Return

%22...pero vendras conmigo...%22-2

I have another post coming soon, and this post will likely be a bit raw. But I felt the need to share it tonight.

This evening, I’ve been thinking about the words “come with me” and “return.” I hear them not only in English but in Spanish… “Conmigo. Volvere.” These words have been bouncing around in my heart since last night. I have had a rough couple of weeks with long hours at work, family reunions, and an emergency trip to see my best friend. All things I wouldn’t trade for the world, but I’m tired.

I’ve been thrown off, away from myself. Fear has rocked me like a ship on the ocean. I’ve lost myself in the maelstrom. Anxiety has been a path I’ve worn well. So last night I went for a hike in the woods to one of my favorite spots. It was time to re-center or drown.

I heard that whisper. “Come with me. Conmigo.”

It brought me to tears. I am hearing it everywhere right now. There’s a line from Lord of the Rings:

Lasto beth nin, tola dan nan galad” – Listen to my voice, come back to the light.

Come back to the light.

Return.

It just now struck me that I call my writing page “Resilient Audacity.” Resilience is bouncing back…

To me, resilience is RETURN.

To return to the core, the essence of myself that has always been there. The light that shines at the center of myself.

“Conmigo” is from a Neruda poem –

“Oh tú, la que yo amo,
pequeña, grano rojo
de trigo,
será dura la lucha,
la vida será dura,
pero vendrás conmigo.”

“Oh you, the one I love
little one, red grain
of wheat
the struggle will be hard
life will be hard
but you will come with me.”

This hearkens back as well to my favorite spoken word of all time that I posted about here a couple months ago: Andrea Gibson’s The Nutrionist.

I heard another poem by her recently and it said,

“You don’t have to leave to arrive.”

The Universe so softly, lovingly, wonderfully whispers to me: to come with, to return to the light. The one that’s been there waiting for me all along.

This is Real

It is so frustrating when I am in the middle of making dinner and realize I need another pan, but I take one look at what I’d have to do to get one, and I completely shut down. I decide not to wilt the kale and sear the garlic. I decide to just go with what I have because it’s too much effort to wash a pan. It would be one thing if this was just once a week, but when it’s every damn night, it gets debilitating.

When every day I go to work and I usually start out okay, but by the middle of the day I’m slumped in my desk chair. Or the reality that many mornings, before I go out the door in the morning, I’m playing that poem I recently posted over and over again just to give myself the courage to go to work. Even the fact that I have that poem half-memorized from reciting it to myself so much to just give myself courage.

“Some people will never understand the superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside…” “…screaming for their pulse to find the fight to pound…” “every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo so I keep listening for the moment that grief becomes a window…” “…knowing their is a chance our hearts have only just skinned their knees…” “…friend if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other, my god that is plenty, my god that is enough, my god that is so so much for the light to give…” “…live, live, live…” (From The Madness Vase by Andrea Gibson)

I went to the doctor today. And it wasn’t for my body, it was for my soul. It may have been a medical doctor, but I needed an emotional one. When I reeled out my history, how I’ve struggled with depression since I was 15, he asked why I hadn’t been on medication before. “My parents kind of didn’t believe in doctors, and also I have a lot of neglect in my past.” That statement was loaded.

It also wasn’t completely every morsel of truth. I am stubborn. And everyone has told me – “Once you get divorced it will be better. Once you do the steps it will be better. Once you get through EMDR, it will be better.” The past 2 months have proven it to me that it’s not better. No matter what I do, I am chewing glass constantly. It’s why my smile has such an intense sparkle.

My friends know I’ve been tossing around the idea of medication for at least a year now. In actuality it’s been 2 years since I first came across this idea. The telling thing is that my mind hasn’t changed. I’ve had periods of up time, periods where I smile and I’m happy and I’m okay. But I always drop back down again into the dark, and it’s tiring. I’m tired of bouncing along the bottom.

The past 2 months have been the worst in a very long time. I have lost all motivation. I am sure it has something to do with starting a new full time supervisor job and totally changing my career path. But my career path too just served as a way to keep me running. There is a Pablo Neruda poem that I love that says:

“If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death.”

Except, that my silence is filled with sadness I’ve never taken time to stop and face. Now that I have taken time to stop and face it, it’s hit me like a ton of bricks. “And the bass keeps runnin’ runnin’ and runnin’ runnin’ and runnin’ runnin and runnin’ runnin’ and…”

Somehow I have always wanted this to happen, though. Somehow I have always felt that I’m just outrunning myself and I want permission to just stop, collapse, admit I really am not okay and line up my external reality with my internal one.

I did a daylong meditation retreat on Sunday and it was horrible. The idea of it was lovely. The thought and intention behind it was fantastic. But we started with a meditation connecting with our body, and it was then I realized just how much emotional pain I’m holding in my body. A LOT. I was all choked up. And the whole day was about sitting with unpleasant feelings. I had pretty much only unpleasant feelings and meditating felt like absolute torture. I wanted to be anywhere but my body. There were other meditation events this week that I was planning on attending, but I haven’t. It feels much too raw.

I knew even more surely that I needed to take next steps.

I was terrified going into the doctor’s office today and jittery from drinking only coffee and having no breakfast. They asked me to fill out the medical history form, of course, and they asked about mental illness. For the first time I stared at that in recognition. Then I marked:

Mom: Depressed.
Dad: Mentally ill. Thyroid.
Grandparents: Mentally ill. Bile duct cancer. Depression. Anti-psychotics.

I stared at the page in shock. I don’t think I’ve ever so concretely put down the fact that my father is mentally ill. My mother is mentally ill. My grandparents, also mentally ill. My parents are undiagnosed. But it’s obvious. The questionnaire didn’t ask about aunts, uncles, cousins, and that would have been even more revealing. I’ve known these things, but never written them so clearly in front of my face. I felt the cold reality of this whole thing settling over me. My DNA was a mess of strange genes, and I was a petri dish that a bunch of them had gathered in.

So I told the doctor (a cool guy who blends Eastern AND Western medicine) some of my history. That I had been in counseling for PTSD, and why. That I’d been depressed off and on since I was 15. Divorced. Crazy family“Why weren’t you on medication before this?” All of my friends have been shocked at this very thing – that I have never been medicated.

After explaining my symptomology, the doctor prescribed me Zoloft, with instructions to pay attention to its affects. He’s concerned (I’m concerned, too) that I might have Bipolar II, and if so, Zoloft will make my manic states worse, so I’m instructed to look for that. He asked me to get a nutrition lab done so we can look for any markers in my nutrition that might cause depression, too.

I was also told not to date. I quote – “You’ll be a new person next year after we get this thing sorted out so you don’t want to get into anything before then.”  I don’t know how I feel about that, to be honest; I’m tired of avoiding dating. But maybe it’s just a signal that I can take things more slowly and just ease into friendships with men, like I have been. But that’s a whoooole other post.

I left the office feeling both relieved and totally different. Something pinches my heart with a strong thumb and forefinger, and the resulting pain and bruising is proof that it’s not a dream. The reality is: I am now a person prescribed to take depression medication. I am depressed.

This is real.

Neruda; the flowers.

I have had a little obsession lately that has sprung up in my bones. It’s really been waiting for me for years, ever since I saw the first line in a Neruda poem. I don’t remember what that first line was. I do remember the feeling, though.

“Oh, hello. It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

As if I had written that line years and ages ago, and I was meeting it again after a long parting. The way we met was with a joyous pang, a breathless smile, a freefalling of surrender into the bonds that once held us close; that held us even still.

A few months ago, I got a huge book of Neruda poems in both English and Spanish. I read them as if I were in a trance. I fell into the ocean of words and wanted to drown. I lost myself among them…

“…little one, red grain
of wheat.
the struggle will be hard
life will be hard
but you will come with me.”
(
Neruda – The Mountain and the River)

—–

My mom sent me a card recently. We had met for coffee and I had broken some news to her, about going away. Depending upon this or that. Afterwards, she was sad. We live in the same town, but a few days later I got a card in the mail, with a flower on the front.

“You still stop and look at the flowers when you walk by,” she wrote.

I don’t remember everything from when I was two years old. But my parents tell me about this facet of my early personality. It’s one of the lovely times when I was young. They would walk along the Highline Canal in Denver, and I would stop. Because there was a flower to be looked at. They used to call me Ferdinand.

ferdinand
(Source)

I have been rather unfamiliar with this story, but looking it up just now, I am moved to tears. Silly me.

“My love, to my life,
you came prepared
as a poppy and as a guerilla fighter…”
(Neruda – Ode and Burgeonings)

—-

In life, there is fighting. And some things are worth the flaming chaos of battlefields.  The point is to pick flowers in the middle of it all.

That was poetry for me, always. Since I began, it was a way for me to endure the ceaseless fighting. To find my own internal ceasefire despite the rain of grenades, bullets, and bombs all around. I was awkward with words at first. Trying to fit them together in ways that opened my soul to the light. It wasn’t until the deepest dark that I split myself open and scooped out all of those slimy little seeds buried in the red flesh.

Now I have vines growing everywhere. And flowers.

watermelonvine
(Source)

—–

Even in the darkest of times, I only need look around and my soul is eased. The gift of Ferdinand, bequeathed on me from the start. This morning, I looked out of the windows at work and snow was dancing in the sun. The sparkling flakes reminded me of a quieter place, deep within yet high above myself. I caught my breath and was brought back to silence, again.

Ceasefire.

——

I love Neruda because words get me through things. And his words are like lassoes. When I am fighting, fighting, fighting, here they are suddenly. A beacon on the hill to keep my eye on, a lighthouse in a rocky sea, a handful of daisies with yellow suns in the middle.

daisies
(Source)

I bemoan my lack of funds on a regular basis. I pinch pennies like a tax collector in Bible times. Poverty licks my feet like a stray dog.

“If you can’t pay the rent
go off to work with a proud step,
and remember, my love, that I am watching you
and together we are the greatest wealth
that was ever gathered upon the earth.”
(Neruda – Poverty)

I fell in, again, to this ocean of words. Words I could have written myself. I want to lose myself in them, because for a moment there if my eyes are on those words, I forget the battlefield.

——

My favorite collections are the ones that has both Spanish and English versions. Through the eyes of Neruda, Spanish has become like a coded language for me. Not only do his words trap me in English, they seduce me in Spanish. It’s like getting lost in someone’s eyes and completely forgetting yourself.

So I’ve been learning Spanish by learning his lines.

“Mi lucha es dura y vuelvo
con los ojos cansados
a veces de haber visto
la tierra que no cambia,
pero al entrar tu risa
sube al cielo buscandome
y abre para mi todas
las puertas de la vida.

Amor mio, en la hora
mas oscura desgrana
tu risa, y si de pronto
ves que mi sangre manche
las piedras de la calle,
rie, porque tu risa,
sera para mis manos,
como una espada fresca…”
(Neruda – Your Laughter)

With each line, I feel as if I am speaking rosebud petals. Wrapping words like chocolate around my tongue. Gathering in my hands, in this wild battlefield, a fresh sword.

——-

“Because while life harasses us, love is
only a wave taller than the other waves:
but oh, when death comes knocking at the gate,

there is only your glance against so much emptiness,
only your light against extinction,
only your love to shut out the shadows.”
(Neruda – XC)

Neruda’s words are how I talk to myself. They are the way I am learning self-compassion. They are, for me, as Thich Nhat Hahn’s “Oh my darling, let’s talk on Friday.” When I say these words, I am saying, “I love you. I will never leave you. I will always take care of you.” (Elizabeth Gilbert) These words keep me from the edge of death. When I’m standing on the precipice, they give me the desire to walk backward. When I’m on the battlefield, they rouse my courage as Aragorn – “But it is not this day!”

aragorn
(Source)

These words are a way for me to keep the faith  – they are the flowers.

With these words, I endure.

—–

“Stand up with me.

No one would like
more than I to stay
on the pillow where your eyelids
try to shut out the world for me.
There too I would like
to let my blood sleep
surrounding your sweetness.

But stand up,
you, stand up,
but stand up with me
and let us go off together
to fight face to face
against the devil’s webs,
against the system that distributes hunger,
against organized misery.

Let’s go,
and you, my star, next to me,
newborn from my own clay,
you will have found the hidden spring
and in the midst of the fire you will be
next to me,
with your wild eyes,
raising my flag.”
(Neruda – The Flag)

Dave The Bookstore Guy (AKA the Swinger)

My in-real-life friends know about the bookstore guy. I met him a couple of months ago at a local bookstore and had a fascinating chat with him about maps and travel (TWO of my favorite things, as all my friends know). I ran out before I got his phone number and didn’t see him again, though I tried. Maybe as a love addict I shouldn’t have tried so hard. But I did. Maybe 12 3 times I entered this bookstore looking for him.

Tonight I went in and I was not looking. I should have known.

davealex

I was going in to read some Neruda, who I am pretty sure I was in a past life. (Maybe kidding, maybe not) Anyway, I walked in and…

penny hits head
janeyes

Anyways it was pretty awesome. And surprising. So, I play it all cool. I read my poetry. I read my other books I wandered around in pretense looking at…

readingrules

Not really… but you know. For the sake of this post.

And since this was a total fail last time after our fascinating conversation (which I had thought about ever since because I was so intrigued) I was determined not to let this go to waste. No more running out like a chicken, which yes, actually did happen last time. I was going to leave with a number, so help me.

skymall

So, he comes up. Introduces himself. “Hi, I’m David. Didn’t we talk a couple of months ago?” Me: “Yeah, you’re the GIS guy.” Him: “Wow, good memory. Me: “Yeah well, it’s just because I like maps.”

resume

Asks what I’m reading. So. We’re chatting.

smile

About books (win) and degrees (double win) and intellectual things such as spirituality (TRIPLE win!).  I’m making a list in my head…

proscons

(let it be noted that his name was Dave)

And it was coming out all pros.

He then mentions that we should get together sometime and chat for longer, because he was getting distracted from his work.

winning

So I was pretty happy about all this. Right before I leave, I go up to say goodbye and we exchange numbers, so it’s all official like. During which, we’re STILL nonstop talking about very interesting issues.

five

Then he mentions the amount of animals “his household” possesses. So I ask THE QUESTION…

janesquintdatingdave

“What, do you mean your roommates’, or what?” (AKA NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND RIGHT???)

Cue awkward smile. “Well no. I actually have kind of a strange living situation. I live with my wife…

gasp

and my girlfriend…
whoremouth

And my wife’s boyfriend, so…”

mistake1mistake2

I didn’t hear another word he said, I assure you.
callhelp

Other than his “We should definitely hang out.” At which my mind actually kind of looked like this…
yikesbikes

byebyebye

And here I am not an hour later writing this post because, writing is cheap therapy, AMIRIGHT?

pennyjump

And also, because this is not an option for me:
drink

because if that happened I would do something stupid like actually go out with the guy.

fallpenny

As it is… I’ve already emailed my sponsor and texted my best friend, and also have determined that I am not going to actually TRY meeting anyone anytime soon. If this is what happens… I can love my life and be super badass ALL BY MYSELF. ALONE. VERY VERY ALONE.

destinykatniss

Or just find a gay husband.

foundderricksingitbitch