My Own Worst Enemy

Something interesting happened to me last night that I need to remember.

I'm taking a drafting class this semester--a subject notoriously my enemy.
Drafting has resulted in many tears and frustrations over the years, and was a subject I just couldn't master.
Rather than continue in frustration in the past, I dropped the class.
The question was whether my inability to do well was some kind of inherent obstacle (not everyone can do certain things, and perhaps drafting was just over my head somehow), or just a mental one.
Perhaps drafting was like drawing for me--I just THINK I can't do it.

I tend to have a little devil on my shoulder, grown fat and strong over time, who starts berating me in my head.
I will listen to a loop of reminders of failures, of my inability to find a niche, of "you can't", blah, blah, blah.
More often than not, and far too many times to count, that devil has been convincing.
That devil has been believable.

This semester I have the advantage of an amazing teacher who shares her shortcuts (lettering with ease when graph paper is underneath? No guide lines to draw. Who knew?!).
She uses excellent visual examples, and positive reinforcement.
She takes us through baby steps, versus teachers in the past who expected professional construction documents completed, even before students understood how to make a concept drawing.
In retrospect, of COURSE I was overwhelmed.

I knew that if I was going to conquer this beast known as drafting, she was my last opportunity.
Then, as things go, I missed a class. Then another.
I figured there was no way to catch up, and yet again I had better drop (cue negative devil on my shoulder to tell me I suck).
Then I found out it was too late to drop without a 'W' for withdrawal appearing on my record (may as well be an 'F').
Hmmm. What to do?

I decided to take my creased and smudged piece of vellum and throw a design together so I could at least get some kind of grade.
I just wanted to turn in SOMETHING.
I didn't have the right kind of circle templates or colored pencils, but I made do with a compass and some pencils my mom used to use in stamping classes.
I managed to put something onto paper.
I packed up my supply box, rolled up my now completed project, and took a trepidacious step into class last night.

What? I had to present the project to the class?
Groan...dread...embarrassment.
Would I be a laughing stock?

Imagine my surprise, then, when I unrolled my paper to show the teacher, and she stood there mesmerized.
In fact, when I presented, she told the class "don't be intimidated" by my coloring.
Huh?
She said my coloring technique looked like oil paint, it showed dimension, and it was excellent, she said.
Huh?
She asked me to give the class a tutorial on my technique.
The devil on my shoulder was in a tizzy.

My gosh...go figure.
I guess I can draft after all.
What an accomplishment. What a feeling!
Now just to starve that damned devil.

Terry: October 14, 1990-July 9, 2009

Death, you are not my friend.
In fact, I hate you.
I want you to take your greedy little hands and go away from here.
You take...you change things...you leave a hollow void behind.
You are not "a blessing", you are not okay because "he lived a good, long life".

Inside, I am throwing a tantrum. I am slamming my fists, I am screaming, "It's not fair!".
Another part of me is just overwhelmed by sadness and loss.
I am enveloped by the pain. My stomach is in knots, I feel nauseous.
My tears have etched ridges on the side of my eyes.

Yet another part of me reminds myself to be grateful for all the moments I did have, and for this special closeness I was granted.
This very very special angel that came into my life, and stayed three months short of 19 years.

And hopefully, eventually, this numbness will soften into a peace.
All I know is my love for Terry is so huge as to cover the earth.
If only I had special powers, if only I could perform miracles, I would have kept him here by my side forever.
I can only pray that Heaven exists, and that God lets animals in the gates.
Knowing I will see him again gives me hope.



Some people don't like animals, and don't have pets.
Others say they like animals, but treat their pets as backyard ornaments.
Some people love their pets, but on the same level that one loves a favorite piece of furniture--it's great, but if something happens to it, well, life goes on.
For me, it's an entirely different experience.
Being a pet sitter, obviously bringing joy to animals is my primary focus.
I love the pets I watch.
Nothing makes me happier than seeing a dog smile.

But my heart always beat the strongest for Terry.

A boyfriend gave me Terry in 1991, for Valentine's Day.
I had a fluffy gray male cat at the time, and had asked for a companion to match. Literally.
I asked for a long-haired, gray, female kitten.
It was pretty funny that what I received was just the opposite--a short-haired, black, male that was four months old.

But the truth was that he was the best cat on the planet. I have had cats my whole life, and I love cats, I know cats, but Terry was extraordinary.
Sweet sweet sweet.
Would climb on my shoulder and purr.
Would sleep under the covers with me and snuggle.
A little spirit companion.

For some of us, our pets are our friends, companions, rock, support...and family.
I called him my "super special angel kitty".
He was my "bear bear" for almost 19 years.
I am so so thankful for having had him in my life--and that is what I am trying to hold on to....the positives, the gratefulness.
Because to wish him to go on forever is thinking of my own selfishness.
But it is just so damn hard.
I verge one moment on falling apart, so the next I am in zombie mode to protect myself.
So many people don't understand. He was "only" a cat, they think.
But how sad for them that they haven't experienced a connection with an animal, because that connection is a truly magical thing.

Terry definitely lived all his nine lives--two or three times he just missed death's grasp after urinary tract problems, hyper thyroid, raspy breathing, and high blood pressure.
There were multiple trips to emergency over the years.
Trips to the vet on holidays.
Over a year ago a vet told me he didn't expect him to live more than a few months. I am so glad that vet was wrong.

When I would be gone for extended times house-sitting, he would deteriorate a bit. He always revived when I came home.
Imagine my guilt when I was caring for someone else's cat last week, in someone else's home, when my own was dying.
It's so hard to juggle life and bills and still give adequate attention to family, friends, and our pets.
I try so so hard, but always question if I've done enough.

I found a new vet who is more loving and understanding.
She said listen to him, and he'll tell you when it's time to go.
She said he hung on this long because he wanted to stay with me.
God that makes me cry every time.

Right now I am just holding on by a thread.
Prayer gives me a life vest.

previous posts about Terry here, here, here, and here.

Mirror, mirror....

Lately I feel as if a number of situations are coming together...conspiring with the universe...to make me take notice.
Have you ever stumbled across a comment from a stranger, or a phrase in a book, or something that just seems more than coincidence?
Like all these things, these blips, are part of a puzzle, or pieces in the game of life that God intends for you to see, to feel, to learn?

I've been very introspective lately.
Not so unusual for me maybe, but I've been even more introspective than usual.
I have been an emotional dishrag.
And because I've said many times that blogs are journals that should reflect our real selves, that should delve below the surface...well, it would be pretty hypocritical of me if I didn't occasionally stop here to ponder.
It is still scary, however, to give my feelings a voice.

There are certain things I believe--things that I know to be true--either from a common sense standpoint or my own experience.
Yet in reality, in my own life practice, sometimes I fail to follow these beliefs. Sometimes I hold back subconsciously.
I always say that the body will let you know when something in your life is off.
The body will identify stress and make a part weak, or sick.
It will say, "Kaboom!" if you have a issue that you need to address.

The problem, in my opinion, with today's medical philosophies is that we are inclined to pop painkillers when our bodies ache, anti-depressants when our hearts ache, and schedule surgeries when body parts aren't shiny and new.
We have forgotten how to listen to our signals.
Pains and aches aren't meant to be silenced, but meant to engender response.
To feel. To care for our own needs.

In November of 2003, my father died. Even now I rarely talk about his passing.
Even now I have not ironed out my grief.
Even now the wound still bleeds.
In 2003 I was a size 6. I still felt fat.
In October of 2004, my boyfriend of four years pulled a surprise exit.
My grief expanded. So did my body size.

Fast forward to 2009, and I wear a size 14. At least.
I do not envision myself as fat.
I am always shocked when I see myself in the mirror.
I do not recognize myself. I do not like what I see.
Why do I not feel heavy when I am, and feel fat when I am not?

I have not been in the state of mind to motivate myself to change back to my "normal" self. Why?
I have theorized that subconsciously I gained weight on purpose, in both an attempt to find a man who wasn't concerned with "trivial" stuff like appearance, but also because weight acted as a shield against creepy men or creepy comments, or the possibility of being rejected again.
As much as I preach that I do not want my life to be crippled by fear, fear molds me.

Tonight I watched a documentary of the making of the Broadway musical "In the Heights".
The play was the making of a dream for the cast, the writer, and the director.
At one point an actor said, "Fear is the thing that controls everything in this world. Not God, not love...fear."

Sometimes I feel like I'm 20 years old again, faced with a multitude of choices.
I am still standing at that crossroads, but the intersection is in the middle of the freeway, and all around me life is zooming past.
Zoom, zoom...I am stuck not knowing where to step.
So I have not stepped at all.
Fear of change, of success or of failure. Who knows. Fear.

I have started listening to audio books when I drive, or while I sit for long periods of time sewing.
The last book I heard was "Speak", about a 13 year old girl who is raped, and reacts by becoming mute. By retreating into herself.

If my reactions are silent, my body is not.
About two years ago, I started experiencing problems with fatigue and pain in my right hip.
Last year I finally sought relief by a chiropractor.
He helped, but at too great a cost (literally. I couldn't afford him).
So I recently started going to physical therapy. The therapists also address women's health issues.
These therapists use methods that are rarely (sadly) practiced anymore: manual manipulation.
They use their hands, and they feel.
This is what being an Osteopath used to be. This is a lost art.
The body has a language, but we have forgotten the verbs.

Today the therapist felt my right hip restricting, the organs within tight and unmoving.
Then she said something to me that gathered all these separate blips into one concrete whole.
She had me undress, and when she walked back in the room, she commented about my body language.
Ah, the body talks in so many ways.
Feet crossed, arms crossed...
so many ways we can hollow ourselves out--to become invisible.
It is a language of protection.

I didn't realize I was doing that.
I didn't realize I was afraid. That fear holds me back.
My body is telling me...has been telling me for a long time.
In many ways, I am numb. I am deadened. I am hazy.
But my body is yelling at me to change.

Yes, I have experienced abuse, but it was many years ago.
Yes, I am the epitome of lost dreams and confusion.
I'm not going to whine and tell you that I've had a bad life, because I haven't.
Ironically, when my head hits the pillow I am mostly content.
Why and what do I fear?

I think, perhaps, I am a very sensitive person, and every mean comment, every friend who turned and walked away, every man who lied to me...it all piled up like bits of newspaper coated in paste and covered me in paper mache.
Now I have to find whatever it is I need to break open the pinata...to allow the treasures within to shine again.
If I find that something...I'll let you know.
But I seem to see light filtering through up ahead.