Oh Christmas Tree!

There is a tradition in my family around the holidays and that tradition is to be relaxed about when and where we celebrate.  I've grown up celebrating Christmas five days early or with only a couple of siblings; I got to have two Christmas mornings for most of my teen years at my dad's and then my mom's.  There are only two things that stay constant: the Christmas tree and a date that changes every year.

In my own home, I've never had traditions either, except a small Thanksgiving gathering I'm opting not to host any longer.  This year it seemed fairly fitting to do things methodically and with purpose.  It's the first Christmas I've ever had as a fully functioning adult - alone.

Well, not really alone.  I have my physical friends and family nearby.  I have, thankfully, Pepper (who is, by all accounts, still wonderful!), Haylie the WonderPup, and some renegade 10 year olds I occasionally borrow when I need an excuse to go to the Crayola Factory.  And, I have this wonderful group of people, out there, in cyber space, who have done something remarkable.

I wanted my Christmas tree, decorated with colored lights (because TxGhost of Christmas Past thinks color lights are "trashy" - bah humbug!), and my own ornaments from childhood.  I haven't had a tree that wasn't an argument since I was 17 and living at home.  I had visions of Mickey Mouse, my icicles, two fairies, a manger scene, and this little pink ball that no one seems to remember except me, all neatly hung on a tree.  After hours of searching for them, I declared them missing, or broken - or both maybe.  My sad, little, ranty post in a community of invisible people comforted me as I told everyone how those ornaments were gone forever, possibly victims of foul play.

I started receiving emails, first from people I have spoken to before, or possibly even met.  And then, the ones from people I didn't know at all started.  The gist of the emails was:

Dear Shroomie,
My name is <poster from the boards>, and I would really like to send you an ornament since you are missing yours.  If you don't think I'm a stalker, please send me your address.  
Merry Christmas!
<poster from the boards>
<real name>

A lot of people, by the way, said "Merry Christmas to Pepper too!", but I digress.

In true fashion, I had a hard time with the idea of people sending me ornaments, but as it became clear that I would find them in a few hours would never find them again, I started to respond with my address.  Two weeks later, I have found myself with over sixty ornaments from twenty five people.  The majority of those people, I don't know in person.  It's so many ornaments that I've had to get a second tree.

I can not begin to tell you how exciting it is to come home to packages everyday.  I continue to be blessed by ornaments, some old, some new, some passed down in families, some homemade; I have a tree full of trinkets from all over North America.  I have a little piece of Brick's wedding, Spot's 2nd grade, Linda's grandmother, BBFarm's aunt.  Deb has an ornament to remember me on her tree and I have three to remember her.  PP send me a crab, an eggplant, some cheese, and a mushroom.  Oh, the mushrooms.  I have over a dozen.  Who needs one.mushroom now?

There are more that have been sent and given to me, and none of them are more special than any other, even though I didn't list them all.  My heart (and living room) is bursting with love every time I think about or see these wonderful acts of kindness sent by people I know and love.

And by the way, I found my other ornaments. :)

Merry Christmas, my friends.  I know mine will be.

Programs and bowties and vows, Oh My!

My little sister got married on Saturday.  We had some interesting dynamics and a lot of drama, but even more love and compassion for family this weekend. Everyone pulled together and we got it done.  The top ten important things about this weekend:

1. NaniBen is a brilliant copy editor.  Menus and programs.  Oh yeah!

2. LittleM is a brilliant errand runner.  Thanks for picking up said menus and programs.

3. Suka got the programs folded, ribbons cut, and bows tied.  I helped, but I mostly drank champagne. :)

4. People drove the Bride-To-Be around.  Mostly.  Except for the time they didn't, and The Bride walked home...an hour before the rehearsal.  Um. Oops.  (To be fair - it was an accident!)

5. The Groom's mom made an incredible video tribute for the bride and groom.  It rocked.

6. Pink bow ties were acquired, lost, and re-acquired in record time - with minutes to spare.

7. The Bride's ride forgot to pick her up - but we got her there and down the aisle only 5 minutes late!

8. The Bride and Groom got married!  Yay!

9. I found the fucking card box.

10. The Bride's Mom, my mama extraordinare, threw a killer brunch.

I have a ton more that I could say about the weekend, and maybe someday, I will.  But for now, I want to at least share the toast I wrote for JHo and Swati.  I didn't deliver quite these words, but I meant them all.  To JHo and Swati - Cheers!

I'm Nish, Sara's oldest sister.  Sara, or as I call her, Bear, and I have always had normal sibling rivalry.  I even stole her first handmade baby blanket from her before the poor kid was born!  I wasn't all that impressed with that tiny, pinchy, loud, bald, demanding little baby.  

Outside of the normal sibling rivalry though, Bear and I have always been great friends.  We started bonding over music when we were young - we liked Dave Matthews Band, Live, Counting Crows, Pearl Jam.  We had summer long Rummy games that we started as soon as school let out.  I think Grandi (and Lara!) probably remembers those epic games.  On the last day of Summer, we'd drag the cards and pens out to play out the game.  I think one summer, we even go to like 500,000.  And then we had a really unique experience at CSC. Sometimes we were campers together and sometimes I had to take Sara's snack away when she didn't listen.  Hey Jeff, I urge you, let no man stand in the way of Bear and her Ice cream.  You're welcome.

Bear is smart, and passed through school easily.  She is an incredible athlete.  She drew, and she did crafts effortlessly.  She's amazingly motivated, and dedicated to her family, friends, and work.  She is easily the most compassionate person I have ever met in ways no one else can remotely match.

I am so proud of the person she has become in her life, and you can't imagine out how happy I am to see her with Jeff.  I see the two of them work through life together, as a team.  If you walk into a room with them, it's immediately clean how much he adores her - and she him.   I've never seen her laugh the way she laughs with Jeff.  I've never seen her smile so much.  

The two of them, Sara, make such a wonderful couple, and I know they are going to love their lives together.  So with that, please everyone raise your classes.  To Sara and Jeff - I wish you love, laughter and joy for all the days of your lives.   

Thirty is the New Twenty

Do you remember being 20?  I do.  It was two years after I turned 18, and two years before I graduated from college.  The hardest thing I dealt with was final exams and hangovers.   I did a lot of soul searching at keg parties and rock concerts.  I didn't know all that much, but I thought I did.  I knew everything I was going to do with my life - graduate school, become a professor of Anthropology, get married and have children.  I was going to do that by 25.  Riiiiight.

I kinda thought 20 was hard.  I took myself pretty seriously.  I was making life decision, and you know, making things happen.  What things, I don't know.  But they were things.  And they were important.  My life had a direction and a purpose.  I was going some place.  I'm not sure where I thought it was going to be, but it was some place.

In my life before I was 20 and knew it all, I was a kid, just like everyone else.  I met two good friends when I was 11.  These two friends are my Oldest Friend, and LIPAH.  All of us are 30 years old, so for the record, that means we've been friends 19 years.  Yikes.  We met in the 6th grade when the biggest issue we had was which boy we had a crush on, or that our folks wouldn't drop us off at the mall.  We didn't have body image issues, or at least, not big ones.  We didn't make poor alcohol-related choices that plagued us for months or years on end.  Our hearts weren't broken yet, though we thought they were.

We spent a considerable amount of time, between the ages of 11 and 14, playing nintendo, swimming at my Oldest Friend's pool, and riding LIPAH's gator.  We thought we were cool, so sometimes we chained smoked in the park near Brew HA HA.  We had sleepovers and watched a lot of stupid movies, played MASH, and talked about boys.  You know, normal stuff tweenagers do.  Actually, to the tell you the truth, I guess we do most of these things even now. :)

In the beginning of 9th grade, LIPAH went her separate way from us, and at the end of 10th, an important year for this whole story of my life, by the way, I went my own way.  LIPAH lost touch because email and chat programs weren't standard; Facebook and Skype weren't even invented yet.  My Oldest Friend and I lived only about 4 miles from each other though, and we remained extremely close.

It turns out - both of them had plans when they were 20 too.  LIPAH went off to boarding school, college, and then had a city life at a big PR firm in Manhattan.  She lived the life.  Long hours, big days, stiff drinks.  With her own place in Jersey City, a boyfriend she loved, and a life of her own, she was manhandling NYC.  With ease.

My Oldest Friend, who incidentally happens to be chronologically the oldest among us three, went to Italy when she was 17.  She studied there for two years, but she accelerated her degree and graduated college in three years.  For a number of reasons, she moved home the summer after college, and worked at the barn she worked at for most of her childhood.  She banked every cent, studied her brains out, and was accepted to law school.  Ladies and Gentleman, my BFF, is a bigass lawyer.  I'm proud as shit of her.  And, as a bonus, she met TBC there, and they are the love of each other's lives.

I did it the safe way.  I graduated from my small liberal arts college, where I kicked ass and took names, fairly effortlessly.  With no job prospects or determination, no graduate school acceptance, or even finish applications, I took a job at the company where my father was already an executive.  TxB stayed in Reading to work on his (even as of now, unfinished) degree while I worked in the Management Development Program at the bank.  Until a couple of years ago, I never really liked my job very much.  It was an overpaid babysitter, who didn't make nearly enough to be so miserable.  But I had a house payment and bills, and I was the primary breadwinner.  Sometimes the only one.

If you fast forward to about 2 years ago, LIPAH moved home, and we found ourselves, the three of us, reunited.  At a chinese place, in the center of our homes (Chadd's Ford, Philadelphia, and Newark), we talked and laughed like no time had passed.  It turned out, though we didn't know it at the time, that we were all about to have major life changing events happen to us.  At the same time.

The times were changing, even then.  The seeds were being sown.  My Oldest Friend transitioned to a new job that she's not so crazy about from one that she absolutely loved.  It was her dream job.  But the assignment was over.  LIPAH, on the other hand, settled into her family's business, running the social meeting and networking program, met someone she ultimately fell in love with, and then lost a little part of focus during the transition.  And I, well, I was flailing like a fish out of water with a job I hated, a roommate I hated (TxB) but didn't know it, and a life that, well, I hated.  Now, I just hate that I hated it.  All three of us were approaching 30.  And it turns out, we didn't know a damn thing then, just like we didn't know a damn thing when we were 20.  The only difference that time is we knew we didn't know.

Why am I telling you all of this?  What the fuck is the point?  And what does age have to do with it?  Well, I guess I don't know.  I find it interesting and humorous that the three of us best buds reunited within months of major life changes.  I find it odd and timely that we all turned 30 and the major relationships in our lives changed.  LIPAH broke up with her boyfriend, and I met someone new.  My Oldest Friend has found strength and peace in her relationship with her husband.

We all have new plans.  LIPAH wants to go back to school; I'm about to finish.  I feel pretty confident that my Oldest Friend will have a new job any day now, but more details about then when they happen.  We all have new lives.  We all have new hearts.  Better ones.  But we still don't know what the hell we are doing.

It seems like 30 is the new 20.  It seems like we have these dreams and goals that are just standing there almost in reach.  Instead of keg parties and strip poker, it's more like implementation plans and briefs that are due overnight, but there's something out there, something waiting.  We just don't know what it is.

Maybe that's what 30 is.  Maybe this is the way it's supposed to be.  I think I just got awfully lucky to go through it with the 2 people in my life who have known me the longest.

There's not point to this entry except that things happened for me this week in my personal life.  Major things, that I don't want to share yet, or maybe at all.  But I just seemed to find and let go of tremendous rage.  And there are things in progress for both LIPAH and my Oldest Friend that will, I think, work out for them too.

Mostly, I think I just look forward to the toast we get to do when all three of us find whatever it is we are looking for.  Because I think it's all coming to a head.  Now.

So.  Well.  Good luck to us.  And in the meantime, cheers!

Misplaced Guilt

I've never run across a person who doesn't have a story about grief or pain caused by a loved one. I think it's a rite of passage for people; perhaps being wronged is just a piece of the human condition.

I'm completely fascinated with the all the ways we process situations, manage the pain, and defend the people who hurt us. People feel anger or rage, sadness, indifference, and usually guilt. Ah yes, guilt. Guilt is the worst part of it. It's the least appropriate response, and yet, the most normal. I think that's because society generally demands that we take responsibility for not just our own actions, but other people's too. Have you ever heard the saying "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." I hate that. I want to rewrite it to say: "If you fool me twice; you're just a fucking jerk." It doesn't have quite the same ring to it, eh?

But when an unlocked car is hijacked, we say things like "well what did you expect?"
If a child is kidnapped, we want to know where her parents were.
People think young women who are assaulted should have prevented it by having a buddy.
Even the PA liquor control board wants to pawn off your friend's DUI on you; if you had stopped him, he wouldn't have driven.

In all of those situations, and any other predator-victim circumstance, it's important to be smart. It's not a bad idea to keep your doors locked or your eyes on your child. Walking a friend home or taking his keys are responsible things to do. But why does the predator get off the hook? Why don't we ever talk about the guy who broke into my car, or the person who assaulted someone? Why do they get to walk away from the responsibility? And why do we, as victims, allow the blame to be placed on us?  Why do we place it on ourselves?

The guilt that's felt when you become a victim, a little bit over time, has a whole different level of complexity to it. When someone you love, someone you look up to and trust, strategically changes the way you behave, the way that you think, and how you see yourself, it becomes difficult to understand or walk away.  It becomes normal.  It's the life you know.  Seems personal, huh? Well it is.

I have a lot of guilt. I didn't protect my heart. I didn't protect my Oldest Friend. I didn't protect my family. I didn't, unfortunately, protect myself. And don't get me wrong - I have anger, and sadness; I hope one day, to progress from this intense hatred to simple indifference. But mostly, I just feel responsible.

If only I saw it. If only I listened. If only I paid attention to the little voice inside me that said "That's danger, Mushroom. That's danger." If only I had done it a little bit differently. And then what? What would it do? Would it absolve me from my sins? Would it make TxB feel more responsible? Does it change anything?

It shouldn't. It wouldn't. It might have. I could have done a lot of things to make the outcome different. If I answered no at Alsace Drive, things would be different. If I didn't shrug off working 2 jobs and going to school FT when I was under 21, things would be different. If I freaked out instead of defending, things, I assure you things would different.  In ways, my friends, I won't even explain.

I think I would have gone to graduate school out of undergrad.  By now, I'd likely be a mom, and maybe a wife, someplace else. I definitely wouldn't have 6 cats. I hope I'd have a better body image and an easier time asking for help. I'm certain I wouldn't be wishing the last 11.5 years hadn't happened.  Maybe wishing away time will change.

But in the same way that will change, my perception of everything has too. I used think there were good parts, but I've recently come to terms with the reality that there just were not good parts. There never were. There were only slightly good times, but even they were manipulated and fabricated memories, altered and changed to suit someone else's needs. I was stripped of my emotional stability, my family's support, and my personal identity. I broke the rules for "love"; he broke the rules for himself.

Now, nearly a year later, I realize these things, and I'm coming to terms that it's time for me to stop being responsible for what has happened to me. I hope that will help the wounds heal, and the scars dissolve. I hope I'll find peace from the guilt.

It's hard to do. I'm smart and capable. To admit I've been made, for all these years, brings nothing but questions without answers to my head. I've been managed, transformed, and stifled. I molded into whatever he needed or wanted me to be. I learned to accept his word and trust him. I believed everything he said.  And why?  I have no answers.

On the other hand, I was 17. SEVENTEEN.  What 17 year old would do it differently? He was a grown up, and it worked out this way because he had control over the situation. It's time for me to step back and see that I shouldn't be guilty. I shouldn't be responsible. I shouldn't be to blame. I am, in this case, the wronged one.  It doesn't mean I am free from all of my sins. Sins, oh they exist, but there is no need to defend bad behavior.  I've more than owned my parts; I don't have to own his, too.

There's always a bright side, or at least, I like to try and find it. Dinner on Saturday night was an amazing example of the ways my life has been enriched through my past.  Old Man and Teach came to my life as TxB's friends, but I daresay, they are my own now. TresPageJr, their sweet and funny little girl, has been a part of almost every major event in my adult life, and she's one of the most special kids I've ever met. She has truly blessed my life.  I'd like to think, and hope, that in some mall way, I have also blessed hers.

So while I'm working out what this all means in my head, I will enjoy people like TresPageJr, her Old Man and Teach. I'll replace guilt with, if I'm lucky, indifference. Eventually that indifference, I hope, will turn into joy, peace and love. I can't worry about what I could have done differently or how it's my fault.  I have no idea what I should do now. Instead, I'll try to just be.

90 days to change your life

If you're looking for a self help blog, dear friends, this isn't it.  Self help seems strong, wise, brave, and stoic, but that's not what this is about.  Instead, it's about all the ways I've been needing, asking for, and accepting help; it's been in all manner of ways, for the last several months.  And the help has been excessive -  emotional, physical, medical.  It's not especially dignified or refined, but neither is hitting rock bottom.

Which, by the way, I did - and it was shortly after my 30th birthday came and then went.

I was trucking along, minding my business, and then a remarkable thing happened to me.  My family, my sweet, crazy family came together to celebrate my 30 years in the most fabulous way possible.  Surrounded by almost everyone I love dearly (sadly my Oldest Friend was unable to make it), I managed to sit back and allow the night to be about me.  And, you know I didn't hate it.  Perhaps that was a first time for me.  Even my graduation party from college was more about TxB than it was about me.

So then I met someone that night, Pepper, an outrageously handsome server who bought me a shot to celebrate my birthday.  Little did I know, four days later, he'd sweep me off my feet at a little Italian bistro on Main Street; I didn't quite realize, even then, that 90 days later, I'd find myself dazzled and delighted by him.  Folks, I adore that man.  I do.

A few days later, I realized something huge in my life had to happen; I needed to claim my own space.  It took a lot longer than it should have, but after a short exchange with my old "room mate", I finally had a future date to look forward to - July 1 - and my own place.  And to answer his audacious and inappropriate response when I told him I needed him to move out - yes, that week really *was* that good without him.

Three or so weeks went by, and all was right in my world, but then everything sort of crumbled around me.  I realized, in a heaving mess on the kitchen floor, that I'm just not that strong.  I can't go to school full time, work full time, be an exceeds performer, go places with all my friends whenever they ask.  I can't work out for 4 hours a week, meet with a trainer, get 8 solid hours of sleep, and wake up ready to face the day.  And I can't transition from 11.5 years with TxB acting like none of it ever mattered.  Of course it mattered.  It was 11.5 years, the 11.5 years that are arguably the most dramatic and defining ones of my entire life.  Actually, I think it's rather shocking it took me until June to find myself in a heap on the kitchen floor one random Thursday afternoon, isn't it?

Luckily, I found myself facing my therapist a little over 12 hours later, staring her in the face, squinting my exhausted eyes at her and admitting, in one miserable mess of words, "I need your help."  As a therapist, it seems help is her speciality.  A wise one, she is.

The details are rather boring.  We've managed doses and prescriptions.  I'm doing as much as I can to let things work - I do things like put the laptop away early at night, listen to white noise when I sleep, and I've cut out most alcohol.  I'm trying to take care of my body, work out, eat well, though on the list of things I have energy to do, those are not among the top.  It's a work in progress.

Emotionally, it's a little harder.  I excel at communicating.  I can talk my way out of a paper bag.  I can reason with the professors, children, and professionals  I even say things that seem deep and meaningful; if it's about your life, then it probably is. I know, however, that almost none of you know very much about me.  Hey it's not because you didn't ask; it's because I never tell you.  

Maybe some of you are confused or shocked to read that.  Maybe it seems like I tell everyone everything.  Sometimes people tell me I'm transparent in a good way.  I bet those of you who are close to me though, I mean really close to me, are nodding your heads. I finally admitted it to you.  I finally see.  I don't really talk about things that matter to me.  I spent a pretty good chunk of my life with reinforcement that what I think or say, feel or believe probably doesn't matter anyway.  I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me.  That was just my reality, and mostly, I didn't know any better.  It was just the way things were.  This blog, as you have all smartly assumed, is just one way for me to take back that power.  And I hope that maybe one or two of you are glad that I'm willing to actually share a little piece of what goes on in this brain of mine.

I'm finding myself terribly scared to admit I need help, to ask for what I need, or to talk about things that matter to me.  But I'm getting better.  I'm pretty sure my Unlikely Friend, my Oldest Friend, my Work Wife, and Pepper would agree.  Or maybe Pepper wouldn't, because he only knows the broken down me.  I'm lucky for him, because little by little, he's helping me see that people who care about me want me to be safe.  He's been nothing but affirmative and supportive.  I'm finding myself much less scared to open up to him.  I can tell him things I'd never, in a million years, have ever said out loud after 11.5 years, much less 90 days.

And hey Pepper, if you're reading this, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.  Thank you.

The meds, well you know, they make me less moody, less variable, and little more even.  The side effects were pretty terrible for a few weeks, but they've evened out, and almost everything is resolved.  Some stuff isn't ideal, but livable, at least, it is for the short term.  The even moods feel a little bit disingenuous though, if I'm being honest.   I've been a lot of things in my life, but even probably isn't one of them.  I live my life in record high highs, with momentary lapses of lows.  At least I usually did.  Unfortunately the lapses of lows were longer and deeper than ever before.  The meds take care of that, for sure, but I don't feel the same level or range of emotion I felt before.  That's the point, and it's a welcomed change from that crumpled mess on the floor, but it's changed me.  I'm a little more sullen, and little more in my head, and a lot less energetic.  I hit a wall around 6pm.  I can fake it for a few hours, but ask my sisters or sisters in law what the bachelorette party was like for me last weekend; I can only fake it for so long.

I'd like to think that a lot of people who know me can see the real me is still in here someplace.  "Real."  Heh.  As if anyone knows who that would be.  But truly, I'm still here.  I'm just even.  If I seem disinterested or unenthusiastic about whatever we're doing, it's probably not the case.  Out of what is love and concern, I've had numerous people ask me "what's wrong; you're not yourself."  Well, friends, this is what's wrong.  It's been a a crazy emotional 3 months.  It's been a crazy emotion 30 years.  It's taken a toll.  I'm climbing out of the crumpled mess.  You have to, and I beg you to please, just give me more time.

But I digress.  The point?  90 days from May 5th, that 30th birthday party that surrounded me with love, laughter, family, old friends, Unlikely Friends, and one very special new friend, I've found myself a totally new person.  I have my own space to do what I want.  I manage the mess that I make, or sometimes, I don't manage it at all.  But it's mine.  I cook when I want, I clean when I want, I sleep when I want.  I don't have to think about anyone else when I go to the store, buy new decor for the house, or fall asleep with the light on.  I'm becoming fairly selfish; I don't really consider the needs or feelings of anyone else - not unless I want to.  And, while I struggle pretty seriously with it still, I ask for help when I need it.  Big help, little help - I ask.  Well, this entry, and even this blog, I hope, provides the proof that I'm working on it.  I am.

For now, I leave you with one last thought.  You don't have to take this path.  In fact, I urge you not to.  But if you see yourself in drowning, cowering, and you don't know how you'll ever get out of it - I promise there's a way.  If 90 days turned me from the co-dependent, emotionally void kid into the work in progress, the woman who I think I'm becoming, I promise you friends, 90 days can certainly begin the change.

Something different

This is a different kind of entry tonight.  This is the context surrounding all of those other vague and high level posts that said something cryptic at the end.  I don't have anything cryptic today.  I just have a life story, and I want to tell some of it.  Not in pretty language, and not with a hidden meaning.  I just want it out there.

I have a little bit of trouble whenever I publish my links to facebook because someone might read it.  Why do I write if I'm worried someone would read it?  It's because I finally think I might have something someone wants to read.  My writing isn't any better now that it was any other time; on the contrary, it's significantly worse.  I'm rusty and out of practice.  But I've decided I have things to say, and I want to say them.  So here goes.

I'm in a bad place, and it's not related to the reasons you would all think.  If you look on the surface, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense.  It's only 7 months into the year, and I've got my own place for the first time ever in my life.  I was promoted, fairly largely, in March.  I'm in a, dare I say, "relationship" with someone wonderful. But it's more than someone wonderful to me now.  He is someone I respect, feel confident with, and adore.  There.  Risk number one.  Mentioned your adoration for the dude you've been seeing for 11 weeks (and hey, he's got the link to this, so if you're reading this, you read it here first.)   How's that for risk, my friends?

The reasons for where I am right now is not about The Breakup.  At least, not so much.  It's about the years of my life that were unclaimed by me.  It's about what side of the bed to sleep on, what to make for dinner, and working nearly FT in college.  What's more, it's about reaching down deep and finding out who I am - when I'm not Band Girlfriend.  Hardest still, it's about realizing all the ways and reasons I was hurt, scared, battled, and wounded for the last 12 years.  It's a daunting task, to figure it out.  Where would I even begin such a journey?

It turns out, I started the journal all by myself - when I branded my skin with crayola colored ink on my neck and my ribs - then eventually my wrist.  And then again, when I enrolled (finally) in graduate school.  I found small pieces of me in long day trips, swim workouts, Mexican restaurants, and ice cream shops with my Unlikely Friend.  

Then it became a little bit more tactical and strategic when I started Therapy.  I've found at least twice as much confusion then I have clarity, but clarity comes in waves.  We've work on short term things like some sleep exercises, some safe places I can go to in my brain, some cataloging of feelings.  That's not enough, though I go every week.  In the long term it's simply not enough anymore.

After months of not being able to sleep, months of downsliding, months of my Unlikely Friend gently nudging me to accept help, I melted down.  In a crumpled heap at the kitchen table, I looked at my Unlikely Friend, and I said "I just don't know what else to do."

Lucky for me, she knew just what I needed, and I followed her advice exactly.  I went to therapy the next morning and I said "Help me.  Please.  Help me."

After a survey about Depression, some tears, a slight argument, and a lot of "well that doesn't count because of xyz" reason, I was diagnosed with Major Depression and Anxiety Disorder.  It impacts my sleep, and focus, my concentration, and my ability, or inability, to effectively handle emotions.  In a nutshell, it cripples me.  My therapist, and my doctor both assure me this is temporary.  I suppose I don't care one way or another; I just need to function as a human being day in and day out.  

It's been 5 weeks and different dosages on Lexapro, and I feel outside of my body.  It's as if I'm watching my interactions from the sidelines.  And I'm slower.  Less energy.  Less quick to respond to the conversation.  More prone to zoning out.  I'm exactly me just like before, without the edge, without that magic something that people always liked about me.  Whatever that thing is, it's exhausting it.  For right now, steady is just about all I can take.

I'm using this as a tool to help me up and over the hump.  I'm so extraordinarily angry at how my life turned out.  I'm in a good place, it seems like, right now.  But I made a lot of decisions that involved TxB, a lot of decisions I didn't want to make.  Worse, I didn't make a lot of other decisions because I thought the wedge between us would get bigger. Little did I know, it was going to get big anyway.

I've made a lot of mistakes in life, my friends.  I take responsibility for the things in my life that I need to own; I'm trying to relieve myself of the responsibility for things I don't own.  After years of     bearing the brunt of everything I felt was wrong in my life, I'm trying to understand that not only can I control some things - I should.  I can be free from all of it.  I can be safe.

So why am I even writing any of this?  Well, for one thing, I'm exactly the same as I ever was, except not.  Deep down, my heart is the same.  My values, my brain, my words.  But I'm also different.  Some of it is drug-induced.  The slowness, the lack of energy.  My Oldest Friend said the other day that I'm something she can't quite explain now.  Not mellow.  Not even.  Just something.  And so I say this here to the world (or whoever reads it anyway) that if you see me, you'll notice.  I notice.  I hate it.  I hate that I notice.  I hate it even more than you will.  I will wish to fake it, and I might succeed for a few hours, but the energy that requires is a huge toll of me, and I can't do it for very long.

And the second reason why I am writing it is to state, here and now, in writing, that all this bullshit nonsense is necessary for me to be The Best That I Can Be.  That's what my therapist tells me every time I see her - and that's what I strive to be.  The Best That I Can Be.

The Best, today, is not the same as it was yesterday, 6 months ago, or a year from now.  It's just The Best today, right now, this hour, or minute.  All of the drama, the heartbreak, the hard work in therapy - I will overcome it, and I will be a freer, independent, compassionate person.  I will be someone I'm proud to be.  I'm becoming her, more and more everyday.

This one isn't pretty or tidy, and there's not a heck of a punchline at the end.  It's just something I've felt compelled to share, so thank you for reading it.

Shakespeare was wrong.

My Oldest Friend and I had dinner Tuesday.  We don't often spend time together just the two of us.  I was significantly othered for a lot of years, and she's been married to a wonderful man for a little over two.  It's hard to steal a few hours to muse about life over a cheese plate and some wine when 45 miles separates us, and things like work, school, or spouses are big parts of our individual lives.  But we manage as best we can.

And, I admit, it's easier for me to stay away from people when I feel like I do right now.  I can tell my Oldest Friend anything there is to tell her, and I feel confident she wouldn't hold it against me.  But I don't.  Because, as I explained to her Tuesday night, then I'd have to name it.  We had a whole discussion about naming, and it got me thinking about this:

What's in a name? that which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet;

It's a pretty famous quotation; Romeo and Juliet is arguably one of the most well-known plays of all time, a stolen story retold with a talent only Shakespeare possessed.  But I think, just this one time, he did Juliet a disservice. The name of something matters.  That not-rose might still smell as sweet, but without a name, what good is it?  How will you reference it to others?  Where do you catalog it? What should you ask for the next time you need it?  

There is power in a name.  It changes things from subconscious thoughts and memories to real depictions and true stories.  That's why sometimes we name things faster than we should; it lends credibility to feelings that exist without experience. Other times, I think we avoid naming things at all, because as I said to my Oldest Friend, things that don't have power are unable to cause us pain. I much prefer to leave things unnamed.  

Incidentally, she agrees, though she takes it a step further. If you name it, she says, you wed yourself to the story that you're telling. You lock it in stone. It become immobile, unchangeable, inflexible. Maybe then, you'll never escape it.

Maybe that's true, but I don't think so. I think it's only when we name stuff, when we become wedded to something, that we can truly understand it's effect on us. It defines an experience that can sometimes change everything. But until that point, you can't ever set it free.

After my conversation with my Oldest Friend, I realized that everything she said really did change everything. I'm not ready to explain all the ways the last 12 years have changed, and maybe I'm not even ready to accept it. I don't know if or when I will be able to do either of those things, but she said the sort of things that caused me to stop breathing for a minute to absorb.

I believe she said what is true, what is reality, what I could never see. And if she hadn't named it, I would never know it.

I think, my friends, that just this one time, Shakespeare was devastatingly wrong. What's in a name? Everything.

Three Point Eight

Three point eight?

It's not my GPA.  It's not the number of minutes it takes me to shower.  It's not a new tax on real estate.  It's the number of miles from my house to my Unlikely Friend's.  It's an important number.

I've referenced my Unlikely Friend pretty often, here, there, and in real life.  But I've never really explained just how incredibly important she is to me.  After what has turned out to be an extremely difficult week, I feel like right now is the time to explain who she is to me.

We met in kooky circumstances about 4.5 years ago, but it wasn't until she moved those three point eight miles up the road from me that we became such close friends.  In the beginning, we'd just hit up the occasional farmers market or have breakfast together, but that morphed into a more regular schedule. And then life got pretty difficult for the both of us.  Neither one of us had anyone close by to lean on, and so we leaned on each other.  Sometimes she leaned more; lately, I'm leaning so heavy I'm worried I'll tip her over.

I've been lucky in my life, to meet people and have relationships with true friends.  Most people are lucky to have only a couple, and I think I have way more than a couple.  There is always risk though, with any friendship - lines that can't be crossed, boundaries that can't be broken - but with this Unlikely Friend, there is no risk.  I can say anything.  I can do anything.  No matter what she says or does, it registers in me.  I may not like it.  I may not respond.  But I always hear it, internalize it, and think "If my Unlikely Friend thinks so, there's probably merit in that."

The most fun part of this relationship with her is when we remember and realize that I'm just a younger version of her.  Our lives were and are very different, but our values, at the core, are the same.  We have similar insecurities, similar fears, similar pressures.  I look at her and see the qualities of the person I want to be when I grow up.  Strength.  Wisdom.  Intelligence.  A giant heart.  She tells me often that she'd do anything for me; I believe her.

One of the ways we're similar is in the ferocity with which we identify.  It plays out differently in our personalities, but we are both endlessly stubborn, unwilling to give up, and completely dedicated to the image we have of ourselves.  I love that about myself, and I love that about her.  I've always thought it makes me strong and independent.  It probably makes me frustrating to deal with, but I suspect it's one of the things people generally like about me.  The trouble, as I'm learning lately, is that it makes me think I only need myself.  In my brain, I think:

A strong, independent woman doesn't need anyone, because needy isn't part of the plan.

Well, the thing is, my Unlikely Friend is teaching me it's ok to need people just a little bit.  It's ok to reach out and want nothing but a tight squeeze of your hand back.  And it's ok to admit you can't handle everything all on your own.  Even today, she said "you know, you can let people who care about you show you that, right?"

Can I?  Is that something I can do?  What about the risk?  What about the neediness?  What about my independence?

I don't have all the answers to those questions today, and maybe not ever.  But I do know that I guess I've already given up on not needing people.  I need her.  She pushes me out of my own way when I'm unable to see what I'm doing.  She talks me down off a ledge and leads me to the right answer; she reminds me gently it's the right thing to do.  She helps me dig deep and find the stuff that makes me brave.

Everyone should have a strong, independent Unlikely Friend three point eight miles away.  She might be the only thing standing between you and yourself.

Untitled

Lately, I am finding myself feeling a little stranded in inertia.  I'm past the mid-way point, headed towards change, change that is inevitable, change that isn't worth fighting, change that I myself want and need --- but I am frozen.  The next steps in my life are starting, and I'm so excited about them, but there is just a little piece of me that wishes almost everything could be different.  It's a sharp pain in my gut, a constantly nagging feeling that I could have, should have, done of lot of things better in the last several years.  

The most constant source of comfort for me, beside a couple of amazing friends, is my left wrist.   I think a lot of you know that I have several tattoos (and piercings, but I digress), and there are multifaceted reasons for that.   In a very real way, my body art is a physical reminder that sometimes breaking inertia causes enormous amount of pain; the pain itself, however, is transitory.   They are all important to me, but my wrist, Ganesh, is really special; it was completed in a time of total emotional wreckage, a time that I now can see was The Beginning of The End.  Long ending, huh?  

It reminds me every single day, sometimes multiple times a day, that while there's a lot of bullshit to weed through in life, I only have to do it until there's nothing left to wade through.  Inspirational?  It's not really.  But it's real.

When people who don't have tats or piercings notice mine, they scrunch up their faces and say "but didn't that hurt?"

Well, I just paid someone to shove a needle in my flesh, over and over again, mostly likely until I bleed.  Duh.  Why would you think it wouldn't hurt?  People really are jackasses sometimes, right?

So fine, I admit it hurts.  I don't find solace or peace in the pain. I don't wake up on Tattoo Day and say "yippee!  Today is going hurt but it's all for the best so it's a-ok!"  Why do it then?

Do I get my jollies from some sort of physical pain?  (I don't.)
Is it some sort of rite of passage? (Not really.)
Could it be that I'm crying out for attention?  (Not even, my friends, a little bit.)

Instead it's about acceptance; there is nothing yet that I have found worth doing in my life that doesn't ultimately cause discomfort and pain.   That stuff that hurts is the stuff that I later appreciate; I find serenity in healing.

I bet it seems like I think I'm pretty clever, but I don't.  If you know me though, you've heard me say that about tattoos over and over again.  And you probably figured out that though it's true about tattoos, I'm not really talking about them at all.  I'm talking, instead, about heartache.

I'm talking about losing a turtle pendant, from someone who loved me once, several years ago, and finding it my laundry room floor.  The other day.  The same laundry room floor I've been walking on for seven years.  When I saw it, it struck me as funny what I can find when I'm not longer looking.  And it's funnier still, that a gold turtle pendant from a lifetime ago can bring back so many complicated emotions that I smiled while my lips quivered.  At the same time.

I'm talking about splitting up pets who have never known anyone except the same two people and the rest of their clan, for their entire lives.  And the teary eyes when you realize a clean break from them is kindest to everyone involved.  Maybe it sounds silly to you, but right at this very moment, everyone of them, of us, is missing another.

And, I'm talking about making choices I never wanted to make, because it was best for the life I thought I wanted.  Except it wasn't for the best, and there is no resolution, no overturned decision, no taking it back.  I just wake up and forge ahead, hoping next time is the better one.

There's more things, of course, that flood my brain almost by the minute.  Many about TxB.   Many about other stuff, and not all of them sad.  Some of them are scary and wonderful, like a new relationships and second chances.

The entry doesn't have the a title or a boiled-down, punch-line ending like the others, and that's why it's taken a few days to post it.  I work on it a little everyday, but it's finally occurred to me that if there was ever an entry that wasn't neat and tidy, this is the one that can be.  The whole point is that stuff takes the time it takes, regardless of frustration, sadness, panic or love.   It will be what it is regardless of what you call it.  And, tattoos will hurt, then scab, itch and scar, and you'll be left with, after careful tending, a perfectly healed reminder of the process.

That's what makes it worth it.

Be Brave. Do Nothing.

I wrote something a week ago about bravery and courage, action versus inaction, and the general state of be terrified.  I knew it missed the mark, so I asked my Unlikely Friend for feedback.  "The writing," she said "is good, but I don't think I agree with much it."  If anyone knows my heart, she does, so here I am today - back to the drawing board.

I think I didn't quite know what I was trying to convey the last time, but lessons seem to be coming at me swiftly these days.  The newest lesson: there is nothing wrong with pure, unadulterated fear.  And by the way, courage is sometimes as simple as just being present in the moment.

When I get scared, I run away.  Sometimes I physically remove myself.  I pack up my dog and my ipod, and I camp in Cape Henlopen for 3 nights.  (True story!)

Other times, I emotionally withdrawl from the people I should lean on.  Phone calls go unanswered; emails are perpetually marked as unread.

But most often, I do things that seem crazy; I create antics that are designed to sidestep my fear.  You don't think it's random that whenever I find myself afraid, I come home from Philadelphia with another hole in my body do you?  More ink on my already tatted skin?   Well, if you think it's random*, it's not. It's a diversion.  It's an opportunity for me to fake everyone, even myself, out.  See?  I got a new body mod.  That makes me brave.  Right?

Wrong.  It's not really bravery at all; it's just a distraction from the mental gymnastics of spending so much of my life actively afraid.  Afraid of the future.  Afraid of the past.  Afraid of becoming someone I'm not.  Afraid of letting myself be who I am.  There are a lot of things, my friends, of which I am afraid.

It's recently occurred to me that courage isn't the absence of fear; courage is instead about embracing it to live your life anyway.  So yeah, my natural inclination is to run, far and fast, away from all the things that terrify me.  And right now, sure, there's terror.  How could there not be?  My plans, my careful well-laid plans, are flittering away and I can barely keep up.  I could go to Cape Henlopen, or stop answering my texts, but what would that solve?  The things I'm looking for are right here in front of me.

So, I've steadily and soundly decided to simply stand still.  If it feels right, I'll do it.  If it sounds right, I'll say it.  If it turns out wrong, I'll handle it.  I choose inaction, because inaction, it appears, is the foundation of finding the things that makes me actually brave.

*The fact that tattoos and piercings are fear based is not remotely related to their meaning or importance in my life.  If that confuses you, just wait.  An entry about the religious nature of body modification, while not specifically planned right now, will eventually make it's way out of my odd little brain.

Time Passes Anyway

Someone once told me that time passes chronologically, but we our lives are lived out of sequence.  I couldn't understand what that really meant.  But, I do know that things from 15 years ago feel like yesterday. And events from the other day sometimes feels so long ago, I can barely remember why it happened .  So how can we reconcile how we spend our lives when yesterday feels like it never happened, but our childhood is so tangible we can touch it?  And what does it even mean to live out of sequence?

Time is a really funny thing.  We spend, save, and even waste it like money.  We manage it, foolishly, as if it's something we can hang onto.  We ask for it to be quality time, whatever that is.  We plan our days around time, making sure that we are fully committed at every hour of the day; we even plan when to sleep.  We use it mark the segments in between life events.  Everything we do, and everything we don't do, it's almost always about time.

But time passes anyway, no matter what we do with ourselves.  The sun goes down, and then comes back again.  It's always done that since before we had life, and it will keep doing it long after we die.

I had lunch with someone today, an old, wonderful friend Marcelle, who I never see enough.  As we caught up, told stories of work stress, new puppies, promotions, therapy sessions, and hip thingies, both of us interjected questions proving that time is a social convention we can't even articulate.  Neither of us could remember when big important life event -like masters degrees or breakups- even happened.  But we knew they did.  Isn't that all that really matters anyway?   I can't tell you how old her brother is now, or when she finished graduate school, but we spent most of the time together today laughing like no time had even passed between us at all.  

It had me thinking that I now know what living out of sequence means, and I think it's not really about time at all.  The desire to measure our lives in bits and pieces is merely about managing the relationships we have with others.  Some are hugely important, like friends and family.  Some are necessary like our co-workers or bosses.  But time really only exists for us, so I know when to pick you up, or when to clock out.  It's important so I know how long it will take to get someplace, or when our beach trip is.  It matters only so I can quantify how I spend today.  The sequence doesn't matter, but rather, it's the value of our interactions.  That's why there are years of my adult life that almost don't exist in my memory.  

I can walk away from lunch today knowing that it's at least six months before I see my old wonderful friend again. But six months makes nearly no difference to me.  We'll find ten new things to talk about all over again.  We'll skip over the day to day, but it won't feel that way.  And it won't even matter.  The place that relationship has in my life will never be altered, it will never be weathered; it won't age, it won't diminish.  The sequence isn't logical, and it never can be.

Time just isn't real.  Only people are real.

What a long strange trip it's been

If you're reading this, you probably know me.  And if you know me, you are aware that I live my life in a perpetual state of song lyrics.  This week has been no exception.

Hey, so I'm not particularly a fan of The Grateful Dead.  Don't get me wrong, Garcia was a super talented guitarist, and let's face it, Jerry Bears are pretty cute.  They've just never been my thing;  the last three or four days, however, I've found myself continuously singing those words in my head.  Strange it has been.

The past year of my life has been a whirlwind.  I went from Band Girlfriend to Solo Act in the span of 12 months.  Literally.  TxB's band played one of the first "real" gigs on my actual birthday last year.  I gathered the people I loved the most in this world, and we all went out to booze it up for them.  I remember glow sticks and patron shots.  What's a girl to do when her boyfriend is playing on her birthday?  Suck it up and play nice.  And hey, I probably didn't realize I hated that so much.  It seemed sort of fun at that time.

My actual birthday this year was spent in the worst class of my entire academic career.  The professor is dreadful.  And yet, I felt so much more grounded in my own skin, so much happier to be sitting in that classroom than I ever did as Band Girlfriend.  And, I got to have dinner with my Unlikely Friend, who, as it turns out, is more important to me than nearly anyone else I have ever known.  On a whim.  Happy birthday to me!

In this year, the most significant relationship in my life ended.  It's been a hard, rocky road.  Inner panic, outer panic, fear, sadness, lust, envy, joy, excitement.  A whirlwind, indeed.

But it's more than just that, right?  Of course it is.   I got promoted - a big promotion.  I kicked up school to a new level that will allow me two concentrations in just 17 months.  I mastered driving stick (don't laugh, I'm pretty proud). And hey, there is more, but it's not blogworthy.  Or maybe it is, but I'm not going to tell you.

And then I turned 30 yesterday.  A year ago, I dreaded birthdays.  I dreaded doing or saying anything that put me in the limelight.  I was Band Girlfriend, and she didn't like the spotlight.  30 is a whole new beast.  This Solo Act waltzed herself into a birthday dinner, in a hot little outfit, happy to celebrate with the people who love her.  This Solo Act enjoyed the experience, the attention, the love of her family.  This Solo Act scored herself a date with someone sexy and smart.  A first date.  The last night of my 29th year.  My very first first date.

I feel like my 29th birthday was 29 years ago.  Perhaps it happened to me in another life, or maybe it's not my life at all.  I don't wish Band Girlfriend was someone else all those years ago, because it's foolish to wish away the life you had.  And yet, I never ever want to be her again.

It's been long.  And it's been strange.  But my what a trip this year has been.

Real Life in India

When we landed in Ahmedabad, a driver picked us up and he drove us around  Gujarat everyday, from city to city.  His name is Bensi Lal.  None of us know if that's his first name, or if Lal is his sir name.  After a few days, I noticed by dad added Bhai.  It literally means brother, but is a familiar sign of respect as well.  I bet not many other people, besides his actual family, calls him Bensi Bhai.

He put up with us for five days over seven cities.  Nice guy.  He only spoke Gujarati,  so we couldn't really talk to him much, but he and my dad chatted a little bit throughout the various long drives.

He dropped us off at the hotel in Ahmedabad on the first day, and we asked my Dad where he was going to sleep.  He said his fees to the car company included a room for him, and that was the end of it.  On the second night, we had a dinner party in Rajkot, and Dad invited him to join the family and eat with us.  He never showed.  

As we were walking to our cousins' house that night, we noticed his van in front of the hotel, and he was in it.  Dad stopped over to talk to him for a minute, and we learned two things.

         1. He tried to go into the party three times, but was turned away by the hotel staff.  Dad even told the front desk he was invited, but that didn't seem to stop them.

         2. He sleeps in the van, and like every other nightmare he intended to do that in Rajkot.  

What the hell did the fee Dad pay for get used for then?

That's all the information he gave Dad, and he didn't push.  But Swati, Nina, Jeff and I were careful to get everything out of the car after that, so he had as much room as possible to stretch out.

Sunday was a super long, extremely difficult day.  We spent over 15 hours in the car driving through the dessert back to civilization.  We stopped really late, at like 9pm to eat dinner.  He had us wait because there was a water park, and he knew that it would be clean, with reasonable western toilets, and bottled water - we clearly appreciated that.

Dad asked him to sit and eat with us, all throughout the trip, but he declined. For whatever reason, maybe he finally felt comfortable, or maybe he was worried that my dad would be offended - or maybe it was something else - but he finally joined us for dinner.

We wanted to know about him, so we asked my dad to translate.  Nina asked "can you tell us about yourself?"  We asked a lot of follow up questions, and through the conversation, we learned his story.  I feel quite certain no one has ever really asked him before; if anyone had. It certainly wasnt a foursome of spoiled Americans.  I'm also certain his story shocked all four of us.

We don't know how old Bensi Bhai is, but I'd guess he is in his early forties. He has been driving for approximately 20 years, and obviously drives for the car company we hired.  He lives in Ahmedabad, Gujarat; his family, a wife and four children, lives in an entirely different state called Rajasthan.  That's at least 450 miles away.  450.  But Gujarat is a richer state, and he makes 20% more working and driving here.  He sends all of his money home

He sleeps in his car because most hotels don't have a place for drivers.  Some of the hotels do, but even then he won't stay in the driver rooms.  There are big community rooms that are not only inconsistently cleaned, bu at downright filthy.  Showers, toilets, linens, towels.  All community property.  Some accommodation fee, right?  And I thought strangers touching my neck tattoo was bad.  Imagine living your life with community hygiene.   

Well, Bensi Bhai can't.  So he doesn't.  When he gets a decent place, he showers.  He keeps clean sheets in his car, and does the best he can.  He carries his own towels, and water.  When he's local to Ahmedabad, he sleeps in a garage.

And his family 450 miles away? He takes 5 days off every 3 months to go home.  Unpaid.  If you didn't have a chance to do that math yet, that means he sees his wife and children for a total of 12 days.  A year.  

He works pretty much around the clock and makes 6,000 rupees a month. That is 117 dollars.   To be fair, 6,000 rupees goes a lot further in India than 117 bucks does in the states, but he's not raking it in. Although Dad was charged by the mile, and then for the extra time we needed, on the fly,  Bensi Bhai gets paid the same amount no matter what.  So at the end of our time in Gujarat, we owed the company 2,000 rupees.  It's  just profit for them; he won't get a cent.  If he moved home to his family and drove in Rajasthan, he would still work around the clock.  It's unlikely anything would change so that he could see his family anymore.  Not really, anyway, and so making 5,000 rupees doesn't seem like its much worth it.

He believes he could start his own business for the equivalent of about $30,000.  We asked him what he would do differently if it was his business, and he said that most importantly he would pay overtime to his drivers.  It's not because he knows what it's like to drive around the clock for little money.  Instead, he feels that when a company provides appropriately for its people, they will work harder, with loyalty and dedication.  Customers will feel more satisfied, and the company will get more business.    I agree with his philosophy wholeheartedly; this guy needs to teach a seminar at fortune 500 companies.   I know some people; maybe he could get 30,000 for telling people how the hell to manage.

Of course, it would be pretty difficult for him to realistically save up enough money to make any that happen.  And so, it remains a far away dream for him.

I tell this story not just because this is a person's real life, but because it strikes me as a realty for people in India.  The middle class is growing richer, affording drivers, owning businesses, etc.  The working class, however, is abused, taken for granted; they learn to live with it though, because lets face it - this life is  better than their parents', in a very real, financial way.  And, I don't think a guy who drove a car for a company 20 years ago, maybe even 10, would have any thoughts about how to run their business differently.  Perhaps he wouldn't even think about owning his own at all.

I'm positive that Bensi Bhai is in the minority, but if he is out there, there are more.  Hidden gems, with stories that seem ordinary, even though he couldn't be ordinary if he tried.  

This story has a lot of other pieces of Indian tradition and culture wrapped up in it, some very subtle, and some very blatantly obvious.  The punch line is this: working class people are less equal, in a very real, socially acceptable way.  It doesn't occur to a hotel staff that anyone would invite a driver to a dinner party, so they send him away. Worse, no one on that hotel staff cares enough to find a decent towel or toilet to give a driver.  And, it doesn't occur to a driver that people want to talk to him, sit with him, eat with him.  We asked him every single day, and I know that he was incredibly thankful.  And yet, he wouldn't sit with us any other day, though he often ate in the same places as us. He was gracious, but uncomfortable.  But if people don't keep pushing, it won't ever change, because it doesn't occur to anyone to be offended.   At least in the US, we can find people who have the common decency to be appalled. 

Home, Sweet Home

I made it home last evening, and I'm happy to be here.  I loved the trip, nearly every part of it, but things like this are physically and emotionally draining.

I have a few more entries that I am working on, and even though it may seem odd to post them now that I've returned to the States, I will do it anyway.

I have a feeling things might come to me over the next few months, things I couldn't process yet, or that I didn't know how to say.  If nothing else, at least I'll know this is here.

Thanks for following, and I'll post more soon!

It's easy to forget

Saturday April 21 - Sarasia 

Today is going to take some processing; I have a lot of thoughts that I hope I can articulate eventually, but at least for now, I can set the stage for what we did - and why. This morning, I wake up after a much too brief night of sleep, and 6 am comes fast.  It's four hours to Sarasia, where we only plan to visit for no more  than an hour.  There is nothing there, and no one would willingly go there.  Except us.

Sarasia is the place where my father spent the first 6 years of his life.  I've previous made mention that Papa was a doctor.  When India obtained its independence, the British left behind the infrastructure of hospitals, schools, government, etc.  But there was nothing in the villages.  Papa and Ben left their families to go to Sarasia, so Papa could be the village's first official doctor.  I've heard my dad talk about this place often, but couldn't actually even picture what it was like.   When my dad lived there, they didn't have electricity, and to this day, the house and the commissary still don't have it, though the town itself does.  In some ways, progress has come.  People have cell phones, and I saw a commercial ice cream stand on our way out of town.  On the other hand, these people can't tell us their addresses, or maybe they just don't have one.

My dad couldn't go to school when they lived there.  It was too far, and too dangerous.  So a tutor came, and he studied in the kitchen for what would be first and second grade.  When his schooling was over, he walked next door to his dad, and helped him file paperwork, or clean up the office.  It was just the three of them, and the villagers.   My dad recounts the stories of being being teased by cousins in the city because he didn't go to school, or watch cricket.  He didn't see a movie until he was well over 7.  He listened to the radio for about an hour a day, because that's what the battery life allowed.  And he waited patiently for the mail because when his stuff came for him, he finally had something to do.  

His life might have been much different than the people who lived in cities, but he got to be part of something bigger than school and movies and city life.  He and his family provided structure to a community that had nothing.  Papa was not just a doctor, but tried to teach them about sanitation, nutrition, national pride.  These people didn't even know India wasn't independent, let alone the fact that they finally were again.  He measured rain fall with a rain gauge, and reported on it.  He was much more than a doctor for that community.

When we get to the site today, the house is boarded up.  It's been abandoned long ago.  The rain gauge is filled in with rocks, and the porch is literally full of shit.  But, within minutes, a huge crowd of people gathered. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say it was easily 50 people.  One man said, in Gujarati, "Will you come back?  It's only when you come that we remember what this place used to be." He means the doctor's house in Sarasia, but it occurs to me that's infinitely applicable to life.

Weird Family Names

It's occurring to me that I reference my grandparents in different posts, but I never explained anything about what their names are  We don't call or reference them in the appropriate way at all.  Imagine me being different!  I can't take credit for it, of course, but my dad is always doing his own thing.  See where I get it from?  :)

I should call them Dada and Dadi - that would be grandad and grandma in English, but specifically refers to the paternal side.  My mother's parents, if Indian, would be Nana and Nani.  But I digress.

When my father was small, people called his mom "Ben."  Although it literally means "sister", it can be used to respectfully refer to someone who is familiar to you.  Since that is what everyone called her, my dad just started calling her Ben too.  And when we finally met her, it stuck.  Therefore, when I reference Ben, she is who I mean, unless there is a name attached in front.  Just as we called Ben Ben like our dad did, we called his father Papa.  So, my grandparents are simply Papa and Ben. I have a hard time remembering that most people we are meeting now don't know that.  I referenced Ben to someone in Ahmedabad on Thursday, and they looked at Swati in confusion.  Ha!  Whoops. Now that that's clear, I'm off.

A few small corrections from the first post

A few quick changes and edits from Friday's post.  I suppose bucket list #2 is well on its way now.

1. Her name is Kusam Foi with a K.  She is the daughter of Dr. Kaka, my grandfather's eldest brother. 2. My 'perfect stranger', who remarked on the ink, is Bhala Kaka.  He is Kali Foi's brother, and their mother was Papa's older sister.  Her name was Harvidya Foi, but my grandfather called her Nenba because he couldn't say "Ben".  Ben means sister.
3. The correct spelling would have been fuas, not foias.

Insomniacs beware: even you can't survive India

Thursday April 20

It's Friday morning, and I wake up after 8.5 hours of solid sleep.  It's the first time I laid in a proper bed in over 48 hours.  I've never known the meaning of the word exhausted until now.  Holy tired, Batman.

Its not just the plane ride.  Everything we had done in Ahmedabad was done immediately upon arriving, including a short visit to our uncle's house, after that dinner party, until later than midnight. No one seemed tired except us.  I think I'm convinced that Indians just don't sleep. Ever.

We rush out of Ahmedabad about 4 hours west to Rajkot.  In every sense of the word, Rajkot is home to the Antani family.  Papa and his brothers lived there, and their father did, and his father did.  People in Rajkot know the Antanis.  It's not because we were or are rich.  We're not particularly beautiful.  We don't own palaces, and though some of us do, many of us don't hold highly esteemed positions in the government.  So why are we famous?  The Antanis were  a long generational line of doctors.  Papa was an internal medicine doctor, an amazingly gentle man, who treated ailments and disease with medicine, but people with respect.  I didn't know him that well, and my time with him was devastatingly short; he died when I was just shy of 8, but I didn'teven meet him until I was 4.

We visit the temple that my dad calls "the Antani temple"; it's not literally ours, but it's the temple where every major family event would have taken place throughout our family's life in Rajkot.  The temple is dedicated to Lord Shiva, one third of the trinity, representing life, and all intense emotions --- love versus hate, joy versus anger --- and nothing in between.  As soon as we enter the compound, we are met by a man who lives there, a priest, the son of the priest from Papa's day.  His wife finds us shortly after wanting to know what she can make us.  Though we are not  hungry, and know  we can't drink water, we eventually compromise with masala chai.  Masala chai, by the way, is what people in America pay 4 dollars a cup for at Starbucks.  Actually, it's what they think they buy.  Comparing Starbucks to Masala chai is like suggesting Arby's will be the same as your mother's Sunday pot roast.  In any case, I have been drinking it since I was 4

As we sit under the roof next to the temple, drinking our tea, it occurs to me that in every  place we go, we are welcomed with tea, water, or sweets like ice cream.  It's a delicate balanced of accepting so as not to offend, and protecting our delicate stomachs from water born illness, or gluten-contamination.  It's my experience that deeply wrapped in the framework of Indian relationships is a show of love with food and drink.   Women prepare and fetch, and men and children accept.  It's not talked about, but it just is.  Our brief time in Rajkot today is no exception.

I can't begin to explain the traffic getting out of Rajkot.  No one brings a car there and we shouldn't have, but we didn't really know.  People are pissed at us, but they take it in stride.  It takes us almost 40 minutes to get out of there, and we absolutely disrupted the flow of traffic for the day.  Nina, Swati, Jeff and I are mesmerized at the entire scene.  I hope the pictures do it justice.

The dinner party in Rajkot is phenomenal.  It was planned by Jignasa Ben and her family.  Because of traffic, we are late, so we rush in without my dad, and the room goes silent.  We stand there awkwardly and the four of sit down opposite of everyone else.  Thankfully, they get bored with staring at us, and eventually start talking.  Dad shows up soon after, and everything officially starts.  Jigu Ben's husband mcs the event, and although I missed half of his jokes, people are laughing.  The head man in each family introduces himself, how he is related, his wife and children, and often tells a quick story about my dad, Papa or Ben.  Most of it is in Gujarati, but my dad stops them, and translates whenever he can.  Then people sing, dance, or recite stories or poems.  Many of them are wedding related, dedicated to Swati and Jeff.  So much energy and thought was put into it, into the selections, and I am overwhelmed.  It's a totally different experience than Ahmedabad.  There are a lot more young people, and they don't seem as uncomfortable talking to us.  Manali and Mohit, Jigu Ben's kids, particularly aren't shy, and that makes things much easier.  Dinner ends after 10, and once again, we're beat

Jigu and her family want us to come back to their place, so we do.  It's great, we have fun talking to Mohit and Manali, but it's after midnight when we finally leave.  Mohit drops us home, and I notice a number of families at the hotel with kids who are up.  They aren't just up, but they are up running, playing, shouting.   I asked my dad "don't people ever sleep?" I'm pretty experienced when it comes to not sleeping, but I don't know how people here do it.  

Tomorrow is Sarasia, and we leave at 6 am.  The time in Rajkot is much much too brief, and we're all complete zombies.

30 hours and a Bucket List later --- But, I'm still not married

Thursday April 19 - Ahmedabad

The hustle to get packed for my quick, 7 days in India ends in a mad dash to log off at work, load the car, and kiss puppy girl on the nose a thousand times repeating "I love you and I'm gonna miss my puppy-do."  Like she knows what that means.

It takes 24 fairly  uneventful hours to get to into Mumbai and clear customs.  After four visits, I shouldn't be, but I'm simultaneously assaulted by heat and the scent of body odor mixed with incense.  Breathe it in, Manisha.  No one officially welcomes you to India but after that first breath, there's no need.

A long layover, a 90 minute delay on the tarmac, and a lack of drinking water some 6 hours after touching down in India, we finally see daylight again.  It's not my home, never was, but the familiarity of Ahmedabad rushes over me.  I turn around at a rush of noise to men saying "Uncle!  Uncle!"  They mean Jeff, my brother in law.  Indian men and women always refer to the fair as "auntie" and "uncle", but I forgot since the only fair person I've been to India with is my mom, some 26 years ago.   Well unless you count my sisters, but I guess I wouldn't say we're fair ; we aren't unless we're in India.  Here we just stand.  Not this time though, and I silently think I'm thankful to finally travel with someone else who is more interesting to gawk at.  Indians aren't know for, what we'd consider, tact.  Its part of their (our?) charm.

All of us agreed we need a quick breakfast, a workout (my challengers would be proud!), and a shower.  After, we head out to see Gandhi's house.  It's a beautiful property on the river, with a fabulous tribute to his life, his work, and is most places, his own words.  I find solace there, and many others must too, because kids are playing, men and women are sitting quietly, and some people are lounging with a book.  It's clear that it's a place where people can just stand still, and be.  If I ever found myself living in Ahmedabad, I can probably bet I'd spend a lot of time there just thinking.  In such a big busy city, it's a little sliver of peace.

Then we rush off to find Jeff some traditional clothes.  We have massive amounts of fun looking through hundreds of outfits.  The clerk was serious about his work, pulling plastic wrapped cloth down in handfuls and showing each article to Jeff.  As serious as he was, he had a slight smirk as he tried to figure out this "uncle"with red hair wearing a jhabba, with his harem of women playfully teasing and encouraging him.  He finally picked two-a bright blue and a cream.  Both are beautiful and actually, I think he looks pretty great.  I make sure to tell him he's a really good sport.

We visit some family, many I already know, and some others who are new to me.  I have the most wonderful experience of meeting Cusom Foi, my grandfather's niece, though she is more like his sister.  His mother, my great grandmother, died when Papa was 4.  His father died when he was 16, and so he was largely raised by his eldest brother and wife, Cusum Foi's parents.  Trying to communicate with her made me realize oe significant regret of my life.   While I understand Gujarati a little, I can't speak it.  Kusam Foi is an oracle, and I know she could tell me so much about Papa, but I can't get it out of her.  I've never been known to object to the idea of a Bucket List, but my first item on the one I just created: Learn Gujarati.  Soon.  Before it is too late.

Finally, its close to dinner time, and we have a party we're hosting --- well, Dad is anyway.  In full Indian dress, we trek down to the hotel where dinner is.  There are easily 50 people there, more probably, and I only recognize about dozen.  I can't make heads or tails of anyone, and I get introduced to everyone the way my dad is related.  It's not helpful, because if he introduced me the way I'm related, then I might have been able to keep it straight. Indian's have a name for every kind of relationship except cousin.  Cousins are brothers and sisters, and everyone here is a "cousin" at this point; to me, here in India though, some of them are aunts or uncles, fois and fais, kakas and kakis, and to many, I'm a sister.  Manisha Ben. I might even be someone else's foi or masse, but I guess I'm not sure.  Anyway, I try to keep up, but I spent a lot of time asking my sisters, "so wait who is that again?".  Bucket list item two: Fucking write this shit down.

As I meet people, I notice they ask Nina of her studies or her work, and they ask Sara about her upcoming nuptials.  They ask Jeff "what he does" which he happily answers.  But the only thing they want to know from me s "why aren't you married?"  It's a fair question, I guess, here in India, but I hate it regardless of my longitudinal placement in the world.   It doesn't help that I'm reeling from a breakup, but they don't know that.  So I smile and say "I guess I never thought about it much."  A bold-faced lie, of course, but I'm not about to get into the particulars of my failed significant otherhood with blood related strangers.  I notice a woman, who looks no older than 60, look up.  It was Kala Foi, who I find out later is actually pushing 80.  She has quiet wisdom and kind smile.  I can tell from her traditional white sari that she's a widow. She has stories too, I can tell, and I want to know them all.

On and on though, I was asked.  And my dad was asked.  Nearly 30 and single.   What's wrong with me right?  I let it roll of me, but it bugs me.  I'm about to get my MBA, I just got promoted -a big promotion-, and I own my home...doesn't anyone want to know about those things?  Jeff remarked finally that he couldn't believe that was a question people asked here.  Unfortunately, it's not just here.  Even Facebook wants to know my relationship status.

The night keeps on, and it's fun.  Not that many people are talking to us, and the four of us are stuck like glue to each other.  Its a language thing.  They feel foolish speaking English with Americans.  Its ok.  We feel foolish, too.  Dinner comes, and in an effort to ensure the allergy-plagued Americans have allergy-free food, the waiter brings us French fries.  Great.  An almost 30 Guju who isn't married and can't speak the language --- eating French fries.  That doesn't help, huh?  All we can do is laugh.

As we're winding down, I feel hands on my hair, lifting up the long ends that are growing out from the buzz cut.  Confused, I try to turn around as a perfect strangerlifts up my hair and then I realize.  My tattoo.  Manisha in Gujarati.  I'm a little panicked.  I don't know how this is going to go.  Indians don't get tattoos.

"It's in Gujarati.   You know right?"

I feel like being a smartass.  Of course I knew.  It's my own neck.  But I restrain  myself.  Then I see his eyes on my wrist.

"Ganesha!  And you know what else it is?"

I do know.  It's an ohm and is a design I picked because I wanted both.   My dad jumps in and says "She did this on her own."  For the first time, I might have detected a lack of disdain for my ink.  It's his history running down my spine, after all.

There is a crowd of people forming around me.  It is a sort of chaos when they realize I have tats.  One niece, about 14, looks horrified and excited all at the same time.  She asked if it hurt and I told her the truth.  Well, mostly.  What would she say if I told her I like the way it feels?  The shock that I'd willingly do something that hurt is all over her face. I guess they aren't so worried about my marital status now, huh?  I think that moment taught me the definition of gawking right then.

Kala Foi makes her way to me to say goodbye, and I think "this old woman must not know what to make of me." I raise my hands and bow with respect as tradition demands, and she whispers "If you haven't already, don't start thinking of marriage now.  I never even wanted to be married."

I smiled widely.  Third on my bucket list: Don't think too much about marriage anyway.