulate you into giving up your boundaries and basic rights. Nothing new to me, as I was married to a classic narcissist for 7 years. I could write a novel about the gaslighting (there's a name for that specific type of abuse that made me start to lose my mind), the frustration, the helplessness of watching him work his way through superficial relationships, and finally the breaking point when he could no longer face himself and turned to drugs and club kids to soothe the pain. My cue to exit.

For some reason, we all repeat patterns in our lives and I am guilty as anyone in this area. It's constructive if you take the time to be mindful of the patterns, and to take actions to break the cycle. So I'm posting these rules for myself to reread and ponder as I embark on a new pool of friends. Try to remember, Susan.

You have the right to be treated with respect.

You have the right to express your feelings, opinions and wants.

You have the right to set your own priorities.

You have the right to say “no” without feeling guilty.

You have the right to get what you pay for.

You have the right to have opinions different than others.

You have the right to take care of and protect yourself from being threatened physically, mentally or emotionally.

You have the right to create your own happy and healthy life.

Tantra Lake

Not a bad little neighborhood where we landed. Last night I demanded that Z walk with me to this spot a few minutes from our home. We watched the sun set behind these mountains as a juvenile goose made its way toward us. One feather poking up from its back, which made us smile thinking about an old cartoon Z used to watch as a toddler, where a crotchety old penguin had the same single feather-sticking-out problem. A male mallard started swimming toward us. Then more geese. 17 to be exact. And 3 more ducks. And signs to watch out for baby turtles underfoot. I've always dreamed of living in a place like this. Even our cats seem happier here surrounded by new bird calls and cool dry evenings with the windows open.

A real bugaboo

It's helpful to Google my sprained ankle symptoms, and to know that there's not much a doctor can do for this particular injury. I have been feeling anxious about being away from my hmo network, and this was a scary wake up call that an unexpected injury or illness could be very costly. It's terrible to think about. But at some point today I need to get my health coverage figured out.

This really put a damper on my "I'm moving to one of the fittest places on earth and I'm going to shed fat and gain strength and look like I belong on Runner's World magazine!" It will have to wait. Meanwhile I can use the time for more practical matters, like applying for jobs and healthcare. "I'm going to use my free time to apply for jobs and healthcare!" doesn't roll off my tongue the same way, unfortunately. The bright side is that I'm self-directed now. If I remain in this mindset I'll never have to "work" again.

Welcome to Boulder

Yesterday I learned the term OIB. Only In Boulder.

I went on my maiden mountain hike through one of the most beautiful mountain preserves I've ever seen. We (4 adults and 3 kids) hiked over snow packs and mud and sweet little white wildflower patches to arrive at Long Lake in Brainard Lake Recreation Area. After about 2 miles of slippery, snowy conditions in my Keen sandals, and with only a few steps to descend down to the beach, I slipped. The weight of my backpack, filled with ice and beverages and snacks and weighing at least 20lbs, brought me down fast. And with a loud crack in my ankle, I was down for the count.

The pain was familiar. About 24 years ago I took a spill while jogging and ended up in about the same predicament. My ankle had hyperextended and I was forced to crawl home on my suburban street. Overwhelmed with pain, I remember entering my parents house and sobbing like a toddler from the pain. As the least accident prone of three kids, I had never been to an emergency room, and it was clear that my military-trained father wasn't about to take me there. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. Those words were repeated to me yesterday by savvy hikers who rallied around me so I could get myself off the sketchy slope where I had fallen. Within minutes I was being carried down by men with big shoulders and big hearts, who handed me ibuprofen, an ace bandage, and kind words of encouragement. Next a soft spoken couple offered me their ski poles, since it was clear I'd have to get myself to safety using my own strength. Dale and Jeff, it turns out, live no more than a couple blocks from my south Boulder apartment, and were happy to loan me the poles and return them once I was safely home.

My hiking companions fed me beer and "roast beast" sandwiches (with giardinera, no less), and some cbd, which to those in the know is a natural anti-inflammatory and anti-anxiety balm. A young bearded man living out of his camper happened to be nearby. When he heard I had just rolled my ankle, he trekked back to his camper and returned with a natural healing gel for athletic sprains and tears. He didn't want the tube back, didn't ask my name or for any repayment. I slathered on the gel and got myself to the car. I made the drive home with all 3 kids, amid gorgeous views and glowing cloud formations. After a cool bath, I retrieved my antique cane, which I uncannily had saved instead of donating like almost every other random item I had owned before this move. I wrapped my swollen ankle tightly, iced and elevated, and after a glimpse of the impossibly bright Solstice Strawberry Full Moon, I let my daughter tuck me in for a well-deserved rest.

Only In Boulder.

The last Monday

In honor of my fellow blogger who quotes the songs that speak to her current mood, I leave this as my way of explaining/excusing my exit from Joel Oppenheimer. I changed Jo to J.O., for obvious reasons.

Will you say you love me J.O.?
How am I supposed to know?
When you go under the waste
What am I supposed to say?

I see people on the floor
They're slidin' to the sea
Can't stay here anymore
We're turning into thieves

If I stay here trouble will find me
If I stay here I'll never leave
If I stay here trouble will find me
I believe

J.O. I'll always think of you
As the kind of child who knew
This was never gonna last
Oh J.O. you fell so fast

Hey J.O. sorry I hurt you, but they say love is a virtue don't they?
Hey J.O. sorry I hurt you, but they say love is a virtue don't they?
Hey J.O. sorry I hurt you, but they say love is a virtue don't they?
Hey J.O. sorry I hurt you, but they say love is a virtue don't they?

I see people on the floor
They're slidin' to the sea
Can't stay here anymore
We're turning into thieves

I see you rushing now
Tell me how to reach you
I see you rushing now
What did Harvard teach you?

I see you rushing now
Tell me how to reach you
I see you rushing now
What did Harvard teach you?

I see you rushing now
Tell me how to reach you
I see you rushing now
What did Harvard teach you?

I see you rushing now
Tell me how to reach you
I see you rushing now
What did Harvard teach you?

Long strides

When I was asked to come for an interview in Boulder, I didn't ask questions, I just booked my ticket and came. The five days leading up to my appointment were filled with anxiety. The only way I could soothe myself was to think that I was surely qualified for the position and that soon I would be notifying my boss that a better opportunity had come along.

That didn't quite pan out. The meeting was great; I am such a fan of the work that art therapists do with families and children, and this center is no exception. However, I learned that I am overqualified for the job, and that had I already moved in and formed a network in Boulder I would be more desirable for this position. I was given a full hour of the director's time and she sent me off with a good luck. I know I'll return to volunteer at some point, but I'm not expecting anything more.

Now, the real magic. Since I would be driving through Denver on my way to Boulder, I requested a meeting with a woman who runs a paper conservation lab. She responded coolly but nevertheless I was thrilled to be allowed a peek. I arrived early, casually parked the car in front of the building, and helped myself to a coffee next door. I could already feel myself easing into this fantasy of starting a new career in this historic section of town, in this old crumbly building that oozes with character.

Beth greeted me warmly, and appeared more relaxed than in her photo. She showed me into the library, where we talked about techniques, experiences, career paths. She described her earlier career in art therapy, and wished me luck with my upcoming interview. As she showed me out, I reveled at the ping pong table she converted into a portable work station, covered with folders containing artwork exactly like I pull every day to work on. In the course of talking about fellow conservators, she left me with numerous names of people who would be happy to speak with me about my aspirations. And what's more is that she recommended creating a business identity of my own, so that others could hire me as a subcontractor. This was something I had fantasized about but never fleshed out fully, assuming that getting set up on my own would be too big a burden. But to my surprise, Beth informed me that setting up a business is relatively cheap and easy in Colorado.

This was a bombshell. I know that my brother set himself up this way to do web design, and that everyone who has pulled this off says it's the only way to go. I'm in the best position now to make this work, and I even have names of conservators to align myself with. All that's left is doing the work. It's so simple.

I can't help but notice all the self reliant women here who are doing the work, making a life here like pioneer folk, blazing trails and helping others along so they can experience all there is to enjoy when you set your sights high. It's crazy but I'm starting to feel like I'm being reborn as the mature self I always wished I would become.

Good night, bike. Good night, mixer. Good night, moon (-shaped led light).

As I sipped a long-pour of vodka and soda, I listed some things on the facebook garage sale site. I didn't expect it to get so much attention! I woke up to a dozen messages, people wanting appliances, tables, shelves, bikes. One by one I scheduled pick ups, and now I'm about $150 richer. And mourning the loss of my precious stuff. Trying now to take a few moments to think of how my stuff will give others pleasure as it did for me.

The bike, though. That was my form of transportation when I was carless in the late 90's. I spent every evening on the lakefront riding further and further from my home base, till I was able to do the 30-mile Bike the Drive. One summer I logged 1000 miles riding to and from my job in the south Loop. Then, after handing the car over to my ex in the divorce and before selling our home, I rode 15 miles from Rogers Park to my parents' home in Mount Prospect, in a symbolic act of strength in the face of sadness. I listened to Bon Iver and Of Monsters and Men as I made my way west, reversing the trip I had made so many years earlier to settle in the big bad city. It was a pattern I would repeat for the next 3 years, visiting my old haunts for a sense of closure. I took up running and made destinations out of schools I had attended, parks and pools where I'd spent my younger years, the filthy bar where I'd shared my misery with grown-up childhood friends, and homes where I had had my first sleepovers, make out sessions, babysitting gigs, piano lessons. I had a rich and rewarding childhood. I loved being able to relive some of my greatest memories when I was so deeply saddened about the course my life had taken in my 30's.

About 7 months ago I decided to wrap up the old days. As my daughter's godfather reminded me today, the times, they are a changin'. It's time to make some new memories and let the old ones stay in the past, to patina and gather dust. Soon I'll feel a pull to explore new words, and to give my daughter all the joys I never knew as a child.

The deed is done

And today is part deux, telling Christina and the others about my departure. Michael was my moral support this week as I began dreading the conversation about leaving the company. He was right, it does feel so good to be on this side of it. I gave my friend Dan an early heads up, and realized that he too has been feeling disenfranchised. I sincerely hope that he finds empowerment as I did and makes his own path toward happiness. He is so close, but lets his guilt hold him back.

The technical skills I learned at JOI are numerous. The interpersonal skills I learned will serve me well. But the trauma of never being fully able to express my frustration will haunt me forever. Before I came to JOI I had never even heard of codependency. Now I know it intimately because of having been surrounded by people whose tendencies toward this unhealthy behavior were fully realized in an environment of manipulation and power struggles. In recent years I've had the fortune of seeing myself and my situation from an outsider's perspective. Had I started out that way, I would have built the proper boundaries to protect myself from the damage caused by others' jealousies, resentments, scheming. But I chose to dive in, even married into the JOI employee family. I wanted acceptance and I wove myself into the tapestry of Oppenheimer history, gilded as it was by intellectual attitudes and waspy superiority. And once in, I became aware of who knew what, how we were all being led where they wanted us, how this was one huge narcissistic game and we were the pawns.

Fast forward 14 years and here I am, making one  of my final commutes into the city that I used to love. Looking back on how this experience changed me. How on the one hand, my first day with this company coincided with meeting the man I would marry and with whom I would have my only child, and how I wouldn't trade that gift for anything in the world. But how on the other hand, my former director, a clinical sociopath who admitted that she envied my success as a mother and professional, distorted my perception of this business and of my capabilities as an art restorer. She did everything in her power to take away what happiness I took from this job, denying me opportunities for growth and travel. Because of Zoe," I was told I could not travel for work, in spite of my explicit requests to help out on overnight jobs which would have greatly empowered me in my career development. Today, however, I am enjoying the humble achievements of a 20 year stint in the art business, embarking on a bright future with a clear conscience, having only risen higher in my mind's eye in spite of her repeated attempts to drag me down.

Mercurious

I heard that Mercury is retrograde, and in transit across the sun today. Scientists say this affects us zero percent from a physics standpoint. But dammit, I'm feeling so fucking off today. The train was late, my old comfy shoes gave me blisters, no one said a word to me at work, I'm paranoid, craving salt, tired, listless. All the bright, positive energy I had last week is gone. I had trouble even remembering what I did when I left town. Maybe it's just latent stress. It will pass, it always does. I wish I could curl up and sleep till it's over.

The tension was getting to me

I had the best laugh with my best friend yesterday, combined with the best cry and followed by the best buzz and the best pig out dinner. It's funny how in the face of anxiety, it is sometimes (but usually not) so easy to turn the page and see all the truly worthwhile rewards ahead. I need to get back into my running practice because I need this in my life every day; "I'm struggling to breathe and everything hurts right now, but wait, look over there, is that a life affirming view of a cloud or a mountain or a dolphin, presented in front of me for no other reason than I deserve to partake in something beautiful and magical? And wasn't I just in pain a minute ago? Because it's all better now." Being on the end of that statement sure beats being on the front of it. Two days ago I was ready to close the door on a year's worth of effort to make a positive change for Zoe and me. Anyway, all that matters is we are back on track. Let the moving begin.

Pizza (and beer)

Cause for celebration! The con artist didn't get my money. I am grateful beyond words! The bank reversed my wire transfer and I have 2100 back, which makes the whole prospect of moving a little easier!

We're celebrating with pizza!

I have an appointment to see through Ann's eyes the apartment of my dreams! Or at least the only one that called back with a vacancy. This time tomorrow I might be registering my new address!

One intervention and one don't let the door hit you on the ass

I couldn't be myself yesterday. I was lying awake at 3 am trying to make sense of the pushing and pulling I felt while my brother's wife made hints at how we weren't ready for a move. There are two of you now, she reminded me. (Which is a hell of a lot better than three?) I don't really know what she meant, except that I might be rushing into this. For the last 2 years. Sending dozens of resumes and reaching out to the masses who would receive me with open arms. I tried to explain that I'm not as naive as it seems. The loss of Zoe's weekend visits with her dad is literally the least of my concerns. She'll be surrounded by dads and brothers and grandpas of the highest quality. Not to mention she'll have her mom available (hopefully) more often. And mountains. And peace. Sometimes it feels like I've never had the chance to be in charge. And that's what drives me more than anything. Too many people meddling and telling me how to do shit.

And then Michael brought my bike back. Seeking closure, seeking a clean break and last wishes of good luck. Acting like a plastic fake-smiling version of himself. Hints that he would like to pick up and leave too, but reassurance that soon he'll move to the city where he always wanted to be. Maybe a different city. He wanted me to know he wouldn't miss me when he gets where he's going.

I'm in here, my spirit is alive whether I'm wanted or missed or forgotten entirely. It craves the sunlight and magnetic energy of a mountain range, the electricity of others feeding on that sweet air. It just feels like it's been slain, pruned and excised from the family garden. Perhaps I was not a native species after all, I might have always belonged somewhere else. I thrived for a time, but conditions are no longer ideal and I'm withering here.

If I stay here, trouble will find me.

The opposite of bliss

I wasn't prepared for how many letdowns I would face in the midst of moving. On some level I am grateful, because I had always been so naive about this. I thought it would be just like leaving for college. You sign the lease, they're like, great, you're in, and you show up with your carfull of clothes and your comforter and start taping posters to the wall.

The first letdown was the worst. I had a garden unit picked out, in a quiet out of the way neighborhood, had everything we needed and more. But. Unbelievably. It didn't exist. And I lost a paycheck and then some because I fell 1000% for a scam.

Then there was the very short-lived dream of using my equity to buy a little condo near downtown. As soon as the loan officer got to the part about employment, I knew this wasn't going to happen. Naturally you are required to have steady employment to get a $150000 loan. I won't be employed for at least a month because I brilliantly decided to leave a perfectly good job to live without an income in one of the wealthiest places in the country.

And then there's Amy. She sounded so promising, with her little ranch for rent, not as close as I'd like, but very homey and the most appropriate setting yet for a 4th grader and her mom. She hinted that she needed to do some upgrades, and that it would be worth it if she had a longer term renter in the wings. I said, yes, we would be renting at least a couple of years... Nope, sorry, not gonna work, she says. No can do.

Today I'm back to looking at tiny 1 br apartments with no amenities. Still promising, but no idea if they'll rent to a single mom with no income. And nobody will meet me on the mid-month move in.

Can I please give up?

I was watching the movie Unbroken last night. The line that the main character told himself was "if I can take it, I can make it." It started out as his brother's urging to outrun his track opponents. Then it helped him survive weeks at sea after his plane crashed in the Pacific Ocean. Then years of brutal abuse in a POW camp in Japan. (Then my laptop battery ran out of juice so who knows what else he endured. Leprosy? Identity theft? I guess he could endure about anything.)

So as I sit here on this bright sunny Saturday morning, feeling so warm and safe and nestled, I feel like I've had to take so much, and yet I haven't even given anything up yet. The worst is yet to come, and I'm starting to think that the outcome can't be any better than sitting here in utter peace with my surroundings and situation. I'm starting to think there is no "better" or "worse" way of living. Only different. And does it really do any good to throw all the puzzle pieces up in the air every 5 years and figure out the big picture all over again? Just to end up with the same picture? And an aching head from all the pieces I've misplaced?

This is insanity. The definition of insanity.

A twisted reminder

Today I felt like wearing my dragonfly necklace, which has always symbolized important changes on the horizon. Unfortunately the chain is knotted and I am picking at it with shaky fingers, trying to untangle it. The metaphor could not be more apt.

I'm looking into a condo on the outskirts of Boulder. I didn't plan on buying, but with all the mess and uncertainty I'm facing, it feels like a somewhat wise decision. Stable. Roomy. Garage to dump my things. I can only hope though, there are no answers until there are answers.

Not a knot

The old pros and cons...and we have a winner

I started this post a week ago when I thought I would be unloading my condo in a hurry, for less than I wanted. After thinking it over my answer was "no to the uh to the no no no." A week later I am enjoying the afterglow of accepting a better offer, for more money, and a less stressful time frame. Life is good.

Zoe is having anxiety. I tried telling her what Ann said about trying to turn it around and call it "excited" instead. I tried to reassure her that I've got this. But I have to put myself in her shoes and see that it took me 41 years to get brave enough to move away from my home town. I cant imagine how scared I would've been at her age to be starting over in a new town, new school. Hopefully this won't traumatize her, but rather inspire her to take risks when she's an adult.

Back to me. I'm ready. Last night I gave myself a night off to just bask in gratitude. Today I begin the process of eliminating all the stuff. Before I was married I had so little stuff, I used a Corolla to move to my first apartment in the city. A few keepsakes and a cat. I've amassed so many heavy furniture pieces, hand me downs. Even after dumping so much stuff while moving out of my marital home, I ended up with piles of junk. Turn it into cash or squeeze it into the dumpster, that's my job for the next 7 weeks.

Cursed bicycle

I brought my bicycle to Michael's house last spring. We went for a nice ride on a warm day. Storm clouds were approaching. He was nervous about going out when the horizon looked so gray. But I was focused on the cool breeze and blue sky to the east. He stopped and took a phone call while I circled him, like a bored child. Soon we felt the drops. They polka dotted our tee shirts and pant legs as we gained speed. We returned to his house and locked the bicycles in the garage, where they remained for the rest of the year. 

By now the air's gone out of the tires, the chain is getting rusty, brakes are shot. It's a dirty, dusty metaphor for our once-promising relationship. It's as good as forgotten to me, locked inside a garage with an old Model T that's out of gas and no one's really sure how to start. For someone who said he cared, he sure lost interest fast. As did I. I miss that bike but it was a symbol of my past, and there's a newer, smoother ride on my horizon.

In motion

The photographer is coming to shoot photos inside my condo. I spent the entire weekend cleaning out the dust and ghosts of the past 3 years, and then some. The clumps of history bound together in bags and bundles were unraveled and launched down the trash chute unceremoniously. Polished patches of floor are visible for the first time in a year. Clothes are washed and folded. Bed sheets are smoothed. It's a shame I only get this organized when I'm about to bail. Wonder what it is about staying still that makes me get sloppy and sad. I crave a stable place but when I find it I feel smothered.

I reached out to Barb, the realtor, last week. I had known she would be the one I would call, and was working up the mental strength to do it after spring break. But in that moment I was thinking this is so hard, that I had better do it while my blood was pumping with caffeine, because I might easily talk myself out of it if I waited.

Just like that, I let go and let my soul take over. My soul was lingering in that mountain paradise where I spent the previous week. My body was back in my home town where life is predictable and still. It was obvious who should win out.

My soul is happy today, knowing I'm headed for higher ground with my dear heart Zoe in tow. I'm even starting to think about the lucky duck who gets to live in my condo next. I think I imparted some good energy inside those walls.

I'm the White Rabbit

My anxiety is triggered by stress, which is triggered by feeling a time crunch, which is pretty much how I feel all the time. Every morning I watch my daughter grow a little more into a woman. Every time I try to squeeze in a chore before I have to run for the 8:37 train. Every time I buy a garment thinking I'll have to hurry up and lose a little weight before I wear it. Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping.

And as my dear coach would say, what would I be without those thoughts? I'd be living in the moment, fully aware; keenly aware of how dissatisfied I am living from train to train. The solution could be as simple as resigning from this job. I'm more than ready to do that. I rehearsed the entire meeting in a dream the other day. I already know what to say, I'm just waiting for the right day. It will be here in a matter of weeks. It doesn't have to be wrapped in any other reason except the main one, that I no longer feel like I'm a good fit. I finally have options. For years I had to follow the course, just to survive. Now I have some money saved, a home, a car. A plan. Friends. Options. Boulder is waiting with open arms. My baby girl is practically a small adult with friends and goals of her own. We just have to pack our bags and go. Baby steps, in order to reach the land of giant steps.

The first steps are already happening. I need to make some conscious decisions now. Get the bills paid, set up the realtor, pack some boxes, sell some things, write some letters, call the movers, get the cat tranquilizers, refill my human tranquilizers, do yoga every day, pray for the realization of my dream...to live a peaceful life in harmony with nature. I can do this.

By the end of June I will be on my way to my new mountain home, spreading my unique energy and cultivating a new life. I will have everyone's blessing, even if unspoken. Ann pointed out how I'm still so stuck on the idea that I'll disappoint those around me. She said "how far does it go with you?" As in, how much do you allow yourself to believe that negative story? I told her "you don't wanna know." 

Today I made coffee. In the past I have relished giving someone else that job. I convinced myself at some point that it tastes better when someone else makes it. That's still true. But I didn't see anyone else who was willing to do that for me today. I waited for the water to boil, and I glanced at the Easter basket on the counter. I remembered Zoe saying, "it's too bad the Easter bunny didn't come to this house too." I'm not trying too hard to keep the myth alive. She saw the Easter baskets in our luggage when we left a week before Easter. She knew I was the one who put out the candy. But she lets herself believe it because-what a joyful thought that this sweet creature magnanimously shows up every year with treats just for her. I thought about what I'd tell her if she put me on the spot and asked if the Easter bunny really exists. I would've said that it's a story we tell little kids to see the joy it brings them. When we're older we accept a new role, as the giver of joy. We get our own special kind of joy out of it then. We just have to work a little harder for it, because we can!

I thought of how I'd give myself the same advice about the transition I'm making in my life. I came back to my home town after the course of my life changed 6 years ago. I knew it was temporary. I had to reset, rebuild myself, revisit my ghosts, make peace with all of it. The ghosts are all disappearing, one by one. Even the divorce, once the biggest shame and disappointment of my life, is small in comparison to the things I've achieved since then. All thanks to my decision to revisit my childhood home. I did what I had to do. Now I'm on the black diamond run of my life. I rose up to this point because I earned it, and the reward is in the ride. Falls and all, I'm in this for the sheer thrill. I wasn't meant to sit still at the bottom of the mountain, I was given this powerful body for a reason, to make and do, talk, see, wish, push and pull. There's another mountain beyond this one, and another lake, and another friend, and another sensation, and another love. I'm in motion, stopping is not an option.

Oh man.

I woke up in Boulder yesterday. Today I woke up in my own bed. Still can't believe that I triumphed over my short attention span to make that 16 hour trip in one day. That's something out of a presidential campaign itinerary. Glad I don't have to drive for a living. I was getting awfully goofy at the end.

Colorado. Rocky Mountain High. And today, Illinois. Flatland Hangover. Totally having a morning after guilt trip. I can't believe I got so swept up, again. You and your bluebird skies, shimmering blanket of powdery snow, beautiful people, healthy food, charismatic artsy social scene. When I'm there I'm so preoccupied with being accepted by your culture. I completely lose myself, in a good way. I think about growing my hair long, wearing Lululemon clothes, drinking artisan cocktails. It's a fun costume to wear. But so exhausting. This time I went so far as to rent two tons of ski gear to prove I can play the part. I was even reminded that some people just go to the ski lodge to hang out. But no, I jumped right on it. All I needed was an example and I followed it the best I could. Ann even complimented my skiing skills. I was copying her after all. Not that she realizes that.

I'm just trying to figure out why I do this to myself. Is there any part of me that is naturally drawn to the Boulder lifestyle? Can we be totally honest? Check this out: I paid $3 for a bunch of cilantro at Whole Foods in Boulder. When faced with the same price in Chicago I responded by saying hell no, and I biked over to the Cermak Mexican Market where I bought 3 bunches for $.10 apiece. It's the principle of it. But there's no Mexican market in Boulder, at least not that I could see. There's a lot of privelege in Boulder, and not much room for someone like me who is scraping by as a single working mom. I've been fighting this sentiment. It sounds like I'm giving up. I can't have gone through all this therapy and sacrifice just to decide it's better to stay put. But when I think of all I'd be giving up in this homogenous town with its yoga moms and biker dads, each one more meticulously groomed than the next...it sounds like eye candy and no substance. Now that's not true, Ann has found many people with substantial interests. And good looks. So it happens. But then there's me. I work full time so social opportunities are few and far between now, let alone in a faraway town where I'd be the sole caregiver for my daughter.

Then there's my daughter. Her closest friends live in the lap of luxury in Boulder. They don't flaunt it, thankfully. She can't help but want what they have. The truth is that we will barely have enough money to afford a roof over our heads, and the constant reminder of our lack of wealth is very real. I looked at a studio that cost about the same as my 2 bed/2 bath. Wake up call. No laundry, no walls. One room with a kitchen, bath, and a closet. I remember when I moved in with my ex and I thought I was done with that lifestyle forever. I can't possibly go back, not with a 9 year old as my roommate.

Time to be honest, dummy.

The irony

The aggressive throat clearer at work is at it again. For about 12 weeks, she has been hacking, barking, gasping, sighing, croaking and generally eating away at everyone's patience. Today it was as if she drank a bunch of milk to increase her phlegm production, smoked crack, and had a new business plan to flesh out for all of us to hear in great detail...and then aggressively and continuously cleared her throat for the entire day at intervals of 5 seconds to 5 minutes apart. The fact that I named my blog "Clearing my throat" has come back to haunt me. It was my other aggressive throat clearing coworker who first uttered the phrase, sparking my imagination to create a place where I could "clear" out the garbage, and try to get at the heart of the matter.

The real pressing matter...AHEM...AHEMMMM!!!!...is that I need to make a plan. I'm painfully aware of my ugly history every day when I walk into my office. I'm not embarrassed by it anymore. Not like when I first announced I was getting divorced. I do feel that I've outgrown the environment. I'm afraid to make a move because I've become so accustomed to hiding out. But I sometimes daydream about looking back at this self from a new vantage point, and maybe even patting that old self on the back for doing the brave thing by leaping into the abyss.

Making friends with ghosts

For years I longed to be alone. I was in a loveless marriage, feeling like my life had been reduced to slavery. Punching the clock, trying to fulfill everyone else's needs, losing sight of my own. Till I couldn't do it anymore. I missed who I had once been, before I was defined by all the detritus of adulthood. When I got my wish, as these things always go, I missed all the clutter that padded and protected me from the rocky road of solitude. My journey became dark and treacherous when I was finally alone. I'm still struggling with how to navigate this unfamiliar path.

Today I woke to the usual cries from my needy cat. I scolded myself in my mind for spoiling her, and for rewarding her demands with almost constant affection. It was still dark outside, and I debated taking some ibuprofen. Headaches had plagued me all week, and trying to fight it seemed futile, but I swallowed the pills with the foul-tasting water from the faucet. I pulled my hair back, threw on a fleece shirt, and walked out the back stairs to grab a coffee to further medicate myself. It was so gray and dreary, quiet, still...and without thinking, I exited the store with my warm drink and walked toward the clouds, in the direction of the rising sun, which I scarcely believed was somehow rising behind that colorless curtain.

My walk took me past my old therapist's office. Past the blackened snow piles at the fire station. Down the street where I used to catch crickets to feed my lizards. Like a nostalgic scene in a movie, my mind's eye obscured the generic beige town homes, and in their place I could envision the untamed grassy plot that used to surround the old greenhouses where flowers and onions were grown for a hundred years as the town took root.

Past Mayren's beautiful bungalow...I was fairly sure I saw Mayren jogging up the stairs in a long night shirt, stopping abruptly as if she recognized me. I walked up Milburn, then back down Evergreen, admiring the holiday decorations that lingered in the fog. I wondered why that foreclosed house was empty, and why the fog was so much thicker in that backyard.

I said hello to a woman, same age as my mom, who was pulling the leash of her stubborn husky who wanted to sniff around the electrical pole some more. I realized I was the only person walking without a dog this morning. Maybe I need a dog, I thought. I made my way to the playground where I spent countless afternoons as a kid. I thought about the day we packed up the Feigns' cats in the Burley trailer and walked them to this park, how our kids laughed and rolled around in the grass in their pajamas in the setting sun, the day before our family trip to Colorado. I plucked a needle from a pine that sparkled with water droplets, and ground it between my fingers so I could smell the winters of my childhood. The last bit of thawing snow crunched under my feet. The grass poked up bright green through the slushy ice. It had been preserved like a salad bar garnish since the warm spell before Christmas. I left the park and passed the church where a year ago I attended a group therapy session for families of addicts. How open my eyes had been that day.

The snow that had been piled next to sidewalks and driveways was shrinking, twisting, growing black sooty stubble. I sought out the formations that looked like black and white renderings of the hoodoos I saw in southern Utah. I saw one that was a perfect little arch. Just big enough for a cicada to walk through. I bent down to get a better look, and I uttered a little "huh," like I would if I was about to point it out to my companion.

And just then, I didn't feel alone. This little nature walk was all for me. The surprises were my own, not for anyone else to notice. My imagination, swollen with sweet lingering memories, was doing cartwheels, soaring high over the earth, dancing freely, singing answers to my questions, holding both my hands and swinging me like a child over the cracks in the sidewalk.