Defects of Character

ONE thing about being a part of any 12 Step program that really makes me take a look at shit is the formidable 6th Step.  For those that are unfamiliar:  "Step Six:  We became entirely ready to have God remove all of our defects of character."  Gee.  That sounds nice.  Yet, if you've ever personally experienced "working" this one, you know that most times it is NOT very nice.  It's really quite unpleasant to look at the worst parts of you.

This time around, I've seemed to struggle a bit more with it.  I've wrestled with whether or not I can move forward with it, while I'm still having this gnawing disbelief that that these nasty bastards CAN be removed.  Looking back on my previous one from many years ago, I know that this is the point at which ME completely began to change.  I know from THAT hard work, that THIS work will most likely cultivate the same, and I'm truly ready for that.  And yet, looking back on THOSE past defects and writing last night on THESE present defects, I pretty much still have the same fuckin' ones.  They were never "removed".  They seem to, at times, have been "relieved", but I definitely relapse on my character defects when I feel threatened.  They're my shields and my weapons, yet each time I wield them, I am the one that is beaten and broken.

 

I settle in quite comfortably to a few old standards, "people pleasing", "self centered", "passive/aggressive", "manipulative".  While writing last night, I kept visualizing these like "a powder puff of metal shavings".  I seem to be "patting" ever so gently, to make you "feel better", all the while knowing full well that what I'm actually doing to you is abrasive, brutal and will harm you, ever on the ready to point out that you LET me do it, so it's your own damn fault you're bleeding when you finally notice.

 

The last time I did this step, I was amazed at my character defects.  I'd never actually "seen" them before.  This time... it's different...  I've known of their existence and fully embraced them when it suited me.  I've made a conscious decision to act out on them when I have.  That ain't cool.  That ain't nice.  That is not who I am, but it sure as hell is what I do when I'm...  what?  Pissed?  No.  Hurt?  Sometimes.  Afraid?  You betcha.

 

So, in looking for the key to unlock the door and remove these beasts, I've discovered it's in my pocket and I remove these defects myself, just long enough to tear someone else apart, then hide them back away.  Hmmm.  All this time I've spent trying to "turn it over" to the God of my understanding, I really haven't been doing that by still cherishing the key.

 

This powder puff of metal shavings needs to be tossed out for good.  Not just because it hurts people I care about, but because everyone knows I fucking hate makeup.  ;)   

Wow...

So it's January 28, 2011.  It's been awhile.

Where have I been?  Here, there, somewhere, nowhere.
What have I been doing?  Laughing, crying, sighing, smiling, lots of stuff, nothing.
Why haven't I taken the time to write?  Too much on my mind, blank stares, evil glares, who cares.

It's been a strange few months.  Relationships blossomed and fizzled.  My physical self got sick and my spiritual self got stronger.  I've looked for a solution rather than a cure.  I've tried and I've failed.  I've given up and succeeded.  I've been bored.  I've been over booked.  I've wasted time.  I've wasted money.  I've been afraid of not having enough of either and both have been given freely.

I've seen beautiful people turn ugly.  I've seen strangers become absolute angels.  I have expected less and received more.  I have relished the quiet and sobbed in it when I wanted.  The impermanence of everything has finally set in.  I've learned so much and only begun to retain it.

My life is settling in to a most pleasant ebb and flow.  Even the spinning I've done of late on my own mortality, has brought me to a place of surrender once again.  There is nothing to be done or undone.  I am happy.  I am calmly abiding the pain.  I am accepting the fear of the unknown for exactly what it is right now.

Someone recently told me I'm too dramatic and sound like I'm straight out of The Young and The Restless.  If feeling emotion deeply is dramatic, so be it.  I'm no longer young and honestly don't feel restless.  I've been having a bit of trouble sleeping, but that's just when I don't let myself be right where I'm at.

I am....
quiet
grateful
free
here.

What's buggin' me today? Part II

Pretty much nothin.  Is that a good day or a bad day?  I mean, am I really having a good day or am I feeling so apathetic that I don't even care enough to complain about anything?

No.  I'm having a good day.  It's not that I haven't noticed how annoying the stories of bed bugs and the impending Royal Wedding are.  Or how I wish I had a flight scheduled so I could get felt up by a stranger...  I definitely have.  And it's not that I could give a shit about the poor victims in their beds or that Diana's prodgidy has bequeethed her ring to another, I do (not).  I really do (not). It's big big HUGE news.

It's just that, hey, it's Friday.  My life is not spinning out of control.  My bills are paid.  My dogs are healthy.  My friends are the shiznit.  My new tat is healing beautifully.  My new hair color is rockin' it's arse off.  It's going to be a gorgeous weekend to ride my not broke down bike.  Life is truly good.  Even if I don't have any travel plans that involve nude pictures or gang groping!

Letting Go of the Past

Anyone who believes they have let go of their past, needs only to pay attention to their actions within and with others in the here and now, to know that the very thought is ludicrous.  Even once you've accepted the past, it is still affecting you daily, for you are who you are in "this" moment, because of "those" moments.  Lessons learned, love of self lost and gained, boundaries drawn and erased, are all here because of the past.  My goal is to embrace what was so that I can continue to find the peace I've found lately.

I've pulled back, coccooned and begun to protect myself the last year or so.  My reactions to people outside of myself have lessened in frequency and intensity.  I have dedicated myself to my therapy and my program and my spirituality.  I have taken deep looks at how I've treated myself and others.  I've taken deep looks at how I've allowed others to treat me.  I have taken full responsibility for that which belongs to me, however painful or embarrassing it may be.  I have made choices that have left me many times where I had zero desire to be and had to make other choices to get to where I belonged.

This process of realization of self has been remarkable.  Catching myself thinking and reacting like the worst parts of me and actually noticing it before I can cause too much harm.  Easing up on myself while holding those around me to stricter standards has not been easy.  I enjoyed being the victim for too long.  I had loved the attention of negativity I drew to myself because if something "bad" was happening, it was yet another perfect time for me to show everyone who would look how mistreated and taken advantage of I was.

Bad things have happened.  I place no blame, not even on myself.  It is what it was and can never be changed.  The here and now are all that can differ.  Here and now, I choose to free myself from present pain by not participating in "business as usual".  Boundaries don't work for me too well, because I have never possessed the inner sense of self to enforce them. 

A recent meditation class I attended spoke of how being angry with a person who strikes you with a stick is as pointless as being angry at the stick.  My sense of well being doesn't depend on not being angry, as I'm truly not.  My sense of well being depends on being able to stay away from anyone with a damn stick. 

Unfortunately, that has meant stepping back from an entire tree.  It has brought sadness to me.  This is the oldest and most important tree I have.  How can I just walk away?  Because I have to.  At least for awhile, I have to completely step away so I can learn some things about myself that I've never wanted to see.  The forest of my life began with that tree.  I have been completely incapable of seeing the forest for the trees....  It's so entirely past time for me to get some focus for the first time in my life.  I'm not cutting down and logging the whole forest.  It's still growing.  Hell it's not even on fire.  No need to run for the hills Bambi.  I'm just going to step back and take a walk with me for awhile.  There's a really peaceful stream I'd like to dangle my toes in and I think I will...

Thank you to those that love me enough to know that I need to make the journey.  Blessed be to those that are actually walking with me.  For those that wish to throw sticks and stones at my back, I'm not any angrier at you than I am the objects.  Everyone is where they are.  Me.  I'm ovah heyah!  ;)   

73

There was an auction in Camp Point, IL yesterday, 08/15/10.  An auction I refused to attend.  Not because I couldn't physically be there.  I did not go because I could not emotionally do it.  It was an auction to sell what remained of my grandparents' belongings.  The items that had not already been thrown in the trash or burned by their children.  My sister had the agonizing task of taking our grandpa to the auction house week before last to see "his stuff".  She wept watching this man we love so deeply delicately pick things up and "pat" them before he placed them back where he'd found them.  His things.  His wife's things.  Yes.  Just things, but an entire life time of things.

My other sister sent me the on-line link this morning to the listing of "things".  I saved the list as well as all of the photos.  I've looked at each "thing" several times.  Each time, the same emotions:  sweetness, joy, bitterness, sadness.  These "things" that can't be touched by me again.  My cousin Kim bought the top that each of us at one point or another played with.  I remember that much of my conversation with my sister last night.  The top is safe.  My mind spun away with the memories of it for the rest of our phone call.  I can't recall who she said bought the pull tractor.  I hope it's being loved as it should be.  The buttons.  Where are the buttons?  I remember dumping out the jars and cigar boxes of buttons and trying to find matching ones, listening to the tinkling noise as I learned to count by dropping them one by one back into the glass jar.  Almost every time I went to visit, they were the first thing I'd go for: to the left side of the door in the first room to the left in the hallway.  They're only buttons.  Why do they make me weep knowing someone has them and they're not where they belong?

How can 94 years be narrowed down to 73 pictures?  I started looking up the significance of the number 73.  Because, well, because that is what I do.  I feel a NEED to make it all make sense on some metaphysical, spiritual, non-visible plane of my existence.  73 itself is meaningless. 

When I looked up Psalm 73, there were a few phrases I connected with, it's meaning translated to "The Suffering of the Righteous and the Success of Sinners".  Not that I find my family "sinners" for selling my grandparents' things(I honestly have quite another word for it), but I do relate to "The Suffering of the Righteous".  I feel that my grandpa is truly a righteous man in every aspect of the word, as defined by dictionary.com:  Perfectly wonderful; fine and genuine.  And I feel that making him go thru this while he still lives made him suffer on some level.  If it hurt me to see his things go, how painful was it for HIM?

When I looked up Shakespeare's Sonnet #73, I cried.  It is a sonnet on aging and dieing, the last line transalates to this:  'This is something you can see, and it gives your love the strength deeply to love that which you have to lose soon."   Yes.  That is what this heart ache is.  These "73 somethings" that I can see.  They are giving my love for him the strength to continue to love him as deeply as I do even though he will be gone sometime soon.  He told me on my visit with him last month that he thought he had another 4 or 5 years in him.  I told him that I hope so.  He said he hopes not.  One of us will be right.  Either one will break my heart but not my love.  I sure wish I had some of grandma's buttons to close up these gaps I'm feeling lately...

Maybe I'll start my own glass jar.  One button at a time...

Roots

I am notorious for killing plants.  Cacti have even died under my less than watchful eye.  My thumbs are black instead of green.  I have made it very clear over the years that I suck at taking care of plants.  My sister sent me one as a housewarming gift when I bought my house.  She laughed her ass off when I called her the day it was delivered and exclaimed, "What the HELL did ya do THAT for?!?!?".  I actually DID keep it alive for quite awhile but eventually abandoned it in Montana in February 2004 to a fate unknown.  Hell, I barely made it back from there alive, ya can't expect me to have kept track of that damn plant!

I have made it a "tradition" of mine at the funerals of my Grandma and Grandpa Dooley and my Grandma 'Cille to take a pretty "fake" arrangement in a nice container, so that after the "flowers" get too dirty to display, I can keep the basket or vase as my remembrance of them.  I don't think I'd be able to handle experiencing their deaths over again by killing a plant I attach to their memory.

That fateful Montana experience cost me more than my sister's housewarming gift and the many, MANY consequences and pains I've dealt with, but the absolute worst one that can NEVER be recovered from, was that I wasn't able to get back in time to say good-bye to my Grandma Powell.  I got back two days after her burial.  Too late to hold her hand one more time.  Too late to kiss her weathered cheek.  Too late to mourn this woman I loved, with the rest of my family.  Instead, my sister took me to her grave a few days later.  It was cold.  It was overcast.  It was over and I had missed it all through my misguided choices.  Ronda let me kneel there and weep alone at a time when I had never felt so quite alone.  I asked for my Grandma's forgiveness that I hadn't been there.  Funerals may not be anyone's favorite things, but for me, they are my one last chance to let that person know that they mattered deeply to me and I ache for just one more minute of their time.  So here I was, wishing for that one glance and praying that she knew somehow that I was there.  I took a small clod of dirt from her freshly turned plot and put it in the ashtray that I'd never used in my car.  That was my only memento from the private service I had just attended.  My reminder that I had lost someone I loved.

Fast forward to last year, July 2009...  I totalled my car.  The title had been signed over to the insurance company.  I had cleaned out the car of my belongings and was ready to go, when I remembered I needed that ashtray that I had tucked in the console with that small piece of dirt.  I had carried it with me for 5 years, periodically opening the ashtray and saying a few tear filled words now and then.  I had talked to that dirt the night I almost purposely ended my life in that car, planning on putting it somewhere outside the vehicle so she wouldn't have to "see".  It meant something to me.  I planned on carrying it with me forever.  So, it got transferred to the new car.  Same make, year and model, same safe place to keep my piece of dirt/peace of mind.

Fast forward to January 2010...  My sister gave me another plant.  This one, was huge.  I could barely lift it.  It was a portion of my Grandma Powell's Mother-in-Law's Tongue plant, that belonged first to her mother.  My Grandpa Powell had seperated and transplanted the plant into several different pots and asked that they be distributed.  I brought it home with me and vowed I would take care of it and not let it die.

I decided a few months back that I wanted to seperate and transplant it some more, to make it more "manageable" because it was taking up so much space in my house.  Sunday, Independence Day, I sat down with that monster of a plant and four empty pots.  As I broke up the original dirt, I realized it was dirt from my Grandparent's home.  A home that was just recently sold, as my Grandpa has been moved to assisted living.  I will never be there again.  The ground I walked since I was able to walk is no longer part of the family.  The dirt I had my hands in was dirt my Grandpa owned through the lives of my mother and her siblings and all of their children.  The ground that my grandparent's had built not one, but two homes on in their life together.  And this was all I had left of it.  I started literally trembling.

Then, I remembered my little piece of dirt.  My small piece of my Grandma's memory.  I got the ashtray out of the car and started bawling as I opened it and took out that piece of earth.  I held it in my hands and told my Grandparent's how much I love them.  Then, I crumbled it onto the pile of THEIR dirt and cried more as I mixed the soils together.  It finally made sense to me why this dirt had been so special to me.  It was meant to be used to replant the roots of a family plant.  MY family.  OUR dirt.  OUR tears.  I won't ignore these plants.  They're going to take root and grow showing me every day that I love my family, whether I can look in their eyes or not.  I'm pretty sure my Grandma was smiling on the 4th of July.  I was, even as my tears watered those newly potted plants...  :) 

Making New Friends and Keeping the Old

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."    - Anais Nin

I've recently been thinking a lot about "Friends".  No.  Not the TV show.  The never recorded version of reality "Friends".  I have a "friend" who is struggling to figure out how to be friends with more than one person at a time.  That difficult time when some people realize their world is smaller than they'd like, because they have only ever made room in it for one other person at a time. 

I've had those times in my life.  Those times that I was only capable of giving of myself to one specific person, male or female, because I was so consumed with myself that I just didn't have the space for anyone else.  The universe was centered around me and I had hijacked someone else to not feel so alone in my own orbit.  I didn't even really have a friend in that person, because that's not what I wanted.  I had a hostage, a witness to my chaos.  They needed to LISTEN to me.  They needed to be available to me whenever I needed them.  Yet, when/if I allowed them to talk, I had no interest in what they were saying.  I would lose myself in the middle of one their sentences and interrupt them as soon as possible to revert the conversation back to myself and my experiences.  Not to "share" with them how I may have addressed the same problem at some point, with the possibility that it might be helpful to them to know they weren't alone; I interrupted because I could've given a rat's shit what they were talking about.  I, ME, I had something to say, and as my FRIEND, they OBVIOUSLY needed/wanted to hear it.  I would do this over and over and over and over.  And, inevitably, I would wonder some months later, alone again, what the fuck had happened.  It never even dawned on me, that I had worn their ass out with my own bullshit, so much so that they had moved on to another galaxy.

I hadn't always been like that.  In high school, I didn't really have a BFF.  I genuinely loved LOTS of people.  I had my BEST times on band trips and roadside parties and travelling around country roads with 2-3 other girls in the car.  I didn't really have just ONE person that knew ALL of my wildest dreams and tragic secrets.  In fact, I made it a point not to have someone in my life like that.  I didn't want ANYONE to know all about me.  That would make that person able to break my heart in two and therefor dangerous.  My heart was already torn, tattered and punctured from things they couldn't even imagine, and shouldn't imagine, they were teenagers for gawd sake.  No.  I was quite content being the girl that others could confide in without them really knowing anything about me, other than that I could be trusted with their secrets and I could make them laugh through their tears.

So, maybe that's why, when I got out into the big bad city, I turned to the dark side of the moon.  I was lost and desperate to find someone to hold onto.  Someone to be familiar with.  I don't know why I started emotionally vomitting on each and every indivual that got within three feet of me.  Maybe I needed to?  Maybe I needed to get some of what defined me out there?  Just to see how people would react?  See if they'd still like me?  See if maybe I was crazy?  Probably.  Yeah.  I'm actually pretty sure of it.

So, over the years, I guess as I've gotten to know myself a bit better, I've begun to know others.  Finding a few friends here and there that have stuck it out with me no matter how bad I've fucked up.  I've only got one person in my life, that has been absolutely consistent for the entire last 12 1/2 years.  I appreciate that person.  I love that person.  I have zero complaints with the balance we've had.  I'm grateful that the two of us have never been going through drama at the same times, for sure!  I think I'll keep that one.  There are others too numerous to begin to mention that have saved my life and my ass, sometimes at the same time!  I think I'll keep them too.  And the thing is, the ones that are "keepers" know for a fact that I'd do anything for them as well, because I've been there for them when they needed me.  My universe includes them and they've given me gravity, made the fucking sun shine and the grass grow where there used to only be spun-out, dry darkness.

What I've realized over the past few days, is that I have some relatively new worlds being born, with the arrival of new unexpected people.  I'm making new friends.  It seems so strange to say that.  After feeling pretty comfortable in the last year with my little microcosm, I'm finding myself reaching out to the universe again, finding intelligent life out there and I gotta admit it's pretty fuckin' cool.  Thanks Girls Scouts of America for the guiding light:  Make new friends, but keep the old...  I think I will.  ;)