So, this weekend was the 5th anniversary of my husband's death. Sad, I know. I spent most of the weekend (who am I kidding. . .this whole week) crying. Not so much about his death, but what has transpired since.
The tears started on friday night. . .the actual time and day he died. I was in my beloved teacher training. We were coming to the end of a DRAINING 3 hour practice. All 30 of us taught the entire group at one point, while being verbally coached by Claire. If you've been through a yoga teacher training, you know this can be physically and emotionally exhausting. I was in Janu Sirsasana (seated, hinged over my right leg) when the tears came. Greg died at night, it was dark by then. My eyes were closed. I was no longer equipped to keep any emotion in. Crying at teacher trainings (or any time in yoga) is pretty commonplace. I was in a safe environment and received a lot of love from everyone in the room. The most amazing part of that particular experience was my friend, Carole, was teaching at the time. Unbeknownst to me, she had read my status update about Greg earlier in the day. She decided, that night, she was going to dedicate her practice to me. The fact that I cried when she started to teach can't be a coincidence. I will be forever grateful to Carole for thinking of me and allowing me to release something that I desperately needed to.
I was so touched by all the love and support I received, so effortlessly, over the weekend. It got me thinking. A lot has happened in 5 years. A LOT. Nothing Earth shattering, but a roller coaster nonetheless. I was depressed, lonely, filled with self loathing and self-doubt. I did everything in my power to stop myself from moving forward with my life. I THOUGHT I was moving forward, but I was just pivoting in a circle. Sometimes really quickly, sometimes slowly. I hit rock bottom with my drinking when I passed out and nearly bleed to death. That wasn't enough to stop me from drinking. What finally made me take action was looking in the mirror and knowing I could never drink in safety. I would drink until I died if I let myself and I WOULD let myself. I decided I valued my life to much to allow that to happen. I finally came to a place of acceptance. I've been free ever since.
So. . .here I sit, exactly 18 months later. It hasn't been a pleasure cruise, I can tell you that, but it's been more than worth it. Not only am I "me" again, I'm starting to like and respect myself. Damn, right?! It's a good feeling. Sometimes. The times that are tough are when I think about the men in my life since Greg. That's when the walls fall in and the bottom drops out.
Every man I've been involved with has treated me like hammered shit. Not in an abusive way (violence against women makes me sick on an entirely different level, so for my own sanity, I'll just deal with the douches on hand) but in a way that demonstrated a complete lack of care or respect. I was dumped over the phone after a boyfriend told me he "just wasn't falling in love with me." I had a guy tell me he was just not the type of guy to get married, only to marry the next girl he dated. I've been told I text/call too much. I was on a date where the guy was high as a kite. I've been told I don't text/call enough. I've been promised trips to St. Barths, NYC, Rome. . .and then never heard from the guy again. That's the newest and most popular. A complete drop off the face of the Earth. Nothing bad happens mind you, just a total shut down of communication. Why? No idea. There must be a syndicate of men out there who communicate with each other. I picture them sitting around in some super-villian like headquarters with a chart of me super imposed on the wall. I see them wringing there hands together, knowing the plot is to date me, allow me to believe we have a future together, then just stop returning my texts. Buwahhhhahahahahah.
Yeah, hilarious. Why? Why is it OK for me to be treated like that? What happened to a little compassion and respect? What happened to men who want an attractive girl who has her shit together and a couple of good eggs left? People keep telling me they're out there, but have yet to provide me with an address. I love and appreciate all my friends. . .but telling me "I deserve better" is like telling someone who is out of work "you deserve a job." That's nice of you and all. . .but at the end of the day, I'm still jobless . . .and manless.
Yes, I know it can be good to be single. But come on. . .I'm HUMAN. As a species we WANT to group together and procreate. Blame evolution, not me. All I'm saying is I just want someone who loves me as much as I love them. Someone who values me as a human being. I think I deserve that. I can finally say that with some confidence. I was a doormat for years because I didn't think I was any better than an actual doormat. So yes, I like myself now. Finding a guy who feels the same way? That's when it doesn't feel so good.
To wrap up another terribly rambling blog post, I call to mind one of my favorite movies, About Schmidt. Without going into a long explanation about the movie, Warren Schmidt seems to lose everything he identifies with in one fell swoop. His job, his wife, his best friend. The only thing he has left is his 4 year old sponsor child in Africa and his daughter. . .who he's loosing to a waterbed salesman with a mullet. He tries to stop the marriage, with no luck. One would think Warren has had everything taken from him. But, in actuality, it was like the Universe was giving him his life back. HIS life. Warren's LIFE. He could now do anything he wanted with it. I was given that same opportunity. My life was handed back to me. I could destroy it, or I could live it the way it deserved to be lived. Thank God I failed at destroying it. I tried. Now, all I can do is march on with a tremendous amount of gratitude of for the Universe has returned to me.
But Universe? Just one favor? I'd like a nice guy in my life. . . .but please don't make him a Colorado waterbed salesman named Randall Hertzel. With a creepy mustache and a mullet. Thanks in advance. xoxo
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
The History Of Sadness
I woke up on the eve of my 37th birthday incredibly down in the dumps. The night prior I had an. . . .exchange. . . .with a guy I'm dating. Apparently, he felt it was his place to express what is exactly "wrong" with me. After unwillingly breaking down in tears in front of him, he was very apologetic. He told me it was coming from a place of "affection, resect and support." It felt like it was coming from a place of judgement, disrespect and arrogance. I cried on the way home and couldn't get myself to sleep. Probably due to my "chronic uptightness."
I woke up exhausted. You know the feeling. I shuffled to my couch, where I found an apology text on my phone. Fine, but I wasn't letting him off that easy. Things are better now, but I've experienced an overwhelming feeling of sadness all day. As a recovering alcoholic, feelings aren't my thing. Especially the yucky ones. But, since I can't rely on alcohol to numb my feelings anymore, i just had to sit with the sadness. It sucked. . .literally. Sucked all of my energy and motivation. I realized, however, that it was serving a purpose. My replacement go-to compulsion has been physical training (I have an eversion to the term "working out"). I'm involved in some kind of rigorous physical activity everyday. I'm training to be a yoga teacher, while also training for several road races ( two 1/2 marathons, a 5K and a 10K). I can't remember the last time I took a day off. I know rest is a part of training, but I find it difficult. Today. . .not so hard. This uncomfortable, deep seeded sadness FORCED me to sit on my butt all day. Except a walk for the dog. . .unlike me, HE needs to get his fat butt moving.
When I opened Facebook this morning, I noticed the status update of my friend Margaret Njeri. Margaret is a fellow yoga teacher in Africa. Margaret grew up in the slums of Nairobi, Kenya. Her update simply stated was "Am sad today." Instead of trying to cheer her up like her other well meaning friends, I commented "me too Margaret." I have a feeling Margaret's sadness stems from something far deeper than mine. Or maybe not. I just felt an instant "sadness bond" across the world. Different continents, same feeling at the same time. Her post made me feel not so bad for feeling sad. It's a valid feeling and you're allowed to express it. No matter where you're from or what part of the world you hail from. I feel ya sister-friend. I feel ya.
Finally, as a wrap up to my melancholy day (I finally got to use that word) I watched the movie Beginners with Ewan McGregor and Christopher Plummer. First of all. . .they should just give Mr. Plummer the Oscar now. I started watching the movie after giving up on The Tree of Life. I couldn't even begin to understand that frustrating fucking movie. Beginners is a beautiful, yet heartbreaking movie about a father and his grown son. At 75 years old, the father comes out of the closet as gay. A series of events unfold along with flashbacks. Ewan McGregor's character (the son) is an artist. He creates a series of simple drawings called "The History Of Sadness." Drawing of "the first sad couple. . .the first sad dog. . .etc". His friends and fellow artists don't seem to get it. At this very moment, I did. Sadness is an inevitable part of life. It always has been. It's a part of life we are constantly fighting against. Somehow, if we surrender to sadness, we've failed. We're pathetic. We're morose. We're dark. Today I realized releasing to sadness can be freeing, cathartic a necessary. But, like all things, sadness in moderation.
All feelings, good and bad, eventually pass. Today, I rode the wave of sadness. It was a choppy ride, but at the end of the day, I'm still here. Alive, breathing, living, typing. Giving thanks that I've made it another year on earth. Feeling gratitude that I didn't feel the need to drink to get through the day. Looking forward to seeing my beautiful friends tomorrow. And most of all. . .hoping and praying that Margaret is feeling better now too. Sending her compassion, sisterhood and love from the butt-groove in my couch in Wellesley Massachusetts. Two continents, one strong emotion. And it's OK. Surrender.
And. . .breath out. xoxo
I woke up exhausted. You know the feeling. I shuffled to my couch, where I found an apology text on my phone. Fine, but I wasn't letting him off that easy. Things are better now, but I've experienced an overwhelming feeling of sadness all day. As a recovering alcoholic, feelings aren't my thing. Especially the yucky ones. But, since I can't rely on alcohol to numb my feelings anymore, i just had to sit with the sadness. It sucked. . .literally. Sucked all of my energy and motivation. I realized, however, that it was serving a purpose. My replacement go-to compulsion has been physical training (I have an eversion to the term "working out"). I'm involved in some kind of rigorous physical activity everyday. I'm training to be a yoga teacher, while also training for several road races ( two 1/2 marathons, a 5K and a 10K). I can't remember the last time I took a day off. I know rest is a part of training, but I find it difficult. Today. . .not so hard. This uncomfortable, deep seeded sadness FORCED me to sit on my butt all day. Except a walk for the dog. . .unlike me, HE needs to get his fat butt moving.
When I opened Facebook this morning, I noticed the status update of my friend Margaret Njeri. Margaret is a fellow yoga teacher in Africa. Margaret grew up in the slums of Nairobi, Kenya. Her update simply stated was "Am sad today." Instead of trying to cheer her up like her other well meaning friends, I commented "me too Margaret." I have a feeling Margaret's sadness stems from something far deeper than mine. Or maybe not. I just felt an instant "sadness bond" across the world. Different continents, same feeling at the same time. Her post made me feel not so bad for feeling sad. It's a valid feeling and you're allowed to express it. No matter where you're from or what part of the world you hail from. I feel ya sister-friend. I feel ya.
Finally, as a wrap up to my melancholy day (I finally got to use that word) I watched the movie Beginners with Ewan McGregor and Christopher Plummer. First of all. . .they should just give Mr. Plummer the Oscar now. I started watching the movie after giving up on The Tree of Life. I couldn't even begin to understand that frustrating fucking movie. Beginners is a beautiful, yet heartbreaking movie about a father and his grown son. At 75 years old, the father comes out of the closet as gay. A series of events unfold along with flashbacks. Ewan McGregor's character (the son) is an artist. He creates a series of simple drawings called "The History Of Sadness." Drawing of "the first sad couple. . .the first sad dog. . .etc". His friends and fellow artists don't seem to get it. At this very moment, I did. Sadness is an inevitable part of life. It always has been. It's a part of life we are constantly fighting against. Somehow, if we surrender to sadness, we've failed. We're pathetic. We're morose. We're dark. Today I realized releasing to sadness can be freeing, cathartic a necessary. But, like all things, sadness in moderation.
All feelings, good and bad, eventually pass. Today, I rode the wave of sadness. It was a choppy ride, but at the end of the day, I'm still here. Alive, breathing, living, typing. Giving thanks that I've made it another year on earth. Feeling gratitude that I didn't feel the need to drink to get through the day. Looking forward to seeing my beautiful friends tomorrow. And most of all. . .hoping and praying that Margaret is feeling better now too. Sending her compassion, sisterhood and love from the butt-groove in my couch in Wellesley Massachusetts. Two continents, one strong emotion. And it's OK. Surrender.
And. . .breath out. xoxo
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