Does My Happiness Offend You ?

Does my happiness offend you?

Well, it appears you aren’t alone in the world.

Not too long ago I posted a photo that opened a gateway to some negative remarks.  The comment made reference to my happiness being “fake”.

Now, please don’t get me wrong.  Although I am clearly a proponent of social media, I am very well aware of the dark underbelly of it as well.  

As a believer in balance, I know the good has to come with the bad, just like the light dances with the dark.

I’m also aware that our “friends” on personal pages and “followers” on community/business pages aren’t always rainbows and butterflies.  

Back in the old days someone might have rolled their eyes at you as you were waxing on about something while you sat, together, around a table sharing a blazing hot cup of coffee.  That activity has evolved into something a little spicier and far more passive aggressive thanks to technology and those good ol’ social media “comment” boxes that now take the place of human interaction.

I’ve experienced some dark quips on my Bohemian Living community page from people, tucked safely on the other side of their screens.  With that level of anonymity comes a bountiful dose of freedom.  Sadly, sometimes freedom comes with a side of terrible manners.  The few times it’s happened, the nasty remarks were about absolute strangers ripping other absolute strangers to shreds based on their appearance.  

I can remember being shocked at how passionate they were (again, about total strangers) being too much or too little of something for their liking.  The ugliness appeared to roll so easily across their keyboards and into the world wide web.

(Silver Lining Alert: I was also shocked at my ability to actually be shocked.  I’ve lived a life filled with shocking moments so, you know, yay for me not being totally numb to the world, right?)

Ok, back to business…

It wasn’t until the other day that I had experienced that speedy new world spiciness personally.  This comment wasn't directed to some stranger.  The bullseye was me.

Let’s switch pages and newsfeeds and hop on over to my own Facebook page.

I posted this photo:

The comment that soon followed, again, made reference to my happiness being fake.

Now, please allow me to make a bit of a confession before I really get rolling.  

My filter for “confirming” new friends is pretty wide.  If we have mutual friends you are pretty much in.  Of course, it’s not always that simple but for arguments sake, it’s pretty close.  

So, a comment popped up on my photo from someone that I don’t actually, personally know but that I do share a ton of mutual friends with.

So I read it twice and then, because I’m human, I felt the zing.

Why?  Why feel a zing from some comment from some person that you don’t really know?

Well, apparently I’m sensitive.  

Ha.  Just kidding.  

Well, not really.  

Allow me to be more specific.  Apparently I’m sensitive about my HAPPINESS.

I fight so fucking hard for my happy moments that for someone to label them fake really does sting.

Boom, I'm human.

The people that know me well understand that I fight a fair battle - every single day.

You see, I live with Depression and it’s three amigos Anxiety, Panic and PTSD.

I live with them every day.  Not just sometimes.  Not just in the moments that suck….but in the happy moments like when I’m holding a Tree Pose & Gyan Mudra in front of beautiful graffiti wings in NYC, too.

Can you see them all?  Anxiety is perched on my right shoulder, Panic on my left. PTSD sits on my heart and Depression is the heavy, sopping wet blanket that I drag around with me.  

They are all there.  

I bet you can see them if you stop for a minute and look close enough.

Now, I speak about this often but I’m going to bring it up again.

I choose NOT to medicate with pharmaceuticals for personal reasons (like the fact that my family history is laced with Addiction so why add one more cherry to my heaping bowl of bullshit, right?).

For the sake of clarity, I also need to explain that the smile you see on me has been earned.  I fight with bloody knuckles and the will of a fucking giant for each one that I wear.

Getting back to the zinger...

You can imagine my eyes getting bigger as I read each word of a fairly benign remark about my happiness being fake.

This is basically how my reaction rolled:

What?  

Wait. 

(I read it again at this point. Twice).  

Who IS this person? 

(This is where I went to his page to investigate as to whether we might actually know each other. Nope, we don’t.  At least I don’t.)

Shit, I hope Bobby doesn’t see this. 

(He already hates my “friend acceptance strategy” or lack thereof.)

I need my brothers. 

(I text a screen grab to each of my brothers for more investigating.)

Fuck! 

(Bobby just saw it and he's on fire. I proceed to explain it's just silliness and not worth being angry over.)

Now I'm giggling.  

(Because my besties just saw it on FB and are pouncing the way true Somerville girls do before I can explain to them the same thing I explained to Bobby, above.)  

I turn to Bobby and say: “My girls are on it."  

(Which fills him with a mix of pride, because my friends are obviously the best and jealousy because he wanted the nod to light up the comment feed as well.)

At this point I sat quietly as the zing started to fade and I began to wonder “does this guy have a point”?

Do I only share my happy moments and not balance them with the true grit of my days?

As I comb through all the swirling thoughts in my mind, I honestly don’t think that’s the case. 

I intentionally post, fairly regularly, about my "Adventures with Depression & The Three Amigos".

Every fucking month is either a birthday or anniversary of someone I have loved and have lost, which the FB world has a front row seat to.

I do believe I share as much of me as I possibly can - and I do it on purpose.  

I do it because I'm hopeful that one day, some person who is on their knees the same way I'm on mine might hear my words and see the tiniest sliver of a spark that casts just enough light that they reach out their hand and hold onto it as tightly as I hold on to my slivers of light.

At least, that's what I've been able to boil this whole experience, this lesson of sorts, down to.

That a tiny sliver of light some of us so desperately need might bounce into your world from the most unexpected and life-preserving place.  For some it's a random person's Facebook page.  For others it's an article or a YouTube video or a song.  Who knows.  Who really cares which one?  What matters is that these slivers are there.

If I'm a sliver of light for someone, someday, then "Hallelujah!".  That means all this heartache has been for something more than just sadness.

On the record:  I wrote to the guy who posted his opinion, privately.  I kindly and honestly explained a bit more about myself and pointed him in the direction of some of my sadder moments (which have been posted on this site and the Storytellers blog) to, you know, balance out the happy.  I wasn't rude, just real.

He replied respectfully and all is fine in the world.  (Disclaimer: I removed his comment from the photo before posting this piece because I don't want to inspire any negativity or feed any drama.)

Just know that I'm incredibly grateful to my army of friends who swooped to my side in solidarity and defense.  

There's no luckier girl in the world than me (and I say that as I'm cloaked in my sopping wet, heavy blanket of Depression today because, well, I can't win'em all but I sure can anchor myself in Gratitude because that's the only chance I'll have at winning any of them).

I bet you are wondering what the parting note is, right?  This one's easy.

In the end, the lesson I learned is this:

(and please know that I mean it from the bottom of my busted up, taped back together, totally lived up and in the process of being loved up heart)...

If you find that my happy moments still offend you, fuck off.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Kava Kava Cave In . . .

The root Kava Kava is said to relieve anxiety, cause a feeling of euphoria and taste like dirt.

All of the above, in my humble experience, is 100% true.

It also numbs your lips, which feels kind of like that "Lip Venom" lip gloss that was such a hit at Sephora however many moons ago that was.

For those of you new to Kava, it’s a root most commonly found in Vanuatu. It is commonly prepared by crushing the root into a powder, mixing it with water and serving it in a coconut shell.  (Visual: Imagine a ginger root and you are on the right track.)

You can find Kava Kava in Whole Foods and other holistic candy stores.  Go to the “Wellness" aisle in a sea of all the other wellness aisles and you’ll find it camped out with the other supplements.

The other day we visited the local KavaSutra in Fort Lauderdale to have a sip before we skipped down the road for a bite to eat.

Now, as someone who manages their Anxiety, Panic and Depression holistically (which means no meds) any time I introduce something, anything, to my system I’m a pretty cheap date.  In other words, I feel it really fast and really heavy.  Even too much tea sends me off and running.  The Kava Kava I had the other day, as it turns out, was a whole new realm for me. 

Hopefully I'm setting the tone of what's to come...

KavaSutra is a tiny little spot off Las Olas.  When you see the gorgeous mural (pictured above) you've found the spot.  The entrance is nestled under a great big oak tree decorated in twinkle lights.  

You’d think you walked into a tiny little dive bar….but there’s no alcohol for sale. Just Kava, Kombucha and some fruit bowls.

We grabbed a few stools and bellied up to the bar, ordered a few coconut cups and proceeded to sip away on our dirt drinks.

Here’s how everything unfolded for me from here:

A few sips in I could feel my lips getting numb, not dentist office numb where you are drooling or anything like that….just tingly "lip venom" numb.

Then, as I’m nearing the bottom of my coconut cup it’s like the weight of an elephant had stepped off my chest and a veil lifted up, up and away so I can see everything in it's crystalline clear beauty.

All of this sounds beautiful, right?

Right.

Because it is.

Until it isn’t.  

What I didn’t calculate after my cheeky smile and eyes wide open glow was the transition back to my own, personal version of “normal”.

For me, that’s where those mean motherfuckers, Anxiety, Panic and Depression settle back into their spots on my chest.

What I didn't anticipate, at all, was that little bit of relief from their mutinous rule opened a door to a room I had boarded up and closed a long, long time ago.

That room was where I didn’t live with these heavy assholes draped all over me in the capacity I do now.

Oomph.

So, as the evening passed and the Kava Kava euphoria exited stage left….the others stomped back in with ferocity.

I wasn’t prepared.

At all.

In fact, the process of letting them all back in and readjusting to “normal” sent me for a spin.

You see, the reality is, sometimes I forget how heavy my Anxiety is.

Sometimes I forget how sneaky my Depression is.

And sometimes I forget how agile my Panic is.

I’ve been living with them, managing them for so long…..a string of minutes without them felt so light I was almost crushed by the weight of them all when they returned.

It was a lesson for me.

Maybe I’m not managing them all as well as I think I am.

Maybe I’m not working my “Tool Box” (yoga, writing, running) as diligently as I promised myself I would. (Note: That’s my agreement with myself.  As long as I’m exhausting all of my options to the best of my ability to manage my “stuff” without meds, I’ll stay off meds.  But if I exhaust all my options and it’s not working, then I’ll consider the conversation of…well, something else.)  

It appears, I’ve been getting lazy, comfortable and complacent.

As Sweet Brown so eloquently said in her interview that went viral on the good ol’ web….”Ain’t nobody got time for that!”.

So here’s to that far away root supplement, Kava Kava, and the lesson in lightness it brought me.

Here’s to working our individual tool boxes to live the best lives each of us can.

Here’s to NOT BEING LAZY.

And here’s to good health…Physical, Mental and Spiritual (in the best ways we can all independently achieve this triumphant trilogy).

I’m going to continue on my yoga, writing, running path...but I’m promising myself I’m going to work it far more diligently so they next time I choose to sip a dirt drink I'm prepared for the reentry.

Onward!

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Your Vibe Attracts Your Tribe

I love when awesome things happen on the heels of the not so awesome.

I was going to Burning Man.

I had the ticket, the airfare, the friends, the camp and the RV.  

I already owned the huge blond afro, combat boots, bikinis and bunny ears.  They were ready to get dusty on the playa.  I  was ready to get dusty on the playa.  

I was ready to bike to the Temple and cry my eyes out for Mum, Dad, John and a small army of family and friends we’ve lost too soon.  I was ready to dance my ass off until the sun rose each morning.  I was ready to take photos that would express what my words never could.

I was ready.

Until, Tropical Storm Erika started spinning toward us.

Florida, my southern wild, was under a state of emergency.  They believed she would pick up her mojo and graduate to Hurricane Erika.  They also believed Hurricane Erika was going to hover right over our house.

Seriously.

So, I did what I thought was right (even though it stung like a bitch). I canceled my trip to Burning Man the morning I was supposed to fly.  I felt awful leaving my hubby to handle the hurricane prep while I would have been off the grid dancing in the desert.

I asked my dear friend Monica to visit the Temple for me this year and whisper that I’ll be there when the stars realign.

Then I put away my bunny ears and my ticket was sold.

Someone else would get dusty in my place.

Erika, the storm, never materialized.  Apparently my army of angels didn’t think this year was my year to burn and they pulled a fast one on me.

I had to deal with the airlines now, to salvage as much money spent on tickets as I could after change fees and bullshit bylines.

American Airlines was a full-blown nightmare to deal with.  So bad, in fact, that I can honestly say that I doubt I’ll fly them again unless my back is slammed against the wanderlust-wall.

JetBlue, on the other paw, JetBlue is made up of a team of pixie dust sprinkling rockstars.

Here’s the awesome that followed the not so awesome...

I dialed JetBlue and sat on hold.  My wait time was quoted at 8 minutes.  Then a rep answered.

I gave her my confirmation number and explained I needed to change my flight.  Because I’m a talker I began to say why.  

I asked her if she knew what Burning Man was.  When she responded “Oh yeah, I want to GO ” I knew I was in the right person’s hands.

I told her my story while she worked her magic.

Because I booked through a 3rd party site she had a lot of magic to work.  A supervisor was called to join the fun.  

My rep (named Julianne) and her manager had to manage several legs of my trip. You see, I was going Fort Lauderdale to San Francisco. Then driving countless hours east, beyond Reno, Nevada, miles and miles and miles into the desert. Destination: Black Rock City, which is a make shift city built by festival attendees in the middle of nowhere, which is where the festival takes place.  I was staying for a week to dance, dream and get dusty.  No wifi, no cell, no tether to the outside world.  I would be totally OFF THE GRID. Then, I’d head back to Reno.  Problem is….I didn’t have my 3 hour ride from Black Rock City back to Reno ironed out yet.  I decided I was going to “wing it”.  Once I found my way back to Reno I’d fly to LA then connect to Fort Lauderdale on the red eye.

Being a superstar, Julianne saw the missing link in my logistics.  She asked "wait, how were you getting back to Reno?".

I hesitated a minute (because I was about to say something crazy) and then just said the honest truth:

"Well, honestly...I was going to hitchhike from the festival to Reno if I couldn’t get the "Burner Bus.” Note: The Burner Bus is a bus that goes to/from Reno each day from Burning Man but already sold out.

Her response:  “(gasp….) NO YOU WEREN’T !”

I giggled, looked over at Bobby who turned a special shade of horrified (as I hadn't exactly explained this piece to him yet) and told her “I swear”.

We chatted a bit more and then the unthinkable happened.

Julianne and her awesome manager got my fees waived and my whole ticket refunded!  Pixie dust was seriously sprinkled.  I could NOT believe it!

I promised Julianne if I could squeeze a great big hug through the phone I swear I would.  I told her I was going to write a glowing review for her (which I did) and then I told her that we should go to Burning Man next year.

When we both agreed I said the only thing that made sense: “let’s be friends on Facebook!”.  

Bobby’s mouth dropped to the floor.  He was shaking his head saying to himself “I don’t know how you do it, Girlie”.

Julianne and I exchanged social media info (you know, all the important stuff like first, last and what our profile photos look like).

We are now joined on the mothership of connectedness.  As you can see by the photos below the stars seem to be aligning just fine.  

In the end one thing is for sure:  Your vibe attracts you tribe.

How awesome is THAT!

      ((Me))                                                                    ((Julianne))                                      

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Grieving 101: My Promise to John

Ok, little brother.  Today marks one month since we lost you.  

I'm back to counting days (30) and weeks (4)  and months (1) since the moment of impact.

I have reset my watch.  I'm starting from the beginning again, re-navigating through Grief.  

You'd think I'd have this place thoroughly mapped out by now.  "Turn here.  Stop here.  Avoid this spot.  Don't even consider going to that one."  You know, the rules of the rocky road.

Well, that doesn't exactly apply this time around.  It seems your passing has taken me deeper into this forest.  Far further than I've ever been before. New terrain. New depths.  New hazards.

But, I want you to know something and it's important.  I want you to know that I won't let you down.

I know, I know...it hasn't looked too good lately.  Me crying into my fists.  Sobbing my days away.  Overcome with sadness.  A total fucking mess.

I see my reflection.  I'm aware of how bleak it's been.

But today, somehow, I realized that the person looking back in the mirror, with her swollen eyes and tear streaked cheeks, needs to make her little brother proud.

I also realized that's not going to happen by sitting at home, avoiding calls, shutting the world out.

So, I am making you a promise.  I'll find my way.  

I will live these days, as brightly as I possibly can...not just without you...but FOR YOU.  

I'll see...I'll do...I'll visit...I'll feel...I'll wonder...I'll wander and I'll love everything I'm able to in this life - not just or me...but I'll do it for you, too.

That's my promise.  Because that's how much I love you.

PS:  Get ready for the time of your other-wordly life.  

Grieving 101: The "Other" Eulogy

Note:  This is the "other" eulogy.  Because my mum would haunt me for the rest of my days if I spoke like this on the alter of our beautiful church.

I like a ton of people.  I love a lot of people.  I admire only a few.

My little brother, John, was at the top of that very selective list.

"How so?", you might ask.  Well, he embodied characteristics that I, personally, have to work hard to achieve.

Like, forgiveness.

John didn't care what happened yesterday.  He didn't weigh himself down with grudges over the moments you tripped and fell into being a shitty friend, sibling or person.  

If he loved you, he always loved you.  That day you sucked as a human didn't change that in his eyes.

Then there's his loyalty.

This is a biggie.  I'm not sure I've ever met someone more loyal than my John.  

I think I used to test his loyalty at times, because, as his/their big sister I am always the one asking questions.  And not just any questions, I ask the right questions. Over the years I've become something of a Question Asking Expert.  Pointing my words to the core, discarding any gray area and simply making it hard to avoid giving me a direct answer.  In short, when it comes to my brothers, I don't waste time on the bullshit.  

Each of my brothers handles my technique a little bit differently.  John has always been the most unwavering.  If it came down to a question that might shine a light on someone else's story, he'd grit his teeth, let out a deep breath and say "Come on, Tara (long exhale).  I don't know anything, ok?".

That "ok" was always a question, not a statement.  Because of that, I never pushed him.  Partly because that usually meant I was pretty close to the truth of the matter and mostly because I always admired this code of loyalty in him and never wanted to be the one to break it.

One of my favorite qualities was his honesty.

He didn't cherry coat things, hide many things or lie.  He was a pretty straight shooter in a world where being a straight shooter isn't easy.  

It's especially not easy when your sister is a royal pain in the ass and you know you are going to get an ear full about whatever it is you've been up to.  But thanks to his ability to forgive, he just let me be me - while he continued to be him.

Which brings us to his ability to love, unconditionally.

This is where John's a purist. 

He didn't give a rat's ass what you did last year, let alone what happened two hours ago.  He loved you for being you, always.

Now don't get me wrong here.  John was a grumpy son of a b*tch at times.  Working with him wasn't a picnic and if you caught him in a bad mood, well good luck.  On top of that he was smart as a whip and had no patience for anyone who wasn't (which was pretty much everyone).

However, underneath all that, he loved purely.

If you were in his circle, so to speak, you were in forever.  Mistakes, bad days, bad years, foolish acts, moments of weakness, he loved you anyway.

That's how big his heart was.  It had space to love the best you and the worst you all at once.

Now there's the characteristic that makes my heart ache and my eyes fill with tears.  His generosity.

He was, hands down, the most generous person I have ever known in all my days combined.

Shirt off his back, no problem.  Last dollar in his pocket, never a question.  Need something fixed, he would do it before you asked.   

He would give his time, his laughter, his humor and his love to anyone he cared for.  

In fact, he was so generous that he even bargained his soul so that Mum and Dad could pass seamlessly through Heaven's gates.

I know this because he told me.  He said so one day when we were all consumed with the grief of yet another loss  He looked at me with tears in his eyes and more love in his heart than any person I know.

I believed him when he told me this.  But I also believe that any person this generous doesn't have to bargain their soul for the safe passing of their loved ones.  That generosity is celebrated and cared for tenderly, as it should be.

In the end, John will remain one of the people I admire most in my life because of everything mentioned above and every other thing I either can't find the words for or choose not to share.

He was a better person than I am on my best days because he did kind things purely. He didn't rationalize generosity.  It was his natural state where others, me included, ponder and think and debate and then choose it.

John, at his core, was a giver.  

It is because of this I will always beam with pride for getting the chance to be John's big sister.

Grieving 101: Turbo Technology + Yoga

Yesterday, I heard John's voice.  No, not just in my dreams or in my broken mind.  I actually heard his voice.  I listened to a voicemail that was tucked in a sea of other voicemails that my iPhone won't let me delete.  For once, I'm eternally grateful for this technical hiccup.

Today, I opened Facebook to see a video of John doing the ALS Challenge back in August and nominating me.  I had never seen this video before, partly because I wasn't tagged in it, partly because I wasn't connected to the person who posted it and partly because I was out of country when it went live.

But today, I saw it.  I heard his raspy smoker's voice nominating me, his sister, to dump another bucket of ice cubes and frozen water over my head.

(I love being his sister.)

After Dad and Mum passed I couldn't look at photos of them, let alone listen to a voicemail or watch a video of them.  However, this time around I'm going to embrace our turbo technology and hope it helps me heal.   

My strategy is to go head to head with this grief.  I'm going to face it, head on.  I am not going to let it bully me into months of being a sloth, like I was after losing our parents.  

My little brother wouldn't want that.  And it's because of that I am going to will myself to do it differently.

I began this strategy yesterday by doing two things:  1) Listening to his voicemail message, twice and 2) By going to hot yoga class.  

In all honesty, I didn't have the energy to peel off my cozy clothes and step into yoga clothes (also known as cozy clothes), let alone leave my house.  But I told myself that even if I just sat in child's pose through class, I still had to do this.  I had to do something to banish the anxiety that has been sitting on my chest and wrapping it's long, wiry fingers around my throat since the 6am phone call informing me we lost John.

(Anxiety, if you don't already know, is a mean motherf*cker.)

So I went.  I was the quiet, sad looking girl in the back of the room willing herself through the 90 minute practice.  Yes, my eyes welled up in tears many times.  Yes, I almost passed out twice (insert child's pose here please).  Yes, I found myself in Savasana staring at the ceiling (not what you are supposed to do) wondering how it's possible I won't see John again.

Yes, that was me, the broken one in class.

When the instructor bid us farewell with "namaste" I crawled into standing position and post-class-hustled to my cubbie to collect my belongings.   The first thing I did was hit the button on my phone to see a photo of John and I (now my lock screen).   

As soon as I saw the image of his smiling face, I took my next step forward.

I'm going to use all these tech opportunities like other people use turbo shots of caffeine.  I'm going to let them boost me.  

I know it's what he expects of me (not some miserable version of his sister just scraping by).  

Bottom line: I am not in the business of letting my little brothers down.

So here I go…

Trigger...

For me songs are often my memory triggers.  A gateway, so to speak…

The happy, sad, romantic, and comical all come rushing in on the musical raft of nostalgia.  With intensity (and sometimes vengeance) these tunes swoop me up and start tugging on my heartstrings, playing me like their own instrument.

Remember that Sex And The City episode when Carrie was dating the jazz musician? He would spin her into his arms and play her like a bass guitar, strumming at her with all the his grooviness.  Remember him?  Yeah, well imagine something like that but not always so hip, groovy and fun.

This random song is one of those that I often avoid.  Not just avoiding in the "walk by and pretend you don't see them" way.  I'm talking about full-blown "bolting out the backdoor to be CERTAIN you don't come within the vicinity of them" way.  We're talking about 5-alarm avoidance.  The "STOP, DROP + ROLL" of avoidance. 

As soon as the first few bars hum I usually move faster than light to turn it off.   Why?  Well, there's this crazy thing that happens when I'm not prepared to think of my Dad.  It's like a lifetime of memories play on fast forward behind my eyelids and when I get to the part that hurts the most I feel something similar to a 2' by 4' smack me in my soul...and it hurts...and it knocks the wind out of me....and it makes me feel like shit, basically.

(Stop, drop and roll.)

Now, if I decide to stroll down Memory Lane on my own accord, I'm fine.  I can purposefully dig through song lists and cherry pick the ones that feel warm and fuzzy.  I'm ok with that.  In fact, I'm better than OK with that.  I am a full blown ROCK STAR at that.  However, when a rogue song or memory or feeling has the audacity to "try me"...well, I guess I've still got a lot of healing ahead of me.

Today, this song came to mind.  Rather than wincing and pushing it out of my thoughts I was feeling courageous, curious and brave (you know, the formula for naive kittens) and I decided to give it a try.  To hear it, feel it and allow all those memories that go along with it to wash over me.

It's the first time I could ALMOST listen to the whole thing.  The first time in nearly 7 years (yes, we are just shy of 7, which I find unbelievable too) I've been able to achieve this.

I consider this to be a positive sign that some of my soul scars are healing.  Being the sucker for positivity that I am, I'll take it in any form I can get it.

So, here's to celebrating the fact that there is hope for our deepest hurts (ever so slowly) healing.

"But when the night is falling

and you cannot find the light

If you feel your dream is dying

Hold tight

You've got the music in you

Don't let go

You've got the music in you

One dance left

The world is gonna pull through

Don't give up

You've got a reason to live…"

"You Get What You Give"

— New Radicals

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Forevermore

You came to me
in my dreams

and said 

goodbye.

You whispered 

in my ear

how much 

you loved me

now

and 

forever.

It was so real

I woke up

knowing...

that my days 

were to be 

without you

forevermore.

I could no longer 

reach to you

or 

for you.

I could 

no longer

call your name.

You were gone.

What you didn't know

and what I 

could only 

hope for...

is that 

as night fell

and my eyes closed

our souls would meet

in my dreams

every night.

We would play

and laugh

and love

like only we can.

We would be together

in a way

that our earthly selves

could never achieve.

Because of this

beautiful gift

I do not 

mourn you.

Instead, 

I anticipate

our infinite moments

dancing in the twilight

of our love.

Forever ours.

Forevermore.

Some Days For Someday

Some days

I have trouble 

shedding

this layer

of sadness.

Some days

it's too heavy

for me to haul up

and off 

my chest.

Some days

it holds on

with a grip

far stronger 

than my will.

Some days

I'm too weak

to do the work

that's required of me

to strip myself bare

of the burden.

Some days

I just have to accept 

this truth

and surrender myself

to the cruel power

of these 

pains...

and simply 

let them be.

So another someday

won't be the same

as this day.

Happy & The Holidays

I wish the stain of losing people we love (to suicide, overdose and strings of unhealthy choices that could lead nowhere else) would fade, just a little.

Bright and shiny holidays are smeared.  Special occasions chipped.

I'm so fucking tired of the missing, the grieving and the sadness.  

I'm so fucking tired of making the best of shitty situations.

I'm tired of a Christmas song coming on and instantly reminding me of my mum, bopping around in our kitchen making our house smell like magic.  

I'm tired of my eyes filling up with tears totally against my will.  

I'm tired of sitting here, stunned still, that the holidays I miss so much will never be again.

And I'm tired of wanting that so badly because my rational mind knows that we must create our own version of holidays now and keep moving forward.

But how does one wake up each morning and choose to move forward "happily" when people they love didn't even choose to stay?

With a lot of energy, hard work and discipline, that's how.

With a lot of unanswered questions, too.

My pendulum swings with ferocity some days.  

It might sound fun but trust me, it isn't pretty.

I go from happy to sad, pissed to glad in a blink.   It's like an ultimate spin cycle but without choosing it.

Holidays magnify the spin.

Holidays magnify everything, actually.  The happy moments, the sad moments, the wanting and the missing.

The holidays are fucking exhausting.

I think I need to go back to bed and try to choose "happy" one more time.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

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Phoenix Rising

Close to a month ago I heard all this yelling and commotion next door.  I had just gotten out of the shower, threw clothes on and hustled outside to find nothing but silence.

A few minutes later my other neighbor, my hippie-botanical-boho-buddy, Jim, came by all worked up.  He told me the dog next door had attacked a cat (it was the owner I had heard yelling to try to stop the dog).  Jim had intervened, did his best to save the cat by prying it out of the dog's mouth and putting it over my fence, to safety.  He asked if he could go out back to find it and I followed him to our wall of areka palms.  Which is where we found her.

I could see big, fearful eyes in the dark of night…and that's about it. She couldn't move.  I wrapped her in a blanket and we carried her inside, getting her settled into a nice cozy spot in the garage (safe from my 4-pawed tribe).

By the time Bobby got home I had already did my best to clean her up and sooth her a bit.  We both believed her to be feral.  Bobby didn't want to say it but I could tell he didn't think she had much of a shot at surviving.

I was worried about managing her pain but I had a feeling she'd be ok.  We agreed to nurse her overnight as long as she appeared to be managing ok and see what her status was the next day before bringing her to the Humane Society where I worried they'd rush to put her down (potentially being feral in an area that's overrun by feral cats).

Well, several weeks later I'm happy to report that she's a purring, nuzzling and eating machine!!  Her legs are little wonky still but I guess that makes sense when you have a boxer clamp down on your hips and try to crush you.

Truth be told - she's a survivor!

I have eased into leaving the garage door open for extended periods of time uncertain if she's in a hurry to go back to wherever she came from…but each time I make my way back to the garage to check on the status of Phoenix, there she is, just looking at me as if to say "you don't want me to leave, do you?".

Crazy Cat Lady status is inching toward red alert.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

The Hurt

Sometimes The Hurt comes rushing in with the force of a tsunami.

Merciless, destructive and with the art of surprise on it's side, it takes you under upon impact.  

You try to find your way to the surface but The Hurt is so heavy, you find yourself sinking, fast.

You are going down and you know it.   

As you tumble, your lungs tighten, your heart aches and the tears fall but in this current, they are uncatchable.   

Instead, you watch them scatter into the chaos, arm outreached as if there was once a chance to recollect them.

This is not unfamiliar territory.

You've been swept up by this before.  

The Hurt has taken you for many a ride.  

By now at least you know the only option is to let it flow over, in and through you.  

You don't bother fighting it.  

The Hurt doesn't lose.

You have to let it take it's course.  

It rushes madly through all of your cracks and open wounds.

It leaves you no option other than to cling and float upon the raft of Hope.

Hope that it passes quickly.  

Hope that your breaks and battle wounds are healing.

Hope that The Hurt won't return too soon.  

Hope that someday you will be stronger than The Hurt.

Penny For Your Thoughts

I have this special spot on Memory Lane.  It's at the crossroads of Truth, Chaos, Uncertainty & Hope Streets.  It's a hell of a 4-way intersection that could use some better lighting and certainly a cross walk.  But none-the-less, even though it's tricky and sometimes hazardous....it's still special to me.

During the launch of the most chaotic chapter in my life, I found myself a continent away from home and spinning my way through a wide range of lessons (also known as mistakes).

I'm no stranger to following my wanderlust and this night I did exactly that.  I had accidentally separated from my friends after claiming a dance floor in Dublin.  It was a beautiful night, crisp and cooling to my warm (post-dancing queen) skin, so I opted to make my way back to the hotel by foot.

My route brought me over the River Liffey by way of the Ha'Penny Bridge.  I made my way to the center and found a spot against the railing so I could take in the view of my fellow night owls against the backdrop of the illuminated city.

This is the exact spot where Time seemed to stand quietly still and I allowed the world to catch up to me.

All the spinning came to a halt.  I didn't have this overwhelming need to sprint to or from anyone or anything.  No twirls of avoidance or plots of destination hopping. Instead, I just stood there and allowed Presence to walk up to me, take my hand and simply enjoy the view alongside me.

It's a moment that is both haunting and heartwarming. A single and powerful moment that I needed then as a reminder to keep Hope and one that I still draw on now to reinforce how proud I am of how far I've come.

I can tell you from experience that getting lost to get found is an amazing adventure.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Images courtesy of (from top to bottom):

http://www.ballsbridgehotel.com/upload/sequencer_images/attractions-3.jpg

Hostess with the Mostess

Hostess with the Mostess, reporting for duty.

You might be asking yourself how someone could possibly give herself that title. Well, look, it simply must be the case because I've been hosting some pesky barnacles for several years now. I've asked them to leave, begged them, pleaded, cried, screamed, whispered, tried to charm them with witty banter...and nothing! They just won't budge.  So I have to assume I'm a pretty awesome host in order for them to want to camp out for so long, right?  

Well, it's something like that but before this story unfolds please allow me to give a special warning:  If PTSD, Anxiety, Panic and the mother of all barnacles, Depression come knocking at your door you better lock it, deadbolt it, switch the blinds and sound an alarm because once they are "in" they are Stage Five Clingers!

(And all this time you had been thinking a visit from your Mother-In-Law was tough.)

The Arrival

It was just over six years ago that this gang swept in under the cover of darkness, completely undetected.  You see, my dad had died by suicide and the sun had disappeared from sight.  I couldn't see them, hear them or feel them when they arrived.  In the chaos of mourning, I must have left the front door wide open because I just awoke one day and there they were, at home within me.

To be clear, I don't mean guests that are so kind and helpful while they are visiting that they are always welcome to make themselves "at home".  I mean the out of line, way too cozy, settled-in version where their muddy feet are up on the couch, the remote has been hijacked and dirty dishes have been scattered about the house - kind of visitor.  

Now you can understand why I call them barnacles, right?  So, how does one get rid of them? Well, like I said, I begged and pleaded for them to bolt.  I collected their belongings, packed their bags and left them at the door. I packed a meal for the road as an added gesture but they just would not leave.

Then what?

My answer:  Hell if I know.  (Ha, I'm just kidding.)  But in all honesty, at first I really didn't have a clue what came next.  All I knew is that I felt awful all the time.

How awful?  Well, for me it felt as if the gang would pass me around in circles. Anxiety had me in his clutches for the majority of the day.  Once he was satisfied he'd hand me off to PTSD so I could get a good slam in the gut by a flashback (or string of them) that hurt like hell and would render me motionless.  Occasionally Panic would get his hands on me, which was always an epic show.  Under his direction I'd be spinning in worry, with my heart racing, tears flowing and rationale on vacation.  When Panic was in charge I was certain the world was ending.  I'm not sure which one of them was responsible for the blockbuster nightmares I had every night for longer than I care to admit but they could battle Scorcese for one of those coveted golden statues any day.  And finally, there was Depression.  He was the biggest, the baddest and the worst of all. He would blanket you in a toxic cloak of cloudy skies, bone-chilling breezes, a constant state of disinterest as well as complete and utter sadness.  Food didn't taste good, sights didn't look good, sounds didn't sound good and feeling anything wasn't really part of the deal.  He is the vacuum that sucks the life out of you.  Every emotion loses its luster.  Every drop of color is stolen from your world until the only thing you see is an underwhelming sea of gray.  That's who Depression is ... he's a bully and he's an asshole.

Needless to say, I just couldn't navigate it all.  My Spirit had bloody hands and banged up knees from crawling so far for so long.  Until ...

Enter Jane, Stage Right

After an ER-worthy panic attack I landed in my therapist's office.  She was a tremendous gift to me at that point in my life.  I had whittled myself down to the bone.  I was emotionally bankrupt and spiritually void.  More than anything, my whole essence was truly exhausted.

So, she and I began waging a mighty battle on my uninvited guests.  I chose to do so holistically, kindly declining medications to assist me in the journey (however, that was a personal choice and although I'm happy with my strategy I absolutely value and respect the fact that I had a choice and the fact that you or others like us do as well.  Choose wisely friends.  These barnacles are not one size fits all.)

As time progressed, so did I.  Soon I began doing tiny, minuscule things that sparked a recollection of a person who wasn't shattered into pieces.  

I would journal, a lot.  Just write and write and write until I had no words or ink left.  I would devour magazines.  I needed visual inspiration, color and beautiful images more than I needed air.  I would listen to music that felt good and avoid the downers with everything I had.  I would crave weekend afternoons sitting on my patio overlooking the ocean even if it meant I had to be wrapped in 4 blankets and bundled like an Eskimo.  In the morning, I relished sipping on tea as if it were laced with gold. All of these things, so insignificant to some, were the anchors of which I held on to with a life force.

In time, that supremely dark phase began to come to a close and a new one was beginning to bloom.  My house guests and I were moving right along.

Re-finding Yoga

I had found yoga many years before when I was trying different types of workouts on for size (similar to the way others try on shoes before buying them).  I was always a fan of yoga but never had I fallen as deeply in love as I did at this juncture.

This time, it was different.  This time I was different.

It was a new year and I was committed to the next phase of my therapy.  Yoga was going to be my foundation.  So there I was, in my first class back on the mat in what felt like eons.  My body was tight, my mind was chaotic and my Spirit was war torn but none of that mattered because the most amazing thing happened.

Yoga took me by the hand to places my heart didn't believe existed anymore.  It lead me to a spot where all those racing thoughts quieted, where my mind slowly stopped spinning and by the grace of everything holy I was able to focus for a collection of moments.  It reintroduced me to Breath and the power it had over the gang of bullies taking up residence within.  It lead me to Presence and that allowed me to be in my body rather than solely inside my pain.  But most importantly, it lead me to Hope which I thought was lost forever.

Somehow through the magic of my yoga practice, I was able to convince the barnacles to "sit in the corner and be quiet" before stepping on my mat.  Somehow I was able to breathe my way through an hour and a half of practice without being bullied.  Somehow, through practice, the gang began to back off - not just when I was on my mat but throughout my day - and I was able to regain strength, light and the pieces of me that were battle-scarred but still true.

Yoga is what taught me that PTSD, Anxiety, Panic and Depression might have moved in but that didn't mean they were in charge.

Yoga taught me how to silence the chaos, how to muzzle the uninvited guests and how to keep moving forward even with my baggage.

Now we all coexist fairly peacefully.  I don't believe any of them will necessarily leave me for good.  So instead of putting my energy toward their departure I just check in to make sure our Treaty is still signed.  Yes, of course there are flair-ups and occasionally one of them will run amok but now I use each and every one of the tools I collected along this bumpy road, in therapy & within my practice and I apply them to the best of my ability.  Especially those handy muzzles.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Images courtesy of:

Tara Mazzeo