I wanted to scream, so I sang Chicago

I think I'm suffering from what I can only self-diagnose as "activity overload." I have a life again; it's nice, but now I remember that the last time I had a life this full, I was in my 20s, and my 36 year-old self handles constant activity slightly less well. Don't get me wrong, I much prefer having too much to do to rocking back and forth in the dark listening to Adele (not that I did that), I'm just sort of out of breath.

I don't run unless being chased, but I've heard runners describe hitting "the wall," like when they just don't think they can go any further. I had that feeling on Sunday, after working until 1:45 a.m. Saturday, sleeping some, and then staying out until 2 a.m. Sunday. I felt I had hit the wall, for sure. I don't think I changed out of my pajamas Sunday, and I really didn't feel all that bad for that.

I'm trying to carpe the diem and appreciate all these good changes in my life, but I am starting to realize there are times when I just have to say no to things for preservation of sanity and health. It's very sad that I can't play "American Idol" anymore due to apartment living. I mean, I guess I could. My former upstairs neighbor, also known as "DJ Bucketfeet" certainly had no trouble being extremely loud at all hours of the day, but I do have my pride. I don't want the cops called for a noise complaint to find me belting out "The First Cut is the Deepest."

So, I sing a cappella. I sing Chicago and Sheryl Crow and the Rolling Stones while I'm loading the dishwasher or cleaning or gathering laundry. I figure I don't have the accompaniment of the bass or vocals from the game, so it can't be that loud. If it is, frankly, I don't give a damn. It's not normal to hold in tension. You gotta vent somehow. I have writing and singing badly and my friends. Yes, I get by with a little (a lot) of help from my friends.

Sometimes, I think, I could so easily freak out (again), but thank God, I found a strength in myself I didn't quite know existed. I read a quote today that is my new motto, "My entire life can be described in one sentence: It didn't go as planned, and that's ok." Yep; that pretty well encompasses it. I'm finding that a key element of figuring out what you do want for you life is systematically eliminating what you don't want. Alas, that's a list for another day.

My head is running wild again

There are so many thoughts running through my head just now, it's hard to even organize them to write this blog. My mother averted ovarian cancer, I couldn't be there, the Wonderdog Piper has taken to extreme puppy behavior, I'm taking a new anti-depressant that's making me feel bipolar (freaking great one minute, anxiety-ridden at another), and I just have this feeling like I'm not doing anything right. That's not much, right?

I have divorce papers, revised, and being sent back to the attorney tomorrow, which means by the end of this week, I could be officially divorced. Props to my BFF attorney for helping me when I sorely needed it. It's not even a thing anymore. I have felt divorced for so long, I think the official seal will go out, not with a bang, but with a whimper. I am markedly concerned that I don't know how to be a partner/girlfriend/lady companion anymore without inadvertently bringing the "crazy" that I feel I've acquired. I feel like I've come so far, really, all things considered, but in some ways, I worry that I'm stunted forever, stuck in Needyville as the Mayor, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As an added bonus, due to what I suspect may be Obamacare, I had to change anti-depressants. That's been awesome in the middle of adjusting to a new job and my mother dealing with cancer and a surgery for which I couldn't be there. I'm strangely emotional, dizzy, sleepy and not able to sleep, depending on the day, and I feel a little disconnected from my life. I see my life, as I'm a balloon floating above, and it doesn't look too bad, but I worry that stress or this disconnection is keeping me from completely experiencing it.

Oh, how I don't want to whine. I really, really don't, and I am trying like holy hell to be positive, and I've gotten so much better at it. It's just hard. Life is hard. Damn you, Daddy, when you answered my "That's not fair," with "Life isn't fair," I thought you were just being your quintessential smart ass self. As it turns out, that was dead on.

I also worry, in my myriad of worries, that because I'm trying to give the air of being "perfectly fine," I'm not even being myself, in some ways. There are things I want to say and do and ask, and I think that fear may be holding me back. To quote "Grey's Anatomy," if I'm "scary and damaged," who would want to be around me? Ohhhh, life, you're throwing me all  kinds of little curveballs. I see what you're doing, and I raise you a "you don't know who you're dealing with." I vow to scale back on the freaking out, I have no patience part of my personality, and just have fun and work on myself. God knows, I  need the work. I have some things to prove, it appears.

Oh, so many things tiptoeing through my head

So, here I am, two weeks ensconced in the new apartment. I am now a 36-year-old nearly divorced person living in a one-"bedroom apartment. What I've realized quickly, is that the stuff I demanded keeping for my own well-being (I don't do well with change), is a bit too much for this space. I'm kind of hemmed in by boxes, of mostly books, which I've tried to whittle down, but, these are my books! How do you decide? It's like Sophie's Choice, but obviously not.

I've had a brilliant idea, though. I am not a fan of most of the pictures I own. They either remind me of the icky part of my past or they just don't seem like "me." I am a huge fan of fortune cookie fortunes. I always get the ones that are super "not" fortunes, like "Let your smile be your umbrella," or "Each day is a ray of sunshine." I still love them, though. I still get excited when I read them at the end of a meal. I decided, because, when I moved into this apartment, there was a fortune stuck in the dishwasher, that I am going to buy a canvas and bring these fortunes to life. Send them to me; I'm not kidding. I also know nothing about art or canvasses. Gonna figure it out, like I figured out the hammer/toolkit and everything else for the past year.

I think I feel confused, but  in a good way. I haven't actually had complete independence in about 9 years. It's liberating. I can hang pictures wherever I feel like. I can throw away hideous decorations that I did not choose, and some of them are doozies. Of course, sure, I sleep alone, and I could die with Piper eating my face after a day or so, but, actually, I don't think that will happen. Yes, my life is different, but it feels more intimate than it did a few years ago. I'm connecting with people again, and I have friendily (friends that are family). I feel more like me than I have in a long time, and I have the people around me to thank.

My awesome friend made a promise to take pictures every day of 2014, and I admire her for that. I thought, when she told me that, that I should write every day of this year. I've been bad thus far, but I really want to make that right. Writing is my salvation, confessor, and renewal, and if I don't do it, I can imagine what my life might be.

I guess I look to this year as a genuinely new beginning, a Renaissance-ily, because I need it. I need good things and good people and good energy in my life. I want to be a better person, a better friend, a better writer, a better companion, etc.....I just want to make even a small difference in the world. I want so many things and to do so many different things I've never tried. I think this is my year.

A big, giant, weird Christmas

It's Christmas, right? I'm aware of this by the date and the fact that my mother and I have made a ham and a potato casserole and have the makings of two other casseroles to be assembled tomorrow. I'm not ashamed to admit, I cried a little tonight. Christmas is all akimbo these last few years for me, and this year, I'm sort of non-soluble and writing IOUs for presents. I am at once feeling like a huge douche bag and a liberated human being. Yes, weird.

Every Christmas since my father died, this marks #4, I don't deal terribly well with this holiday. I've recounted things that stuck in my head from my dad to my mom, and she doesn't remember. I can't speak to what resonates with whom, but I have very distinct memories of cooking Christmas Eve dinner at our house and then Christmas dinner at my grandmother's, after early-morning Santa.

My mom didn't even remember when I learned Santa didn't exist. I pried it out of my dad, but I think he was ready to relinquish the late night/early morning Santa duties. I just remember thinking that my parents were giant liars. When I figured out that "Santa" would continue bringing presents, I was pretty much okay, but I do think I asked my dad  how he could be okay with blatantly lying to me. I think he coughed and stuttered and muttered something about wonderment. I just thought they were giant liars.

I was talking to my mom tonight. I think I found about Santa when I was about 8, and I really later questioned how stupid I could be, to believe the whole one man delivering presents to the whole world in one night. How did I buy that? It seemed implausible, but I think it was my last belief in otherworldly magic, that which I could not fully understand, like maybe he and God were working together. It's a giant conspiracy, really, the Santa Tracker on the news, and unless you're a giant asshole, you're keeping that secret from children until you're told otherwise.

Sure, if I have children, I'll let them believe in Santa. I think it encourages wonderment and the belief in magical possibilities. It gives them that glimpse into things that cannot be explained, and that's a good thing. My dad used to attach jingle bells from "the sleigh" to our windows and jingle them when he thought we were sleeping. He only used cursive writing to write "as Santa," because he never wrote in cursive writing, and he and I watched the original Grinch every year. I want to sit and watch it with him so bad, it aches inside me, and I miss his smart-ass sense of humor, that he passed down to me, and no one else in the family gets. So, I settle for my memories and the knowledge that I was loved by him, and he would not want me to wallow and be sad. I just want to hear his voice say my name, but I will settle for his camp recordings and pictures and countless memories and the fact that he knew that I loved him more than anything, and that feeling was completely reciprocated.

I don't like this Christmas. I'll be fine. I get to go nuts with my niece and nephew, and they are precious and my loves and think I'm awesome (for now). I just want to make their Christmas awesome, and I'll deal with my holiday psychosis later. Christmas is for the little people. I enjoyed a handful of adult Christmases, and I'll adjust to enjoying more. Just not maybe this year. Have YOURselves a Merry little Christmas. Everyone deserves it.

Would anyone like a series of good thoughts for Christmas? It's all I can afford.

I am pretty well freaking the hell out. I am moving in 8 days, and I have only now, at this time, come to appreciate the pure lunacy of that. I have no job and like $200 to my name. God bless my coddling mother, or I would be living with a troll under one of the many fine bridges in Birmingham. I do have a very promising job prospect, and hopefully, God is granting me favor after the last shit-kicker of a year and timing everything perfectly so that everything works out just right.

It is absolutely ridiculously expensive to move. To even have your basic utilities activated takes about $300, not to mention the additional security and pet deposits, and pro-rated rent. Oh, and they now require you to have renter's insurance. We bitch about making medical insurance mandatory, but no peeps about mandatory renter's insurance. Hmmm...Kinda makes our priorities a little skewed, if you ask me, but no one did.

I found an endless supply of boxes at the liquor store, but then realized, when wrapping dishes, I have no newspaper. AUGH. Luckily, most of the boxes seem to have individual dividers, but I'm not above using towels or clothes, because if I have to spend one more cent on this move, I'll be the poorest resident living near the Summit.

I've started to think in really bizarre terms, like, what could I sell? I'm already trying to sell my wedding dress, and the only response I got was a weird Craig's List answer about using a cashier's check or something. On a related note, I've decided Craig's List is basically just a cyber meeting place for flim-flammers and giant weirdos. Yes, I said flim flammers. Every job I pursued on there turned out to be a "home-based" one where I would have to deposit money in my account for some nefarious shipping purposes, and every apartment involved swingers, pre-operative transvestites who did not sound fun at all, or people who were fine with themselves owning 11 cats, but not a roommate bringing a small dog.

I could probably sell my blood or plasma, if they still do that. Dammit that I'm not a guy. I would sell my sperm in a heartbeat. That has to be the easiest money you could make. Not invasive, no needles involved...you're gonna be doing that anyway; you may as well get paid for it. Unfortunately, I am not a particularly valuable commodity. If you could get paid for arguing or knowing the state capitals or owning too many shoes, I'm golden, but truly, I would be sunk in a barter society.

Alas, I will have to just console myself with the fact that shortly, I will be the independent state of Emily again, broke or not, and have a new space and a new start and God help me, a new job. The order of things will once again be restored, and I won't have 17 insurance agents calling me with renter's insurance quotes or be paying $200 for a water bill, which includes the actual bill, along with my blood vow to give them a kidney or my first-born in the event I can't pay. Isn't that what Rumpelstiltskin wanted? I think they're all in this mess together.

What doesn't kill you ....I think I finally made it to that second category

Today has been a day. Piper is so hyper from her post-spaying comfort that she is acting like a squirrel on crack, I found out that I WILL have a place to live once the house closes, and I am either getting sick or seriously fighting it. I find that my life seems to be a series of a lot of nothing happening and then something cataclysmic occurs, and we are off to warp speed. I also have either destroyed or Piper had a hand in destroying probably my 9th phone charger this year. I detest this phone, and have spent an estimated total of $100 just on chargers this year. A plague on Samsung's house.

I admit; I sort of thought I might be homeless come house closing date. I have no job; true, my mom is co-signing, but luck has not been my particular strong suit in the last few years. I'm not a pessimist, truly. I'm the one who always tries to infuse humor into the situation, but I feel sometimes like a lot of really funny/extroverted people have expressed they feel: It can be exhausting. I do NOT want anyone to worry about me. I think there are so many other important things in the world on which to focus your concern. Even if I genuinely need worry and concern, I'll tell you that I'm fine.

Is this a bad thing? I dunno. I depended on someone to comfort and console me, and that didn't turn out so great. I don't want to be a distant, cold person, and frankly, I don't think I actually know how to do that, much to my probable imminent demise....death by caring. My grandmother always told me that I was too sensitive, and I never really thought about what that meant, until recently.

I care and love with my whole heart. What you see is what you get. I've always found that to be one of my better qualities, and people that love me have, too. However, I could see where that might've gotten me into trouble. If you love and trust with your whole heart, you get stomped and squished that way, too. What is a girl to do? Be distant and build walls or just jump in to the deep end, regardless?

Speaking of the deep end, I'll tell you a little story. When I was about 7, I went to the public pool for a friend's birthday party. There was a high dive, whose height I couldn't fully gauge, like a standard high dive. No one, would dive from it, no boy, girl, or adult. I said, "Whatever," and dove perfectly into the water. It felt like my skull hit knives when I connected with the water, but I still remember seeing astonished faces as I resurfaced. That's how I want my life to be.

To my detriment, possibly, but I don't do tentative, and I don't do shy and wallflower-esque. I'm no Popeye, but I truly "am what I am." I've figured out, FINALLY, at 36 years, that if you don't like me, the real me, the one that I always project, then that's your problem, not mine. You are not going to turn me into Martha Stewart or June Cleaver or anyone other than Emily Beryl Gaither. I will not make myself small to fit into any more boxes. That is done.

Happy Anniversary to Me....Seriously, Let's All Sing Along

I just realized, about two hours ago, that tomorrow is my seventh wedding anniversary. No danger of the 7-year-itch here, nope, that happened at five years, 11 months. Whew, problem averted. Ha. It's funny, funny ha-ha or funny strange, your choice, on how completely different my head space is now vs. one year ago.

A year ago this time, I literally did not want to leave my bed, unless it was to drink a vat of wine or eat fried food. Yep, that was it, carbs and liquor, those were my motivators. I can remember going a number of days without showering or changing clothes; that's super hot, right? I stopped shaving my legs and just sort of gave in to the idea of waking up in the morning and that being my accomplishment for the day.

Flash forward to now: Maybe I'm not all filled in, like a human lasagna, but I'm getting there. It took so many stupid, dumbass decisions for which I completely take credit, for me to pull my over-analytical, over-educated (hopefully, soon to be more so) head out of my stupid ass. My life is not over because of a divorce. My faith in certain things is shaken, and I can't change that, no matter what, but I am still here.

My life is what I choose to make of it. If I want to learn guitar like I've always wanted, by God, I will. I plan to start my Master's in English in the summer. What will I do with it? I don't fucking care. It's what I WANT TO DO. I can do whatever I want, and I should've always been suspect of anyone who didn't agree with that plan. I have cow-towed and bent perpendicular, and been a doormat in the hopes of  being happy. You know what? I wasn't.

I know I have depressive issues; believe me, I know. However, I do truly believe that I deserve to be happy and to be appreciated. Yes, I may be an acquired taste. I'm a huge nut. I hate cleaning. I would rather drink wine, read, and watch old episodes of Grey's Anatomy. But, I've never hidden these things. I am at 36 what I was at 6, 16, and 26. I've matured, of course, but I am the same person I have been and will ever be. If I'm right, I will argue you to the death, but on the flip side, if I care about you, I will throw myself in front of oncoming traffic to protect you.

So, tomorrow is my 7th wedding anniversary, and soon after, I will bid my marriage adieu. It was a learning experience that I wish I had when I was in my 20's rather than 30's, but I stand by my steadfast assertion. I don't regret experiences and wish I could take them back. Without those experiences, I wouldn't be me. I kind of like me. Other people seem to agree, and I am free to open up to whatever future I choose. Me. It's my future, and I'm starting to realize what makes this girl happy.

Reawakening

I was on the floor and under the bed and fine with that. The future wasn’t a
thing.  It was a vague, shapeless fog with which I wanted nothing to do.
I saw smiling boys with their carnival tricks and smooth, slick words, and it
made me retreat further.

Creativity dies when living in a vacuum. I took up residence in a Hoover Upright
and wanted to stay there. I felt comfortable among the lint and dirt. I was secure 
in my lack of worth and knew that I belonged with the other castaway material.
The buttons and old change and I had a party to celebrate our uselessness.

Ruddiness has returned to my cheeks and humor to my life. You may end up being 
a figment of my imagination, and that’s okay, too.
The idea of the possibility of someone like you, who revels in my existence is 
enough for now.

It's really all about adjustment; I'm just slow

I am incredibly smart at some things, yet incredibly super slow at others. It has literally taken me over a year to pull my well-educated and intelligent head out of my ass and realize that even if my marriage is over, I am not. I still have good things to offer, and I have my whole life ahead of me. It only took one full year. Good thing I'm not a dog; I would've lost seven.

Speaking of dogs, Piper had her spaying surgery done today, and I felt like the world's worst human companion leaving her there while she was shaking like a leaf. I know she needs it, and it's better for her, but it didn't help the massive guilt trip I felt when she looked at me like, "How can do you this to me?" My hope is that it makes her stop trying to run away, and I also cannot even remotely deal with puppies. My dog will not be an unwed, pre-teen mother.

I am scheduled to be out of the house that I have known for the past five years in less than a month. Am I happy about this? Not entirely. Here are my thoughts: I am glad the house has sold, because when you're going through a divorce, you have all these loose ends. This is an end that will be tied, and I'm glad to see it. However, this is the one constant I've known for five years, and even when our marriage hit the fan, I had this place as a refuge. I have chipmunks, squirrels, etc...and my privacy. I now have to move to an apartment where I might have a crazy cat lady who bakes coming over. I dunno; I just don't like people. Is that so bad?

I am trying to behave like a great white shark. There is only forward movement and little rest. Oh, and I'll kill you if you get in my way...kidding. Seriously, I have never needed my inner strength like I need it now when so many rather large changes are going on in my life. I knew I had this strength; I just kind of have to summon it like a demon or genie.

Have you ever experienced a really tough time and something, however small, made you pull out of the nosedive and join the nice society again? I've had that experience. It was sort of a combination of things to metaphorically slap my clueless face and put me back in Emily mode. Oh, the world's in trouble now. I'm on a mission to prove my merit and worth, and you can say you knew me when I just wrote a blog...:P

Away I Go....

So, after much back and forth introspection, I am back in Birmingham, which is now my new, permanent home. I admit it; I was emotionally beaten and exhausted, and I thought that I couldn't possibly function here in the "big city" with just little ol' me and no husband. I kinda lost it and ran to my childhood home with my tail tucked to think about regrouping .... and I came to the most amazing realization. Home and my future are wherever I am.

Home is a great concept. I had a wonderful home growing up, and it gave me that "shelter from the storm" feeling until just recently. While I was kind of writhing in the self-pity of my separation and pending divorce, the worst feelings I had were those where I literally could not name what or where would make me feel better. I hate that; that used to only happen when I was sick, that feeling like you're so miserable, that there is nothing that would improve that. Nope, that's also called adulthood.

I realized that if I have to live with my mother to regroup because I'm sad, then I'm really never going to find good footing and be okay with myself. I decided to forge ahead, mildly terrified, and sink or swim on my own. Well, not completely on my own. The majority of my support system is actually here in Birmingham. The life I had when I lived in Mississippi doesn't really exist anymore, and there are no promising opportunities. I would have gotten a crappy job, probably decided not to go back to school, and probably married a complete dumbass. No thanks, I've already been to that carnival. (Disclaimer: my husband isn't a dumbass, we just didn't work, I don't want to be THAT girl, bad-mouthing the ex)

I'm actually excited. This is the first time in almost 8 years that I have to answer to no one but myself. It's liberating, to say the least. I can do whatever the freaking hell I want, (within reason and not using midgets or monkeys) and no one can say shit about it. I like that. I want to get in touch with my real, non-depressed self again and rediscover how fabulous I can be..ha...I partially jest. I actually do think I'm pretty fabulous, and I can now choose who surrounds me. I vow as little negativity as possible with as much laughter and adventure as possible.

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell, right now you can't tell

I think once you embrace that you're having a minor nervous breakdown, life becomes a little easier. To clarify, I don't mean to denigrate people who are having or have had an actual nervous breakdown, I know I'm having a "First World Problem," and I'm trying to take it for what it is.

I got married, I'm getting divorced, I have depression, and I have no idea what to do with my life. There. There it is in a nutshell. Oh, and my uterus is drying up as we speak, so I may never have children...I think that's the meat of the emotional rollercoaster I'm riding. I know I'm not the first person on this ride, but as I may have mentioned repeatedly, I have minimal (at best) coping skills. I find that I have a really strong urge to just scream. Not at anyone, just scream until I feel better. I may try it...just in a department store. No, I kid...about the department store, not the screaming. Maybe I can start a Scream Therapy group.

I've been sleeping in my childhood room since Saturday. If you want to feel like a real winner, I suggest doing that with the realization that you don't know when you'll have the wherewithal to sleep somewhere that you either own or on which you pay rent. Also, my room is tiny. I guess I didn't notice this growing up, as I was rarely in there, and I, too, was smaller, but I feel like Andre the Giant sleeping in a milk crate.

When I say I don't know what to do with my life, I'm not being hyperbolic. In fact, I hope I don't run into any members of a cult in the next little while, because I would be very suggestible. You worship chipmunks and wear bras on your heads? That sounds amazing! So we live in underground bunkers and an Oompa Loompa is our leader? What a brilliant idea! I am totally in!

All I can say right now is that I am enjoying singing at the top of my lungs again, appreciating the written word, and the fact that I am tabula rasa. I can go live in Tibet with the Sherpas, or I can join the Peace Corps, neither of which are very likely, but I can do them if I want. I lost myself somewhere along the way in the last 6-8 years, and the upside of that, is that I get to find myself. I remember myself being delightful, so I think it will be worth it.

A change will do me good (let's hope)

I am moving back to Mississippi. I have packed up my clothes, groceries, and has many shoes as I could carry. Hint: it's not even scratching the surface of what still lies in my closet, and I cried nearly the whole time I was packing. This has been my home, my touchstone, my retreat mostly lately, but it's mine.. I truly believe I'm making the right decision. Further, I truly believe that my future decisions have to be about me and me alone. People are going to formulate opinions: Emily's gone crazy, she's fragile, she can't handle reality. They might be right. But rather than bull-shitting my way through knowing I need counseling and support before I secure my next step, I'm actually going to do it.

I have a depressive personality. I've had it since college, the first time I took an anti-depressant. Mostly, I seem fine to other people, upbeat and social and always cracking a joke, and mostly I am. But the lows I experience with this affliction, especially when major life upheavals happen, like my father, grandmother, and brother dying, along with the end of my marriage, are the lows that cause me to sleep 19 hours a day and wish I could disconnect my phone so I don't have to worry anyone when I don't answer and just want to sleep.

I have so much potential. It's there, it's like dangling from a tree I can't reach right now, and I have to find the mechanism that controls the potential that leads to my happiness. I know I'm capable of happiness; for a depressed person, I'm pretty funny. That's what helps me deal with things, courtesy of my father. I don't know if he was depressed, but he had a dark sense of humor that I wholeheartedly inherited. I'm genuinely trying to find my way and my purpose and my happiness again. I know it's there. I don't think it exists in the pre-accepted normal professional life, and that's okay. I can gain the tools to find what my "special" purposes is.

I don't want to be some 40-year-old living off her mother, whining about why society didn't treat me fairly. I have no bones with society, except the Tea Party, and that's a whole other conversation. I just need motivation to get off my lackadaisical ass and do something. Teach, help impoverished communities, work with children, counsel, and still maintain my writing. I dunno. I feel our generation was given a set of tools that stopped applying once the economy took a dive, and I need to chisel my way out. I am not this whiny, self-centered person, and I am smart and capable and want to teach and help in a greater, macro-way. I just need a good freaking counselor to tell me to stop crying that my marriage is over and tell me it's not completely my fault. I don't think that's asking too terribly much. If it is asking too much, screw the psychotherapy industry. Trust me, I got issues.

On a side note, after I cried while packing my house, I watched "Hot Tub Time Machine," which I highly recommend to cure the doldrums.

Taking stock (not chicken), and it's not good

I'm a smart person; I don't mean for that to be conceited, I just think empirically, most people would say that I was smart. I'm well-read, up-to-date on current events, and I like to imagine I can carry on an intelligent conversation with just about anyone. All these things beg the question: Why do I do the dumbest possible things at the worst possible times?

The timing aspect is not always necessarily true, but it brings to mind a story that was told many, many times in our family. When I was younger, my parents had a silver tray that rested on a mahogany structure with wheels on both sides. If you tipped it even the slightest, all manner of silver goblets would clang onto the floor as the cart (?) overturned. I was told countless times not to do this, not to touch it, because I did occasionally run into as children do. Then, as I began to realize how annoying it was and how much my parents truly didn't want me to knock it over, I started doing it out of pure spite. That may have been around the time they started the James Dobson series "How to Raise a Willful Child." I can't be sure.

I seem to have a self-sabotaging mechanism lodged in that part of my brain that also lets depression overtake me and doesn't give a time, because I'm too tired. I've only been in one truly wonderful relationship in my life (my soon-to-be-late marriage), and as much as I want to push all of the blame on my husband, and he does have his fair share, I'm almost more responsible for it. I have issues; really, I do. I don't wear a sheet and dance around with a plant on my head, but there are some days that sleeping for 19 hours makes me feel better than facing a new day. I haven't dealt with those issues properly, and my life is showing the repercussions.

I'm a great thinker; I feel like Dr. Seuss. I think so many grand things; I shall make them so! But, I don't. I give in to emotional exhaustion and try to get through another day, week, month. I am not a bad person; that's probably why I still do have the few people around me that care about me. However, I am a disappointing person. I have such potential and light and humor and intelligence in the right circumstances, and then the "fog" takes over. I could name the "fog" over the years: realizing depression, the breaking-off of an engagement, losing my grandfather, father, grandmother, the notion I might one day have a good relationship with my brother, my marriage, and my zeal for anything that disallows yoga pants. I don't want to be a blamer, I really don't. Nothing causes this but my own self-deprecation.

I imagined myself so differently at 36, and I'm trying so desperately to adjust the expectation. I have the worst coping skills since Sybil, and despite my smarty pants attitude, I do not know it all. I know less than 50%. I want to make a good life for myself, and I don't want to arbitrarily waste it. I don't know what the coming weeks, months, and years will bring, but I want to be a person you'd be proud to know, and a person on whom you can rely, and an example for my nieces, nephew, great-nephew, and children, should I be lucky enough to have them. I have been such a spoiled, entitled jerk for 36 years, and I don't want to do it any more. I want to be able to earn love and trust from everyone in my life, and I promise that I will do my best to achieve this. Feel free to call me out if I'm not living up to this deal.

Love is all fine and good until someone says "separation."

I think I'm a reasonable person. I try to be. I do lead with my emotions, but generally logic and do-good takes over the freaking out part of my brain. Most people that know me, even pretty well, would say that I'm "tough as nails," or "sassy," and that's not entirely untrue. What they don't know, or maybe they do, is that, in Bob Dylan's words, "She breaks just like a little girl."

I am extremely sensitive. I cry at sad movies, songs, quotes, videos, commercials, etc....I am a hot, emotional mess. I might make a shitty comment in the middle of one of these episodes, but my emotions are raw and on display. I have a T-shirt, and I don't wear novelty T-shirts as I once did, but this one is black with pink lettering that says, "I wear my heart on my sleeve," and cleverly, the little T-shirt people embroidered a pink heart on the sleeve. It pretty much epitomizes me.

I have been in love seven times in my 36 years. There may be a love barometer I could gauge those loves on, I dunno, but there are those that resonated more than others. I was engaged at 21, which was incredibly stupid beyond my lack of years and knowledge, and when that relationship broke up, I thought nothing could ever be worse. I was sadly, very wrong.

My father always told me that when you met "the One," you would know, and so I think I aspired to that ideal. I honestly can't say that I felt that "bolt" or whatever with  my 21-year-old self, but I genuinely thought I did with my husband. I was never really a truly pissy single person that put a hex on all happy people, but when I met my husband, I think I understood why those bitter people were angry. Ahhh...happiness, like being wrapped up in a blanket straight from the dryer on a cold day and feeling like nothing could ever damage or change that moment.

And now, I've been married 6 1/2 years, 10 months of which have been comprised of separation, and I am no wiser than I've ever been. I don't know what went wrong. I thought love conquered all, all you need is love, love will keep us together, love means never having to say you're sorry. I'm so disillusioned, I don't know what to think. I can function without my husband, sure, but I don't know how to trust or truly love again. And now we're getting into the fun, nitty-gritty of divorce, who pays what, the mortgage, the cell phone, and it doesn't really remind me of the day that I pledged my love for eternity. Although, if death do us part is the deal, I jokingly said, "Well, maybe that can happen sooner rather than later. " I don't know; I never imagined myself in this situation; my dad lied to me, or more accurately, was part of a generation that didn't believe in divorce. All I know, is that I've heard the sound of my heart audibly breaking over the last 10 months.

I think marriage is a great thing, I still do, really. I just rally against anyone having to feel like I have felt for almost a year, that I'm not good enough or enough of enough to make the person you pledged your life to live happily ever after. I don't think that happily ever after is a myth, I just don't know how I completely botched it, to the point, that if I can find a book club and someone to teach me to knit, I don't even care about men anymore. And I'm not a lesbian, not that there's anything wrong with that...but I'm just not...so there's that.

Just.....AUGHHH

I'm not really sure this blog has a direction; I just felt like writing, so prepare for ADD or ADHD or whatever the hip thing it is to call when you can't organize your thoughts these days. I feel like that book "Woman, Thou Art Loosed," except I don't know what it's about, and I'm not black. I'm just kind of existing on emotions and nerve endings at this point.

Chantix is making me feel beyond weird. I had a near-48-hour period of basically not wanting to move. It did totally mess with my head and make me feel like complete crap, but as this is supposed to be "normal," I am forging ahead. I feel so much of the last year has been me "forging ahead." I hate to think that I'm missing out on anything by just trying to get the hell until the end of the day, so I can say, 'I made it...one more day."

I'm not a super emotional person. Yes, I cry at movies and other appropriate times, but I don't go around unloading my personal business on anyone who will listen (unless you read this blog, of course), but I feel like my emotions are at maximum capacity. There have been so many profound changes in my life in the last year, that once I step back and consider them, I'm not sure that I'm processing them correctly. I know, who's to say what "correctly" or "incorrectly" is, but other people in similar situations seem to be doing just fine.

Like my estranged...he seems to be doing A-okay. Let's separate for no apparent reason...BAM...let's say we're working it out, but secretly we're not..BAM....let's get divorced because you don't accept this namby-pamby approach to marriage...BAM I don't believe in arranged marriages; it's not my culture, obviously, but I do believe in giving good, mother-jumping reasons for divorcing. We could say that society has progressed and brought us further in life-fulfilling efforts to the point that divorce is less taboo than it was in say, the 50s, OR we could say that we're all so selfish and full of dishonor and able to reconcile those negative traits while professing to be good and wonderful Christians, that here we are. I will say, that I was not a perfect wife. I have never claimed to be a perfect anything, EVER. I went through deep lulls of depression over many things, namely the death of my father, the most important person in my life, but if you join yourself in spirituality and beyond to another person, you don't abandon them because they didn't turn out the way you wanted. If marriages ended that way, no one would be married. It's called being adult. Come visit me; it's nice.

I did not think I would be here, except that if I had been born in the 50s, I most definitely would've been one of those women that thought there must be something better than making a pot roast in heels, pearls, and a pinafore. So, maybe it doesn't matter when or where I am, but I do know that I'm just pissed. I always return to "Flowers for Algernon" a book by Daniel Keyes. The basic premise of the story is that Charley, the protagonist, has a sub-Forrest Gump level IQ. These scientists, based on tests on Algernon, a mouse, give him therapy to make him really smart. He becomes really smart, realizes what his life could be, falls in love, and then...parallel with Algernon's progress, reverts to dumb ol' Charley the blue-collar worker. The beauty of it, though, is that he never remembers that he was ever smart or aspired to anything above his current station in life.

It's extremely sad, and yes, like a big emotional girl, I cried when I read the book. However, my point is...wow...I so wish sometimes that I could just be a big, happy conformist. I could just take a pill, be modern-day Donna Reed/Ally McBeal, and everyone would be happy. I don't take pictures to chronicle my every step in life, I don't know the difference between a valance and a curtain. I like to drink wine, but I do also dearly love my nieces, nephew, and great-nephew, and they love me. I don't know how to make a roux or a chutney or can things, but I can outspell and out-sass the best of them. I simply don't know how I got to this place in my life, but I will make damn sure that I will never really be able to say that again. My choices will be just that, MY choices, and I am done with the guilt and second-guessing and feeling "less than." I have not changed my personality since I was five years old, and I'm not going to start now. Take it, or it was nice knowing you.

The Things You Don't See Coming

Life can just be ridiculous. I mean, it's great, too, don't get me wrong, but no matter how hard you try, you can't prepare for everything. That includes the good and the bad. I was sitting here, just languishing in the notion that I have a three-day weekend, and it hit me, as the dark thoughts do, enveloping my brain like a tree with the knotty roots that seem to be beckoning the tree to the dirt, I am a 35 (nearly 36) year-old with no grand plan.

In thinking about it a lot in the last few months, maybe a grand plan is not so smart. The world, our country even, is filled with uncertainty and indecision; hell, the government can't agree, so why should I be having anxiety attacks over my personal life? I'm not, actually. I think I can count my anxiety attacks on one hand, one involving IKEA. It just made me dizzy, as did their "instructions" on products, which consist (or did) of some bizarre graphs and then a rudimentary drawing, at best, of a really long telephone line leading back to IKEA. Are there no cordless phones in Sweden? I digress.....

I honestly cannot wrap my head around all the things I've lost in the last four years, and I guess it doesn't matter all that much, except that I keep thinking that you have no idea when life can turn on a dime. I remember Baz Luhrmann, the director (Moulin Rouge, The Great Gatsby) came out with a bizarre spoken song in the early '00s called "Wear Sunscreen," and one of the lines that has always stuck with me was " The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday."

My father died on a Monday morning, and it wasn't unexpected completely, but the fact that when we thought it would happen, and waited and waited, and it didn't, until his stubborn ass was ready to go prove those song lyrics. The slap in the face of my separation leading to pending divorce (?) took me completely by surprise. It happened on a Friday afternoon, and to say that I was not expecting it would be akin to my saying Pearl Harbor was a little surprised.

I don't know what my point is; I often have no point. Oh yeah, maybe this at least resembles a point. I never thought any of the bad things that have happened to me in the last few years would happen. Well, duh, why would I have? However, I also would have never thought that I would live for my nieces and nephew and great-nephew. When I was in high school, I eschewed children, thinking I would never want to have children, and the little irony upon me now is that I ACHE for children, but I'm not in a position to do that right now. I love that modern medicine hasn't closed that window for me, but I am also mindful that God and nature have their own ideas, too.

I think, now, in my pre-mid life, I want to rediscover life and the family I have that I was too self-involved to engage before. I want to reach out to my dad's friends...I may even have a tentative book idea, and experience parts of his life that I didn't know. I think sometimes it takes a lot of irritation to make pearls...oh, wait, the oysters have the market on that. Too bad, I have thumbs; I call dibs.

My View of Racism

I can't say that I'm an authority on racism. Yes, I was raised in Mississippi. I spent K-9 in private school, no black people in attendance, and I went sophomore year in high school through graduation at a public school. I've heard racism on both sides, believe me. I once asked a teacher in private school if she should've said the "N" word, and she sent me to the principal's office. He couldn't do anything; she shouldn't have said it. He said something stupid about not questioning teachers and sent me back to class.

I thrived in public school. I reflected a lot on how much better Macon, Miss., would be, had the schools been more integrated. I made a lot of friends, both black and white, and I repeatedly thought how I wouldn't have had that experience in Macon. You didn't do that there, or so we always were told, but I never really, and to this day, don't understand why. When I go to visit my mom in my hometown, it's still very segregated, which is weird to me after living in Philadelphia, Pa., and even in Birmingham. I get so pissed when I see racism in the news, and people automatically assume everyone in the South is still 100 years behind the times.

With every situation, I try to see it from all angles. I've never been a black person. I can't say what they've experienced or try to identify with them. I can only speak from my experience. In light of recent news items involving Paula Deen and George Zimmerman, here are my thoughts, and because clearly, this is my blog, these are my opinions only:

I think Paula Deen is a fortunate businesswoman who got unbelievably lucky because people bought into her homespun charm and plucky attitude, and the sponsors didn't realize how strongly the public would bond to her. She is a person who found herself at the right place at the right time, and maybe thought she didn't need the best PR people money could buy, and God knows, she had the money. I don't think that she is a racist. I think she is a Southern woman who maybe doesn't think the "N" word is awful. She thinks that because of the generation in which she grew up, and that is not okay. She should have had handlers that told her talking about race the way she has done in the past is not okay, and her going live on TV crying and seeming like she was the victim was not okay. She could have done things a million different ways and come out looking  alot better than she does now, and she chose not to.

In the long run, she'll be fine. She's already amassed a small fortune, and losing her endorsements is not really going to break her. America loves redemption. She'll do Oprah on Oprah's network in a year or so and come out fine. If Eliot Spitzer and Mark Sanford and that Weiner guy, all politicians, can do it, I'm sure she can. She just needs to understand consequences.

Transversely, I guess, I want George Zimmerman to get off scot-free. That case, or issue, has bothered me since it happened. I'm not used to being on this side of a race issue, if you have to delegate sides, but I think he was within his rights to shoot that boy. I heard the base facts of the case when it happened, and I thought it seemed cut-and-dry. The boy attacked him after being confronted, and he retaliated in self-defense. I thought if something came to light between then and the trial, I was all for it. Nobody wants to think about a 15-year-old being a jackass, especially when he had to die.

However, the more I hear testimony from police and witnesses, I'm resolved in that I think this was not a good kid. You don't want to say bad things about a dead teenager, and I feel for the attorney doing this, because I guarantee you, he may have his face and name splashed across the national news, but he does not feel good about bringing up derogatory facts about a dead teenager.

The media or whoever keeps trying to portray this as a "racial" crime, with Zimmerman being the "white" nemesis, and I don't understand this. He is clearly Hispanic; I have not followed the trial enough to know if he was born here, or second-generation, etc ... but I just don't see how this can be a racial crime. If a person looks suspicious and you confront them verbally, why should they attack you, or even in the first place, if they are freaked out by your suspicion, why would they go back to where you are and purposely antagonize you? I'm sorry, but I think George Zimmerman defended his neighborhood and his person according to what he knew best. I am very sorry that Trayvon Martin died, but I think he was either not in his right mind, or he had an odd way of trying to exhibit his dominance.

Coping: Emily Style

So in the last three years, I've lost my father, my grandmother, my marriage (pending), my 13-year-old dog, and my brother. Why am I not suidical, you ask? I have no tangible words of wisdom, really. I can't say: Do this, and you'll be fine. In fact, platitudes like that really piss me off. I've never had good coping skills. I have no good explanation for this, except that the first 21 years of  my life were pretty sun-kissed. I had it good. My family was close and funny and smart, and I had great friends and a bright future and endless possibilities. I was wrapped in that tight-knit bubble that all young people cling to that ensures invincibility and infinite happiness.

Each of these things has taught me a lesson. Whether I use those lessons to make a difference, even if only to myself, remains to be seen. I miss my father and my grandmother so much, it literally causes an ache inside me if I think about it too long. I want to pick up the phone and tell them something, and then, like a crazy person, I just tell them myself. I guide parts of my life by advice from them that I hear in my head, and that's what's kept me from drowning in grief.

With my precious dog Norton, I am okay with the fact that he lived to be almost 92 dog years and had a good life and was a happy, spoiled dog. When I think about him, a lot of his memory is inextricably tied to my father, and I don't care what they say about Dog Heaven. He and my dad are "at play in the fields of the Lord," as my dad used to say, and Norton is chasing squirrels, and my dad is throwing a ball that Norton will never bring back. Even in death, I don't think he deigns to fetch.

I imagine that my grandmother and my brother are driving each other crazy with the remote controls in Heaven, and my grandmother thinks it's too cold. I'm sure my brother reminds her she could've gone the other way, where being cold wouldn't have been even the slightest issue, and she tells him to hush. It's hard for me to personalize my brother's Heaven, because we weren't that close. He was 15 years older than me, and even besides that, we had grown apart in the years before he died.

I stupidly thought that I had a lot of time to repair our relationship, and I was wrong. I don't look back and have huge regrets, because he made some personal decisions that made it a lot harder for our relationship to be repaired. However, I regret that he died possibly thinking that I didn't love him. I did, but I wanted the Superhero Big Brother that I remember when I was little. I wanted him to forget about the crappy hand he was dealt and turn it into a success story and live to be a great father to his daughter and a great grandfather to his grandson, Jackson, but my wanting something doesn't make it true.

Here is what I know: In the week after my brother died, I got to spend much-needed and long-overdue time with my niece Claire, who I worry about every day, I got to spend time with my great nephew, Jackson, who is a big, hot handful of Terrible Twos (I changed two diapers!!), and I got to literally collapse into a tearful hug with my still-husband, whose presence at the funeral touched my heart in a way I can't explain, and I've gotten to take care of my mom, which seems only fair, since she's been taking care of me for 35 years.

I have no Deepak Chopra answers. I don't do things the right way. I decided to cut and dye my own hair today and just did it. I have no idea how it looks yet, because it's still wet, but I do know that I brushed a small Muppet of hair into the trash and left the dye on as long as possible because this gray hair nonsense has been going on long ENOUGH! But, I also know that my best friend of 20 years had a baby today, and that helps with the Lion King-Circle-of-Life coping....a baby! We were 17 five minutes ago. These are the things that keep me going.

The wine and the table

I knocked over a glass of wine, and the violet rivulets ran into every crack of the table's facade.
My soul pained at the absorption of all of the heaviness, seeping into crevices I had not previously known.

Each new tributary mirrored an unspoken desire or a compromise I didn't want to make.
These red vines encompassed me with each trickling invasion.

But I do want to live out loud and make no apologies, and I do want to have a little soul staring back at me with full-bodied love. And I do want to sing and be silly and not be made a fool for doing so.

The tannins will destroy the veneer and the structure of the table, embedding into the foundation that makes it a table. I can't remember when I wasn't apologizing for something for which I didn't feel sorry.

Contents under Pressure May Freak Out

I'm sort of an emotional ticking time bomb. I'm pretty much okay 95% of the time, but that 5%, hold on to your hats, or my hat, I guess, if I could pull off wearing a hat. I've had this underlying feeling of annoyance for the past week (ish), but like all good WASPs, I pushed it down and covered it with food and wine. Today, it burst forth, making me cry on my drive home from work, because the only thing I could find on the radio were a. love songs, b. songs of personal import, and c. NPR, who I love, but sometimes bore and/or irritate me to distraction.

I think I've somewhat narrowed down my annoyances to these:

1. Is everyone a couple, and if so, why are they all pregnant? I am not a bitter person, well, that's not true, but I've never, ever been jealous or covetous of anyone else's happiness. My very best friend in the world is having a baby, and I honestly could not be happier. However, I find myself otherwise surrounded by some couples that, if I played the odds, I would clean up betting against, yet, there they are, happy and child-flushed. I know they could be arguing over why hubby watches gay porn, but from the bittersweet outside, I feel a little sad.

2. Wouldn't it be nice if you knew how your life would play out? I was raised Presbyterian; we believe in all that pre-destined, no free-will business. If that's really the case, just give us a heads up. Maybe I would've not begun a love of soft cheeses and fried pickles if I knew I would be single in my mid-30s. Dating or being naked in front of anyone is the furthest thing from my mind, but, damn...if I had known there'd be all these other mid-30's divorcees to contend with, I might've given it a second thought.

3. Cooking for one person is a pain in the ass. I didn't even really cook before I got married, and then I became a pseudo culinary adventurist. I had magazine subscriptions, daily e-mails, I learned how to use paprika and rosemary. And now, if I want lasagna, it makes more economical sense to buy the sad Stouffer's frozen lasagna, which has far too much oregano. I made lasagna last week for three people, and I just threw away leftovers. Frozen dinners make me sad.

4. Random insomnia makes me mad. I've gone back and forth, first not being able to sleep without another person, then overtaking the entire bed to assert my independence, and now, just sort of confusedly sleeping anywhere from my side to the middle. I never thought that snoring and twitching would be oddly comforting, and that pisses me off on a giant scale. I've always slept fine. I can nap anywhere; I slept in an airplane seat on a flight from Detroit to Paris in a little ball, no problem, and now, I can hear murderers waiting until I fall asleep to slip into the bedroom to kill me. Little do they know, I have an 8-iron under the bed...so....that should serve as a warning.

5. This spot is reserved for all the things I can't delineate. Sometimes, I may need help putting on a necklace or identifying a spider. I abhor taking out the trash, and I miss hearing, "You look nice." I have a wedding DVD I secretly want to watch, but fear I will either explode or throw up if I do, so I don't. I am only "with myself," and it's sobering to absorb what that really means. I don't regret my marriage, but I am sorry that I am now saddled with such distrust and cynicism, that it's hard for me to picture being really happy again.

"A divorce is like an amputation: you survive it, but there's less of you."
Margaret Atwood
 

Not So Much for the Self-Help Books

So, I was trying to be all healthy and pro-active, and I bought two books to help me deal with and process my divorce. The first one has already pissed me off to the point that I threw it and am trying to decide if I want to resume it or not. I don't like all this tree-hugging "step" business ...steps in divorce coping, we're climbing a mountain, blah, blah, blah. Can't we mention the "bottle of wine" step and the "not going outdoors" step. These are the ones with which I'm familiar.

I'm not saying that these books may not be eventually be a little more helpful, and it may be that I have to take bits and pieces from each one to use for my situation. I guess it seems like most of these books paint the reader into a corner of patheticism (yep, it's a word..my word), and I don't feel pathetic. I think I did before, but I'm past that feeling. Now, I'm just sort of simultaneously angry/emboldened.

If I wanted to, I'd get a tattoo...but I don't want to. What I want to do is ....

1. Start taking guitar lessons again -- That cranky guy in Philadelphia with no air conditioning will not deter me from doing something I've always wanted to do. I have the guitar, just need to find a teacher.

2. Buy a new car with payments I can handle, that I VOW to keep clean and up-to-date on maintenance, that won't cause me to be broken down on the side of any road. But, once again, thank GOD for Triple A and my honest buddies at Gardendale Express Oil. These guys have checked tire pressure, fluids, and fixed my windshield wipers for free.

3. Cooking better and getting off my ass to be and feel healthier. I have adopted a "I can do what I want" philosophy since moving ahead with divorce plans. It doesn't feel bad, I have to say, but my pants are a little tight, since I decided pizza and anything I felt like eating were tenets of this philosophy. Sadly, I'm not 20 anymore, so I can't just eat whatever I want and expect no consequences, which brings me to....

4. I don't want to be 35 and divorced...unless Christopher Lloyd and Michael J. Fox show up with a Delorian and a flux capacitor, I realize this is not possible, but this is the angry part of my personality right now. I want children, desperately...well, the one...I want one child.

So, here I am, 35 years old, about to be divorced, and childless. I do not want to be in a hurry to date, much less get married again, so we're looking at maybe 38-ish before I could be married again, and that's on the outside spectrum with my attitude these days. I wouldn't want to rush right into having children, so then we're looking at maybe 40. I know you can do that, and I know that people do that, but that whole biological issue makes me want to have a little talk with Eve in the Garden of Eden, and say, "Really? You had the eat the apple? You have no idea what you're doing to your fellow females."

For now, I am going to read novels and leave the self-help books in my sock drawer where they can't cause any harm until I'm ready to face the cheesy steps up the mountain again. Also, this is new, my mother calls me every day, and if I don't answer once or twice, she then decides I'm dead or in jail and leaves me the horrible messages "you need to call me; where are you? I'm worried. Are you in a ditch?" Ch-ch-ch-anges....