Night Falls

I want to be able to write like I used to – with careless abandon. These days it is like pulling teeth.

I’ve been working harder then I should. I’ve been working until my eyes burn and I cannot see straight. Until my body stops moving properly and goes numb in places.

I work until I want to cry but cannot because I have so much I need to get done. And that’s the point: I work so I don’t have to feel.

But night falls and even I cannot fill every single moment with movement that obscures my absolute reality: I am so fucking lonely.

But you would not know it. No, people do not seem aware because I smile and I laugh and I am polite and ask the right questions whilst waiting for the answers. And then I disappear back to my shop and work until I forget that another way to live exists.

I forget what it feels like to be in love and have built walls so high that any man who attempts to climb them will surely fall. Walls so high that I cannot see the bottom when I look down.

But I don’t have time to look – I just keep working.


It may be because I am sick with an awful cold or it may simply be my truth. We all have our own truth; we all walk down different trails in life and stumble from time to time. But I am lonely. I am lonely if I am in a room of people. I am lonely when I laugh and when I smile and when I have loved and have made love.

c0b2e0a040e912373795517934ab5804What has made me this way? What has caused me to earnestly believe that life outside the very small and intentional life I have built does not exist? Why do I isolate myself?

I wake up early, 6 a.m, after long nights of tossing and turning. This is my normal. I have a large bed and when I look to my right my chocolate lab, Keaton, sleeps beside me. Sometimes he is lying on his back, his legs in the air, and I smile. At the end of my bed is my cat, Ozzy, he’s 9 years old now and a fluffy Garfield of a cat. But I wonder how much longer I can sleep without another person beside me.

I have been in love twice. I recall waking up to a warm body and arms around my torso. I remember a masculine hand toying with my hair before I fell asleep. I remember being sick, as I am now, and having someone love me enough to buy me frozen yogurt and kiss me on the cheek. I remember feeling safe.

So, what happened? Why are my walls so high? It’s almost cliche for me to talk about sexual abuse and the impact it has had on my ability to form new and healthy relationships. After all, it’s all over the internet now. Women – and men – stating simply “me too” to indicate that they have been the target of sexual abuse and/or harassment.

But those two small words – what do they mean? What do they look like? What do they fucking feel like?

They mean something different to each person who states them. But for me they conjure up memories of men from my past. Bad men. Men who kicked me in the stomach and forced me to do things I no longer ever want to do again. Men who called me words like “Cun*” and “stupid fucking bitch.” Men who told me I was ugly, fat, worthless.

stuck-in-a-box-step-outIf you are told you are something for long enough you start to believe it. So I pulled away. I’ve locked myself inside of myself because I am scared. I tell myself, every single day, that it’s better to be alone then to be hurt.

And my mother and sister tell me, “date someone nice” and so I do. I go on dates with nice men but as soon as they simply rest a hand on mine I pull away. I don’t mean to – it just sort of happens. I am scared of all men now. But I want so badly to have a relationship and life outside of the little box I have built. Outside. of. Myself.

But I cannot blame them – not entirely. I understand that those who hurt others were often hurt themselves. I could have left these situations earlier. I could have and should have gone to the police. But I was too scared. I thought it must somehow be my fault. I thought nobody would believe me.

So, me too.

Vegans Never Get Sick

That falls under the “bollocks” category. I have a medicine cabinet well stocked with all the things one needs to battle the cold and flu. Mind you they are not the kind of remedies you find when looking through the aisles for cough syrup. I have licorice root and honey and oregano oil. I have a fridge full of healthy organic food and protein sources. I exercise an hour a day (many thanks to my hyper chocolate lab) and drink enough water to sink if placed in a pool.

But I’m sitting here absolutely miserable. There’s a little bit of snow on the ground; the afternoon sun dances on it. It’s beautiful. My dog glares at me. He does not like the tired and sick version of me and neither do I.

I’m not great at sitting still. I never have been and so I struggle, with a foggy head and sore throat and rasping cough, to get on with things.

I should drink tea and watch Netflix I muse. I should go for a 90 minute hike in the woods. I should make chili and read a book, warm in a blanket. I should go for a run and try to run it off. Or I should just give myself a damn break once a while.

After all, we all fall down from time to time. Even vegans.


An Introverts trip to the walk-in Clinic

WalkInClinicI sat in a walk-in Clinic yesterday waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Organizing the piles of magazines and books so they looked pretty. Putting the brochures in the right holders.

Man Over 70 beside me: “You’ll become more patient when you get old like me.”

Me: “Unlikely. My parents are workaholics and they can’t sit still”

Man: “Your house must be pretty clean then?”

*thinking about how I practice minimalism and love the sound of the echo in a room if only essentials are in it*

I reply: “Yeah. It’s pretty clean”

Man: “How old are you anyway?”

Me: “Very old. Indeed. 32” Thinking to myself I am old enough to engage in stupid conversations like this one.

Man who has suddenly realized I am perhaps Old Enough: “You don’t look a day over 22!”

Me: “It must be the hat”

I pick up a wooden train toy and spin the wheels, thinking how everyone looks younger as you grow older

Man: “You’re too young to ever get sick”

I think to myself, Jesus Christ, this is what happens when I talk. I become too friendly and people keep talking.

I reply: “Ah, everyone gets sick once and a while” A few people sneeze as if in response and I stare with longing at the hand sanitizer on the receptionists desk.

Man: “Well, you’ll learn to be patient when you get sick. Trust me on that.”

He then explains his prostate surgery. I wonder if I know what a prostate is. Per se.

I reply: “I suppose when one must be patient then they are patients

This has an undesired effect. I was going for the pun here but he seems to think it’s some brilliant logic when its simply logic.

He keeps talking and I keep organizing the magazines. Why do they have 2006 copies of House and Home? What is the difference between a house and Home? A song comes to mind, something about a house not being a home. . .Ah, that’s it. This House is Not a Home.

Finally, after what feels like hours, he is called in. I am still sitting there when he walks out. He bellows across the small waiting room littered with people, “YOU’RE STILL HERE!” as if this is a divine situation and if it is he is prepared for it. He strides over to me, a folded piece of paper in his hand, and hands it to me. It has his name and his phone number on it. Men, I realize, will be men. At any age. Most, anyway.

pe0034006Not a minute later the door bangs open and a couple, likely around my senior age of early thirty something, walks in. They have a baby. It is very small as babies tend to be. They sit beside me although many chairs with much more room exist.

The baby starts reaching for me, its little baby arms within distance of my face, my hat, like baby claws. The father turns and smiles at me.

Him: “Ah, you must be a kid person!”

I think to myself, no, not really. Not at all. I want to say, “No. I like big dogs. Your small child thing is rather terrifying to be honest.”

I reply: “Yes, I have a niece round’ that age” I wonder if my dog misses me and when this small child will finally grab my hat or vomit sideways on my lap.

I am not sure of the child’s gender, so I am careful with any words. Parents do not like their offspring being referred to as “It”

Him: “It’s amazing!”

That is all he says. I want to ask him what is amazing. Is it amazing he was able to have sex with the woman beside him and she became pregnant? Is it amazing the small child thing has extremely long reaching arms? I assume this is something only parents understand.

We are called into separate offices at the same time, though they leave the doors open. Thus for 30 minutes I listen to the small child scream and the parents coo and I wonder, in that moment, if I understand anything at all.




Back Pain is a Pain in the Back

Wait for it – ah, there it is! The worlds tiniest violin playing me a song. Oh, and I just typed “violion” – if not for auto spell check what would become of my ability to write, or perhaps, even speak? But first . . .

Back Pain is a Pain in the Back

6a0115710fc794970c0148c690567b970c-320wiMy back hurts. It’s been bothering me since I started designing jewelry and using hammers and power tools and bending in awkward positions to string beads. It got worse when my 100lb rescue dog never quite learned how to stop pulling. It certainly worsened when I picked up my first DSLR camera and took to the woods and ocean, taking pictures of everything, ignoring my back when it told me to stop attempting to take pictures of things very small and things very large.

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Minimalism & My Mom

About a year ago, my mom comes over, the conversation went something like this:

Mom (her eyes scanning my kitchen): “You really have a lot of stuff.”

Me “Would you please stop going through my kitchen drawers?”

Mom “I’m just checking to see if you have any of my cutlery. I’m missing two spoons”

I consider the irony in this comment as we move to my indoor studio area.

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Turning 32 & Finding my Passion (sort of)

Preface: What does “turning 32” actually mean? It doesn’t make much sense if you think about it. You are not literally turning into something else altogether are you?

Please, don’t answer that. I need to keep using that particular adjective for a paragraph or two.

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Reality Versus Expectation Part I

I remember being a child, still wearing a polka dot rain coat, and sitting cross legged in my small bedroom, a medical textbook on my lap, a notepad by my side.

las-vegas-kid-doctor I knew – with absolute certainty – that I would Grow Up and don that bright white coat, numbers swimming in my newly adult mind, and spend my life helping other people. Sick people.

When teachers asked, as they invariably do when your young and impressionable and full of ideas, what I was going to be when I grew up – I told them. A Doctor.

The kids beside me gave their own socially influenced answers: A fireman, a police officer, a movie star, Hannah Montana, whatever their parents did at the time, batman. We all had dreams. Those pesky things that remind us, as adults, that Reality is never the same as our Expectations.

Or, is it?

Continue reading “Reality Versus Expectation Part I”