She wasn’t thinking about “rows and floes of angel hair.” Wait, you mean it isn’t bows and floes? The Girl shook her head. Wrong, as usual. Surrounded by air that was slightly humid, the faint whine of mosquitoes sullied the solitude. She thought again about how things seemed louder to her and how even the slightest noise startled her.
The familiar flutter in her chest as a twig snapped caused her to spin around and jump at the sight of a friend sneaking up on her. The Alone Girl was used to being teased by others who found humor in startling her. Her practiced smile appeared as her friend chuckled, unaware of the state of panic caused within the Girl. Decades later the Girl would learn, oh, whatever. It doesn’t matter. What’s done was done and can’t be undone. The damage remains.
The friend asked what the Girl was doing. The Girl replied, “I don’t know. I was listening to the woods.” And she was. There were so many layers of sound in the woods from breezes brushing by leaves to birds scrounging for seeds to the faint undercurrent of a nearby stream. The Girl belonged in this environment. She needed this peace. It was like she visited this space in order to recharge.
The insipid “friend’s” chatter was gnawing at the edge of the Girl’s awareness. Determined not to respond to the repeated questions of why she was so weird and why did she do odd stuff like this, the Alone Girl stood up from her seat on the fallen log and walked off. Never deliberately confrontational, she walked away signaling the end of the conversation. That was her M.O.
In further search of peace, she stopped midway on the bridge over the huge pond. There she observed fish of all sizes jockeying with each other for a snack. It was a dog eat dog world everywhere. The pale sun of early spring bathed her face. She closed her eyes and listened to the frogs making their presence known. Why was it that any variety of sounds could be a blessing and a curse to her? Was she the only one with this perception? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a subject she dared bring up to anyone else. They didn’t get it.
As always, words coursed through her head as though spurred on by what she heard: “Before the breathing’ air is gone/Before the sun is just a bright spot in the nighttime/Out where the rivers like to run/ I stand alone and take back something worth remembering.” She felt a smile cross her face. Her moment of peace was complete.
Lyrics from “Out in the Country” by Three Dog Night
She leaned into the wet snow that tangled her eyelashes and pelted her face. Walking was difficult in snow containing a high-moisture content. Her wet Docksiders slapped along the sidewalk. The girl peeked sideways at the yacht-like cars chugging their way home. Homes that were warm and welcoming with dinner waiting on the table.
Meg was making her way home, wishing for the umpteenth time that one of her teammates would have offered her a ride. Yet, day after day, Meg slogged home in the darkness. Meg vowed to herself not to forget how the other girls would avoid eye contact, knowing Meg was too proud to ask them. The phrase “Be kind to others” was part of Meg’s automatic thinking – a lesson she learned at a young age.
As she drew closer to home, the strains of a song skipped through her head. Her mind was never quiet. During these solitary walks, the girl often conducted a stream-of-consciousness conversation with herself. It helped to pass the time. She considered the tune in her head to be her theme song. Its title? Alone Again (Naturally). Her circumstances matched the song’s title but not the events of the song. Meg spent a great deal of time by herself. And that’s why she called herself the Alone Girl.
It’s simple. Eat fewer calories than you expend. The quality of the calories plays into it as well. But, that’s the bottom line.
The skinny on me is I wasn’t always fat, obese, a whale…call it what you will. I was active through college. An operation created hormonal imbalances in my body. Coupled with that, my anxiety levels went through the roof (see also, hormonal imbalances). I ate for comfort. First I spent a few years consuming lots of alcohol. I stopped that in my late 20s and became a severe over-eater.
I was raised to eat in a healthy manner. My mother provided balanced meals. I wasn’t a picky eater so I ate my share of fruits and vegetables. I even ate liver once a month. Typing that made me wince and shiver at the same time.
It was a treat to go out for an ice cream cone. Mostly we had homemade desserts and cookies. Drinking a soda was also a treat. I can only blame my weight gain on myself. I’m not lazy, I’m not a slob, I’m not a moron. And yet, here I am fighting the food demons daily. I’ve been on pretty much every diet, weight loss program, you name it. I’ve maintained my unhealthy weight for a few decades, never letting it get beyond a certain point.
I’m more than capable. I’ve been to nutritionists. What I cannot seem to do is to control the mental health demons that drive me to eat and eat some more. You might be saying that you’ve eaten meals with me and wouldn’t say that I overate at all. That’s true. I’m not going to give anyone fuel to hurt me with ugly words. Those of us with this issue know how to “cope.” A person might have a “stash” at home. Or might zip through the drive-thru on the way home from eating with friends. I’ve done both. Believe me, I’m not proud.
In our modern day and age, weight loss medications are all the rage. I have type II diabetes controlled by insulin. I’ve had the opportunity to try many of the oral meds from their inception, as well as the injectable’s. And, oh yeah, another nod to that surgery I had…I’m not able to tolerate some meds and foods. Do they cause me problems? Yes, but it’s not minor inconveniences…it’s horrible stomach pain along with all that comes with gastrointestinal distress.
Now, I’m not a doctor nor do I claim to know much about chemistry but I know when it’s time to stop putting stuff into my body (except for food, obviously). I’ve dutifully tried the new crop of weight loss drugs in a huge attempt to lower my blood sugars.
Thankfully my endocrinologist is part of a large group who are assailed by large numbers of sales reps. I’m always willing to try something that may help me so last spring I spoke with one of the diabetes educators about the types of insulin pumps that are on the market. In July I received some training for my new insulin pump. It’s marketed as a “bionic pancreas.” And it is, more or less.
It has the job of providing my body the correct amount of insulin it needs. My job is to change infusion sets every two days and also to refill the insulin when it runs out.
This is the pump in its most basic form. The tubing attaches the pump to the needle at the infusion site. For me it’s my stomach or the side of my stomach, just above my waist. The gizmo in the upper-right hand corner is a continuous glucose monitor. Often worn on the back of the upper arm, it communicates wirelessly to the pump to keep it informed of my blood sugar readings. The pump uses its algorithm to determine how much insulin I need and dispenses some every five minutes. The only thing I do is to “announce” my meals. I tell the pump if I’m eating more, the usual, or less of each meal. The pump has taught itself what amount of carbs I eat and bases the insulin required on that.
Back to calories in and the quality of such….I just had a checkup. Even eating badly as I often do, my a1c level, a measure of average blood sugar over the last three months, decreased by 1 1/2%. That’s big, for me. Using the pump has been a learning curve but I’m glad I persisted. It also means one needle insertion every 24-36 hours instead of 4-7 shots per day.
Last week I woke up and my legs were aching badly. Hauling myself around creates a strain. I’ve had one total knee replacement and the other knee is screaming for relief. Oh, and a hip is complaining loudly. I am fully aware of what my body has had to bear. Does that stop my binge eating? Why, no. No it doesn’t.
So take the new weight loss meds. My body is unable to tolerate them. Ok, then have that gastric bypass surgery. Ah, no. I already have GI issues. From those with whom I’ve spoken, the surgery can manifest itself in loads of GI issues involving the bathroom. Plus my stomach is fine. Why would I irreparably change it?
Calorie quality. There is one weight loss plan that is sensible and works as long as you work it according to plan. When I do, I’ve lost weight and my blood sugars are much lower. I’ve started it at least 25 different times. Will this be the time it sticks? Will this be the time that my binge eating demons will be exorcised? Let’s hope so, even in a small way. I’m no stranger to pain and I have a high pain threshold. But I’m tired of the pain, so tired. I despise that there is so much I’m unable to do any more because of the pain.
As Kenny Loggin’s voice parades through my head…”Are you gonna wait for a sign, your miracle?/Stand up and fight.” I’ve got to. My body tells me so. My mind has other ideas.
It’s back to following Weight Watchers where no food is off limits. You learn to plan and prepare. And if you follow the plan, you can eat a more than satisfying amount of food…the good calorie stuff.
One breakfast exampleDinner of chicken, roasted tiny potatoes and veggies w/a sprinkle of cheese.
For all that the Bear Mountain Bridge is historical and important, it played an unexpected role in the dismemberment of my sanity. This bridge was built in 1924 and connects Bear Mountain State Park, NY with Cortlandt, NY. It spans the Hudson River allowing residents from two large counties in New York State, Orange on the western side and Westchester on the eastern side, easier access to one another.
As a resident of the Capital District of New York, I was used to traveling throughout New York and New England by the time I was a young adult. Since the area where I grew up was influenced by the Hudson and Mohawk Rivers, I was used to crossing the variety of bridges in the area. There was never any fear involved. It was a means of getting from Point A to Point B.
It all changed for me on one fateful night in the winter of 1982. Everything changed for me, and within me, at that time in my life. If you knew me prior to this point in time, I’m glad. If you’ve only known me since that time, all I can say is I’m sorry you didn’t get to experience me as I was before that time. And, trust me, I miss who I was before that time. Try as I might, despite a lifelong travail through therapy and medications, I’ve never recaptured the core construct of my personality. When you’re twenty two years old, it’s hard to envision such a profound transformation could be imminent.
The night I traversed the Bear Mountain Bridge, the one and only time, began happily. I was on semester break from graduate school and visiting a boyfriend who lived downstate in Monroe, NY. The previous evening he had treated me to dinner at a magical Japanese restaurant. This night we’d dined at home with his parents, a very pleasant occasion. We were then off to meet his best friend and his fiancée for some fun bowling.
It should have been an omen to me that my boyfriend changed his shirt to match mine in color. I do remember thinking it was a bit odd to see us in matching pink. And bowling was something I did not do on any sort of regular basis. The third warning flag was the constant chatter from my boyfriend about the size of the friend’s fiancée’s engagement ring. He told me mine would be larger. Whoa, Nellie! We’d only been dating a few months and marriage was not part of my thinking at the time.
But as a perennial people-pleaser, I wanted to make a good impression and off we went. I was not geographically familiar with that area in the least. He mentioned traveling across a bridge to get to our destination. That wasn’t an issue for me as I did it all the time at home. In fact, much of my life has been constructed to make others happy. “The times they are a’changing…”
Here’s the rest of the recipe for this disaster…in third grade I was in a bad car accident during a snowstorm. Relax, I wasn’t driving. But the three of us in the car were each seriously injured. This created fear for me as a car passenger (still), especially when dark and the weather iffy. Add the increasing anxiety and depression since my female surgery eighteen months prior.
On our way to the bowling alley, my boyfriend took the most direct route which meant driving over the Bear Mountain Bridge. I’d never seen this in the daylight, so I couldn’t visualize it (a coping mechanism for me). Then the weather turned and sleet started to pelt us. We arrived safely but my insides felt like liquid.
When it came time to go back, the sleet and snow persisted and I begged to return to his house a different way. It meant going a different and longer route but the bridge wasn’t a few hundred feet in the air. Luckily the boyfriend complied.
That would turn out to be one of my milder anxiety/panic attacks. I had no idea what was happening inside of me and why I was so unwell. I’ve sailed these waters for the past forty-four years. Through lots of work and med changes, I found a medication balance about twenty years ago. It’s not perfect. I’m still prone to cyclical depression and anxiety is very much a part of my daily life, but it’s far more manageable. The downside is the meds cause weight issues and my anxiety drives me to overeat. As I said, it isn’t perfect. It’s allowed me to exist.
I’ve given up on many things I’ve wanted to do in my life. But as life grows shorter I have promised myself to do things I’ve wanted to do and are within my capacity to achieve. My first book is written, published, and well-received. Last fall, I took an Amtrak sleeper car to Spokane, WA., and back, to meet some of my first cousins from the paternal side of my biological family (I’m adopted). I made the trip by myself. My cousins were welcoming and I’m so glad I made the journey.
I’ve done a few other things I’ve wanted to do for a while and I’m still pondering learning a musical instrument. In the spring I plan to drive over the Bear Mountain Bridge, in the daylight, so I can thumb my nose at it for its role in my earlier life. Wait, who am I kidding? It deserves a double bird flip. And that it shall have.
Ha, you thought it said traditions. Luckily this post addresses both, I think. The accompanying photo popped up in my Facebook memories today. November 2020 was during the height of the pandemic when many of us were sticking close to our own groupings of loved ones. Since my mother and I comprise our family, that’s why the table is set for two.
My upbringing focused on time-honored traditions, especially for special occasions like the holidays. My mother’s attention to the traditions bordered on fanaticism but it was done out of love and respect for her mother. Not that it wasn’t awfully close to the concept of tradition in Shirley Jackson’s short story “The Lottery.” “Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones.” Yes, this story speaks to the negative aspect of some traditions. I prefer the positive.
Traditions may also be comfortable, like a well-worn, favorite blanket. They may remind us of a time when we felt safe, loved, and comforted. Those are what I cling to, even just loosely. Childhood holiday preparation meant getting out the “good stuff.” In those days when most brides of our parents’ generation still expected to receive China, silver, and crystal as wedding gifts, their use was saved for special occasions. And they were expected to be used at those times.
This picture made me smile as I looked at what was in it. With my then 90 year old mother as my companion for Thanksgiving, I knew she would prefer to see the “good stuff.” And, honestly, I wanted to use it for the occasion. Silver was polished, crystal was washed, and a treasured linen was freed from its place in the closet. I was happy with the result and it meant a great deal to my mom. She grew up eating from those dishes, with that silver, each Sunday until she married at 20. My mother and her brother were very sentimental about their mother’s memory. The dishes and silver are my grandmother’s from the mid-1920s when she married. The linen tablecloth was hand embroidered by my grandmother or her sister, likely just after the turn of the 20th century.
The linen napkins were some of my mother’s wedding gifts. My contribution was the setting. That’s my home and furniture. And I prepared the meal (comprised of traditional fare, of course). The pumpkin centerpiece was given to me by a good friend and it had a bit of an “elf on the shelf” connotation. Where would the pumpkin be found next? It became a victim of my most recent move when I had to merge households.
Thanksgiving in house #3. My photo.
Why do some of these material items bring me comfort? They have been handled by people I love and especially by those I’ve loved and have left us. They in turn were comforted by their relatives previous touch. These items were obtained through love, respect, and a great deal of hard work. They are as much a part of me as they are part of my “stuff.” I’m proud they’re mine. But their true monetary value does not measure their worth. “The greatest treasures are those invisible to the eye but found by the heart.” (Judy Garland)
Here’s a little something for your senses…”Touch me/It’s so easy to leave me/All alone with my memory/Of my days in the sun…”. “Memory” by Andrew Lloyd Webber.
I’ve been an active dreamer for much of my life. And, because I’m curious by nature, I’ve done quite a bit of reading about dreaming, dream interpretation, etc. My mind is open to most possibilities, at the very least I’m willing to consider both sides of a concept. Though not a religious person per se, I would describe myself as a spiritual individual.
Now I’m not talking about sitting around a ouija board or a crystal ball. I’m talking more about being in touch with the idea that there’s more to life than may be easily explained. Decades passed before I was able to comprehend the depth of my own sensitivity and feelings. There are names for this now. I may be a “deep feeler” or I may be a highly sensitive person (HSP). Well, duh. I don’t need a designation.
This may fly in the face of how I’m perceived. For most of my life, I’ve appeared as a stoic individual who also has a sense of humor. In my youth I was athletic which often goes hand in hand with a lack of intellectuality. The stolidity of my appearance is my armor. I felt if I presented myself this way, nothing troubling would get past that wall. That’s like scolding a puppy for playing.
A bit of a change in direction. A poet and writer named Avijeet Das is credited with the following: “Some people feel everything deeply. They know no other way.” When I first read that, it gave me a feeling of calm. I felt “accepted.” All of a sudden I didn’t feel ashamed of the depth of my emotions. Living for decades while suppressing how you feel is not good for one’s physical health.
Most of my life I railed against my sensitivity by stuffing it out of sight so I couldn’t be hurt. What I realized too late was I was also suppressing my creativity while creating some really bad mojo inside of myself. As I let myself begin to express my sensitivity, through my writing, I filled the void it left with food. Letting go of myself resulted in creating an addiction designed to provide comfort.
Anxiety was embedded in me from a young age. It grew mostly out of the domestic unrest I experienced. Looking back I can remember lying awake in bed and listening to my father wreaking havoc downstairs through verbal assaults fueled by alcohol. I’m not here to rehash that nor am I here to point fingers. I’m just saying I was not well-equipped to deal with the depth of my sensitivity. My need for acceptance became overwhelming because, in my mind, I never measured up.
Look, I’m very fortunate that in all of this mess I was given the means to be a successful student, to complete a higher level of education, and to sustain a career that was satisfying. It all came at an enormous cost. I “settled” for things because most of my energy had to be spent keeping myself upright. That’s in the past and I’m heading forward. And you will see how that will manifest itself in my future.
One thing that was clear to me through my book signing experience was the joy I received from meeting, and speaking with, so many nice people. Though I’m meant to interact with people, it’s very difficult for me. At the root of it, though, I genuinely enjoy “teaching,” and rambling on about a subject of interest. The amount of joy in me after each book signing event was immeasurable. I continue to search for more ways to experience that feeling.
I’m not a quitter though I’m the first to admit that I’ve come close a handful of times. It took losing one good friend and one longtime acquaintance, because their pain was too great to continue, for me to see and feel the profound results on those left behind. It’s not something I wish to do to anyone else. I will keep raging “against the dying of the light.”
Deep inside of me, I believe I will feel inner peace eventually. Until then, “I see my light come shinin’/From the west down to the east/Any day now, any day now/I shall be released.” Bob Dylan wrote this song and my favorite version of it is by The Band.
“While there is life, there is hope.”
N.B. My apologies if this makes anyone uncomfortable. If it helps one other person, I’m ecstatic.
As we slide from autumn toward winter, my mind connects with the concept of change. As I accept and assume the mantle of writer and author, it has given me some great insight. I choose to share my thoughts in the event that others, who are seeking and healing, may connect and see they aren’t alone (as I have long felt).
For much of my life, the approach of autumn meant the start of another school year. Because of who I am, that meant lesson planning, research so I could write and/or amend unit plans, planning to teach a course that was new to me, etc. People would always remark that autumn was a lovely time. I didn’t take much notice.
Because I live in the Northeast, autumn meant raking, prepping garden beds for their season of hibernation, general winterization of house and car. In short, there was much to do in addition to easing back in to the school year. Autumn meant college essays, lots of college essays, and writing college recommendations, lots of recommendations. You get the drift.
As individuals, we perceive things differently. My observation skills are very sharp. My mind has always been a rich source of sensory wanderlust. Where a person saw a tree with orange leaves, I saw a sentinel that had existed for decades as a place where people met. Were they sweethearts stealing kisses? Were they lovers planning a tryst? Were they there to settle a debt? Were they kids digging for buried treasure? In my mind, possibilities are endless.
The shorter days of autumn sometimes reveal a resplendence that only exists in Nature as rays of sun play on the many-hued leaves struggling to remain on the trees. “That time of year though mayst in me behold./When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang…”. Shakespeare, never at a loss for words, worked hard to portray both the melancholy of the fading of a season and of one’s life in his famous Sonnet 73. Time passes, things and people age and fade.
As a younger person, I enjoyed tramping through the woods. There was so much to observe, a veritable smorgasbord for my imagination. At times, stories flitted through my thoughts fueled by my environment. Mostly it provided quiet time to think as I sought to conquer problems, perceived or real. I’ve never classified myself as a loner, more as an individual who craves time alone. It’s just me. It helps me maintain an equilibrium. “Autumn wanders through the barren woods,/as fog cradles the pain she feels.” This is a passage from a poet named Angie Weiland-Crosby. It captures feelings that have always lived in me.
Yeah, yeah, am I always a Debbie Downer? Contrary to what is released through my writing, I am a cheerful and friendly individual in person. Many people, including former students and my mother, have suggested I try my hand at stand-up comedy. Don’t ever assume I’m joyless but don’t ever disrespect the pain I’ve felt. You aren’t me. You have never walked in my shoes. You couldn’t begin to imagine.
Now that I’ve had the time to stop, wander, and observe, I realize the depth of beauty that is autumn. Though it signals the coming of winter, it also promises the renewal of spring. So while autumn goes out in a blaze of glory, rather a Dylan Thomas-like “rage against the dying of the light,” so is it “Autumn, the year’s last, loveliest smile.” (William Cullen Bryant)
Take a deep breath and ponder the accompanying photo taken of a recent morning moon. Perhaps you might sing a little song to yourself:
“And I wanna rock your gypsy soul/Just like in the days of old/And together we will float/Into the mystic.” Van Morrison
The Alone Girl gobbled a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She felt the sunburn radiating through her pores. It was one detrimental side effect to her job as a summer tennis instructor, the guaranteed nasty sunburn from the first week of summer tennis.
But she had class tonight and couldn’t miss it. When she transferred schools midway through her college experience, six credits did not count toward filling the new school’s requirements. A night class last summer, and one now, assured she would graduate on time next May.
Of all nights to have a group presentation. She and her group were to explain the short story “Hills Like White Elephants,” by Ernest Hemingway, to the rest of the class. The Girl and one other guy in her group were the dependable students in that they read the assignments. But she would be quick to admit she didn’t always understand the full scope of an author’s message(s).
She drove to class with the presentation on her mind. Could she say the word ‘abortion’ in front of the class without turning red? This caused her to laugh. No one would notice if she turned red. Her sunburn was that bad. A wave of cool menthol drifted by her nostrils. The once soothing effect of the Noxzema liberally applied to squelch the fire on her skin was wearing off. This night’s class wouldn’t pass quickly.
Two members of the group were absent, the concept of the “presentation flu” taking root in the Girl’s mind. The other two members were not even able to sit adjacent to the Girl due to the heat radiating from her sunburned body. Misery was the Girl’s companion on this night.
When the professor asked them to present, she sighed and looked him in the eye. Her explanation of having read the ultra-short story and finding difficulty reading between the lines. Her group felt the story was perhaps a metaphor, building on the white elephants in the title, for being rid of something you didn’t want.
She wasn’t certain what she was saying. It didn’t matter because the class members began bombarding the professor with questions about pregnancy, abortion, drinking, the characters. The Girl had been truthful, in her own fashion, about not totally understanding the story. And now, with a cool late-June night breeze blowing through the car, the Girl thought how unfair it was for the female character in the story to feel she needed to do what the man wanted even though it wasn’t the character’s own choice. The Girl snorted and vowed no one would ever tell her what she could or couldn’t do with her own body.
Within two months, as summer neared its completion, the Girl would be forced to make a decision. Thankfully it wasn’t the decision the character in the story faced, the decision of whether or not to terminate a pregnancy. It was, in fact, a decision that would impact whether or not the Girl would ever have a pregnancy. And it was the Girl’s decision to make. Her tumor. Her body. Her decision.
Hot days hinted at the promise of summer. The Alone Girl was approaching a crossroads. High school would soon be over. And then what? Thrusting those thoughts aside, she turned her attention to the night. The air was crisp with an underlying earthy smell. It was the fragrance of promise and growth.
The Girl stopped to collect an acquaintance and they were off to enjoy themselves. A large part of her life at this stage involved walking to destinations near and far. One didn’t arrive at a party on one’s ten-speed though it was not unknown to the Girl. The twilight descended as the two young ladies traversed neighborhoods, their shoes making little to no noise. Giggles and mumbling proclaimed their passage.
At last they sensed unmistakable signs of the fun to come. Laughter and music spilled from a brightly lit house just down the street. The Alone Girl shivered, whether from anticipation or the cool evening, with the assurance of fun to come. And yet, she grinned as she hastily recalled her mother’s admonition to wear a jacket. Maybe she would heed such advice in the future.
Their quiet sojourn erupted into the controlled melee of the backyard beer party. Greetings flew through the air across the bunches of revelers. Older kids were home from college for the summer and kids like the Alone Girl were filled with a mixture of excitement and trepidation for what was to come.
The Alone Girl stopped to greet one of her friends who was attached to the hip of her boyfriend, he just home from college. The Girl knew he was home for just a short time as he was obligated to complete a summer program. He was resplendent in his college jacket. A grinning boy, unknown to the Girl, approached the trio with a fistful of dripping beer cups, wearing an identical college jacket.
The smiling fellow was introduced. He’d lived in town as a kid but his family moved. They were now moving back and he was there to complete some house projects before he left for his summer program. For the first time in her life, the Girl descended into that magical moment when time stands still and everything blurs outside of a five foot radius surrounding a girl and a boy. Was it the first blush of romance?
The Girl shivered. The young man, in as gallant a manner as any knight of the famed Roundtable, removed his jacket and placed it over her shoulders. It was a fantastical moment, one the Girl would always remember. They chatted the evening away until friends dropped them at the Girl’s house. Turns out the boy’s family was moving in around the corner.
The two giggled in the front yard, tipsy from the beer and perhaps their budding romance. A respectable, but promising, kiss ensued and the two laughed as the Girl pointed him in the direction of his home. The Girl later felt it was just like the “Some Enchanted Evening” scene from South Pacific.
I wish I could say this had a happy ending because it could have and, likely, should have. But it didn’t. Several dates between the two ensued though the boy was seldom home due to college commitments. Several months later the Girl avoided his calls during the holiday break. Why, you ask? Pride, pure and simple. The Girl was uncomfortable because the boy, as lovely and kind as a boy could be, was shorter than she.
Seriously? And thus the logic of youth spoiled something promising. Could he have been the one? Most likely, but the Girl, not yet emotionally equipped to move past superficiality, would never know. Still, she was glad for that one fantastical evening.
“Who can explain it?/Who can tell you why?/Fools give you reasons.” from Some Enchanted Evening. Song by Rodgers and Hammerstein.
“Every time I get the inspiration To go change things around No one wants to help me look for places Where new things might be found Where can I turn when my fair weather friends cop out What’s it all about”
The lyrics above are from a song called I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times. They’re from a song co-written by Brian Wilson and featured on the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds album. Another line from the song is front and center in my head today…”Sometimes I feel very sad (ain’t found the right thing I can put my heart and soul into)…”. I’ve talked about my experiences with depression and anxiety. I do so because I hope someone else will read what I’ve written and feel validated, or feel it’s ok to seek assistance.
My depression is very cyclical. There are periods of highs and lows which are mostly manageable. Right now I’m in the middle of a downswing that I’m finding difficult to smooth out. How is it possible for me to truly know this? It’s pretty simple. When I cannot summon interest to engage in my two favorite activities, I know times are tough.
Reading and swimming have been the two constant passions in my life. They are the activities I turn to when I must slow down and allow myself to relax. I know I project a laid-back attitude much of the time. On the inside, all of the pistons are firing and my mind is in constant action…thinking, fretting, analyzing, planning, etc. It.Never.Stops. It does slow down when I’m reading or swimming. That needed break is necessary for me to have.
“I keep lookin’ for a place to fit in…”. Do I ever relate to that. Except for when I was very young and we lived in Burlington, VT., I’ve never felt I fit in. If I became comfortable with one group, it wouldn’t be long before I was found lacking…not girly enough, too sporty, didn’t do arts and crafts or sew, didn’t play the right sports, etc. Add to the mix that I was very shy. I still am. People I know don’t believe it when I say it. I don’t lie.
Since I try to resolve (or smoothen out) my own issues so they don’t progress, it’s occurred to me that I may be having a downturn because my huge project of writing and publishing a book is done. One might think I should be ecstatic. Part of me is. Most of me feels a bit lost right now even though I have many things around the house that could be done. I have a ton of writing that’s unfinished (mysteries). My next goal was to publish a murder mystery.
And I just figured out what’s blocking me on that goal. Several years ago I pitched my work in progress to a handful of agents at a writer’s conference. Most were very pleasant and expressed mild interest. The final agent was challenging. And now I’m able to accept it was good for me though for years I allowed it to stifle my creativity. It was all due to one question. One lousy question.
“Why should I care about your main character?” I had no answer. I fumbled through my thoughts and tried to craft a sensible answer. It didn’t happen. Words came out of my mouth but they were not at all meaningful. She knew immediately I’d shut down. In a matter of fact tone, she explained that readers need to care about the protagonist and if I didn’t (as the author), why should they? I stuttered and stammered my way out of the situation, face scarlet with feelings of mortification and anger. I’m far too overly sensitive. Enough with that stopping me from what I want to do.
Writing can be a harsh and lonely passion. It can fill you with elation and then whip the rug right out from under you. My decision now is whether or not I start over. I have two unfinished drafts, each over 150 pages. I like parts of them. There is one new interesting idea in my head but I’m not sure it’s enough to be a complete work. It may be best as a short story. Short stories are not my niche. That’s not to say they couldn’t be. In the back of my mind a tiny, tiny voice chants, “memoir, memoir.” I’m ignoring the voice currently.
“ain’t found the right thing to put my heart and soul into…”. I’ve been casting around for years. Yes, I have ideas for dream projects but they will remain dreams because they’re financially unattainable. But I have pen and paper and I do have a dream that’s attainable. I’m going for it. Thanks to you all for letting me work it out.
A few words about the image I’m posting. It speaks to me in ways I’m not able to explain. It’s a photo taken by an individual who was a friend. This friend turned out not to be a true friend. So, while the image is hopeful and uplifting to me…it comes at a huge emotional price. I won’t apologize for still feeling the hurt but I will not let it overrule the joy. I will continue to search for something I can put my heart and soul into. I’ve long accepted I will never “fit in.” That’s ok, I like who I am.
Stories Are For Eternity 