Thanksgiving couldn't have come at a better time. At no other point in my life can I remember really needing to be thankful for things. I hit a slump, reached an all-time low, sank so far down a break in the clouds was not visible. In trying to do a good thing, I set off a catastrophic chain of events that I'm not sure I can forgive myself for. Well, that's being a bit dramatic. I could kick myself, if I still maintained enough flexibility of youth, but since I perpetuate my own antics, forgiveness is a given. Plus I'm a Catholic--we're always looking to forgive someone.
It all started with Facebook, which I am beginning to believe is evil incarnate. Yeah, I know, too much drama. Well, I have a flair, don't you think? I saw this dog, this puppy, with the saddest sweetest face, who was going to be PTS if someone didn't step up and rescue her. (the kind way of saying murdered--put to sleep. Killed, put to death, extinguished...an animal lover had to have thought of "put to sleep". Where's Buddy, Mom? Well, he's sleeping, dear. Good Mom, not crushing her kid with the weight of truth and death, right? But she left off a crucial word--FOREVER. Hand him a copy of Rainbow Bridge next time, Mom, or better yet, read it to him. He'll learn more, and appreciate life and love more that way. And "euthanasia" just candy coats murder. And isn't "humanely euthanize" an oxymoron? I can understand ending an animal's suffering, but humanely euthanizing is not a good phrase for it, if you ask me.) Okay, off on a tangent, like you didn't see THAT coming!
Her name was Maggie, she was "under a year" and was said to be shy. In all actuality, her name was Maggie, she is farther under a year than it seemed, and she must have reserved her shyness for the rescue. Anyway, although I never thought he'd agree to it, the man I married allowed the rescue to take place. We drove to Chesterfield, SC, and picked up an emaciated, flea-infested happy puppy. Thankfully the vets at Banfield/Petsmart agreed to see us with no appointment since Maggie couldn't have a bath for another week due to recently being spayed. She got a great pill called Comfortis which eradicated the fleas in a half hour, and after a night of confinement in our garage, finally made her way upstairs to meet the pack. I should have had some clear sense of foreboding when the transition went without a hitch. I've seen enough horror movies to know that just when you think everything is fine, you turn around and get your head chopped off. In my defense, it's been eight years since I've had a puppy, and Dakota, Thor, and Jack require very little supervision.
To make a long story a little shorter, Maggie has been a member of the family for almost three weeks now, and has ruined a sweater, numerous socks, a pair of underwear, chewed my slippers (they're fuzzy and must look like a toy), shredded six toys in one sitting, and, the piece de resistance, managed to pull a $1700 BTE hearing aid out of my ear and chew it to ruin. Worst weekend of my life so far. I had barely had them a month. I cried two days straight, barely ate anything, and was completely open to abandoning all hope. With Dakota just being diagnosed with Atypical Cushings and her vet bills skyrocketing, I cannot afford another ear. Feeling hung out to dry, chewed up and spit out, and utterly alone, I did what any strong person would do--I crumbled into a blubbering mass of despair and hopelessness. Maggie annoys the living sin out of Thor, chews anything she can get ahold of, pees and poops at will in the house--even by the sliding door--and doesn't seem to be too shy. In fact, she's rather hyper. I decided right then I didn't like her, and any recovery from that seemed impossible.
She must've known. She was sweet, dainty, lovable, and did so good letting me know she had to go out. I couldn't help but decide I loved her. I picked her for a reason, things happen for a reason, so I just had to learn my lesson from this and keep plodding along. What else could I do? Returning her could be a death sentence, because anyone with less inner strength than me would not keep her. So long haul, here I come!
Things have a way of working out. You just have to be patient. Have faith. Learn from your experiences, take that knowledge and grow. See the silver lining in that gray cloud. Know that God never gives you more than He knows you can handle (although I can honestly say I can totally relate to Job and how he must've felt. It's very defeating. You feel forsaken. Makes you wonder if God's been placing bets with Satan again, only instead of Job it's your faith on the line.) My hearing aid should be covered with a $200 deductible. If it's not I'll just find a way to get another one. You deal because really, what's the alternative? Curl up in the fetal position and die? Although I considered it--briefly--it's not an option.
So I am thankful on this day, for so many things. My family, my friends, my animals, myself, life, love, laughter and happiness, I'm as thankful for the bad times as I am the good, because you can't have one without the other, and besides, you merely enjoy the good times, but you learn from the bad times. I've learned more about myself and the person I am in the last three weeks than I have in a long time. So even though my car is in desperate need of a tune up, I had to battle Aflac to cancel my poor excuse of supplemental insurance, I have to buy a new hearing aid and oh, did I mention I had to get a new keyboard for my computer as well, even though I seem to have more debt than money, it really is only money, after all. It's not what really matters. I can do without a lot, but if I can no longer laugh, love and have fun, then I've truly lost it all.
I am not perfect, but I'm here. I am alive, my 44 year old body is still running (the only thing I've owned for that long that still works!) I have a job, a home, a car, coffee in the morning, and even though Dakota's medicine is expensive, she's still alive. I have so much good in my life, I just need to open my eyes and see it. Thank You God, for all the blessings You have bestowed on me. Because even in a cloud of bad, there's still good shining from within, and as long as you can see that, you've got reason to be thankful.
I am a dog lover. The scratch on my chin made by an exuberant Husky at the mere mention of the "w" word (the "w" word is walk, and even though we spell it out, I swear their ears perk up like they have learned what those four letters mean) is a testament to that. Most of the time my body resembles that of someone who battled a thorny bush and lost horribly. Although there are only three dogs remaining, they are my canine children and I love them dearly.
If you are a neat freak or a germaphobe, you would not last ten minutes in my house. You would immediately notice the pine straw deposited on the carpet from shaggy tails, the tumbleweeds of dog hair, or that distinct smell of soggy doggy that no air freshener can defeat. There are various pee spots from the males marking territory or overactive bladders. Not to mention the dog hair that inevitably ends up a special seasoning in whatever meal I actually get around to cooking. It's a given. Dog hair is either cooked into the dish or will end up there via your clothes. When I go to sleep at night with my three dogs right there with me, I put a thin layer of Vaseline on my face to help keep it soft, so I always wake up with a face like the wolfman from shedded fur that sticks to me as I sleep. I live in fear that one day I will go to the doctor with a stomach ache, and he'll tell me I have a fur ball. Of course it would make the news, and eventually post on YouTube, and I will be forever immortalized as the woman with the ten pound hairball. You can't just cough that up!
There are times when I think back of the brief period when my beloved Sheltie died and I wasn't ready to get another dog, or when our beloved mutt Sega escaped and got killed by a car. I tried to distance myself from animals so I wouldn't have to see them die, sparing myself of that pain. But what I didn't realize was I was robbing myself of the joy they bring during their short lives.
I wasn't ready for a dog when the man I married decided he had to have a yellow Lab. I didn't want a dog yet. We walked with the breeder past these outdoor kennels, with these happy friendly Labs running along the fence. My heart began to thaw. By the time we got to the litter we were to choose from, my heart was melting fast. When we saw the small yellow body sleeping in his food dish, I looked up at my husband as a female yellow lab puppy came over to me and said, "Can we get two?" It was decided that day, my destiny. I believe we don't choose our fate; rather, it chooses us. Mine was sealed that day.
One dog led to two, because come on, it wasn't fair to Austin to have to chew on things to keep himself occupied, he needed a friend. That friend turned into Dakota, who in turn had a litter of seven puppies, which of course led to three dogs in da house, which led to another litter and another dog. I knew then although I would have kept every puppy if I could have that I had reached my limit. Four dogs are a lot of work, especially when you're doing the majority of the care yourself. I didn't complain (much), because I was the reason for this development. So accidents, dog hair, dog smell, well, you get used to it after awhile. Having a pristine house never really mattered to me. Having furniture no one could sit on because I didn't want it soiled or ruined wasn't gonna happen. So my life became a house of falling apart furniture filled with the love of good dogs. It doesn't matter to them, though. They love me and they don't really care what the house looks like.
When Austin passed from cancer, I was fine with the three amigos, Dakota, Titus, and Jack. Until a friend of the man I married was giving away a Husky, another dog the man I married always wanted. I was less than enthused. I had adjusted to life with three, and was quite content. My traitorous human children betrayed me by saying we should take him. I saw more work and expense for me--not to mention trying to add a strange dog to this tight-knit pack. I couldn't see it working. But...the crazy dog lady gave in. It was rough at first. Dakota did not like him at all. But when I saw him, that heart of mine was a puddle on the floor, and I thought well, there are worse things that four dogs (like dog hair, pee spots, pine straw, dog smell, dog breath, fleas) but I accepted my fate.
Now we have just the three--Dakota, Jack, and Thor, after losing Titus to cancer--but I still stopped and took a quick gander at the woman holding a "Puppies" sign in the parking lot at WalMart. Lucky for the man I married they were Chihuahuas for a price and not Golden Retrievers or Labs for free!
Even the man I married finds time to complain, about the hair, dogs on the bed, bones laying around to be stepped on, and dogs always walking in front of the cable box when he's trying to change the channel. We've had dogs chew MP3 players, pencils, toys, lip gloss, cords, books, and just about anything else you can imagine. I used to sweat the dog stuff, but not now. It doesn't change anything, and it causes me to lose valuable time that could be spent playing with my three wonderful canine children. I've realized my yard will never have grass, my bushes will always need pruning, and my front porch with the railings falling down might never get fixed. I might never have nice furniture, or a bigger house, or new linoleum in the kitchen. But that's okay. I've got a great family, both human and dog, filled with love, laughter, and memories. Let everybody else keep up with the Joneses, and compare material possessions. I'll take three dogs waiting to shower me with kisses every time I walk in the house. Where else would I ever find such unconditional love and adoration? No diamond ring or dozen red roses could ever give me that.
So I won't sweat the dog stuff, because it's all dog stuff. And it's all good.
(on a side note-- I highly recommend reading the book "Dogs Don't Bite When a Growl Will Do" by Matt Weinstein and Luke Barber. I've learned a lot about living my life the way my dogs live theirs--with excited happy abandon!)
The road to happy is riddled with pot holes, slick with oil, a long winding road that seems flat and endless. But it's where I wanna be.
Depression has jumped on my back and dug in its claws, refusing to relinquish its hold without a battle. I have no will to fight. I have fallen in the rabbit hole, and can see no sign of escape, of rescue, no sign of light. The day is sunny, but the darkness surrounds me. My heart is heavy, the tears threaten to fall over everything and nothing in particular. I just want to be left alone but don't want to be lonely anymore.
I'm tired of hopelessness. I'm tired of sadness. I'm tired of wandering lost thru a life that is supposed to be mine. I'm tired of negativity, manipulation, threats and stress. I'm tired of trying to grieve and having my time interrupted by the insecurities and needs of others thrust upon me. I'm tired of being misunderstood by people who not only don't try to understand me but don't want to. More than being loved I want to be understood, accepted, for who and what I am, instead of trying to be fixed, altered, to be someone who is easier to get along with. I am difficult yet simple if you just try. It might not seem worth it but the payoff would have been so big it would have made it all worthwhile. I am tired of being chained to the past. I'm tired of worrying about the future. I'm tired of coming in last every time, I'm tired of being blamed for everything, I'm tired of the twists and turns that confuse and confound me, the verbal barbs that wrap around my heart and head making me dizzy and heartbroken. I'm tired of closing myself off because I'm so cynical I know that when I try I am only going to be taken for granted. What I give freely will not be returned, because I am not worth the effort. That is not my fault, but the fault of the ones who deem me that way, who see an easy target, who tell me the horrible deeds I'm capable of when I do not have an evil heart. They can not convince me I am this horrible person, because I deflect their attacks, hold up the mirror so they can see what they try to put on me is really their reflections.
So I push myself along, on the road to happy, hoping it will be around the next corner, over the next hill, hoping, always hoping I will arrive at my destination. I know happiness will not rescue me. I know happiness will not fix what is wrong in my life. But happiness will make the hardships easier to bear. Happiness will knock depression away, salve my wounds, and give me a reason to keep going. It will act as my guiding light thru the darkness that surrounds me. It will pick me up and keep me going when I otherwise want to give up.
We are responsible for our own happiness. I have not always been happy with my circumstances, with the direction my life has taken, with the people or things in my world. But I have discovered a happiness with myself. I finally see that what others find annoying I find endearing. What others think is high maintenance is really quirkiness. What others see as weird is really weird, in a good way. If only they could have celebrated me the way I do. If only they could see that maybe the problem isn't me, but within themselves. If only they looked into a mirror instead of just glass. If only they were happy with themselves. Maybe we could be happy together.
"If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character...Would you slow down? Or speed up?"--Chuck Palahniuk
http://media.photobucket.com/image/death/LITLWILDCAT/backgrounds/death.jpg?o=3
Death is the one thing in life that, no matter how much hope you have, you will never defeat. It is amazing that we can live productive lives knowing that one day we will cease to be. I can't imagine not being alive, or that I lose people I love and have to go on without them. So many people wandering around in this world, wasting their lives, and I am one of them. We think we will always have tomorrow--to achieve our goals, to change our lives, to be happy, to tell someone how we feel about them--but we don't know with all certainty that tomorrow will be there.
I am still relatively young, at 43, and God willing I could possibly have another 43 years left. But I curse getting old. I hate it. Each year brings something else I don't like--a wrinkle, an ache, a change in my body that I swore when I was svelte (too skinny) and young (stupid) would never happen to me. Time ravages us, no matter what care we take, it has its way with us at its will, on its terms, and we have no choice but to be victims. Sure, we can take this vitamin, the latest supplement, eat fruits, proteins, carbs or no carbs, certain meats, no meats, vegetables, grains and fibers, deprive ourselves of cake and ice cream and candy, jog until we feel like our heart will explode, use this cream, lotion or salve to stop wrinkles, aches, or dryness, but time marches on, in a zig zag willy nilly pattern all over us, leaving wrinkles like tire tracks etched in our skin, in our lives, until there is nowhere left to hide but in plain sight. Our bodies grow weak and flabby, our minds dull and forget, we move slower, step by painstaking step until we have to stop for a breather. Soon we need this pill or that pill, this surgery or that surgery, the operating room table like a cutting board and we are the turkey offered for Thanksgiving. It's sad and depressing and then it's over, just like that. We live--if we're lucky, that is, because too many of us just exist--and we laugh and we love, and then it's over. We are gone. Or they are gone and we are left to live without them. How do you do this? How do you ever get used to losing people you love? Do you ever adjust to it, or is it like a knife every time? I used to love being the youngest but now I know I am more likely to lose more people in my life because of my placement. I've got a lot to lose. So much pain.
But then...
I think about it. How lucky am I to have so many wonderful people in my life? To have known so many people that have given me so much, so many people I have been honored to love and share my memories with. We all have so much but we don't see it! We don't let it in! We let the pain rule when we should let love rule. Sure, my body is 43 years old, but what else have I owned in my lifetime that has lasted that long? NOTHING. It's foolish to think it won't need a tune up along the way. I can't stop living in anticipation of dying; in fact, I need to live more because of it. I don't mean make foolish choices and say nothing matters because I'll be dead someday, but I mean work to fulfill my dreams, live each day like there's no tomorrow by appreciating being alive, being able to see, hear, experience--good, bad, joy, pain, laughter, tears--because it's all a vital part of my life. Use this pain to learn more about the kind of person I want to be. How I can change me to be that person. Do something with this life I've been given before it is taken away. We can choose to stay in grief, or we can choose to feel that grief and turn it into something better. We can choose to ignore the living in order to remember those we've lost, choose to feel alone instead of feeling part of those still here, choose sadness over happiness. Everything is a part of life, the good and the bad, and we must experience it all. But then, we must choose to live. I will not be a walking dead person. I will be alive, until I have only the last breath to give.
So in answer to the question in the quote at the beginning of this post, I would definitely slow down. Because although my life has not been perfect, nor have I, it is my life, and I like being me. And I wouldn't want it any other way.
"Hear no evil don't you see no evil don't you lay no evil down on me
You're gonna burn in hell
Speak no evil don't you think no evil don't you play with evil cause I'm free
You're gonna burn in hell."--Twisted Sister
It is hard for me to fathom that the course of my life could be altered by the irresponsibility of others, by a carelessly flung adjective, a remark taken out of context, an overzealous exclamation, or an outside observation. I don't know why it's hard for me, I've had it done before. Maybe as cynical and distrusting as I can be, I still have that hopeful naivete that I can believe in someone. I've been burned before; painfully blistered and scarred, my cracked soul still has not fully recovered. But even still I know I could never do to them what they have done to me. Does that make me a better person? No. Well, maybe, but that's not a judgment for me to make. It just makes me who I am. I can be a bitch. I can be someone you don't want to piss off. But the repercussions of that is not retaliation, but a cool, quiet aloofness, an invisible wall I erect to keep out those who burn me, impenetrable to the fires they breathe on me, impervious to wicked forked tongues that speak from both sides of their shameful mouths.
I am dangerous, and they don't even realize it. I go along with them, as if I am one, but I watch, I listen, I record. I hang back and observe. I can treat someone with respect, treat them as I would a friend, all the while not trusting them; hell, not even liking them. But they don't even realize. I process this information solely for my own use. It is what I use to decide if I can let this person inside the wall. Most fail. Some are allowed in. Some get inside only to be kicked out. I can work very well with someone I don't like, because that's what I do, and they are none the wiser. I choose my words carefully, plan out my sentences, and the information I choose to share is carried from me to someone else, via this person, this telephone line. My responses are calculated, executed without the knowledge or consent of the vessel I use to deliver them. What to them seems like something I share in passing is really a well planned verse. And they don't even know it.
I am many things but I am not evil. I can be careless, I can be recklessly passionate, I can be angry, and yes, I can even be hurtful (though that is a side of myself I do not like to portray) but I am not evil. I wish ill-will on no one, not even my worst enemies. That serves no purpose in my life. Sometimes I wish Karma would rip them a new one, and when it does I relish it, but I wish no permanent damage. Just cosmic order.
That is why I try to see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil, because that which is dealt out shall be returned. And I'm not anxious to be Karma's bitch.
"In our appetite for gossip, we tend to gobble down everything before us, only to find, too late, that it is our ideals we have consumed, and we have not been enlarged by the feasts but only diminished."--Pico Iyer
I have been called many things in my day, some that have impressed me with the ingenuity behind the alleged insult, some that have been true so I've simply shrugged them off, some that have pierced my heart like a needle bringing tears to my eyes and a stinging in my soul, some that have outright pissed me off and more than a few that have made me laugh. I've deserved some, earned some, and done nothing wrong to get others. Mostly they've just been labels flung at me by a society who feels the need to fit in and belong at all costs, and I've managed to survive because I don't cling to conformity. I like to fit into the fringes of society, just enough to function but not enough to get caught in the endless and tiresome games society plays at a randomly chosen victim's expense.
I have been a randomly chosen victim. An easy mark, if you will. Because I have possessed one thing that these labelers have been unable to grasp--silence. Is it merely a coincidence that I've acquired the skill to stop a forked tongue before it wags, or is it related to the hearing impairment monkey on my back since my pre-teen years? Call it quiet, call it shy, call it withdrawn, it's probably all of those and more, but it's definitely something I've known was different about me since I was in kindergarten, maybe even before. I've always felt it, that eerie distance, I've always known I belong outside the circle. I used to think it meant there was something wrong with me, but now I realize it's just how it is. Sure, sometimes it's lonely, but sometimes it's comforting too. And I've given up pretending to be someone I'm not. No, I save the costumes for Halloween. You will not find a more loyal, honest, or reliable person than me, if you dig thru the outer layer of frost to get to the warm soul underneath. Not many people have succeeded, but those who have will always have an ally. I will always have their backs. All I ask is that same loyalty in return. Needless to say, I'm disappointed quite frequently.
I prefer to stand in the background, watching and listening, absorbing the scene playing out around me like a sponge. I don't need the spotlight, the standing ovation, the reassuring praise and pat on the head saved for those whose insecurities are obvious. I toot my own horn, so to speak, in the shadows, in the darkness, usually with the people that the labelers wouldn't even acknowledge. Because they are the heart and soul of the world. Not the ones always shouting "Look at me! Listen to me!" The ones who hold their tongues, who keep the secrets, they are the people I associate with. Words are sacred to them, and I know they are capable of going to the death without revealing a confidence. I'm one of them. I've done it. Well, not gone to the death, obviously, because I'm still here, but kept it until it was divulged by the person's own will. Done it more than once, actually. So when I say "You can trust me" you should know you really can.
But there are those whose diarrhea of the mouth is used to gain them friends, attention, notoriety, fame, kudos, whatever sick and twisted thing they are missing in their own sordid lives. Hell, half the time these people will call themselves out, opening their own secrets for the world to see. The others are merely hypocrites, outing other people while sticking their own secrets in a lock box and swallowing the key. And the ones who confide only to those who will side with them, they are a whole different hot mess barely deserving a side note in this entry.
I have no use for small talk, even less use for gossip. Sometimes I don't hear things until way after the fact, when the smoke has already cleared. Sometimes I don't hear it at all, thank God. Sometimes I hear and pretend I didn't, and when a friend is the butt of the nonsense I let them know. Gossip never ever helped a situation. I've never heard anyone say "I'm so glad you told me all that about so-and-so, I feel much better about the situation now!" No, no good can come from it. I listen, sometimes. It's unavoidable. But I try to keep my mouth shut. Lately though I realize that's not right, either. When the gossip dragon looms in front of me, even if it wasn't breathing fire in my direction, I need to do my part to slay it. That would be like a superhero walking past a person in need saying "That's not my fight." It is my responsibility to do what I can to end pointless and evil gossip before it spirals out of control, enveloping everything in a torturous kudzu of sentences growing wildly out of control all because one individual overheard one tiny seed and decided to plant it in another person's garden. If I don't, I'm an unwilling cog in the wheel of gossip that allows it to keep turning. And that's not something I'm comfortable with.
It's easy to get caught up in the gossip wheel. It's usually interesting, because it's always the dirt about someone. But that someone is usually a randomly chosen victim, maybe even someone who thought they were talking to someone they could trust. I have betrayed trust in the past, and I have had my trust betrayed more times than that. I know how horrible it feels to do and have it done to me. It's a choice. It's always a choice, isn't it? It's easier to succumb to it than to stand against it. I'm too strong to take the easy way out. I'd rather stand for something. That's my choice. I choose silence. It is golden. It is kind. It is quiet. And coming from someone who uses technology just to be able to hear a regular conversation, that says a lot.
A Sarcastic Fringehead. How can you not love the name? Watching him defend his home is enviable. If people could puff up like that, there would be a lot less fighting in the world. This seemed like a natural name for my blog. Maybe I can identify with this fish, maybe I just really like the name, but I think we all have some fringehead in us, and those who don't should. But there were a few runner up names that would have been more than sufficient. Now you're gonna know what they are!
