Tears

Tears are words your heart can't express. ~Anon

It seems I've cried a million tears, for a million different reasons. And for every time I thought that they were for naught, this quote has shown me otherwise.

For every tear I've shed there has been a reason. Happiness, sadness, pain, agony, suffering, grieving, joy ... each tear shed was an expression of me that I couldn't communicate any other way.

Doubt

Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother.
~Kahlil Gibran

I've come to the conclusion that doubt is addictive. Doubt in capabilities, in abilities, and in worth. It swirls in the back of my mind always. Rushing forward to cloud any glimpse of light.

My doubt is greedy. It wants it all.

Ache

"It's a matter of instinct, it's a matter of conditioning, It's a matter of fact.
You can call me Pavlov's dog.
Ring a bell and I'll salivate- how'd you like that?"
~ Brian Wilson ~ Barenaked Ladies

It is a matter of conditioning. It is definitely a matter of fact. And it is absolutely my instinct, that tells me that I have a submissive soul.

Its an ache that starts deep inside. The response may indeed be conditioned, but the ache is mine. Its an ache to please. To lay myself bare in his eyes, and give him whatever he wants. Be it pain and suffering, or tenderness. Needed or abused. To be only for him in that moment, any moment that he wishes.

To surrender all that I am. The strength that I carry. The load that I bare. The love that I hold in my heart. That is not conditioning. That is me.

And I'm at the very beginning of understanding that Me, isn't so bad afterall.

Dreams

"The other night dear
as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
when I awoke dear, I was mistaken
and I hung my head and I cried"

~ You are My Sunshine

Ever had that dream that is so real that it stays with you for the day? It is almost tangible. Its presence lingers, until you aren't quite sure if it really happened or not.

I get those now and then. These days, its seems I am blessed (or cursed) with them more often. Maybe they are a product of my imagination, which I've been told is quite, um .. well, imaginitative.

And just like in the lyrics to the song, you have to awaken from these dreams. Even if thing linger with you, eventually they slip away. The absence of the dream leaves a hollow spot, and the memory echos through it. A warm breeze that dances over your skin, momentairly warm, and then chilly again as the breeze dies.

Cinderella sang that "Dreams are a wish your heart makes when its fast asleep."

I suppose that as long as I can dream, I can hope. Even when the dream dissapates.

Fear

And when you're feeling open

I'll still be here

But not without a certain degree of fear

Of what will be with you and me

~ Run Around - Blues Traveler

Fear is the basis of all anxiety. An anxious soul is never settled. It never quite finds peace, even in reassurance. It is always looking for the next worry. Always on guard for the latest and greatest threat. It lives in constant fear of the unknown.

Even the known is a threat to the anxious mind. Because what if the known is not what it seems.

The anxious mind questions everything, everyone, and all intentions. It never quite believes anything is safe.

It mistakenly believes that questioning everything leaves no room for surprises. It is a form of control.

What it fails to remember is that there is no control, really. Its an illusion. A person can only control their own actions and reactions.

Its a mind fuck. One that you play with yourself. If I worry about it, it won't happen - or if it does, I've anticipated the worse. In training to gain the peace you are so desparately seeking - you fall into the trap of never allowing yourself a moment to not think. To not fear. To trust.

Because the real mindfuck, is that the anxious person assumes they can only trust themselves - and they are truly their own worse enemy.

Someday - I'll get it right.

Younger Days

When I was younger, oh so many years ago, (at least it feels that way), I remember feeling like I didn't really fit anywhere. But like any young teen, pre-teen girl, I did try.

I made my bangs high. I made my bangs low. I wore short skirts when minis were in, and wore hammer pants (please hammer don't hurt me).

And yet, despite, my very girlish attempts, I never quite made it. I had friends, sure, but I was still the shy one. I didn't fit in any clique. I played in band, but played bass guitar. So I wasn't a band geek. I was scholarly, but not at the top of my class, so I wasn't vying for queen of the nerds. I wasn't cheerleader material.

But I got along with most everyone, and everyone called me friend.

Not because I was outstanding. Or lovely. Or had a sparkling personality. Or even because I was a damn good musician for a 16 year old.

People liked me because I was nice. Oh, and I was funny. Someone once told me I should be a teacher or a comedienne. I tried for teacher. Maybe I should have went the other route. So, I was the nice and funny girl. With big hair. Add shy to the list, and that would explain my stature in my teenage social world.

This is a combo that has never been on anyone's gotta have list.

And while we fight to overcome or get over our younger days, its true that they have a lasting impact.

So here I am. The nice and funny and shy girl - is still nice and still pretty funny, and not nearly as shy as she once was.

And she is still friends with everyone.

But even if the hair is a lot less big, there are still those days when she feels that the only reason she is on any one's list of favorite people is because she is nice.

And nice, is well, nice and all. I wouldn't trade it for anything. But there are days, when I wish someone would say ... you're magnetic, or soulful, or anything else but nice.

Because your Old Aunt Sofie is nice. The girl that you never forget isn't.

Healing

You know how the wound that is starting to scab over itches? Like you can't help but to scratch at it, and yet you will inevitably pull off the scab and the process will start over.

I'm trying desparately not to pull off the scab.

I had to breathe. To get off the roller coaster for a moment. Try to remember what it felt like with two feet underneath me.

Even as a concious choice, its hard. Hard not to dwell on where I'm not. On what he is doing. And with who.

Hard not to pick up the phone. To write the email. To ask what I don't want to know, and yet have to know.

And knowing who I am, tomorrow, I'm sure, I'll pick the scab till I'm bleeding.

Sidekick

I've come to the conclusion that I'm not really a supporting player.

I'm a Sidekick.

You know? The girl that hung with the sparkly popular girl in high school? The one that the boys talked to to get to the sparkly popular girl. And the sparkly, popular girl dug me not because I wasn't any competition, but because she knew that with me, she'd get the advice about the boys, and I'd be spot on.

And later, every friendship I've had, has been with someone who is more outgoing, more outrageous, or more exburant than me.

Its not that I go totally unnoticed. I just fall into typical sidekick mode. Supporting the superhero at every turn.

That's me.

Now I just need a snazzy sidekick name.

Strength

Many have said they admire my strength. The rock that holds her family and friends together through crisis after crisis.

I, wonder, though, if its strength, or if its really just some sort of strange defense mechanism that kicks in. Like my mind throws a shift in crisis, and shuts down parts of my emotional make up to deal with current events.

Who knows.

I don't know.

Sometimes, though, being the strong one sucks serious ass.

Ever feel?

Like you are destined to be a supporting player? You know what I mean? That terrific character actor that you recognize but can never quite remember their name? They support the whole movie through their range, and always let the stars shine.

I feel like that a lot. Sorta blending in to the scenery. You know that your role is cruicial to the whole, yet you also realize that your job is to support, and not stand out.

But the problem with that, is that its easy to be taken for granted. You end up playing your part so well, that it becomes expected of you. And its not that you don't want to do your part and do it well. You may not even want or relish the spotlight turned towards you - but you'd really like your fellow actors to recognize you for what you are.

Cause god forbid you flub a line.

Being yourself

The importance of being yourself is highly overated.

How many times have you heard someone say "Just be yourself"

What the fuck? Why does the world have self help books, motivational speakers, and weight watchers if its ok for us to just be yourself.

The world asks us to change on a daily basis. Drive this car, use this product, get thin ... blah blah blah. We are bombarded with with things that we are asked to change.

So we stop drinking coffee because its bad for us, even though we love it. Is that being yourself?

I color my hair, put on makeup, try on more flattering clothes ... all to be more accepted, to CHANGE myself. To make myself better somehow.

As if the color of hair and skin and eyes that God adorned me with are not good enough.

Just be myself. Yeah.

Loss

A year ago, I lost someone dear to me. I miss her presence in my life daily.

She always reminded me that I was strong, resourceful, and worth being loved.

I need to remember those things.

Hate

I don't like the word. I say it more than I'd like, but usually about some THING. But, it never sits well with me when its said in regards to a person.

Especially when its said about someone I really love.

I supress a lot of feelings. No wait, really, its true. I imagine I shall be standing on the bell tower one day, screaming something to the effect of, "the meeting went 34 mins over!!!"

Anyway, maybe its that supressed part of me that reacts so strongly to the torment. To that poking and prodding with a hot stick, till I break in two and I'm screaming and sobbing that "I hate you".

I don't know. Today was just one of those days. But I couldn't scream. I couldn't sob. I could just think. "I hate you".

So I did.