What do you do?

What would you do if someone said this to you:

"Sometimes when I am not so inflicted with self doubt, hate, sadness, and just being self-involved in the emptiness inside, I will glance around and see worry in the eyes of those around me. 

It is painful to see, yet I feel more human because someone noticed, yet I worry, because they saw through me.  I can hold this, I have been for a lifetime, but it hurts to see others try to carry my burden. 

Even my puppy lies beside me and cries.  That hurts the most.  She sneaks up beside me to comfort and be with me.  Humans do not do this.  They do not know what to say or do. She lays her head in my lap, if she can, and tries to lick the tears away.  She doesn't know that it is a great attempt at the impossible. 

Today, I was not able to hide the worry, self hatred and the doubt that I usually can.  I felt stupid, ridiculous, like a phony.  I felt like Holden Caulfield, except I knew that I was the biggest phony of them all. 

I see the worry, concern, or just the passing glance of uncertainty and I hide.  I laugh it off and say I am concentrating, trying to solve a puzzle in my head.  They fall for it because it is easier for them.  People are not equipped to deal with the pain of others.  They can barely hold their own.  But when my innocent puppy looks at me with sadness and worry, it gets to me.  It eats me alive, and I want to die even more. 

Usually I can get away with covering up the emptiness and the depression, but sometimes it hits full force and there is nothing stopping it...like a Big Rig with bad brakes...it just slams into you with no remorse. 

What doesn't make you stronger, kills you.  I am dying slowly, and it just seems to be some sort of punishment that goes for so long...like water torture.  A person can handle it for a while, but then, it just causes irritation, then anguish, then it is too much.  I can't even find a word other than torture.  Something slices and dices my soul every day and I don't know how to stop it.  The outside looks good, the inside is butchered beyond belief.  You can't call it baggage.  You have to call it a massacre of entrails.  A person has to hide this.  There is no help.  No one can ever help.  They will reject you because they have been rejected."

What would you do if someone said this to you?  I've been thinking about this all day, and I don't know what to say or do.  There isn't anything anyone can do, is there? Maybe hold the inflicted?  That comfort may only last a few minutes or hours.  What really does help?  I don't know.  When someone is drowning, you can pull them out, but how do you really save them?  I wish I could save the world, but I am only one.  What would you do if someone said this to you?

Age

If you choose to live, growing chronologically older is mandatory; growing up is a choice; feeling young is a state of mind.  Don't let other people tell you what to feel about yourself.  It is their faults and failures that they force upon you. Be who you are, become who you want to be, do what you desire as long as it hurts no one including yourself.  Be good, be kind, be free, speak freely, speak your mind, do what is important, be important because you are.  Life is full of pain and sorrow. Everyone will leave you somehow, be it through choice or by death.  Love those you love.  Love those who love you. Dance when you need to move. Feel everything, do everything, be everything.  Put all of yourself in everything you do.  Be in the present moment.  You are your past, your present, and your future all at the same time.  Do not dwell on what once was, just learn and grow.  Do not settle for less than you deserve, or what you think you might deserve.  Be free.  Freedom is our right as human beings.  Take it.  Use it.  Love it.  Stop selling yourself short. Stop putting limitations on yourself that you have been told to do.  Except no rejection as a rejection upon yourself.  You are beautiful.  You are strong, even when you feel your weakest.  Cry if you need to, just don't let the bullies see you do it. Be safe. Be sound. Just be.

PMS

What is a good sign that you might suffer from that ridiculous-sounding over-used term called PMS?

I went to the doctor a few years ago complaining of headaches, moodiness, and cyclical depressive symptoms. Normally when I go to the doctor because of a persistent illness or symptom it seems to magically disappear when the doctor steps into the room, only to return after I have paid the bill and arrive home (similar to car problems and mechanic shops). Anyway, unlike the usual turn of events, during this visit, I am quite grumpy, short-tempered, and rather impatient with the doctor. I tell him my symptoms, show him the calendar I have been meticulously plotting the symptoms on, and he states, "You have PMS." "WHAT? PMS? I do NOT have PMS. That is just something people say when women are grumpy."

**Just to note, men usually get the timing wrong on that anyway. PMS and "being on the rag" are not even the same thing. P (Pre) M (Menstrual) S (Syndrome) and the time where a women is actually menstruating are not the same time frame (i.e., pre-menstruation v. during-menstruation).

So, back to my story. I was technically in the pre-menstrual stage at the time of the doctor visit (I use a calendar to remember that, too). The doctor was quite surprised when I demand him to take back what he said and not give me PMS. He smiled! Smiled! "Why are you smiling? You are giving me PMS! Why can't you give me that new-fangled PMDD thing?" (Little did I know at the time PMDD, Pre-Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder, is actually a more severe form of PMS, and I definitely don't want that!) Smart b*stard that he was, he kindly chuckled the words out, "I'm not giving you anything. I am diagnosing your problem. You have PMS. You do not have PMDD." Damn him. Really?

That is when it hits me. I am arguing with my doctor, telling him not to give me such a stupid sounding syndrome, when all he was doing was trying to diagnose what he thought was wrong. So I try to calm down as I am still thinking, "Crap, how did I get PMS?" DNA. That is my answer. I'm passing the buck. My mom gave it to me. It is her fault. It is hereditary.

**Note to all: the medical definition of PMS is limited to a consistent pattern of emotional and physical symptoms occurring predictably during the ten days prior to the menses portion of the menstrual cycle. The symptoms of PMS are of "sufficient severity to interfere with some aspects of life." More than 200 different symptoms have been associated with PMS, but the three most prominent symptoms are irritability, tension, and dysphoria (unhappiness). Common emotional symptoms include stress, anxiety, difficulty in falling asleep, headache, fatigue, mood swings, increased emotional sensitivity, and changes in libido (strangely enough for me, even though I am really irritable and tense, my libido increases to maximum proportion...just in time to scare the men away. I am Jack's smirking revenge. I suppose it gives another meaning to the term "raging hormones"). Oh, and if women are irritable during their menses, it is because it just irritating to deal with; it isn't a syndrome, it's a hassle.

So, as it turns out, my friends and family suffer from PMS. I suffer from their reaction. I do not suffer from PMS. Sometimes I think to myself, "Why am I so frustrated and grouchy? I don't even want to be around me." That is when I check my calendar, and say, "Yep. Dr. Meany Pants, you seem to be right, even 10 years later. Damn."

On the plus side (ha ha), a good physical indication that my friends are about to suffer from my PMS is that my bra cup size increases from a C to a D within a couple of days and I have huge breasts for more than a week to make up for the irritation I cause my male friends.

Thousands of Lives

I feel like I have lived a thousand lives, and none of them are worth anything. I am always in search of myself, and I cannot locate me. It is hard to keep on swimming. Sometimes I feel like I am drowning and I pull myself up to tread water just as I am slipping away. I don't want to slip away. I need to swim to shore and I just can't find it. The answers must be out there somewhere. Some people turn to God, some turn to drugs, some turn to each other and lose themselves all over again. None of these things have worked for me, yet I am still breathing. There has to be a reason, and I am sure I will find it...I hope I will find it. There is a purpose. There has to be.

I have found that a person can't live a happy life, they can only live a life with fleeting happy moments. This was a hard lesson to learn. I was hoping that true happiness was out there somewhere. I turn to books, instead of people, for friends because there is no misunderstanding. The characters are my friends while I am inside their story. Movies allow me to forget what is outside of the theater or my room. The loneliness is overwhelming, but I can be lonely in a crowded room.

I find it kind of humorous that there are so many lonely people in this world, yet with so many of us, why should we feel lonely? I have an idea that it is because we feel misunderstood by others and ourselves. I often think of one of the stories from Free To Be You and Me. It is The No Friends Club. Someone told me a few months ago that they already had too many friends, and didn't need anymore. I don't understand that. Ever since I was little, I found it hard to maintain friendships. Mostly it was me who didn't want to be their friend. I have gotten so good at being alone that the fortress of walls I have built are seen by others, not just invisible walls I thought I was hiding. I talk and tell people so much, thinking I am letting them in, but it is a lark. I haven't let anyone in for a really long time. If I can figure out who I am and love that person, maybe others will love me too. That really isn't the important part. I just need to know if I am lovable to myself. Can I respect myself? Love myself? Be happy with myself? Will I ever be able to go an hour, day, or week without questioning myself?

I am tired of trying the wrong way. I must just step forward and go. Yoda from Star Wars said, "Do or do not, there is no try." My fear is that I will do the wrong thing yet again. So I end up doing the wrong thing. I don't just want to survive, I want to thrive and smile. Being alone isn't the problem, it is being alone with myself that seems to be hard. I work really hard at being someone, and it is hard to be someone. I am disappointed in myself at this point, and I can't imagine why anyone else wouldn't be.

"I used to be so big and strong. I used to know my right from wrong. I used to be somebody."

The Dark Road

She walked alone on the dark path toward her future. Glimpses of light on the horizon appear as mirages. Sometimes she could hear voices in the darkness calling out; voices with suggestions for her quest. Not all suggestions were directing her on the right path. Some thoughts she hears are just provoking her towards erroneous ways. Her path is a maze even though it goes on straight for miles at times. Each inch walked is a memory. Each foot traveled is an accomplishment. Accomplishments turn out to not be all that forthcoming nor fulfilling.

The years pass as she makes her way along the path. Thoughts of her own come and go. Each thought unaware of its creator. Every once in a while she remembers something profound, either from her own thoughts or the ones she has heard. She thinks that if she could just remember, put them all together, they’d fit like pieces of a puzzle that came with no picture. The ideas are clues. The journey is a mystery, and yet she walks. She yearns to run, to breathe, to feel the burning sensation in her lungs and in her legs.

Like Atlas, the weight of the world rests on her shoulders. She doesn’t know why and she feels this burden. She sometimes walks as if asleep. She is always in thought; praying to a possible god to hint at her purpose. The path is not ever straight forward. No signs, except for the occasional bodiless voice, to urge her onward.

The ground is comforting as the exhaustion overwhelms her physical and emotional body. Sometimes she is aware that the comforting ground she rests upon is crawling with insects and hard with pointy rocks. She has become used to taking comfort in the uncomfortable. Everything is uncomfortable. There has not yet been a moment that has come with ease, but she knows she must keep going on along this particular path. Even when she feels defeated something keeps moving her. It is her strength, the will to survive. It is her inner voice that sings to her the lullabies.