Lighter

My Reiki session was one week ago. While I didn't feel an earth shattering during the session, I am definitely interested in having another session.

We started out with a bit of a Reiki class.  We went over the chakras and what they represent, how it would manifest in day to day living. Then we got down to it. I wanted to be able to veg out and let my friend.....fix me. I had to be more present than I expected. As I lay on the table, it didn't take long until I felt like my hands were falling asleep. But not pins and needles, more of a pulsing feeling. So I wiggled my fingers and twitched my arms a little. I thought to myself "what kind of shape am I in if I can't even lie flat without problems"? Then it dawned on me. I only felt that pulsating feeling when she was doing the Reiki. When she stopped, my hands felt normal. All the other parts of the session were interesting but nothing life changing. So leaving the session, I felt similar to how I felt before starting.

I had very vivid dreams that night. Not necessarily pleasant ones, but they were very detailed. I was in Manhattan getting tickets to Broadway shows and theaters were half filled because people weren't venturing out as much (all of this is fiction because Broadway is still dark). So we could pick any row to sit in, and move around if we wanted.  We also could enter other shows (which were in progress?) and watch the end of those shows. Weirdness. And for the really weird part, the other people I was with were falling ill and we needed to get three ambulances for them. While completely unrelated to Reiki, it was a stressful dream.

The next day, exhaustion consumed me. Donna checked in with me and I said I was fine because I didn't want to draw attention or feel pity. It might have been self pity I was fighting.  I couldn't work out, I needed a nap, I didn't feel like doing anything. I tried to blame it on other factors. I now I feel like the only attribution would be shifting energy. 

What I've noticed this week, I feel like I'm not as slumped over. I've felt like I needed to work on my posture for months but I was blaming  the chair I had to use working from home. When I drove my car, I imagined I looked curved like a shrimp. Now I am sitting up straighter without having to consciously think about it. My shoulders feel like a weight has been lifted. I don't make this statement lightly. My breathing feels less restricted and easier. I feel less conflict about my life situation. I still have more work to do, and I think Reiki will be a part of it. But for now, I'll enjoy feeling lighter. 

Drastic times call for drastic measures

I'm a science girl. The scientific method should rule most decision making.  I like data to support hypotheses. So when Eastern practices are brought into play, I don't really know how to act.  You can believe what you want, but I'll stick to science.

Then you near the year anniversary when your life changed dramatically.  Anniversary makes it sound like something to celebrate, which it is not.  Having your husband tell you he wants a divorce is not a celebratory moment. Although in hindsight, while devastating, there were signs of a dysfunctional relationship that I ignored and rationalized as normal. Everything has worked out for the best, but I'm still feeling a bit emotionally dead inside.  The basics are okay- happy, sad, bored (pandemic and all). Some of the more complex- trusting, connected, loved- those are trouble spots. What most troubling is that I'm starting to doubt if I need those in my life. So I need to do something. Anything.

Enter Reiki. A friend of mine from ages ago- as in the word teen was still involved in saying my age- posted that she is a a Reiki master.  Kundalini Reiki to be specific, not that I know what that is. She mentioned putting the past behind you and going forward to your best life. I was sold. So I set up an appointment with her.  What's the worst that can happen?

 What to expect:  I can't even envision what happens in a Reiki session. I imagine lying on the ground and having someone wave their hands over me. I'm hoping that strong meditation isn't involved because when I've tried to meditate before, my mind wanders. Not just wanders, my mind takes a road trip. But I'm going to try it.

Why am I doing this:  I've got to do something. I'm action oriented. There are probably far more people that believe Reiki is healing and the way to go than people who think it is crap.  All those people who believe can't be wrong. I'm keeping an open mind but not telling my sister.  She is of the "it is crap" camp. I've imagined walking away from this experience feeling lighter. I would like to feel open and accepting.  And on the drive home, I'm going to treat myself to some ice cream, so it won't be a total loss of an evening. Don't worry, I'll report back.

Reality TV- A Judgement Call

During the pandemic of COVID-19, I discovered reality TV.  I had watched the odd marathon of Hoarders, but it was never something I consciously sought out. Specifically, TLC became my lifeline. Each week, I could hardly wait until 90 Day Fiance.  My 600 Pound Life fascinated me with the levels of denial and dysfunction. Dr. Pimple Popper was something to tide me over. Working as a medical assistant, I saw some real life pop-age, so it wasn't as novel to watch the show. This summer, sMothered makes me wonder how these adult women have never cut the cord from their own mothers.

90 Day Fiance is the series that really has me engrossed. It was amazing to me that there were seasons I missed and different variations (90 Day Fiance- The Other Way; Before the 90 Days, Happily Ever After?). Who knew? The thought processes of seemingly sane people was so irrational. I could sit on my sofa with my little dog (who likes to have his neck scratched for no less than three hours at a time) and judge their relationships. I could spot the pitfalls a mile a way. Hindsight is great like that. In a single episode, the desperation was palpable. The end result of each show was the same; a lot of drama, usually some yelling and storming off, and a sense of my own superiority.

Yes, I felt great about myself after each episode. Even when I watch Pillow Talk, I felt better about myself.  I didn't need to be co-dependent to feel worthwhile. People who are searching on another continent for someone to date must have some serious issues.  So that makes me seem so much more normal. I mean, my only issue is my nine pound dog who is overly attached to me and put his little canine cheek against my mouth to get kisses at night.

The thing that killed me each time someone got on a plane to fly across the world, there was usually a statement of "I'm finally meeting the love of my life".  I'm going to meet the love of my life- like it is a destination.  The ticket they booked had a layover in some random airport but the final destination was Love of My Life. But you know what, it never had a happy ending. There are a few, but the majority of couples implode long before the last week.

The number of couples that get pregnant in the early stages of their relationship boggles my mind.  Early- like the first month they are together. Uh, how did they NOT know that might happen?  I truly don't understand that. And of course, a baby doesn't stress a relationship to the brink. Someone you barely know, probably haven't lived with is now trying to establish work, a support network  and now you are trying to raise a child together.  That is the recipe for drama and disappointment. And I should know, because I have no children, only the nine pound chihuahua mix who continues to steal my socks from the clean laundry before I put it way and cry with joy when he shows them to me.

You would think that all of this judgement would be exhausting. I'm amazed I have the energy to complete anything else during the day. And yet, I'm able to keep increasing my self-esteem at an alarming rate all the while making witty comments about the actions of others.

So here is the self-reflection for the day: All of this relationship watching, is this a signal that I'm considering venturing into the world of romantic relationships? To find the answer, I went to the ultimate source.  Match.com. Just reading profiles has me convinced that I'm not. I've said in the past that most profiles are looking for the same thing.  Men are looking for someone active, who likes what they like (be it motorcycles, skiing, hiking, cooking, going out to eat, shooting pool, NASCAR, running triathlons) but attractive, fit, funny, a good cook, a social butterfly.  They want a man with a vagina. They rarely look for someone witty, intelligent, ambitious, straight-forward, a little chubby.  Never do they ask for someone who works hard or gets shit done.  Because let me tell you, we are a rare breed. So until I read a profile of someone who is looking for that, I guess I'm not going on any dates.

Am I done?

Since my last post, and while I walk trying to clear my mind, I've thought of random ideas for my next post. At earlier points in time, I've thought about entire posts of annoying things about my ex. I've thought about listing every idiosyncrasy that drove me crazy. I've considered highlighting the dysfunction of his oddly enmeshed relationship with his daughter. But I don't think I care anymore.

There are still flickers of anger but the seething hate is gone. I don't care enough to spend the time to outline these atrocities. It's not worth my time. If that's not healing, I don't know what is!

I have one final hour of professional development to complete before my official summer break. I'm planning on powering through and wrapping it up tonight. I haven't had a summer off for a few years. Working a limited part time job will be barely working. In actuality, I find I do better with a schedule. So I'm going to try that. Schedule tasks to be accomplished by a certain date. Sounds easy.

Lower your expectations, I know I have. When I start reading for pleasure, all bets are off. At times, nothing else happens until I finish that page, that chapter, get to the ending. The only benefit of this summer is that I don't have any lavish vacations planned to distract me. I don't have any day trips, weekends away, road trips. Nothing. Only taking my mom to some doctor appointments. The good part is now I have an excuse to wait in the car since doctor's offices are not allowing anyone but the patient in the office. And I can read while I'm waiting.

Living with hate in your heart

Last night, I took a walk. It takes me about an hour to do three miles in my development so I have lots of time to think. I had just completed an hour long professional development for social and emotional learning. For the breakout sessions, we were tasked to discuss what do we do to love ourselves, what steps do we take to do that and what are the ingredients to a healthy relationship.

My personal struggle may be a bit backwards than most.  I already think I'm pretty awesome. I'm smart, funny, competent, thoughtful, caring. At work, I feel I am at my best. It's at home, especially during the summer, when I feel a bit lost and underwhelmed. I like having structure to guide my day. For years, my mantra has been "If I have nothing to do, I get nothing done."  So yeah, I'll work on that.

On my walk, I tried to appreciate my surroundings. I listened to the birds singing. I even turned off my music to hear them better, at least for a little while.  Then it was back to Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen. And while the songs allow me to visualize theater I've never seen, I still find time to think.

Last night in particular, I was still lamenting that we aren't in 'green' yet.  If Berks County is still in 'yellow', I can't get a pedicure. York County is green, I could go there.  And then I started to think about my next door neighbor there who wanted to have a party for her son who is five years cancer free this summer.  And then I imagine a confrontation with my ex.

I plan the conversation. I hear the words coming out of my mouth; I'm almost practicing what I will say. It's not a violent, or even loud conversation. It's a stinging list of insults that are passive-aggressive. And I mean list. How I feel sorry for him that he is a self-centered egotist. That I forgive him for that because he can't help himself. That I forgive myself for my poor judgement in marrying him. How he couldn't help it he wasn't able to adapt to allow someone else in his life. That it was wrong of me to expect him to change. That is when I realized how much hate I still carry in my heart. I know I have to wish for him the same things I wish for myself. Peace and contentment. Happiness. Comfort.

I can't wish him happiness yet. I don't wish him misery, but I'm not on board for comfort. I will start with peace. If I find my own peace, then here's hoping those other things follow.

Putting a plan into action

I have to give them credit. My sister and my mom were rock solid as my world crumbled. As I nearly hyperventilated retelling the events of the previous 24 hours, she quietly listened. She made sure I was safe. She calmly asked if there was chance of reconciliation. And then we moved on.  To relive this one more time; for my mom.

Without missing a beat, my mom started a plan of action. And for an 80 year old, she hit the ground running which is no easy feat with her cane! Ok, we'll find a place to live.  Call Apartment Complex A.  No answer, left a message.  Call Apartment Complex B. We'll be there in 45 minutes.  Our requirements were specific.  First floor (mom doesn't want steps), two bedroom, allows dogs, available by the end of the month.  That night we completed the lease application online.

In the next two and a half weeks, a whirlwind occurred: packing, selling some larger items through Facebook Marketplace, setting up movers, a large donation to Goodwill.  Since my mom was planning on moving to York and had been spending time there already, I packed my belongings and what she had already moved. All this time, I continued to work full time and tried to emotionally hold it together. I'm no hero, there were pharmaceuticals involved.

The communication with my soon-to-be ex-husband was tense and a bit surreal. I really couldn't understand his surprise that I filed for divorce and hired movers.  He told me I had to move out. He told me I should file for divorce. Why was he surprised I did those things? Certainly, I am a person of action. I've never been one back down from conflict. He must have realized I would follow through. Not that I hadn't considered reconciliation but I spent a lot of time living in 'angry'. And remember, I had surgery scheduled one month after the implosion. I knew packing and moving boxes wasn't an option for a few weeks after that.

What got me was the night before the movers were scheduled, he said to me, "So as of tomorrow, you won't live here anymore." He said it in a sad, almost wistful tone. That was almost a tipping point. I'm proud of myself that I didn't scream. I wanted to scream- a scream so loud and full of profanities that it would jolt him out of his self-centered world. In my frustration I admitted, "I can't do this anymore. I can't have this conversation with you. I'm done."

How it went down

I've relived this 24 hour period many times in the past ten months.  The story has been repeated more times than I prefer to count. So I'm hoping this is the final time.  This time, I will put it to rest.

Earlier in the day, I had my final appointment prior to submitting to insurance for weight loss surgery. I had completed six months of appointments with the doctor's office, had cardiology clearance, had pulmonary testing, met with a psychologist.  It was a lot of hoops to jump through and I had completed each step. I was planning to schedule surgery the first week of September.

To enjoy the afternoon, we went to a Peruvian restaurant for lunch. The conversation was pleasant and the food was enjoyable. It felt very natural.  So we were getting in the car to drive home, and the question came up as to why I asked about the monthly bills for the house.  I explained that we were going to determine what portion of the bills my mom would contribute each month.  The plan was that in one week, she would move in with us.  Living alone was not a good option for her and settlement for the house was in three weeks.  Remember this timeline.

Let's backtrack a bit.  Earlier in the summer, there was a conversation that involved mom, me and my ex.  Mention of my mom paying off the mortgage for ex's house was made.  I clearly stated that wasn't appropriate. I know we had at least one other conversation about it, and again, I made my opinion clear- that it wasn't appropriate. Another discussion was held with my mom, sister, brother-in-law and me. The result was that mom would contribute part of the monthly bills. We would figure out the total cost of the bills and divide that. It was a very reasonable plan.

Begin the freak out. Questions of when was this decided, why wasn't he told, when were we planning on telling him flew.  It became an irrational situation. I pointed out that paying a portion of monthly expenses was reasonable but couldn't get him to agree.  He couldn't even formulate what portion of the bills (not even a percentage) would be acceptable. He kept saying "we had an agreement that the mortgage would be paid off".  No amount of rational thinking could change his mind from that. He couldn't recall that I voiced my opinion more than once about that option being unacceptable.  "But we had an agreement" was his mantra.

We returned home and he went upstairs to withdraw and sulk. After I few hours, I asked if he was coming downstairs to watch a preseason football game.  He was still sulking. I asked him to discuss it. He refused. Then I made a technological error.  In trying to respond to my sister, I sent him a text that said he was mad, and being unreasonable and didn't deserve his favorite sandwich that Christie offered to get him.  And the shit storm began.

Ranting, a lunatic in front of me, he refused to discuss anything. He was screaming about betrayal, that I went behind his back. He couldn't trust me. More about the agreement he had with my mom. "I want a divorce."

I felt like I had been shot. Not the kind of gunshot wound that would kill, but the kind that is painful with every breath. You don't want to move for fear of making it worse. Just as fast as he stormed in, he stormed back out. Retreating, withdrawing again, this time to his daughter's bedroom (in a reverse Oedipal complex). I gave him time to cool off.

The next morning, when he approached me, I started.  "Would you reconsider trying to work things out?" No. And now he had a written list.  The things listed were demands of a sort. He wanted a divorce, I could file for it if I wanted. (That was pure laziness on his part.  He didn't like paperwork and would balk at the fee to file.) I had 90 days to move out. He really couldn't demand that but he thought that made him powerful. A few other ridiculous items on the list- cancel the DirecTV installation, take my cell phone insurance off his credit card. Dumb stuff. He was going to buy his own groceries from now on. Did he think I was going to poison him? I could still poison his food if he bought his own groceries. He then informed me that he was going to the police station to insure that none of my family would be permitted in his house. And he left.

So I cried. I was already crying but I cried more. I packed an overnight bag and drove to my family who were rock solid. I knew they were strong, but never expected how strong.

Forgiveness

I was reminded this weekend of the need for forgiveness.  That when I am holding negative feelings in my heart, I am the only one being punished. A few years ago, someone shared with me some interesting thoughts about my feelings of anger and resentment. The suggestion was made that I should wish for them the same things I wish for myself. I would find peace if I prayed that they found  strength and contentment.

So I'm not sure I'm at that point right now. I'm trying to get there. I have moments when I feel I've moved past the hurt. While enjoying a walk this weekend, breathing in fresh air and feeling a cool breeze that hinted of summer, I was imagined a conversation that proffered no feelings of ill will. I was so absorbed in my thoughts, I walked right past the turn that would take me back to my home. 

 There are also moments when I recall anecdotes about revenge.  I'm deciding between two statements about revenge as to my personal favorite.  The best revenge is living well. This invokes feelings of peace and positive outcomes. Moving on in a healthy direction and realizing bigger and better things to come is a desire of mine. And on a more spiteful note- the best revenge is revenge. I am not sure I would mind hearing about suffering and discord in his life. Not the kind of suffering that would be lifelong pain, I'm just looking for something to cause discomfort and regret.

In a matter of hours, my ex-husband and I went from enjoyable afternoon of lunch and pleasant conversation to a ranting lunatic in front of me. I'm trying to forgive his lapse of judgement. I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. I've come to realize that the outcome is probably the one that would have happened eventually. Things fall into place as part of a plan.  I'm impatient at times, waiting for the plan to come to fruition. But in the meantime, I'll work on forgiveness.

I forgive my ex for being irrational, especially when it money and his daughter.  I forgive him for being rigid and unable to make adjustments that would include me in his life, instead of keeping me alongside. I forgive him for making promises that he thought he could keep. I forgive him for his desire of material things to improve his life instead of looking inward to find what would meet his needs. I forgive him for thinking of himself first. These are all things that he had little control over; this is stuff that is hard-wired. Expressing these thoughts helps me to realize he may not have made those choices willingly. Those decisions may have been made for him as part of his plan. This is why writing it down is cathartic for me. I might find that peace and forgiveness after all.

I am

I am a teacher. Six months ago, I used a staffing agency to find employment in a large urban high school as an IEP case manager.  Once you embrace the chaos of the organization, it was clear that kids are kids. Adjustments were made to my paradigm. I had to get used to kids wearing hoodies and earbuds all the time. The f-bomb was now a verb, adjective, adverb and noun.  Constantly. In defense, it was never used towards me, but there is no hesitation of its use in the hallways. The building is old and huge so my daily struggles included stairs and temperature control. Six staircases, each with 11 steps, I trudged each morning to get the room I was first assigned.  I counted them each time.  I usually pretended to stop and look out the window half way up to 'admire the view of the city' and catch my breath.  After I conquered the steps, I entered a room that could only be described as a prison cell on the sun- cinder block walls, no windows and about 3,000 degrees. Good thing I don't mind wearing short sleeves.  All winter. After four months, I was able to interview officially with the district. This was amid the COVID-19 craziness and I'm not sure if it was better or worse to have to teach my sample lesson online.  I'm positive some of the administrators were checking email. Or Facebook. It only took them one month to offer me a position. For a district that is desperate and in a mandated shut down, what took so long. I'm proud to be able to say I am a teacher again. I missed it.

 I am a medical assistant. I left education when I got married, moved an hour away and couldn't find a teaching job. No one wanted to interview me, let alone hire me. So I switched gears. Plan B. I considered going back to school to be a dental assistant.  In order to do so, I had to enroll in a Biology course because it was more than six years that I had taken Biology in college. A lot more than six years had passed but I tried not to think about it. Never mind that I had co-taught high school Biology a year previously. I was sitting in class with students who were struggling to keep up but didn't do their homework. I felt a bond with the instructor because I was the only one who was inquisitive.  I was the only one who could answer her questions. When meeting with a representative from the community college, we had a honest conversation about job prospects and continuing my education.  Enter Patient First.

In February of 2017, my employment started at Patient first as a full time medical assistant.  They did not require certification as a medical assistant and would train with no prior experience. I'm still working there part time. The first time I took vital signs on my own, I was so nervous the sweat was dripping down my face. The trainer waited until we left the patient in the exam room before she heartily laughed at me.  It didn't take me long to find my rhythm but that first week or two was awkward and far too serious. After a year of commuting almost an hour each way, I was offered a position six miles from my house.  It was there that I felt I was beginning to establish my support system. I didn't have a network to make friends, so that was my starting place. While my tasks at work were routine, I felt that I was competent. Mentally, it wasn't challenging but physically, I felt exhausted.  Working first shift, second shift and mid-shift all within the same week led to a terrible sleeping schedule.

As for now, I'm working one weekend a month. During the summer, if additional shifts are available, I'm able to pick and choose what I want.  As we are in midst of COVID-19 testing, I can work in a tent to help collect swabs.  (I feel completely safe as I am not collecting the swab.)

I am a daughter.  Ten months ago, my then husband announced that he wanted a divorce and that I should move out of the house. It wasn't an announcement, it was more like raging in a histrionic fit. And since my mom's house was due to be sold in three weeks and she was supposed to move into our house, we had to make a quick plan.  Being over the age of 80, living on her own wasn't a good option. So, she and I found a two bedroom apartment, set up movers, packed everything and became roommates.

I am a sister. My sister is a great support for me, lives a few minutes away and we talk every day. As if time has not passed, our jokes and teasing become juvenile quickly.  We bond over the trials of dealing with our mother and her care. My brother is another story.  Recently we have bonded over 90 Day Fiance. We will Houseparty during the commercial breaks which gives us the right amount of time we need to catch up with each other's lives. Our relationship is a bit awkward because he was estranged from my parents for the last seven years or so.

I am a friend, at least according to Facebook.  My connection with friends is not what I would like. While living in York, I had acquaintances at work, but no deep seated connections. Upon returning to where I spent most of my time, my friends and I don't share as much in common. I feel out of place, like I don't belong. I'm  middle aged but in my mind, I'm an gawky adolescent who can't make friends. An introvert by nature, I will have to force myself to be outgoing.  But that will have to wait until the next school year starts.  Until then, I will retreat into novels, chick flicks I've watched dozens of time, and reruns of Law and Order. They will be my friends.

Fun

I'm a different person than I was before.  Before divorce.  Before marriage. Before.  I guess that makes this...after.  That's not to say I know who I am 'after'.  I'm still figuring that out. It's more challenging than you think to try to figure out who you are when you are close to turning 50. It's an existential struggle wrapped up in a mid-life crisis. And it's painful some days.

In the past five years, I've lost myself. When asked what I like to do for fun, I don't know. How did that happen? After my last move, I've downsized my crafting supplies- not that I really crafted much recently. Adult coloring might interest me, but not that I've done anything about it. Reading is something I enjoy but I'm starting to think it is just another way to escape. Cooking is something I do but I'm not making anything exciting these days. That's it. I'm out.

Here's a list of things I do, but not things I like: walking, exercising, working, repeating what I say when my mom doesn't have her hearing aid in. I want to enjoy watching sports again. COVID-19 crushed that.  I'm missing the Olympics and OTAs for football. We're supposed to have NHL playoffs, but when I ask you, when? Dear Lord, I'd even watch baseball or basketball at this point.

As a adult, how do you learn hobbies? How do you rediscover your passions? How can I learn how to be fun again?  That's really my issue.  I feel like I'm not fun anymore. I just finished Shonda Rhimes' Year of Yes. Shonda would be proud of me because I'm saying yes to fun.

Long overdue

Six years is a long time. One of my favorite songs by The Indigo Girls has a line, "Every five years or so, I look back at my life and I have a good laugh." Now I'm laughing. I wouldn't have said that in ten months ago, or six months ago, or even last month. There are so many things that have occurred in the last six years that have impacted my life in such major, life-altering ways. I got engaged, married and divorced. I've lost a parent. I've moved.  I've started a new job. All those life stressing events and most of them were in the last nine months. Shit- I'm lucky I'm still standing upright and forming complete sentences. Oh, I have my moments, curled up in my bed, avoiding reality for hours until I hit a socially acceptable time to give up and go to bed for the night. My hopes are that the following day will be better. That somehow that fog of depression and hopelessness will ease.  Some days it does. And as a single girl, again, here are my chronicles.