Sparkle On…

Earlier this summer I made the decision to make a huge change. I didn’t plan it and I still don’t know if I’ll survive it financially.

But wow, MY BODY.  Parts of me felt permanently tied into knots and hurt. Parts of me felt debilitated and frozen. I survived by getting frequent massages and taking too many cabs. I felt worthless almost every single day. I struggled for energy no matter how timely I was with my synthroid.

Flash forward a month:

I walk more than I have in years. I walk further with no pain than I have in years. I am physically taller and noticeably less tight. I ran out of synthroid for over a week. I needed an afternoon nap but felt great when I woke up.

What I’m saying is no matter what the trade is, make sure you are truly valued and appreciated for what you bring to your life.  If you’re not, you won’t even notice that you feel subhuman and every part of you is responding.

I am a fully equal human person again. Now to get some dollahs.

A quick thought…

Lots of folks have told their stories since we heard that Robin Williams died.

About Robin Williams, about suicide, about coping with sudden loss.

So here’s my thought: Find your connection to other people and don’t let it go.

When I was 14, I read The Bell Jar for the first time. I thought that Sylvia Plath had poured my emotional life out on the page and said everything I ever thought or felt. That included the stuff I was afraid to say or even acknowledge because it might be the final straw for me.

I reached a point in the novel where I couldn’t read further. I just couldn’t stop. I laughed, I cried, both at the same time. The book lay on my bed next to me. Caught in the image in my head, I curled into a fetal ball and my sobbing laughs shook my shoulders, then belly and eventually, all of me. In that moment, I discovered that no matter how alone I felt someone else got there first and maybe someone else would come after me.

Just like Sylvia Plath in the book, on another night I wandered around my home, robe sash dangling from my neck, tears dripping down my nose, looking for a beam or something strong enough to hold me up and make it stop. I tried and found it couldn’t hold a knot, tried and felt the knot slip right out of the polyester satin. The memory of despondent young woman with mascara running down her face, holding a torn belt loop and the end of a sash like a leash dangles in my head even today. I can’t remember if it’s in the book or just in my life. I just remember that both in life and as I read, I ended up sobbing that I wasn’t even competent enough to pull this off the right way.

That’s when I realized that Sylvia Plath had done this before me. I was doing it tonight. Someone would do this after me. Even if we never set on eyes on each other, we are not alone, we are a sisterhood of words, oral history, and we are there to be found if looked for beyond the pain. I keep that thought close when it feels very dark and alone.

We are not the first, nor the last, we’re a spot on a thread of time.

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