emotional work

It’s been pointed out to me on rare occasions that I am prone to do serious emotional work over nearly every single thought that passes through my brain or feeling that passes through my heart. And when I say it’s been pointed out to me, I don’t mean that I was being complimented. More like accused of being tiresome by extremely exasperated friends.

I don’t blame them. I get it. I know it can be grueling to deal with me when I am trying to figure something out. I tend to fixate on feelings until I can figure out why I am having them. When I am hurt by an offhand remark, I can’t just chalk it up to me being extra sensitive or the person making the remark being grumpy and mean-spirited on any given day.

Nooooo, I have to ask myself:

1. Why did the remark hurt my feelings so?
2. Was there any truth to the comment?
3. Was it personal? Or did I just take it personally?
4. Was the remark meant to hurt me? Or was it meant to be constructive?

See? Tiresome. Grueling. Exasperating.

I know.

I am not sure how to defend myself when reprimanded for my exhaustive cerebral tendencies. All I can really chalk it up to is the year of therapy I had when I was nineteen.

I started therapy–or counseling or whatever you want to call it–because I was deeply depressed. I couldn’t get along with either of my parents and I cut off contact with most of my friends after high school. I lived alone in a tiny apartment which I kept immaculately clean and preciously decorated.

(On a side note, every time I get disgusted because I can no longer keep up with the housekeeping, I remember that spotless little apartment and thank my lucky stars that I keep my life in order now and to hell with the house rather than vice versa.)

I didn’t start therapy for any of the usual reasons. I didn’t have a painful childhood. I was not neglected or abused. My childhood was the opposite of all that. I had it good. Trust me.

The events leading to my depression were pretty normal. My high school boyfriend broke up with me and was blissfully happy dating my dear friend. I moved to another town to go to college where I didn’t know anyone and was too shy to meet anyone. I moved in with my dad only to move out within six months or so. It was just traumatic for me to go through so many changes. I didn’t deal with it well.

I’ve been out of touch. I know. I apologize. I’ll try to do better. I used to post every night before I went to sleep. I felt compelled to write down whatever thoughts were swirling in my brain at the end of the day.

It’s not that I’m not compelled to write anymore. On the days that I don’t post, I spill my feelings, anxieties, hopes and happiness onto the pages of my journal.

It’s just that the longer I have the blog, the more frightening it is to write here. Will I receive hateful comments from people who know me outside the blog (as happened recently)? Will I write a less-than-happy post and cause my family to worry? And possibly the thing I fear most — Will my friends and family interrogate me regarding what I’ve written? Will they ask me if I am okay? Will they ask me what I meant by posting a sad poem? Will they ask me if my marriage is okay if I write that I am frustrated with my spouse?

After three years, it is harder, not easier, to write here. But, oh, how I miss it.

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It has been raining and storming here today. I love thunderstorms — so long as I am inside while they are raging. I have a slightly irrational fear of being struck by lightning. To be fair, my cousin was struck by lightning so it may be more rational for me to be afraid of lightning than I realize.

My favorite past time when it is storming is to crawl into my bed, preferably not alone, and snuggle under the covers. The contrast of warmth and silkiness beneath the covers versus the cool, wet air outside the covers is exhilarating for me. For a while today, I did just that. But being a wife and mother precludes entire days spent in bed and so I grumpily arose to tackle the laundry and balance the checkbook.

As a matter of fact, I can’t really think of a time when I’ve ever cheerfully arose from my bed. “Grumpy” is a pretty accurate description of me on any given morning when I am required to rise before 10 AM. When I worked in the EP lab, the nurse who worked with me usually greeted me with a diet coke and a chocolate muffin before all early procedures. He was a nice guy, yes, but mostly he really didn’t want to put up with me when I was tired and deprived of caffeine and chocolate. He may have been a genius. I’m just sayin’.

Recently, I am ashamed to admit that I have taken advantage of my dear friend, Sharon. She lives in a time zone that is one hour ahead of mine and, on top of that, she is a morning person. She wakes up early even when she doesn’t have to. So naturally, she makes the perfect alarm clock.

Most recently, Brenda and I asked Sharon to give us a wake up call for a Cardiology event we had to attend on Saturday. We had to be there at 7:45 am (ugh) and we were loathe to be late lest we miss the serving of breakfast –we have our priorities straight, after all.

Brenda answers the phone in the mornings as if she is wide awake and there was really no wake up call necessary despite the fact that she was actually in a deep slumber when the phone rang. She warned Sharon of this fact. Still, she was surprised at how bright and perky Brenda sounded when she answered.

Me? No, I am not bright and perky. The phone jangled me out of a sound sleep Saturday morning and I mewed a pathetic little, “Hello?” I’m sure she had little faith that I was actually getting out of bed when we hung up rather than curling up a little tighter and dozing off again.

But I didn’t go back to sleep. I attended the event and mingled with other healthcare professionals, many of whom I haven’t seen in a few months. I sat through lectures on ECGs, heart failure, carotid stenting, and the importance of good documentation to prevent malpractice claims.

And then? I came home and climbed back in my big, regal bed with the padded leather headboard and footboard and my pillows that have just the right amount of squishiness for my personal comfort.

And I took up where I’d left off before that 6:45 AM wake up call.

another really old (really bad) poem

I’m sliding, reaching
out, clawing, teeth
clenched, nails
broken, fingers
bleeding and sore
but grabbing hold
of every rock
or scraggly weed.

A sudden stop
and the dust
settles.  Strained
muscles, ragged
breathing, and
a racing heart
are sound
assurance that
life is enduring.

do my eyes forget themselves . . .

In the car today, I sang along to this song:

Look at how he looks at her
Will someone ever look at me that way-
Full of all the feelings and the soft unspoken words
That lovers say?
I thought that I knew every single look
And sweet expression on his face,
Yet this is one that I don’t recognize.
Although I’ve sat and studied him for hours.
But now I see how love completely occupies
A pair of eyes.

See the way they gaze at her,
Like slaves they follow everywhere she goes.
Do my eyes forget themselves
And do I ever look at him
And smile in such a way
That what I’m feeling shows?
Sometimes I have the feeling
Everybody knows.
And even though it’s crazy,
Still I can’t help wondering if I’ll ever
Live to see the day
When by some miracle of miracles,
He’ll turn around
And look at me that way!.

And it reminded me of a (very bad) poem I wrote many years ago:

when you watched her
you had a look in your eyes
that i have in my eyes
when i watch you
and he has in his eyes
when he watches me.

Ah, unrequited love. A miserable feeling, that.

Don’t bother me on May 8th . . .

I’ll be listening to this:

I can’t wait to buy the album! But it will never beat the real-life experience of seeing her onstage again.

I sat tonight in the new jacuzzi, soaking and luxuriating in the warm, bubbly water made fragrant by adding a few drops of Neutrogena Body Oil — a product I’ve loved ever since it was gifted to me by my dear friend, Kirsten, the night before my wedding.

I laid back against the jets and sighed as some hidden stress unfurled while the water swirled under my arms. I washed with my sweet-smelling, exfoliating body soap. I shaved my legs. I washed my face with my expensive facial cleanser.

Afterward, I patted my skin dry and donned my new, floaty white Hawaiian print nightgown and my soft chenille robe.

All of that happened. But really, more than anything, I was thinking.

Thinking about people who have loved me and whom I have loved. Remembering a dear friend as he bent, whispering and grinning, over my newborn son’s bassinet at dawn the morning after he was born. Remembering how my friend shyly handed me a baby gift from him and his wife.

I was thinking how it is those whom we allow close to our hearts who are able to hurt us the most. How it can be so shocking to go from being adored to being reviled by someone who used to be a happy part of our lives.

Something went very wrong between my friend and me. Circumstances outside our control pitted us against each other and turned once doting friends into bitter enemies. It is one of the great sadnesses of my life, to be honest.

And though I am not completely sure and have no solid proof, I believe that one who was once loved dearly by me googled “epnurse” today and left a smattering of viciously hateful comments on a post I wrote for my friend whose seven-year old son is in the hospital.

Something about me writing a few happy and tender words brought out the worst in him. Something about friendship and happiness and fun and genuine concern made him hate me even more.

I could focus on the sinking feeling I felt when I read his well-aimed vitriol. But I think I will focus instead on the kindness I once found in him that’s still there — just not for me.

detour

I posted at Sharon’s blog. I thought I’d re-direct you since my posting has been pretty spotty around here lately.

If you want to read what I have to say, go here.

I’ve been too busy to post . . .