I Did Something Dumb Last Night

And it was nearly worth it. OK, it was worth it.

Although I’ve not been good about writing and I don’t know why, because I really have a vision for this site – I, for the most part, do the right thing. I spend more money than I should and gossip more than is becoming. Also working on both.

Other than that, I take my practice seriously. I’ve spent years trying to tame my mind. I don’t take the low road during fights (though patting myself on the back for this isn’t exactly celebratory), I don’t say things in anger and I don’t try to win fights. I measure my responses. I wait until I’m removed enough emotionally to act or speak. Shutting down is something I struggle with now, but it’s a lot better than the days when I’d go off half-cocked looking for a fight.

Until last night. I’ve been itching for a fight for days, I think. Too many spent being compassionate, listening, reassuring, putting my needs second, asking for nothing. All of that and we broke up anyway. So I was itching.

I just felt like doing <i>something</i>, despite telling a friend THE DAY BEFORE that not calling, not responding IS action. (What, practice.)

I fought the itch. For days. Then hours. Then minutes. Then not at all. I reasoned that we’d already broken up. But I knew I really just wanted to test the waters. Has all my taming been as boring as it’s felt of late? Would the outcome be the same if I just bled all over the place?

It was a quick little fart. Barely satisfying. Immature. Indefendable. Stupid.

And I got to see a side of this one that I wish I’d seen earlier. Learned he wasn’t worth another second of thought.

But, mostly, that acting out wasn’t worth it. Taking the high road all this time has been the right thing to do. Tantrums don’t really feel as good as they seem like they will. And if I’d really liked this one, this was a really really big fuck.

How long, sweet tantrum, will I be able to wait for the next one? It’s nice to know it’s possible I’ll remember they’re overrated.

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A Rose by Any Other Name

When I took Refuge the other night, I was faced with an unexpected dilemma. The name I was given in my first refuge ceremony (Karma Kunchuk) was given specifically to me by people who knew me. I liked what it meant (rare and sublime) and even that it was two (not three!) Ks (not like the Kardashians, but because my real first name is annoyingly with a K; not like Krobert, but a K instead of Ch).

That was a lot of parentheses.

So I expected when I took refuge the second time that I would keep my original name for all of those reasons. EXCEPT this one also resonates with me. In that column, we also have the practice of nonattachment. Also, I could be the Puffy of the Buddhist set – change my name every few years.

In the interest of nonattachment, I’ve decided not to decide. Wear them both for a while because no one’s reading this yet anyway. But I thought I’d write about it anyway. It’s the kind of thing I sort of struggle with – moving forward, nonattachment but also problems with commitment. I’m regarded in my circles as The Best Get-It-Done Bitch, but also walking away from things too easily.

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Shedding Skin

Fuck all that.

Fuck the boys and the move and all of it. Fuck it. I’m due for a sea change (is that the spelling?) and here it is. So fuck everything that’s come before.

I took refuge again last night. Somehow I feel different today. I feel lighter. I’m ready to get 3.0 underway.

I’ve earned it.

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Poor Me.

I’ve been a little (or a lot) full of self pity lately. The ┬álast few months have been difficult and long and lots of things – except fun. I’ve been back in town for about 10 months, with very little to show for it. The boy I have feelings for hasn’t talked to me in four months. A whole group of friends I thought I had, I ain’t got. The apartment I had been excited about fell through.

And – most importantly – I don’t feel better. Quite the opposite. I’ve spent eight months at the doctor. Every doctor. For every body part. Averaging about three or four a week. This has left little time for me to DO anything.

So I’ve been kind of pissy about it. Waiting for things to turn around. Until I realized something the other day – yes, it’s been miserable and exhausting and expensive and absolutely no fun. BUT I have so many more answers about my health than I started the year with. And that’s everything. A year from now I’ll forget about how sick of being sick I am right now. Because all these answers give me opportunities to feel better. I’m never going to feel great, that’s true. But I now get an opportunity to make some changes that should help. Which makes my lost year almost worth it.

It puts me back in the middle – which is the goal. I’m able to look at where I am and appreciate it more than I have been.

Also, I’ve been doing a little yoga everyday and my butt looks great.

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Fight Back. Quietly.

I’m allowed to be happy. Everything doesn’t have to turn to shit.

When did I forget this?

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I’m trying to figure out when the meltdowns started. I was looking for something and ran across something I’d written: I’m waiting for the other shoe to fall. At first, I don’t know what I’d written that in response to.

But now I do. I’m in this constant state of shark – I keep moving because when I settle down I won’t get back up.

I haven’t done anything fun in months. My reality is doctors and more doctors and more tests and more days feeling like shit. I stay home so I can rest for more doctor appointments. It’s relentless. It’s also finally slowing down and hopefully I can find myself again. I do feel a type of relief knowing it’s not my surroundings, it’s just me.

I’m embarrassed at how I acted. But also angry that no one else seemed to understand what was going on. I feel like the progress made with my mother is gone. It saddens me and angers me also. There’s no effort to alleviate what was obviously me struggling. And then I get double punished because once again I’m the problem. Had the circumstances been switched, I would have seen what was going on. There would not be punishment afterward. Only empathy.

I don’t know who I got that from, because I don’t know anyone else who has it in my family. It’s exhausting that the people I’m around don’t see how exhausted I am. And that I’m too exhausted to go out and get new people around me.

It feels like I’m developing PTSD over one dinner – but I’m also trying to use it to see how I can prevent it in the future. Shutting down didn’t really work either.

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Happy New Year

I’m giving up snapping for Yom Kippur (or whichever High Holiday would be most appropriate). I know it’s mostly health related, but it’s unacceptable. It’s getting in my way. I don’t even always think I’m in the wrong, but it is certainly the wrong response. And it leaves me feeling so shitty.

The first step, I think, is forcing myself to apologize each time I do it. Accountability might be incentive if I knew I had to eat shit every time I melted down.

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Lesson One, 2002

When I first got sick and was unable to work, I really struggled with the difference between being worthless and useless. Work was all I’d ever know and all I’d ever thought about. I had no identity beyond what my job was. Take that away – what was left?

The sad thing was that as my success grew, I became tragically boring. I had nothing to talk to people about except work. Didn’t really care about my relationships out of work (especially and particularly my exhusband). Wasn’t interested in anything but work.

But then I got sick – too sick to work. I left on disability and was fired two weeks later. I lost my friends, my roommate, even my cats both died within six months of one another. Everything that mattered was just gone in a really shitty four-month period. I didn’t know whom to trust – and realized pretty quickly that mostly I couldn’t trust myself.

This is a period of time that I’m sure will come up again and again, but there’s a specific component that’s on my mind tonight.

So – I couldn’t work. What contribution to anything was I going to be able to make? I felt both useless and worthless and – feelings of insecurity and flat-out motion sickness aside – just didn’t know who I was anymore.

(blah blah blah – topic for another post. tomorrow?? dare to dream.)

I had a great shrink and a determined mindset that my life was getting a reboot and I’d better to a better job of it the second time around. While it sounds fairly dramatic and fatalistic, I realized (fairly quickly, in my defense) that worthlessness and uselessness were two separate things.

Yeah, I was kind of useless. I fucked around, tried on different hobbies, made attempts to find friends … whatever. So I wasn’t of much use personally, globally, to anyone on my block if you want to get really myopic. I was an emotional mess from all the loss and couldn’t work and make money. I couldn’t deal with relationships. So I was no one. A lump.

Then I started volunteering. I also noticed that now I had more to talk about. Buddhism gave me direction and compassion and a fair amount of quiet for an incredibly turbulent time. I volunteered. I realized how much the people around me asked for advice (usually of the I-ain’t-got-time-to-fuck-around variety, to mixed results. If anything, being needed like this became a crutch. I was/am usually the strong one, my head’s on my shoulders, I don’t suffer a lot of bullshit. But it makes me fight the feelings of only feeling special when I’m needed by someone in a way that others can’t provide. That part is something I still struggle with.

So I’m not worthless. I can’t make a living. I need more help from people around me than I will ever used to. But I have value.

This has gotten me through a long decade, and I always feel for people at this particular crossroad. It still motivates me when I get rutty (like now). I’m not sure I’ll ever as useful as I did when I could take care of myself.

Every so often, this wound reopens. Recently by one of the boys in the stable. I’m still trying to work out exactly why he makes me feel this way – and I’ll share when I do. It’s one of the things that cuts me off at the knees when I encounter it. I also get particularly sensitive to feeling used – maybe because all these feelings are so new to me. Maybe because I was always the go-to girl personally and professionally and I don’t really want to feel that way.

It’s too much of a crutch. And it’s a false sense of value and worth. It dances around manipulation and ego-stroking. It’s another place where balance is key and finding the middle way is the goal. I try to recognize when I’m being helpful and not just a little manipulative – because I like to be needed. I understand it, I’m good at it – if I could do any job I would be a fixer/cleaner. I’d be Olivia Pope. I’d be great at it, but I think at the sacrifice of finding quiet. It’s too easy to be the calm in the storm. Because what the fuck am I supposed to do or be between storms? I understand how to fix things and Shrink pointed out it keeps people at arms length. And it’s the reason I had no friends when my shit fell apart – I was a fixer who couldn’t fix. It took some time to recognize my part in losing friends when I got sick. They just didn’t need me if I couldn’t deal with their needs and they realized my needs at the time were all consuming. Barely skipped a beat when they had to find a new fixer.

And why is this boy setting it off? I will get to the heart of it.


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A Gallon of Laxatives Clears My Head

Literally. Unfortunately, I’ve spent the last 24 hours on pretty much nothing but a gallon of laxatives and lemonade to prep for being violated two different ways (up and down) on Friday.

I haven’t yet touched on the vows I took a few years back. Nothing special, garden variety refuge. I plan on talking at more length once I start dicking around. Which should have been by now, but at least I’ve started making some traction.

In any case, the Buddhist vows are surprisingly easy and open to interpretation. No killing shit, no stealing shit, no talking shit. Be a reasonable human being when fucking shit. There’s another one too. Escapes me.

There are five total, and they shouldn’t be a struggle for anyone who’s not a complete asshole. Though I have some trouble with not gossiping (or shopping). There are extended vows too – for people who are serious. I should look them up – but there’s one in particular I’m interested in today.

I have to start doing right by my damned body. No more sugar. The best I ever felt – digestively – was when I went off sugar. Except I lost so much weight, everyone got nutty and the prescription for more ice cream was a slippery slope.

I can’t exactly swap the gossiping vow for the eating better vow, but it should set me a little straighter. It sucks – I like licorice and chocolate chip cookies and ice cream. But, yo, those things DO NOT like me. I’m a gassy, bloated little sausage as a result. It’s like smoking – something I love but ain’t no good for me.

Since I’m on this stupid fast and laxatives thing for my colonoscopy, it seems like a perfect time to cut ties. I’ll be cleared out and ready to start anew. The first time around it was so easy to quit – like smoking. The second time is excrutiating – like smoking. But the body hates what the body hates. So there we are.

I’m hoping a rough couple months paves the way for a decent transition. I still miss smoking, but don’t really think that much about it. Sugar – she is a cruel mistress. But it’s time to cut her loose.


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Do you have any idea what it’s like waiting for shit to happen?

Literally, unfortunately. I’m having a colonoscopy/endoscopy Friday. My system is sluggish (to say the least) and I’m having to start the laxative stuff to drink a few days year. Then I get to drink it AGAIN on Thursday. I can’t really leave the house to do anything because there’s (slight) chance that’s when my sluggish system will kick in. Also, Murphy’s Law ensures this.

It’s pretty symbolic for how my life has been the last few months (or years, but we’re forgetting THAT COLD PLACE ever happened). Waiting to feel better, waiting for a boy (or that boy or even that boy or the first one then the last one) to call/text/remember I’m alive.

And now I get to wait for my bowels to kick in. I have a doctor that at best is dismissive and at worst thinks I’m exaggerating. Who knows what the fuck he’s going to do to me when this gallon (GALLON) of laxative I’ve been drinking for two days doesn’t work.

So I wait. I’m trying not to go crazy. Though going anything at this point might be a relief.

Thank Santa I have the pool! It’s such a strange safe haven for me. It’s the place I feel the least anxiety these days. The most whole and quiet and floaty. Which is crazy ironic for someone who’s been terrified of water since she was 3 months old.

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