Look Mum, I broke the loo!

 Only me. That’s what he says; it could only happen to me. What’d I do this time, you ask? Well, I broke the toilet didn’t I!

It wasn’t easy you know. The way it happened was one of those 1-in-a-million strokes of ill fortune—or bad coordination, or just plain old bad luck. I was cleaning the window shelf  in the bathroom and knocked over a bottle of witch hazel. It fell over, rolled off the shelf, and flew through the air… landing right in the toilet. I saw bits of glass fly and thought, “Oh damn, the bottle’s broken, that’s going to be yucky to clean up.” But, the bottle wasn’t broken—the toilet was. There was a great big hole in the front of the loo—not a crack, a hole.

Of course I had to phone “the man” and see what he wanted me to do. We only have one toilet, so it’s not like I could call the insurance people and wait for them to come out, access, and decide if/when to replace the thing. And, it’s not like I could phone a plumber to come and sort it out. I don’t have much money right now—just £50 I was saving for something special and my overdraft—so buying a replacement toilet was going to be an ordeal; getting someone in to install it was out of the question. So, I phoned the man.

He was quiet; didn’t say much. He didn’t want to discuss it; he was at work. “Wait until I get home,” he said.  My stomach began to churn—not exactly a good thing, given the situation….

Coming home time was several hours away, so while I waited, I tried to make myself useful. I fished out the insurance documents, just in case we needed them. In an imitation of Millionaire, I phoned a friend to ask the questions for which I had no answer (she didn’t either unfortunately). I googled “toilets” to see if I could locate an affordable, yet decent-looking replacement. I was really surprised to discover how much a loo costs; who’d have imagined that a toilet seat can cost more than an iPhone. ..  It’s just weird. I also googled “how to fit a toilet” and realised there is a reason they put “we highly recommend a professional plumber install” on toilet adverts. And I waited. And he finally came home.

Understand that my husband is high-stress and more than a little passive aggressive. He is also intolerant of accidents and mistakes; especially those that he didn’t make but he has to sort. So, seeing as how this was my third accident in six months, his reaction was less than pleasant. But, I stayed quiet and let him have a go. I also did my best to try to help fix the situation. I made him take me with him toilet shopping. I paid for it (thank goodness for the overdraft) when we found one. I (carefully) unpacked it and got it ready for installation. I was Johnny-on-the-spot with every request he made while he installed it. I even volunteered a few times to do some of the work; but snide responses made me very aware my main job was that of whipping boy. So, I took the verbal beaten with appropriate remorse; which, in hindsight, was exactly what he needed from me most.

Shopping for it took three hours; installing it took three hours—so, a long evening, but not nearly as long as it might have been.  My husband is very talented when it comes to DIY sorts of things; we are very lucky for that. He’s not a plumber, but I can’t imagine a plumber doing any better. Adjustments had to be made of course—it wasn’t a swap of like-kind loos—but, despite his proclaiming at every obstacle that “it can’t be done”, he managed a viable solution for every problem. The new loo was installed; it flushes and nothing leaks. And it looks nice; better than the old one even. Of course, I’m almost too scared to use it…

I’m not sure why I’ve been on this trend of breaking and losing things; making loads of mistakes one after another. Maybe it’s to learn… or maybe I’m just cursed! Whatever the case, yesterday I broke the loo. And, more importantly, yesterday—with a whole lot of help— I made it okay again. We all make mistakes; it’s what we do with them once we’ve made them that counts.

Bright Blessings,

Jake

The persistence of the winter cold

I swear I have had a cold for at least three weeks. Actually, to be more accurate, I think I caught a cold, gave it to my husband, and now he has given it back. Whatever the case, I am tired of being full of cold. In fact, I’m tired of being cold full stop.

It’s that time of year; when my “love for winter” has worn thin: I’ve shivered one too many days in a row; I’ve faced one too many lukewarm baths taken in freezing cold rooms; I’ve exchanged warm jimjams for clothes that seem suck the last bit of heat out of your body one too many times.

Yes, I am ready for warmer weather. It’s time to bid adieu to winter and say hello to spring. Just a few more days and we’ll be there…

26 January 2010 ~ Life and the State of Being Awake

I haven’t written in a while, so I thought I’d update you on the daily life stuff.

Ripless-Van-Winkle

Since my not-heart-attack episodes, I’ve not been sleeping the same. Most of my life when left to my own devices, I average 9 hours a night—in the right circumstance, I can even do 12-15 hours. But since my visit to hospital, I am averaging 4 – 6 hours a night. Every morning after I fix the man’s bate, I go back to bed hoping I’ll sleep a bit more; but I always end up getting right back up. Every evening, I think to myself, “Tonight, I’ll get to bed at a decent hour”; but I always end up not finding my pillow until midnight or later. I miss my longer sleeps. I hope I find them again soon.

In the Game

I am a World of Warcraft addict in the making. During my recuperation time, I downloaded the WoW 10-day free trial. It ended and now I’m on my second one—new email, new character to grow fond of only to lose at the end of the trial. Oh what angst! Oh, for the £8 a month to subscribe! I need steady work people!

On the Ball

Funny story: I was holding Newt (my cat) the other day. He doesn’t like to be held much, but on occasion, he’ll grant you permission to hold and cuddle him. This was one of those times. Ripley, who is what I’d call a hand-slut cat (will pose for petting), saw the love and decided to join in. He started grooming Newt; licking him on the head. Newt loved it. He gave in to the sensations of being scratched and groomed, relaxed in my arms, and closed his eyes. Ripley then promptly ducked his head down and nipped Newt right on his boy bits! Newt went flying and the two of them ended up in a full-out tussle on the floor. It would have been funny if not for the big gouge on my chest… okay, it was funny anyways—but I am still going to have a scar.

Awake!

The one thing of any significance that’s happened in a while (barring the emergency room stuff) is an internal change. Since New Year’s something inside of me has clicked and I feel… well, very different. It’s a good thing in that I believe I am more in-tune with the realities of my life now. Yet, it is a sad thing because it feels as if I have discarded the last of that innocence I carried for so long.

As most of you know, up until a few years ago, I’d lived a privileged life. Things came easily to me. I lived in abundance. There were four people in my life who loved me unconditionally. There were employers and clients who thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread. I had a plethora of friends and family—people who liked me and sought out my company. I had a home that I loved full of things I loved. I lived in Texas—a place I aspire to get back to. I was blessed and I was happy… and I was naïve.

Despite the hardships since moving to England, I think that until quite recently, I was still very much living in naivety. I raged against the machine because this wasn’t the plan! I thought that there was no way that life should be like this—and for so long. I thought there was no way that God would watch as all of my efforts fell on stony ground. I thought, if I tried just a little bit harder, I could rediscover unconditional love and sliced bread and a plethora of plenitude.  But this is the real world; and the real world doesn’t work like that. I see and accept that now.

I can’t say I’ve resigned myself to my “fate”; that’s too much like giving up. But I will say that I’ve taken off the rose-coloured glasses I was so attached to. It isn’t a bad thing; it feels good to stop raging with angst and upset inside. But it is a loss—a loss of much-cherished innocence. I am not the same woman-child I was all of those years. I have shed that skin and emerged as someone who is the same, yet very different. I am a sadder, wiser woman. I am an older, less trusting woman. I see the ugly—in me, in others, in the world—and I no longer shy away from it or switch the channel. I live in the real world now and must accept all that comes with it.

Life is a journey. Sometimes it takes us where we don’t want to go. But it always takes us to where we need to be to learn. We can fight it and let bitterness and resentment chew us up and warp us. Or we can embrace it and let it edify us and make us better.  It’s our choice. It’s my choice. It’s a daily choice.

Bright Blessings,

Jake

The Drowning of the Rope Weaver: A Social Commentary

This morning, as I was listening to the news, I found myself in an interesting frame of mine. Every time someone said: “We want the government to do more.” Or “We want to know what the government is going to do about it.” Or “We have appealed to the government to step up to the plate”, the inside of my head screamed; “Please, no… I can do no more! I’m weaving as fast as I can, yet I am drifting out to sea. Not because I can’t weave enough; but because you take from me more than I can spare.”

The humble path of the rope weaver

Imagine your life as being lived in a boat. Your goal is to set anchor in a place capable of providing you with what you need and hopefully a few extras to make life nice. Your earnings are the rope that tethers your boat to that anchor. You are the rope weaver; and your life is dedicated to weaving a rope that will insure that your boat and its passengers remain safely tethered to the solid sea floor. You see the tide; you’ve seen what it can do. So you weave—in the hopes that you will always have enough to keep you from being crushed in the shipping lanes or drowned in the open sea.  You are the humble rope weaver. And you are proud.

But not all weavers are created equal

While in every society, there are some more-reckless weavers who insist upon taking their short ropes into too deep waters; most of us are content with living within the constraints of the ropes we weave.  And not all of us weave the same. More fortunate weavers manage enough rope to navigate deeper, more exciting parts of the ocean; others find their weaving skills constrain them to shallower depths. Living amongst us are those unfortunates who want to weave, but can’t and those who are weaving as best they can, but still not able to create enough rope to tether themselves securely to sea floor. And then, there are those who insist on the right to be anchored but refuse to weave full stop—those not unable, but unwilling.  All of these people come together to create a rope weaver society; diverse and beautiful, greedy and cruel—the best and worst of weaver-kind.

The truth of rope weaver society

In an ideal rope weaver society, everyone has access to the rope they need. The government collects rope from weavers who have enough and shares it amongst those who don’t. In this way, they try to ensure that everyone has rope, everyone is anchored, and everyone is safe. But there is no such thing as an ideal society. We are weavers, we are flawed, we are fearful, and we are greedy. Some who have far more rope than they’d ever need horde it and hide it—or worse yet, take rope from weavers with little rope to spare. And then, there are the unable and unwilling. It is only right that we ensure those unable to weave still have rope; as civilised weavers, it is our responsibility to weave for those who cannot weave for themselves. But, what about those unwilling to weave; do they deserve rope too? At first glance, we say NO! But, then we see the face of a child and cannot bring ourselves to sacrifice the innocent. So, we give to the unwilling, because in their care is one who is unable.  And then we give to the unwilling because they claim to be unable and we do not want to err on the side of wrong. The rope weaver sacrifices a bit more rope than they can spare in the hopes that it will help another; but in reward, they are asked to sacrifice even more.  And so it begins; and so it escalates—until there is no “ask”, there is only “take”.

The rope weaver’s sacrifice

Those who suffer the greatest burden in a rope-weaving society are those who can barely weave enough rope for themselves. These are the people who anchor in shallow water in the hopes that they will be okay. These are the people who toil day-in and day-out, proud to contribute, too proud to complain. These are the people who live in a constant state of fear—watching as their precious rope is taken from them and given to others—perhaps not less deserving, but certainly not more so—without thought given to what happens to the weaver themselves.

They rope weaver weaves in the hope that somehow they will find a way to weave enough to satisfy everyone. They live in hope that, as they drift without secured anchor, there will be a rock or shoal— something—on which to cling and delay the drift into open sea. They live in the knowledge that when they do slip away, there will be no one there to throw them a rope.

And so, the rope weaver drowns

In every society, there will be those who are lost; utopia is but a dream.  The question I pose today is this:

“If there must be sacrifice—and we know there must be—is it right to sacrifice those whose only wish is to be allowed to weave and keep enough for themselves for those who refuse to weave full stop?”

I am a mere and humble rope weaver. I weave my rope with pride. I will gladly share any abundance. If, in your efforts to take from me all that you can, you let me drift out to sea and perish, who pray-tell, will you have to weave in my stead?”

12 January 2010 ~ About Damned Time

I apologise for being so remiss in writing; I have been so self-absorbed in things going on out here in 3D world that my resolution to write as near to daily as possible has already begun to fall by the wayside. But, it’s not too late in the game to recommit myself to blogging; to get back to the type and regularity of writing that created so many of the friends I now hold dear on Facebook! That is what this new blog was always meant to be; a better, more blogger-friendly version of my dear Space that was so horribly deleted by the aweful Windows Live Team and their “administration error”. (Oh we won’t go there; I am still a bit bitter about losing four years of writing.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So last we spoke, I was having chest pains. Well, I still am. Good news is, it isn’t my heart. And no Nick, it’s not indegestion either. After a couple of days in cardiac care being poked, prodded, scanned, and monitored, the doctor is treating it as if it is my lungs. Seeing as I am an asthmatic, it makes since to try that first. So, I am on loads of medication, including two kinds of antibiotics to kill anything that might be trying to thrive inside, and been told to take it easy for two weeks. I’m through with week one, but week two looms ahead like an endless stretch. And then there are the side-effects of the meds… but we won’t bore ourselves talking about those!

Meanwhile, while I’m poorly and not able to do much, life marches on and I find myself irritated that I must be on the sidelines instead of marching in the parade. There is so much to do; so little time. I had a game plan for the start of 2010; and now that game plan has been postponed. My frustration level is palatable. But I do what I can; I am determined that 2010 will bring change. It must.

That’s about it for now. A bit of short and sweet. I shall see you again soon. Same bat time, same bat channel. Until then, take good care.

Bright Blessings,

Jake

3 January 2010—Interesting Beginnings

Tomorrow (or, today if we get semantical) is the true beginnings of a new year. People are back to work, life is back to normal, and the holidays officially become a thing of the past. Seeing as how tomorrow is a true beginning, I should really be in bed asleep now; after all, my normal days start at 6AM—four hours from now. And tomorrow is a busy day. I have the dentist in the morning and then a trip to either doctor or A&E; depending upon where they think I should go. I also have a house to clean and Christmas decorations to get ready for storage… decorations that should have been up yesterday or today, but got postponed.

Because you see, I’ve been having a problem; a chest problem to be exact. Pains and tightness in my chest, constriction of my breathing, numbness in my arm—all signs of a heart attack. A few times—always inopportune—its gotten a bit scary. Like on New Year’s Day in the middle of cooking. Mick entered the kitchen bringing his sharp tones and when he left, I actually felt I was having a heart attack right then. Had I not been cooking dinner, I’d have probably gone to A&E. But I was, so I didn’t, and it passed. Yesterday was more tightness, but it was manageable. Today, I’ve pretty much vegged on the couch when I wasn’t packing a “just in case” bag; telling Mick that I don’t think it’s my heart, wondering secretly if it is. Can stress reach such saturation that it makes one feel like their heart is attacking them? If so, then maybe this is stress—stress certainly makes more sense.

What a strange way to start a new year. In every way possible, these holidays have been disasterous. In fact, I would go as far as to say that they have been the worst I can remember. I certainly have absolutely no desire to repeat this experience ever… again… in… my… life. And, if it is my heart attacking me (and it probably isn’t), then I have even more reason to say ix-nay on the replay.

Anyway, we’ll see what happens. It’s time for me to get at least a bit of sleep—the real world hits like the iceburg against the Titanic tomorrow; and I’m not even ready for it!

Bright Blessings,

Jake xx

1 January 2010—Boring Stuff

The first day of a brand new year. Its just another day in a long string of days; but in a way, it feels like something more…

My day isn’t much to write about really. I woke up at 9:30 AM, after a late, long, piss poor, rotten New Year’s Eve. I made a cup of tea, grabbed a blanket and pillow, and curled up on the couch and watched telly—something I don’t do very often, but is actually in my list of resolutions (zone out on sofa watching Sky more often … check). Between 9:30 AM and 4:30 PM, I dozed off and on, waking up here and there to catch glimpses of the Top 100 Favourite Family Films—a show that lasted from Noon until 6:00PM. At 4:30, I moved from the couch to the kitchen, where I cooked a New Year’s Day dinner—it took three hours, but turned out pretty damned good if I do say so myself. A mix of English fare and Southern USA New Year’s musts, enjoyed with a shared bottle of Cava sitting at the kitchen bench, watching the Italian Job (the original, not the remake). Now, it’s 3:25 AM and I’ve cleaned the kitchen to as spotlass as you’re going to get with cats; watched Big Fat Quiz 2009, Sweet Home Alabama, and 101 Dalmations—the lastest remake with Glenn Close. I’ve also lost my scenario three times on Civ City Rome because I cannot be arsed to pay proper attention.

Boring stuff really. But then, isn’t that what life is made of? Boring stuff? And, considering the alternatives, isn’t boring stuff sometimes really just the spice of life unappreciated?

Bright Blessings xx

Jake

The Child Within

Yesterday was a good day.

1) I’m painting the living room, which is a task I enjoy. It’s just a fresh coat of white paint, but the end result is a slightly-brighter room with no marks to mar it (yet). So, on the whole, the experience is very satisfying.

2) It’s Christmas. And, although it will be spent mostly alone again this year—no family, no friends, no presents under the tree; no festivities, no parties… in fact, whether decorations even make it down is still “iffy” at the moment—I still have this feeling of excitement and joy that comes with it being Christmas.

What do I love about Christmas? Well, it’s magic. I like filling the house with decorations and lights, watching feel-good movies and believing in Santa, pretending that, for at least this one time of the year, there really is peace on Earth and good will towards men.

And I love giving. The pondering over what gift to give—choosing something to show that you’ve been paying attention all year long.  The freting over the menu; ensuring there is something to delight the tastebuds of everyone there. Making sure everyone has a stocking, (because, after all, those are the most fun); selecting them and then decorating them—trains on this one, golf theme for that, hers has to be pink, his favourite colour is blue—knowing that they’d know it was theirs even if it didn’t have their names on it and then watching as even the oldest of them turns to child as the secrets of their stocking unfolds.

I love looking out at that sea of faces; smiling faces, shining eyes, laughter filling the air, yesterday’s generation mixing with tomorrow’s. And then the aftermath… the sitting in a comfortable chair with a much-earned glass of brandy, looking around at the disarray and feeling a satisfaction that reaches your core. Yes, I do love Christmas.

Christmas is the time when my inner child seems to surface most; not for a moment, or even just a day, but coming out to delight me for awhile. And I rejoice in it.

So this Christmas, no matter that it will be lonely and quiet. No matter that there will be no presents or trees. No matter that there are no friends and family with which to share. No matter… This Christmas, like every Christmas before it, my inner child will manage to find happiness, excitement, and wonder.

She is amazing, that child within.

Bright Blessings

Reflections of 2009

Hard to believe Christmas is getting so close; as is the end of another year. I think the second impacts me more than the first. Christmas has been ‘cancelled’ for ‘us’ again this year, so for me, unless I’m out and about watching other people shop, it might as well be any other part of Winter. But the realisation that 2009 is almost over holds power for me. I had hopes for this year; as I did with 2008. But the waiting game still continues—and while I’ve developed some acceptance for it, I am disappointed.

I’ve made a lot of efforts this year and for a short time, right before Mother died, it looked as if things were finally turning for the better—that all of the prayer, hard work, and positive thinking had paid off. But it turns out that this roader is longer than ever expected and I’ve got rougher journey ahead before I reach a place where I can lay what is now a very weary head.

I think what strikes me most is the importance of the little things; things you don’t really think that much about when you have them:

• A Home. I don’t mean a roof over your head (although that’s important), but a place where you feel secure and safe; something that ‘feels’ permanent—that it will be there and that you can invest your love, your time, and yes, your money into it to make it reflect who you are as a person
• A Sense of Self. Last year, a friend of mine commented on how she’s never seen a true reflection of me; where I live, my hand-me-down clothes, the things I do—all reflect someone else’s choices and tastes, not mine. And it’s true. These past few years have made me aware of how important it is to be able to express yourself through clothes, style, possessions, etc. It seems superficial; but a person who is able to show a true reflection is more comfortable in their own skin; and that creates confidence and security of self.
• Family and Friends. People you love—maybe even love to fight with—that you know will, when push comes to shove, will be there for you. A mother, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, cousin twice removed… a best friend or a group of them. Those safety-net people who you just know will go to the ends of the earth for you just because you’re you.
• Unconditional Love. Most people have someone in their life who loves them exactly the way they are—they may not like you at times; they may disapprove of you at times—but deep down, you know no matter what, they love you. They don’t want or need you to change to love you. They don’t hold love up as a prize that you can win if you jump through enough hoops or learn to change the inflections of your voice when you’re upset. They don’t use affection as an incentive or reward for ‘good behaviour’. Instead, the offer it freely.
• Security. By security, I don’t just mean in home or money, I mean in life—knowing deep inside that if something happens, you will be okay. Perhaps you won’t be where you want to be or doing what you want to do. But, you know that, with the help of the people around you, you’ll be okay.
• Sense of Purpose. I think this perhaps is the most important element; having an underlying reason for getting up every day, facing the hardships, and moving forward. Without a sense of purpose, it’s really easy to lie down and die… not necessarily physically, but emotionally. And emotional death is more nefarious; harder to fight, easier to give into.

Of course, there are other things too; social activity, goals, small rewards and carrots that give you a break from the trudge and pain and make it all feel a bit less overwhelming—but after five years of living it, these seem to be the things whose absence strike me the most.

Some days I think I must be a really terrible person to have found myself in this place without being able to get out of it. It hurts to know that there isn’t anyone who will hold me when I fall, cuddle me when I cry, and love me even when they’re yelling at me. I miss having a home that I can call mine (even if it’s rented).  It bothers me that for the people I considered the centre of my world for so long, I am defined by a bad manic and not by whole of the 20 years we were close. And I do wonder what kind of woman can have so many people related to her by blood and adoption—and still have absolutely no family she can turn to for help.

In a way, my life reminds me of that movie, “Sliding Doors”, only now that I’ve played out all the scenarios, I can’t go backwards and choose differently. The good news is that bipolar disorder is supposed to diminish with age; so maybe that last horrible manic was my last manic full-stop. If there is a God, I would hope He would have mercy and never put me through that again. As it is, I will never fully recover from 2004—too much damage, too much loss, too many scars.

Anyway, it’s almost 2010 and these are my thoughts. Unfortunately, they aren’t bright and shiny… but what else is new these days?  I still have hope. I still think there might be a chance at peace of mind and contentment of heart… this is what keeps me going. I may not have much or be much; but I am still willing to offer what I do have in hopes that someone somewhere finds blessing in it.

I wish all of you a Happy Christmas and hope that, in this season of reflection, you take time to recognise and embrace those little things that make life worth living. Be blessed and take care.

The Starkness of Feeling

Someone told me to write what I feel; no matter what it was. So here goes:

I’ve decided that I must be a really bad person who has been in denial about it for far too long. Another bleak and lonely Christmas season to get through. Another month where ends don’t meet and work isn’t coming in. More endless days of dark and cold and alone. Five years now of hoping for better that never comes; smiling through my tears and pretending that I still believe in life. But seriously, I have no purpose; don’t suppose I ever did. I was the child who wasn’t wanted and never meant to be. It’s only taken me 47 years to accept the truth of it. All these years people have been trying to dispose of me; and I think they are finally very close to succeeding.