I know it's been a while since my last
post. Things have been a whirlwind and I'm just now figuring out my
new pattern, my new way of progressing. I have returned to the Reike
Path and have recently been attuned to Elemental Reike. It is doing
wonderful things for me. My new love however, my new love has taken
the fighter I am inside, and is extracting it to my exterior, piece
by piece. It is making me feel more whole and alive than I have ever
been.
Shortly after my reconstruction began,
when I was still living with the crippling pain of tissue expanders
in my chest, slowly stretching my burnt and scarred skin, I was sent
to a physical therapist. I had lost most of the ability to lift or
reach with my left arm, due to the removal of my lymph nodes, and the
decimation of my chest muscle by radiation as well as the re-routing
of a portion of my latissimus muscle from my back to the front. In
short: the brutality of treatments lead to an equally brutal and
shockingly horrific beginning to the journey of making me as
physically whole as possible. There was so much pain...and so many
limitations to how I could function.
My physical therapist was a
delightfully boisterous woman named Joyce. Joyce was wonderful! She
loved dogs, she was a master at her profession, she had a warm
spirit, and I could talk to her. I can't remember how many sessions
we had, but it was cut short by my insurance refusing to cover all
that she had planned for me. At the beginning of one of our sessions,
I noticed that she had bruises on her forearms. I wasn't going to ask
but she said “Before you ask...” and told me about how she was in
her Krav Maga class and somebody had a weapon and she didn't. It was
her job to take said weapon from the other person...and that was her
explanation for the bruises. I could feel my eyes widen with
interest. She filled me in a little bit on the wonderful world of
Krav Maga and I had her write it down for me so I could look it up.
I never did.
The sessions ended and the piece of
paper wound up in my purse. I would find it occasionally and put it
back. Tissue expansion continued for a while. Thankfully Joyce had
helped me enough so that I wasn't in constant pain. Mornings were
still rough but I had stretches to help. Once I was expanded to the
size I wanted, it was time for permanent implants and...well...if you
read back there are entries about some of the following surgeries.
Surgeries continued (and are almost
finished), my marriage fell apart, I damn near went homeless...a few
times, I won my disability case, and I began to focus on my jewelry
business and getting better emotionally, physically, and spiritually.
I started going for walks, and then I started riding my bike six
miles a day. Finally, my life was becoming something good. Finally, I
was finding happiness.
Shortly after I won my settlement for
the two years of disability I was initially denied, despite meeting
the full qualifications...you know, having breast cancer and all...of
being disabled. I could now pay off a few bills, pay rent, take care
of my car...and take some good friends out for a well-deserved meal.
Amber and Nasir, who have taken me out
numerous times for dinner, picked me and Violet up and before we
found our destination, we happened by a little plaza-strip mall-thing
that I go by several times a week. I think I knew there was a Martial
Arts school there, but hadn't really thought much about it (other
than once in a while musing about what form of martial arts would be
good for me if I ever had the guts to pursue it). However, on this
particular passing, a sign...no literally, a sign caught my
attention. It's big red letters spelled “KRAV MAGA.”
I thought about Joyce. I thought about
how I've been poisoned, butchered, and burned. I thought about my
brother's death, the heart-wrenching end to my marriage, and how I'm
still here. I'm still standing. I'm shaking, but I'm standing. I
thought about the countless times I've been called a “warrior”
through all of this, and I realized that it was time to really become
one.
The very next day, I went into East
West Martial Arts and signed up for an introductory
“see-how-you-like-it” class. $25 and a free shirt! How could I
pass that up? I left my name to be called back for an appointment and
as events unfolded, I found myself in my first class on a Friday
afternoon, nervous as Hell, but bubbling with excitement. I was taken
to a small room with mirrors where I was given a brief one-on-one
introduction, then I was lead out into a much larger room with
mirrors...and there were other people there. I was surrounded by
strangers in a well-lit room, feeling out of my element, wondering if
I'd made a mistake but refusing to go back. I hate being “the new
kid” but new I was, and already on a journey of re-birth, as it
were. I had no idea what to expect so in that wide-eyed and terrified
kind of way, I listened for instruction and followed as best I could
with a little extra help. We started by jogging in circles...and I
tripped over a raised part of the floor mat, falling on my ass.
Great. Awesome. Get up. Keep going. You're here. Do this. I ran in
circles, I did push-ups...sort of, I did sit-ups, I learned how to
punch, how to kick. It was exhausting, but I was unfolding. I was
filling up with vitality and life. I was hungry for more. By the end
of my first class I knew I had found my new love, Krav Maga. I signed
up for the nine month program. THIS would be my rehabilitation. THIS
would be the physical therapy I need.
It's only been about a month, but
everything has changed. I am already stronger, more confident, and
happier. I am SO happy!!! I have even officially gone off
antidepressants with my doctor's full approval because this...THIS
fills a void. Even when it hurts, it brings me such joy, such
fulfillment, such purpose! I don't ever want to quit. I want to see
this thing through. I want to get good at it. I want to become what
people tell me I am. I want to be a warrior. For me it is not enough
to survive. I want to thrive. I want to fly.
I will learn. I will grow. I will
fight. I will fly.
But the triggers. The triggers are daily. I really outdid
myself on dinner tonight: chicken strips, jo-jo’s, battered mushrooms and onion
rings…and it. Was. Amazing. I’m still pondering 4ths.
Violet would have none of it. She wanted cereal or chips, or
whatever was inside the cupboard she was pointing at while screaming until I
wondered if my ears could actually bleed from prolonged exposure to this
otherworldly screeching. Really the sheer emotional violence of her protest was
quite something to behold. Now, mind you, I had another one of my
reconstructive surgeries only 9 days ago…one of the liposuction/fat-injection
deals. Have I mentioned how excruciating liposuction is? Well it is and the
recovery time is a bitch. It takes forever, it leaves nerve-damage, and don’t
even get me started on the bruising.
So the protest became escalated to the point of having to
take her into her room, lie down with her in her bed and attempt to hold her
while she screamed it out. Now, I know she wasn’t starving. She was just being picky.
But let me tell you…holding a raging child screaming “I hungry, I HUNGRY” while
you are struggling not to allow further damage to your post-surgical
person…might just pull a trigger.
Have you ever been so hungry that you cried? I’m not talking
low-blood sugar or being out of the good stuff until food stamps come in a
week. I’m talking continuous barely eating so as not to run completely out
until your ribs show, your period stops and you are so exhausted from being
hungry all the time that some days you open the cupboard and weep. Yeah. That’s
hunger. I’ve cried over many things in my life. Some were really worthy of
tears, some were futile and wasted, but there is nothing so bitter as crying because
you’re hungry. That my friends, for me, is the bottom of the barrel. That is
the ultimate in humiliation and despair.
Thankfully since I’ve been a single mom, those tears have
not return. Let me be clear that I am NOT blaming my ex-husband for any of that
part. I’m choosing to chalk it up as just how the dice landed. For whatever
reason, it has turned out the way it has and I have not shed a tear of
starvation in quite some time. There have been plenty of other tears, of
course. In early July, I even broke. Yes, I broke. But it wasn’t hunger that
broke me and I have since rebuilt myself. As my daughter kicked and screamed
tonight because she was “hungry”. A trigger was pulled. And so in turn I am
choosing to pull that trigger AWAY. Away from me, away from my child. As long
as I have any power over her wellbeing she will never cry from genuine hunger
and I will never allow myself to starve to that point of sad desperation again.
Ever.
Divorce sucks even when you are glad to be out of the
relationship. I think there’s a period in which we lie to ourselves to ease the
transition. My marriage certainly wasn't full of comfort and togetherness…at
least not the last few years of it. I grew cold toward him and he did the same.
However, even when you are miserable you have the illusion of comfort. When
something difficult or painful was happening other than the marriage itself,
there was still usually a shoulder or warm arms to wrap myself up in and
pretend that there was comfort…pretend that everything would be okay. Now when
everything is not okay, there is no masking it with hugs. There is no illusion
of protection from the partner who really isn't my partner. The harshness of
everything is right there and I have to deal with it.
To ease the trauma, we might tell ourselves that significant
others are more trouble than they are worth and that we really don’t want to
deal with that shit anymore. It’s true that I don’t NEED a man and to have one
too soon would be damaging and confusing. To say I don’t want one though isn't
entirely true. I’m not looking to be taken care of. I’m too prideful for that.
Sex is fun and I do miss a good go-round, but that’s not it either. To have
someone play with my hair, to hold me when tragedy shakes my world, to have
those conversations that we only have with a partner while cooking dinner,
having coffee in the morning with messy hair and bad breath, or maybe while
cuddling on the sofa…that’s what I miss and it was missing from my marriage for
a long time. I miss emotional intimacy. I miss knowing that there was someone
to talk to without pulling anyone away from their world because that person was
part of MY world.
I don’t need a man. I don’t need a relationship and right
now that would be bad for me. But I’d be lying if I said that sometimes I don’t
want one…just to ease the sting. This is a rite of passage, I suppose. I’ve
always been independent and content to spend time alone. But sometimes when
alone is the only option…alone can turn to lonely. Maybe when Violet is old
enough to discuss her day in more detail it won’t be so bad. Maybe as time
continues to pass I won’t want to be with anyone other than her at all. But one
day, she’ll move on to live her own life which is what I want for her.
Don’t get me wrong, I love being able to call the shots at
home. I like having MY territory. As the ghost of my marriage still haunts me,
I am rebelling against what was by becoming what I want to be. I am stirring up
the what-is to create the what-will-be. One day maybe I’ll have someone to
share that with. Right now what I really want is to be happy alone. I don’t
need anyone but I don’t want to want anyone either.
The apartment complex has been repaving the parking lot.
Today as I stood in the middle of it under the afternoon sun, what is usually
filled with cars and residents moving about, was more like a desolate ghost
town. The pavement was new and smooth, waiting for the lines to be painted.
Ready but not ready. Renewed but unfinished. Maybe I just need to remember that
it’s only going to feel like this until my lines are painted.
A few of my friends have warned me about how divorce messes
you up mentally and emotionally for a while, but wow. I was not prepared for
this. I think what makes it so painful and confusing for me is that I was
already in the process of trying to find the real world again…trying to get
back to life. I was still in a semi-state of limbo and then BAM! And
unfortunately, the whole thing has gotten a lot uglier than I could have
foreseen (no I shan’t be sharing details. You’ll have to wait for my book).
So here I am, trying to figure out how to support myself
financially while caring for my daughter, dealing with the lingering
side-effects of cancer treatment, continuing surgeries (oh we’re not done yet
folks), waiting on back-disability pay for the duration of my treatment,
licking my emotional wounds from my little family being unceremoniously torn
apart, trying to shake my inner artist awake, and the list goes on…
I know, I know. It’s kind of whiny isn’t it? At least I feel
like it is at the moment. I’m not sure if it’s been made obvious yet, but I can
be extremely prideful. Too often I expect myself to be able to stand tall, wielding
my claymore fearlessly when inside I’m a crumpled, insecure heap, soggy with my
own tears. Why do I insist on hiding this? I’m going through an unbelievably
massive load of tumultuous events! It’s okay to fall apart, sometimes! It’s
normal! It’s HEALTHY! Perhaps I’m fearful of becoming that whiny “poor me”
person who nauseates people. I’ve been her before and it wasn’t pretty. Maybe
fearful isn’t the right word. I think TERRIFIED is a better one. I’m already
feeling awkward in my interactions with some people. I’m questioning and
second-guessing virtually everything I do and say. I’m so afraid that I’m
losing myself, but the really strange part is…my closest friends have recently
told me (just yesterday, in fact) that it’s good to see me BEING myself again!
Really they aren’t wrong. I’ve had quite a few days of feeling my true self
scratching through the cobwebs and coming back to the surface. She’s definitely
a better version...Rissa 2.0, if you will. I guess now that I see her…err, ME
coming home, it’s that much more frightening to think of losing myself again.
I’ve never done the “one foot in front of the other” thing
very well and maybe that’s something I should practice more. I have always
tended to lose patience with myself rather quickly. I want to be stable NOW. I
want to be healed NOW. I want to move forward NOW. But it doesn’t work that
way. Somewhere between cancer and divorce the whole world went crazy and it’s
not something you can just hack through with a sword. This jungle, these
thorns, must be carefully navigated one piece at a time. There are treasures to
be discovered and recovered. To rush through this is to miss them and risk
going in circles, ending up right back in the same dark place.
Perhaps I should follow the advice I gave to a friend.
Always remember to look at the sky in all its beautiful forms…and breathe.
Oh god, how this song makes me cry...but it's so true. I think we all just want to be good.
I never really picked a favorite out of Maya’s works. I
never read one of her books cover to cover. I guess I never really needed to.
She was always there. It seems that every time I turned a corner, a page,
scrolled down a newsfeed or heard an empowering lecture, she was in there. Her
words all-encompassing stretched out to all corners of the Earth it seems, and
now that she has stretched free, those words continue the work she came here to
do.
No, I couldn’t with confidence say what my favorite piece
is. Sometimes we don’t know to hold onto these things or seek them out because
the person who shared them was simply a part of the fabric of the world around
us just as the sky, the wind, the rain. Do you have a favorite rainstorm? Is
there a particular leaf on your favorite tree that captivates you? Maybe there
is but for me, the tree is there and I can cool myself in its shade. Maya is
there. Her words are there. She is the molecules floating around us and her
words are part of the language we speak.
The lessons have been hard, as of late. For the first time
since beginning this blog, I actually deleted a post. I think it was last week
or something. I was just becoming way too morose for myself to handle. I
suppose occasional crippling melancholy is expected when facing my current
situations. Some of them I shall not divulge…at least not until I write my
book.
One of the most recent lessons that I’m still finding myself
in the thick of, is how destructive the sharing of sensitive information can be
and it’s not as simple as “don’t gossip.” I mean…that’s pretty basic even though
most of us slip and do it from time to time. The trickier situations usually
involve a person who “means well” by meddling in ways that cause more harm than
good. They aren't trying to hurt anyone, they just aren’t taking the
possibility of collateral damage into account. Then there are the self-loathing
people who thrive on stirring the pot, either because they crave the drama or
they have a personal vendetta against someone. Either way, focusing their
efforts on other people’s faults and weaknesses takes their minds off their
own.
Suppose you heard something you clearly weren't meant to
about someone you know and it upsets you. As a loyal person your first instinct
is to run and tell the person who was being spoken about so they can hear the
dreadful things that are being said. But before you do that, do you ask
yourself questions like:
Does this information need to be shared in order to keep
this person safe?
Is this information just hurtful words and will sharing it
actually change anything?
Was the person saying it as a way to vent because they are
in distress and in need of someone to confide in or are they purposely spreading
rumors?
Most importantly…how much pain is it going to cause the
person you intend to tell and do they really need to know in order to continue
with their day?
Having been on all sides of the above questions, here is
what I have learned from experience:
So, I’ve messed up and shared things that were said about a
person TO that person that only resulted in hurting them because really…it was
not vital that they knew. It was just mean or hurtful information.
Congratulations, Larissa! You just ruined someone’s day! Yes, I felt the
appropriate guilt.
I have also been in the situation where I had said something
that I found out got back to the person I was talking about and oh…what pain
and misery it caused! Sometimes I need to vent. We all do. Most of the time
there is no action or intent behind my angry or sad words. It’s just a way to
blow off steam or release a little hurt of my own. Sometimes, I am worried
about a person and I need to confide in someone to talk me through it. In both
these situations, the person delivering the news wasn't doing a damn thing to
help. Whether it was intentional or by accident, they were only serving to
wound the person I was speaking about and it caused nothing but pain all
around.
The next time we hear something that is clearly not meant
for us, we need to ask ourselves the above questions. And then we need to take
one more thing into consideration: when information is shared by anyone other
than the original speaker, it almost always gets distorted even just a little
bit. And again, whether it’s done on purpose or purely by accident, the message
being received can often have entirely different meaning than the one being
sent. Remember playing that game Telephone when we were kids? It’s like that
only instead of “purple monkey dishwasher”, the result is usually a lot less
amusing. Is it really worth it?
