My recent trip taught me that I'm determined, strong willed, and resourceful. And while I don’t feel that I deserve what I actually want, because of all the baggage I come with, some people are capable of carrying on the bags that others would have to check.
Being alone isn’t as terrifying as I thought, as long as I can manage staying calm and thinking instead of letting my emotions run the show. And who cares what the douchebag does or does not know…anyone who is scared away wasn’t worth it and those who stay need presents! (Thanks for that one Mama Rose) Some people deserve a second chance, and some people deserve to be shot.
Bugs ARE as repulsive as I’ve always believed them to be, but there isn’t anything else to be scared of that calming down and thinking through rationally couldn’t help resolve. I shouldn’t be so judgmental…that one toothed hillbilly on the side of the mountain may be making his own clean burning fuel from local restaurant’s old, dirty vegetable oil…absolutely amazing!
My kids only REALLY have me, and if I don’t want them to grow up to BE me, I need to chill on the stress…while at the same time finding more energy for them. They deserve the moon and I’m the only person who can give it to them.
I CAN have everything I want, and if I pull myself out of my funk (and my head out of my ass) and just LET LIFE HAPPEN, the rest will sort itself out. Big pictures are beautiful, but without the little parts that create them they’d cease to exist.
And if every single mother had a Jacuzzi, a beautiful view, and a little wine to wind down with at the end of her day, she might just make it through to the next…
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
it comes in waves you know, big ones...really close together
“How’s your son doing?” I’ve been asked repeatedly lately and I casually give people the update… filling them in as best I can. “We almost lost him,” I’ve said more times that I care to admit, but only once have I’ve stopped and let myself really think about what that means. The son who can get out of any kind of trouble just by flashing his amazing smile. The 1st grader who reads at a 5th grade level. The quintessential sports nut. The boy who at almost 7 still doesn’t feel too old to wrap himself around my neck in the morning so that I can inhale his sweetness. That kid almost ceased to exist. Gone…forever. How do I process that? How do I sleep without creeping into his room to be sure he’s still breathing? How do I ever move on from the image of him nonresponsive and swallowed in the hospital bed at Rileys, me in the chair next to him, not sleeping at 2am but instead watching his monitors? How do I find my way back to life as usual?
“I almost died,” is his excuse for everything these last few days…but he doesn’t know what that means in life and he doesn’t know what that means to me. My heart will forever hurt, I am forever changed. He’s my boy…and I will forever NEED HIM!
“I almost died,” is his excuse for everything these last few days…but he doesn’t know what that means in life and he doesn’t know what that means to me. My heart will forever hurt, I am forever changed. He’s my boy…and I will forever NEED HIM!
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Standing on the Shoulders of Giants
Most of my friends know that I read my creative non-fiction at Indiana University Northwest's College of Arts and Sciences Conference last week on the panel of "Satire and Sadness, Violence and Prejudice: Contours of the Human Condition" and many have asked to hear or read what I presented there. Based on how well received my writing was, I have decided to post it, soooo here we go...
My name is Jennifer Thompson. I’m an English major and a writer. My creative non-fiction has been published in IUN’s literary magazine Spirits, and Glamour Magazine. “Creative non-fiction is also known as literary journalism. It is the art of telling a true story as if it were fiction, using scenes, shifting viewpoints, dialogue and well-rendered prose. Like fiction, most works of creative nonfiction contain a plot but with an important difference; in creative nonfiction, the account must be true.*” I’ll be presenting excerpts from an unpublished compilation of pieces chronicling the demise of my marriage and my foray into independence entitled, “Essays from a Broken Heart.” The first piece I’m reading today is a personal essay I wrote as an introduction to this memoir.
Off I go…where I fall…is where I land
He worked until 7 at night, and then of course his evening mixed martial arts classes were always more important than his family, so we hardly ever saw him. It was just me and my little ones, and we were happy…for the most part. It was that one or two days a week when the clock hit 7pm and I heard the garage door open that I’d immediately tense. I’d brace myself, clench my jaw and prepare to see the man I married but no longer felt married to. The man who lived in the basement, separate from the family, the man who’d broken my heart with his cruelty and distance, the man we rarely saw. I know I became someone else when he was around, the tension was visible and I was always short with the kids. For months I babysat, saving every dime for the day when I could free me and my children. I constantly wondered how much more we could take, as the tension was just as hard on the kids.
Then came the day when it hit me, I had to get out now. No more waiting around, no more saving…I had to escape. After getting my daughter and son bathed and ready for bed with laughter and silly songs I heard it, that dreaded garage door opening. Brushing my 4 year old little guy’s teeth I didn’t realize how tense I had become until he cried out in pain. “Mom, you’re brushing too hard.” And I had been. I’d been trying to scrub the disaster that my life with my husband had become out of my baby’s teeth. I immediately noticed I was grinding my teeth, breathing shallow and my tense shoulders were shrugged up to my ears… and I felt horrible. What was I doing to my kids with all this stress? I kissed my baby and finished getting him ready for bed.
After the kids had gone to sleep I sat in my room trying to figure things out. Sure, I had a couple thousand in the bank, but that wasn’t enough to do a whole lot with. A stay-at-home mom for the last several years, it’s not like I had steady income. The next morning I started looking for any job that would have me, and it didn’t take long for me to find one. Sure, I’d be working 12 hours a day, 6 days a week but the commissions would be great and I could get out. My husband had to give up his mma classes, the grandparents had to step up and cover the gaps in parenting but I was out there, working to change my life. I had enough saved to procure my own apartment in just a month, and then we did it…we left.
Disentangling from a man that I had spent 40% of my life with, separating the years of “our” stuff and packing up my life was hard and painful. I couldn’t bring myself to disassemble the kids’ rooms that I had decorated with so much love. Leaving our town, our friends and our home we set out to begin our new lives. Terrified of failing but determined to try, I braced myself for the challenges ahead.
As a writer of creative non-fiction, I frequently adjust the voice that my stories are told in, depending on the subject matter, the audience and the desired effect on the reader. Voice is the personality a piece is given. Voice is the writer bearing a bit of themselves to the reader. Voice is the passion, the life, breathed into those particular words. It can be used to convey emotion, set the mood, and draw a reader into the writer’s perspective. The next piece I’m reading was written in a more formal voice, as a short story for Professor Bill Buckley’s Writing Fiction class. This class was my first experience with Professor Buckley and he quickly became my mentor. A never ending source of inspiration and motivation, he constantly encourages me to write, never accepting my excuses or complaints when it comes to my creative non-fiction, though I can occasionally get away with that for class work.
“Ohhh shit there goes my ex”
Thrilled to be starting a new chapter of my life, the excitement builds as I sit inside the cramped, single-propeller plane, straddling the random guy in front of me.
“It’s a metaphor,” I tell myself, “I’m jumping out of my old life and into my new.”
My ex husband sits in front, blankly staring out the windows and my best friend at my left is ghostly pale. As it became clear to me that after 12 years together a divorce was inevitable, I realized I needed something symbolic to mark this change in life. I had this vision of myself perched at the door of a plane and looking back at my ex as I leave him and our life together and dive into my new life with my best friend right beside me.
“I hate you, why did you make me do this?” Kelly asks me.
“Because it’s awesome,” I reply, ever so glib.
Now, climbing to 14,000 feet, I realize that I was right…this was a great idea! Jump away from the bitterness and miserable fighting, soar thru the air of freedom and land a new, independent woman, ready to take on whatever life decides to throw at me.
“I have the best ideas,” I tell myself, “This was exactly what I wanted and needed this to be.” I’m ecstatic, I’m pumped, I’m ready.
I watch out the window of the plane that has packed in so many people, we look and feel like sardines, legs wrapped around the strangers in front of one another. The freezing cold air gives me goosebumps through my hot pink jumpsuit, the smell of 20 people is almost nauseating, and the cocky asshole that I’ll be jumping tandem with keeps yapping in my ear, but I don’t notice any of it. I watch the horribleness that has been these last three years get smaller and smaller, as does the world.
The door rolls up on the side of the plane, and my excitement and hopes for this to be something incredible fly out with the first jumpers, and panic sets in.
“The door just opened. Plane doors aren’t supposed to open. Holy shit, what the hell was I thinking? Jumping out of a plane as metaphor for life? Seriously?? Why do I always do this? Why am I the girl who always has to do the crazy stunts?”
People continue to tumble out the door of the plane.
“Ohhh shit there goes my ex!” Scooting on my knees toward the door I know that my turn is next and every fiber of my being wants to grab hold of something and not let go. Simple pride engages with my survival instinct and it’s a battle to the death. Pride takes the victory and I’m at the door.
“We roll forward on three,” the cocky asshole yells in my ear.
I know it’s too late to back out now, I shut my eyes and clench my teeth and pray that I’ll remember everything from the class on what to do, and if not that the cocky asshole does.
“One…”
“Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.”
“Two…”
“I’m a fucking idiot, what’s wrong with me.”
“Three!”
Out we roll, tumbling thru the air at 120 miles an hour, before I remember to arch my back to align myself with the horizon. I peek open my eyes and I don’t feel like I’m soaring thru freedom into a new life, I feel like my ears are frozen and with them, my brain. Cocky asshole taps me on the head to remind me to check the horizon. I don’t. He taps again to remind me to check my altimeter. I don’t. He taps yet another time to remind me to make sure I know where the handle is to pull the chute. I don’t check. All I can think of is how fast I’m flying thru the air, how amazing it is that I’m experiencing this, and not at all of what I’m supposed to remember and what it’s supposed to signify.
Finally, cocky asshole throws my arm in front of my face, where I notice on my wrist altimeter that it’s chute pulling time. I reach behind me for the handle and grab a little crotch instead…oops! Handle finally found, I give a good yank and the chute explodes open behind us. The ride down is peaceful and beautiful and amazing. I’m not stressing over my life and the new direction its taking. Instead, I’m watching the world and realizing that I do have this woman inside me that can handle anything.
Running in, I detach and rush Kelly with a hug and decide that I do in fact have incredible, amazing, awesome ideas. And while it wasn’t entirely what I thought it would be, skydiving certainly opened my eyes and was an incredible way to start a new life.
My final two pieces are very informal, very short blogs I wrote for my personal website. "Blogs often become more than a way to just communicate; they become a way to reflect on life, or works of art. Blogging can have a sentimental quality. The modern blog evolved from the online diary, where people would keep a running account of their personal lives**." Throughout my life, I’ve surrounded myself with beautiful blank books. Often times written expressions of emotion hit me, organic and complete. Catching these in one of my books was satisfying and just for me. However, as I prepared to venture into independence, I had several friends and family members who wanted to be kept updated on how my kids and I were managing, and posting a blog seemed like an easy way to do this. Copying a small piece of myself from one of my books, I gave my reader’s a glimpse into my life. As Elie Wiesel (El-ie Ve-sel) commented in his book Memoirs, “To write is to plumb the unfathomable depths of being. Writing lies within the domain of mystery. The space between two words is vaster than the distance between heaven and earth. To bridge it you must close your eyes and leap. Ultimately, to write is an act of faith.” And my sharing these with you today is just that, an act of faith.
I'll love you forever, I wanna die when you die, my life meant nothing til you used my toothbrush
My dad is paying for me to have internet service, because as he put it, “god knows you have enough obstacles to deal with for school.” When I make a list I tend to agree with him. I’m a 14 credit hour student- which I packed into two days a week, I substitute teach three days a week, I’m a full time mom, I do volunteer work-it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t find time for at least a little, and now I’ve joined some clubs at school to pad my resume for grad school. So yeah, I’m a little busy. But it seems like, while being exhausted and not being able to keep up with homework, day to day life isn’t too terrible. That is until I read about or see someone that I know or knew who has it all…the perfect life, the perfect family, the American Dream. Then I look at my life and it saddens me. My marriage was disastrous; I’m not the mom I wanted to be; I fight for every penny…every chance…every stress free second. Sometimes I wonder how it is I can make it through the days when I don’t feel like fighting anymore…and all I have to do is look at my friends. I have been blessed more than anyone I know with the best support system, the best friends imaginable. Every one of them is loving and supportive and never tires of hand holding. So maybe I don’t have the perfect house and the perfect husband for my perfect kids…but I do have perfect friends, and I’ll take that any day.
Not all little girls want to be queen, even Barbie ended up being a stewardess.
I call myself a writer...but what have I written? A few blogs, a handful of short stories and some questionable poetry. I have three books in mind, three books I will someday write (someday being the operative word). I've been asked by many why I haven't written my books yet, or even really gotten started. I make excuses, “I'll start them when I'm done with school.” I lie, “I've written parts already,” though I doubt a couple dozen pages counts. I don't tell people the real reason I haven't started my books that are so clearly mapped out in my head...I'm scared. I'm scared that my so called writing talent isn't talent at all. I'm scared my books will be crap and the career I've always dreamed of will never even get a chance to start (then what will I be when I grow up??). I'm scared of failure. I take compliments that those who have read my writing offer with a grain of salt. If five people think I'm a good writer that hardly makes me successful. I scribble down ideas and throw them away or lose them. I doubt that I have any real skill as a wordsmith. But I know that someday, when I grow up, I WILL BE A WRITER.
*-http://www.ehow.com/how_2053402_write-creative-nonfiction.html
**- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blog
My name is Jennifer Thompson. I’m an English major and a writer. My creative non-fiction has been published in IUN’s literary magazine Spirits, and Glamour Magazine. “Creative non-fiction is also known as literary journalism. It is the art of telling a true story as if it were fiction, using scenes, shifting viewpoints, dialogue and well-rendered prose. Like fiction, most works of creative nonfiction contain a plot but with an important difference; in creative nonfiction, the account must be true.*” I’ll be presenting excerpts from an unpublished compilation of pieces chronicling the demise of my marriage and my foray into independence entitled, “Essays from a Broken Heart.” The first piece I’m reading today is a personal essay I wrote as an introduction to this memoir.
Off I go…where I fall…is where I land
He worked until 7 at night, and then of course his evening mixed martial arts classes were always more important than his family, so we hardly ever saw him. It was just me and my little ones, and we were happy…for the most part. It was that one or two days a week when the clock hit 7pm and I heard the garage door open that I’d immediately tense. I’d brace myself, clench my jaw and prepare to see the man I married but no longer felt married to. The man who lived in the basement, separate from the family, the man who’d broken my heart with his cruelty and distance, the man we rarely saw. I know I became someone else when he was around, the tension was visible and I was always short with the kids. For months I babysat, saving every dime for the day when I could free me and my children. I constantly wondered how much more we could take, as the tension was just as hard on the kids.
Then came the day when it hit me, I had to get out now. No more waiting around, no more saving…I had to escape. After getting my daughter and son bathed and ready for bed with laughter and silly songs I heard it, that dreaded garage door opening. Brushing my 4 year old little guy’s teeth I didn’t realize how tense I had become until he cried out in pain. “Mom, you’re brushing too hard.” And I had been. I’d been trying to scrub the disaster that my life with my husband had become out of my baby’s teeth. I immediately noticed I was grinding my teeth, breathing shallow and my tense shoulders were shrugged up to my ears… and I felt horrible. What was I doing to my kids with all this stress? I kissed my baby and finished getting him ready for bed.
After the kids had gone to sleep I sat in my room trying to figure things out. Sure, I had a couple thousand in the bank, but that wasn’t enough to do a whole lot with. A stay-at-home mom for the last several years, it’s not like I had steady income. The next morning I started looking for any job that would have me, and it didn’t take long for me to find one. Sure, I’d be working 12 hours a day, 6 days a week but the commissions would be great and I could get out. My husband had to give up his mma classes, the grandparents had to step up and cover the gaps in parenting but I was out there, working to change my life. I had enough saved to procure my own apartment in just a month, and then we did it…we left.
Disentangling from a man that I had spent 40% of my life with, separating the years of “our” stuff and packing up my life was hard and painful. I couldn’t bring myself to disassemble the kids’ rooms that I had decorated with so much love. Leaving our town, our friends and our home we set out to begin our new lives. Terrified of failing but determined to try, I braced myself for the challenges ahead.
As a writer of creative non-fiction, I frequently adjust the voice that my stories are told in, depending on the subject matter, the audience and the desired effect on the reader. Voice is the personality a piece is given. Voice is the writer bearing a bit of themselves to the reader. Voice is the passion, the life, breathed into those particular words. It can be used to convey emotion, set the mood, and draw a reader into the writer’s perspective. The next piece I’m reading was written in a more formal voice, as a short story for Professor Bill Buckley’s Writing Fiction class. This class was my first experience with Professor Buckley and he quickly became my mentor. A never ending source of inspiration and motivation, he constantly encourages me to write, never accepting my excuses or complaints when it comes to my creative non-fiction, though I can occasionally get away with that for class work.
“Ohhh shit there goes my ex”
Thrilled to be starting a new chapter of my life, the excitement builds as I sit inside the cramped, single-propeller plane, straddling the random guy in front of me.
“It’s a metaphor,” I tell myself, “I’m jumping out of my old life and into my new.”
My ex husband sits in front, blankly staring out the windows and my best friend at my left is ghostly pale. As it became clear to me that after 12 years together a divorce was inevitable, I realized I needed something symbolic to mark this change in life. I had this vision of myself perched at the door of a plane and looking back at my ex as I leave him and our life together and dive into my new life with my best friend right beside me.
“I hate you, why did you make me do this?” Kelly asks me.
“Because it’s awesome,” I reply, ever so glib.
Now, climbing to 14,000 feet, I realize that I was right…this was a great idea! Jump away from the bitterness and miserable fighting, soar thru the air of freedom and land a new, independent woman, ready to take on whatever life decides to throw at me.
“I have the best ideas,” I tell myself, “This was exactly what I wanted and needed this to be.” I’m ecstatic, I’m pumped, I’m ready.
I watch out the window of the plane that has packed in so many people, we look and feel like sardines, legs wrapped around the strangers in front of one another. The freezing cold air gives me goosebumps through my hot pink jumpsuit, the smell of 20 people is almost nauseating, and the cocky asshole that I’ll be jumping tandem with keeps yapping in my ear, but I don’t notice any of it. I watch the horribleness that has been these last three years get smaller and smaller, as does the world.
The door rolls up on the side of the plane, and my excitement and hopes for this to be something incredible fly out with the first jumpers, and panic sets in.
“The door just opened. Plane doors aren’t supposed to open. Holy shit, what the hell was I thinking? Jumping out of a plane as metaphor for life? Seriously?? Why do I always do this? Why am I the girl who always has to do the crazy stunts?”
People continue to tumble out the door of the plane.
“Ohhh shit there goes my ex!” Scooting on my knees toward the door I know that my turn is next and every fiber of my being wants to grab hold of something and not let go. Simple pride engages with my survival instinct and it’s a battle to the death. Pride takes the victory and I’m at the door.
“We roll forward on three,” the cocky asshole yells in my ear.
I know it’s too late to back out now, I shut my eyes and clench my teeth and pray that I’ll remember everything from the class on what to do, and if not that the cocky asshole does.
“One…”
“Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.”
“Two…”
“I’m a fucking idiot, what’s wrong with me.”
“Three!”
Out we roll, tumbling thru the air at 120 miles an hour, before I remember to arch my back to align myself with the horizon. I peek open my eyes and I don’t feel like I’m soaring thru freedom into a new life, I feel like my ears are frozen and with them, my brain. Cocky asshole taps me on the head to remind me to check the horizon. I don’t. He taps again to remind me to check my altimeter. I don’t. He taps yet another time to remind me to make sure I know where the handle is to pull the chute. I don’t check. All I can think of is how fast I’m flying thru the air, how amazing it is that I’m experiencing this, and not at all of what I’m supposed to remember and what it’s supposed to signify.
Finally, cocky asshole throws my arm in front of my face, where I notice on my wrist altimeter that it’s chute pulling time. I reach behind me for the handle and grab a little crotch instead…oops! Handle finally found, I give a good yank and the chute explodes open behind us. The ride down is peaceful and beautiful and amazing. I’m not stressing over my life and the new direction its taking. Instead, I’m watching the world and realizing that I do have this woman inside me that can handle anything.
Running in, I detach and rush Kelly with a hug and decide that I do in fact have incredible, amazing, awesome ideas. And while it wasn’t entirely what I thought it would be, skydiving certainly opened my eyes and was an incredible way to start a new life.
My final two pieces are very informal, very short blogs I wrote for my personal website. "Blogs often become more than a way to just communicate; they become a way to reflect on life, or works of art. Blogging can have a sentimental quality. The modern blog evolved from the online diary, where people would keep a running account of their personal lives**." Throughout my life, I’ve surrounded myself with beautiful blank books. Often times written expressions of emotion hit me, organic and complete. Catching these in one of my books was satisfying and just for me. However, as I prepared to venture into independence, I had several friends and family members who wanted to be kept updated on how my kids and I were managing, and posting a blog seemed like an easy way to do this. Copying a small piece of myself from one of my books, I gave my reader’s a glimpse into my life. As Elie Wiesel (El-ie Ve-sel) commented in his book Memoirs, “To write is to plumb the unfathomable depths of being. Writing lies within the domain of mystery. The space between two words is vaster than the distance between heaven and earth. To bridge it you must close your eyes and leap. Ultimately, to write is an act of faith.” And my sharing these with you today is just that, an act of faith.
I'll love you forever, I wanna die when you die, my life meant nothing til you used my toothbrush
My dad is paying for me to have internet service, because as he put it, “god knows you have enough obstacles to deal with for school.” When I make a list I tend to agree with him. I’m a 14 credit hour student- which I packed into two days a week, I substitute teach three days a week, I’m a full time mom, I do volunteer work-it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t find time for at least a little, and now I’ve joined some clubs at school to pad my resume for grad school. So yeah, I’m a little busy. But it seems like, while being exhausted and not being able to keep up with homework, day to day life isn’t too terrible. That is until I read about or see someone that I know or knew who has it all…the perfect life, the perfect family, the American Dream. Then I look at my life and it saddens me. My marriage was disastrous; I’m not the mom I wanted to be; I fight for every penny…every chance…every stress free second. Sometimes I wonder how it is I can make it through the days when I don’t feel like fighting anymore…and all I have to do is look at my friends. I have been blessed more than anyone I know with the best support system, the best friends imaginable. Every one of them is loving and supportive and never tires of hand holding. So maybe I don’t have the perfect house and the perfect husband for my perfect kids…but I do have perfect friends, and I’ll take that any day.
Not all little girls want to be queen, even Barbie ended up being a stewardess.
I call myself a writer...but what have I written? A few blogs, a handful of short stories and some questionable poetry. I have three books in mind, three books I will someday write (someday being the operative word). I've been asked by many why I haven't written my books yet, or even really gotten started. I make excuses, “I'll start them when I'm done with school.” I lie, “I've written parts already,” though I doubt a couple dozen pages counts. I don't tell people the real reason I haven't started my books that are so clearly mapped out in my head...I'm scared. I'm scared that my so called writing talent isn't talent at all. I'm scared my books will be crap and the career I've always dreamed of will never even get a chance to start (then what will I be when I grow up??). I'm scared of failure. I take compliments that those who have read my writing offer with a grain of salt. If five people think I'm a good writer that hardly makes me successful. I scribble down ideas and throw them away or lose them. I doubt that I have any real skill as a wordsmith. But I know that someday, when I grow up, I WILL BE A WRITER.
*-http://www.ehow.com/how_2053402_write-creative-nonfiction.html
**- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blog
Saturday, October 2, 2010
“Ohhh shit there goes my ex”
So I have talked with some people about my writing style and while I write this blog mainly for myself, it's not in my usual writing style. Just so I don't have to keep emailing my stories to curious people, I'm posting the first piece I wrote in my writing class last spring that is part of the book I'm putting together. And yes, I got an A :) (this was my first skydiving experience, not the most recent one, which meant something entirely different to me)...
Thrilled to be starting a new chapter of my life, the excitement builds as I sit inside the cramped, single-propeller plane, straddling the random guy in front of me.
“It’s a metaphor,” I tell myself, “I’m jumping out of my old life and into my new.”
My ex husband sits in front, blankly staring out the windows and my best friend at my left is ghostly pale. As it became clear to me that after 12 years together a divorce was inevitable, I realized I needed something symbolic to mark this change in life. I had this vision of myself perched at the door of a plane and looking back at my ex as I leave him and our life together and dive into my new life with my best friend right beside me.
“I hate you, why did you make me do this?” Kelly asks me.
“Because it’s awesome,” I reply, ever so glib.
Now, climbing to 14,000 feet, I realize that I was right…this was a great idea! Jump away from the bitterness and miserable fighting, soar thru the air of freedom and land a new, independent woman, ready to take on whatever life decides to throw at me.
“I have the best ideas,” I tell myself, “This was exactly what I wanted and needed this to be.” I’m ecstatic, I’m pumped, I’m ready.
I watch out the window of the plane that has packed in so many people, we look and feel like sardines, legs wrapped around the strangers in front of one another. The freezing cold air gives me goosebumps through my hot pink jumpsuit, the smell of 20 people is almost nauseating, and the cocky asshole that I’ll be jumping tandem with keeps yapping in my ear, but I don’t notice any of it. I watch the horribleness that has been these last three years get smaller and smaller, as does the world.
The door rolls up on the side of the plane, and my excitement and hopes for this to be something incredible fly out with the first jumpers, and panic sets in.
“The door just opened. Plane doors aren’t supposed to open. Holy shit, what the hell was I thinking? Jumping out of a plane as metaphor for life? Seriously?? Why do I always do this? Why am I the girl who always has to do the crazy stunts?”
People continue to tumble out the door of the plane.
“Ohhh shit there goes my ex!”
Scooting on my knees toward the door I know that my turn is next and every fiber of my being wants to grab hold of something and not let go. Simple pride engages with my survival instinct and it’s a battle to the death. Pride takes the victory and I’m at the door.
“We roll forward on three,” the cocky asshole yells in my ear.
I know it’s too late to back out now, I shut my eyes and clench my teeth and pray that I’ll remember everything from the class on what to do, and if not that the cocky asshole does.
“One…”
“Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.”
“Two…”
“I’m a fucking idiot, what’s wrong with me.”
"Three!”
Out we roll, tumbling thru the air at 120 miles an hour, before I remember to arch my back to align myself with the horizon. I peek open my eyes and I don’t feel like I’m soaring thru freedom into a new life, I feel like my ears are frozen and with them, my brain. Cocky asshole taps me on the head to remind me to check the horizon. I don’t. He taps again to remind me to check my altimeter. I don’t. He taps yet another time to remind me to make sure I know where the handle is to pull the chute. I don’t check. All I can think of is how fast I’m flying thru the air, how amazing it is that I’m experiencing this, and not at all of what I’m supposed to remember and what it’s supposed to signify.
Finally, cocky asshole throws my arm in front of my face, where I notice on my wrist altimeter that it’s chute pulling time. I reach behind me for the handle and grab a little crotch instead…oops! Handle finally found, I give a good yank and the chute explodes open behind us. The ride down is peaceful and beautiful and amazing. I’m not stressing over my life and the new direction its taking. Instead, I’m watching the world and realizing that I do have this woman inside me that can handle anything.
Running in, I detach and rush Kelly with a hug and decide that I do in fact have incredible, amazing, awesome ideas. And while it wasn’t entirely what I thought it would be, skydiving certainly opened my eyes and was an incredible way to start my new life.
Thrilled to be starting a new chapter of my life, the excitement builds as I sit inside the cramped, single-propeller plane, straddling the random guy in front of me.
“It’s a metaphor,” I tell myself, “I’m jumping out of my old life and into my new.”
My ex husband sits in front, blankly staring out the windows and my best friend at my left is ghostly pale. As it became clear to me that after 12 years together a divorce was inevitable, I realized I needed something symbolic to mark this change in life. I had this vision of myself perched at the door of a plane and looking back at my ex as I leave him and our life together and dive into my new life with my best friend right beside me.
“I hate you, why did you make me do this?” Kelly asks me.
“Because it’s awesome,” I reply, ever so glib.
Now, climbing to 14,000 feet, I realize that I was right…this was a great idea! Jump away from the bitterness and miserable fighting, soar thru the air of freedom and land a new, independent woman, ready to take on whatever life decides to throw at me.
“I have the best ideas,” I tell myself, “This was exactly what I wanted and needed this to be.” I’m ecstatic, I’m pumped, I’m ready.
I watch out the window of the plane that has packed in so many people, we look and feel like sardines, legs wrapped around the strangers in front of one another. The freezing cold air gives me goosebumps through my hot pink jumpsuit, the smell of 20 people is almost nauseating, and the cocky asshole that I’ll be jumping tandem with keeps yapping in my ear, but I don’t notice any of it. I watch the horribleness that has been these last three years get smaller and smaller, as does the world.
The door rolls up on the side of the plane, and my excitement and hopes for this to be something incredible fly out with the first jumpers, and panic sets in.
“The door just opened. Plane doors aren’t supposed to open. Holy shit, what the hell was I thinking? Jumping out of a plane as metaphor for life? Seriously?? Why do I always do this? Why am I the girl who always has to do the crazy stunts?”
People continue to tumble out the door of the plane.
“Ohhh shit there goes my ex!”
Scooting on my knees toward the door I know that my turn is next and every fiber of my being wants to grab hold of something and not let go. Simple pride engages with my survival instinct and it’s a battle to the death. Pride takes the victory and I’m at the door.
“We roll forward on three,” the cocky asshole yells in my ear.
I know it’s too late to back out now, I shut my eyes and clench my teeth and pray that I’ll remember everything from the class on what to do, and if not that the cocky asshole does.
“One…”
“Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.”
“Two…”
“I’m a fucking idiot, what’s wrong with me.”
"Three!”
Out we roll, tumbling thru the air at 120 miles an hour, before I remember to arch my back to align myself with the horizon. I peek open my eyes and I don’t feel like I’m soaring thru freedom into a new life, I feel like my ears are frozen and with them, my brain. Cocky asshole taps me on the head to remind me to check the horizon. I don’t. He taps again to remind me to check my altimeter. I don’t. He taps yet another time to remind me to make sure I know where the handle is to pull the chute. I don’t check. All I can think of is how fast I’m flying thru the air, how amazing it is that I’m experiencing this, and not at all of what I’m supposed to remember and what it’s supposed to signify.
Finally, cocky asshole throws my arm in front of my face, where I notice on my wrist altimeter that it’s chute pulling time. I reach behind me for the handle and grab a little crotch instead…oops! Handle finally found, I give a good yank and the chute explodes open behind us. The ride down is peaceful and beautiful and amazing. I’m not stressing over my life and the new direction its taking. Instead, I’m watching the world and realizing that I do have this woman inside me that can handle anything.
Running in, I detach and rush Kelly with a hug and decide that I do in fact have incredible, amazing, awesome ideas. And while it wasn’t entirely what I thought it would be, skydiving certainly opened my eyes and was an incredible way to start my new life.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Do you know how I like everything to be about me??
Libra is the only inanimate sign of the zodiac, all the others representing either humans or animals. Many modern astrologers regard it as the most desirable of zodiacal types because it represents the zenith of the year, the high point of the seasons, when the harvest of all the hard work of the spring is reaped. There is a mellowness and sense of relaxation in the air as mankind enjoys the last of the summer sun and the fruits of his toil. Librans too are among the most civilized of the twelve zodiacal characters and are often good looking. They have elegance, charm and good taste, are naturally kind, very gentle, and lovers of beauty, harmony (both in music and social living) and the pleasures that these bring.
They have good critical faculty and are able to stand back and look impartially at matters which call for an impartial judgment to be made on them. But they do not tolerate argument from anyone who challenges their opinions, for once they have reached a conclusion, its truth seems to them self-evident; and among their faults is an impatience of criticism and a greed for approval. But their characters are on the whole balanced, diplomatic and even tempered.
Librans are sensitive to the needs of others and have the gift, sometimes to an almost psychic extent, of understanding the emotional needs of their companions and meeting them with their own innate optimism - they are the kind of people of whom it is said, "They always make you feel better for having been with them." They are very social human beings. They loathe cruelty, viciousness and vulgarity and detest conflict between people, so they do their best to cooperate and compromise with everyone around them, and their ideal for their own circle and for society as a whole is unity.
Their cast of mind is artistic rather than intellectual, though they are usually too moderate and well balanced to be avant garde in any artistic endeavor. They have good perception and observation and their critical ability, with which they are able to view their own efforts as well as those of others, gives their work integrity.
In their personal relationships they show understanding of the other person's point of view, trying to resolve any differences by compromise, and are often willing to allow claims against themselves to be settled to their own disadvantage rather than spoil a relationship. They like the opposite sex to the extent of promiscuity sometimes, and may indulge in romanticism bordering on sentimentality.
Their marriages, however, stand a good chance of success because they are frequently the union of "true minds". The Libran's continuing kindness toward his or her partner mollifies any hurt the latter may feel if the two have had a tiff. Nor can the Libran's spouse often complain that he or she is not understood, for the Libran is usually the most empathetic of all the zodiacal types and the most ready to tolerate the beloved's failings.
The negative Libran character may show frivolity, flirtatiousness and shallowness. It can be changeable and indecisive, impatient of routine, colorlessly conventional and timid, easygoing to the point of inertia, seldom angry when circumstances demand a show of annoyance at least; and yet Librans can shock everyone around them with sudden storms of rage. Their love of pleasure may lead them into extravagance; Libran women extravagant, jealous and careless about money sometimes squander their wealth and talents in their overenthusiasm for causes which they espouse. Both sexes can become great gossipers. A characteristic of the type is an insatiable curiosity that tempts them to enquire into every social scandal in their circle.
In their work the description "lazy Libra" which is sometimes given is actually more alliterative than true. Librans can be surprisingly energetic, though it is true that they dislike coarse, dirty work. Although some are modestly content, others are extremely ambitious. With their dislike of extremes they make good diplomats but perhaps poor party politicians, for they are moderate in their opinions and able to see other points of view. Some work philanthropically for humanity with great self-disciple and significant results.
They have good critical faculty and are able to stand back and look impartially at matters which call for an impartial judgment to be made on them. But they do not tolerate argument from anyone who challenges their opinions, for once they have reached a conclusion, its truth seems to them self-evident; and among their faults is an impatience of criticism and a greed for approval. But their characters are on the whole balanced, diplomatic and even tempered.
Librans are sensitive to the needs of others and have the gift, sometimes to an almost psychic extent, of understanding the emotional needs of their companions and meeting them with their own innate optimism - they are the kind of people of whom it is said, "They always make you feel better for having been with them." They are very social human beings. They loathe cruelty, viciousness and vulgarity and detest conflict between people, so they do their best to cooperate and compromise with everyone around them, and their ideal for their own circle and for society as a whole is unity.
Their cast of mind is artistic rather than intellectual, though they are usually too moderate and well balanced to be avant garde in any artistic endeavor. They have good perception and observation and their critical ability, with which they are able to view their own efforts as well as those of others, gives their work integrity.
In their personal relationships they show understanding of the other person's point of view, trying to resolve any differences by compromise, and are often willing to allow claims against themselves to be settled to their own disadvantage rather than spoil a relationship. They like the opposite sex to the extent of promiscuity sometimes, and may indulge in romanticism bordering on sentimentality.
Their marriages, however, stand a good chance of success because they are frequently the union of "true minds". The Libran's continuing kindness toward his or her partner mollifies any hurt the latter may feel if the two have had a tiff. Nor can the Libran's spouse often complain that he or she is not understood, for the Libran is usually the most empathetic of all the zodiacal types and the most ready to tolerate the beloved's failings.
The negative Libran character may show frivolity, flirtatiousness and shallowness. It can be changeable and indecisive, impatient of routine, colorlessly conventional and timid, easygoing to the point of inertia, seldom angry when circumstances demand a show of annoyance at least; and yet Librans can shock everyone around them with sudden storms of rage. Their love of pleasure may lead them into extravagance; Libran women extravagant, jealous and careless about money sometimes squander their wealth and talents in their overenthusiasm for causes which they espouse. Both sexes can become great gossipers. A characteristic of the type is an insatiable curiosity that tempts them to enquire into every social scandal in their circle.
In their work the description "lazy Libra" which is sometimes given is actually more alliterative than true. Librans can be surprisingly energetic, though it is true that they dislike coarse, dirty work. Although some are modestly content, others are extremely ambitious. With their dislike of extremes they make good diplomats but perhaps poor party politicians, for they are moderate in their opinions and able to see other points of view. Some work philanthropically for humanity with great self-disciple and significant results.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
It’s really fun to say, “Hey look I know that person, I talk to him every day and so far he’s never bitten me.”
“Good morning. How are you?” is said a thousand times a day by strangers in passing and is usually followed with a cursory, “I’m fine, how are you?” But what if you’re not fine? What if you’re the opposite of fine? Do you stand on the sidewalk and tell your life story to a complete stranger or do you keep on the fake smile, lie and say you’re good, and go on your way. We lie. So why even ask?
I recently met a woman who didn’t take my, “I’m okay,” answer and she stopped and took the time to listen. Actually listen. A complete stranger. You don’t find people who honestly want to know how you’re doing, they’re busy and in a hurry and trying to be polite. But she did. And not only that first day that I saw her, but every time I saw her again she listened, advised, hugged.
Is it her life experiences that have given her the insight to know when someone is in need? Now, with a budding friendship where she gives me coffee, watches my son some mornings and even lets me cry to her on the phone, I worry about taking advantage of this wonderful woman’s seemingly endless supply of compassion.
I used to be one of those people and I wonder where along the way I lost that compassion and became so jaded and cynical. I’m hoping that my new life will get me back to the kind, considerate person I used to be. I’m hoping my old friends know I’m going through a rough time and will get back there and my new friends will figure out that this bitterness really isn’t me. And I’m hoping Jacky knows just how much I treasure her friendship.
I recently met a woman who didn’t take my, “I’m okay,” answer and she stopped and took the time to listen. Actually listen. A complete stranger. You don’t find people who honestly want to know how you’re doing, they’re busy and in a hurry and trying to be polite. But she did. And not only that first day that I saw her, but every time I saw her again she listened, advised, hugged.
Is it her life experiences that have given her the insight to know when someone is in need? Now, with a budding friendship where she gives me coffee, watches my son some mornings and even lets me cry to her on the phone, I worry about taking advantage of this wonderful woman’s seemingly endless supply of compassion.
I used to be one of those people and I wonder where along the way I lost that compassion and became so jaded and cynical. I’m hoping that my new life will get me back to the kind, considerate person I used to be. I’m hoping my old friends know I’m going through a rough time and will get back there and my new friends will figure out that this bitterness really isn’t me. And I’m hoping Jacky knows just how much I treasure her friendship.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
In my world everyone is a pony, and they all eat rainbows, and poop butterflies
Today I spent the day with my daughter in a paddle boat. 2 hours in a boat on the lake, paddling and laughing and sweating our asses off. I wasn’t thinking about what bullshit my life has been lately, or freaking out about not being able to find a job, or about the stress of hoping to move before school starts. I just enjoyed the sun, the scenery, the experience and my girl. This was the first time in quite a while that I’ve been able to just let go and it was much needed.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Life is a battle and you either enter it armed or you surrender immediately
Dealing with life and being a mom sometimes can be too much. Kids seem to have a knack for driving you crazy when things are the hardest. I just want to shake them and yell, “Don’t you know what I’m going through??” But of course they don’t know what I’m going through; we spend our lives protecting our children from what we go through. We cry behind closed doors, we don’t throw things when we want to, we paint on those fake smiles. We’re just hoping to shield them from some of the pain we are dealing with. Everyone says life never gives you more than you can handle, I’m here to tell you that sometimes…it DOES!
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
It's like a cow opinion, it doesn’t matter, its moo
I have a gray hair. No it’s not my first and it definitely isn’t my last. It is, however, the first one I’ve left alone. I haven’t tweezed it, I haven’t dyed it, and I silently nod to it each morning in the bathroom mirror. Perhaps I’m hoping it will age me some to outsiders. I’m loud and silly and rarely taken seriously by other parents who are ten years my senior. Yes, my daughter is approaching double digits and I’m still in my twenties. “TAKE ME SERIOUSLY,” my gray hair exclaims, while I tug-of-war with the third graders. I’m the cool mom all the kids love and many mothers sneer at. “Well look at my gray hair,” I say to those “grown-up” moms. “I’m just as much of a mother as you are.”
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