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.