Tyra

"Well hellooooooo dere!"

When Tyra was maybe four years old and we were living in Lexington, Kentucky, we took a road trip. We took numerous road trips during that time period and especially that summer, but the trip I'm thinking of right now took place in late-July, 2003. My good friends Tomas and Ro, along with Tyra and I, took a long weekend and drove in my 1989 Honda Accord hatchback known as "Big H" (his name was Horace) down to a protest in New Orleans, Louisiana.
       
Holy crap it was sultry. NOLA in July - my only experience with New Orleans thus far, and the only one I'll ever have Pre-Katrina, which changed the city drastically, we've all been told.

Of course Tyra was with me. The main event of the protest was a march against a Central American Free Trade Agreement. Check it out - I just found this news blurb in the archives of Indymedia.

http://neworleans.indymedia.org/archives/archive_by_id.php?id=15&category_id=3

The photo on this page - this photo:

Post-trip-and-fall-onto-Canal-Street-with-hundreds-of-people-watching

This photo was from that march. That's my best friend Ro on the left of the giant white banner. That's me on the right, nearest the curb. Check it out - we appear to match. For the first half of the march, I had Tyra with me, attached by her leash looped around my waist. If I remember correctly, my friend Tomas left his post at the center stick of the banner to walk Tyra off to the side a bit. This photo was taken after we turned onto Canal Street, which has massive metal grates/plates across it - a material that sweet Tyra had NO intentions of walking across. When the march crossed the first one, Ty went to scoot around my legs and away from the metal under her feet, and she ended up tripping me with the leash. I totally bit it and scraped my knee and elbows up. She was not hurt, but perhaps a bit nervous of the crowds and general hullabaloo. As it seemed to be bordering on too much for her, Tomas offered to take her and walk her separately, since the banner didn't really need three people to hold it anyway.


*sigh*

Oh Tyra. I'm sorry you ever felt even remotely nervous, though you did invariably steal the show and the hearts of all the hundreds, if not thousands, of people we met together.

I miss you, baby one. My little babushka. I expect to see you when I enter a room. I hold my breath when I wake up in the middle of the night, straining to hear your deep breathing that means you're asleep near me. That sound was the most comforting and sleep-inducing sound imaginable. A single minute spent laying near you and listening to you sleep and I was already falling, if not completely asleep with you. It was as if my soul knew it was safe to relax because you had. Let's face it, kiddo - you were the best parts of me. We were never separate. We still aren't.

But dammit I miss your face. I miss how soft the hairs on your head were, especially that spot between your eye and your ear, where I could kiss you and perfectly smoosh the rest of my face into yours and inhale your comfort. I miss the way you smiled at me, both with your eyes and with your grin. I miss how we could go anywhere - ANYWHERE - and no matter how many admirers were loving on you and giving you people food - the second we made eye contact or you overheard me say your name, even in talking ABOUT you to someone else -- you left your shining spotlight and trotted over to me, happy and eager to share your excitement and Love with me. You lived for me and made certain I knew it. You lived to make sure I was ok. You gave your entire self to me with no expectations and no reservations.

And you were FUN. Dammit, doggy. We had so much fun. SO much fun. Remember when you were still quite young and could easily run circles around me? The hours upon hours we spent in the car - me, rocking the fuck out to whatever music I was currently enthralled with, singing at the top of my lungs, talking out loud to you - you, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, leaning up against the door with your face in the wind, that blissful smile on your face, eyes slit nearly closed, nose craning upward to catch the finer points of the scented wind. And then you'd open your grin and the wind would flap through your doggy lips and your long pink tongue (with the black spot in the middle) would flop out and across your cheek. :) Generally by then, I was grinning right along with you, unable to sing through my giddiness, likely telling you how effing cute you are. You'd always respond to my voice by turning your face into the car, your entire being just beaming at me with Love.

You gave the best Love, Tyra.

And the most enduring. I am ok without you physically in my world right now only because you built me up and taught me how to be OK.

My family says Tyra was an angel. From God. Sent to me to protect me and help me and Love me through the worst times of my life. They sincerely believe - at least a few of them that I'm aware of - that I would not have lived through my mental breakdown without her.

I know this is true. I would not have survived. Tyra has been the singular reason for not committing sincere suicide at least three or four times. I just couldn't leave her alone. She did nothing but Love, and I was her world. How could I take that from her? I couldn't.

*BIIIIG sigh*



Oh Tyra. I did it again. I went off onto another tangent, losing the intended story entirely. We didn't even mention the ORIGINAL story I wanted to tell - the one about when we went to the Gulf of Mexico, that weekend we were in New Orleans. :) Oh well.

There's time for more stories. This'll work for a blog post, don'tcha think? See - I just don't work right without you. My pitiful ability to pay attention is even worse without you next to me. *more sighs*

I Love You, Tyra Ann Quick. I always have and I always will. Talk to you soon, baby.

<3,
~Q~

turning around to see - ending up in a dance

**WARNING** There is quite possibly writing in here that could trigger someone into doing self-destructive things. If you are not in a good place mentally and this is an issue for you, please don't read it right now. It'll still be here later. I'm not trying to heal myself by triggering others or giving other people ideas for self-harm shit. It's a horrible, painful addiction and I will be quite terribly upset if I learn that my words have caused someone else any hurt.**

"Baby, when I call for you, I want you to come

And lay it out for everyone

Exactly how it was before any of this happened

And why I can't leave it behind"

-- Conor Oberst, "A New Arrangement"

I moved recently. It was probably 3 weeks ago that I began discussing my current situation and I guess about 2 weeks ago that I actually moved in. There were 5 days in there where I was not here, but up in Fargo with my family paying my respects to Grandma Quick's life and seeing her burial in tiny and all-but-barren Starkweather, North Dakota. Other than those 5 days away, I have been fully immersed in learning the ropes around this house, unpacking and rediscovering treasures from my storage unit, and adjusting to life in the countryside.

It just now occurred to me that it's been a lot longer than the 10 months of storage that I've not seen a few of my tangible memories. In the years prior to leaving Jason, now a little over 10 months ago (holy crap!), I didn't delve into many of these items. I left books on shelves and music in cases for many years without acknowledgement. Some of these things were untouched for so long because I was trying to let go, stop dwelling on painful subjects, and heal. I also left many items unexplored while I was falling in and out of love with my husband, which took probably 3 years. Half of me didn't want to focus on anything but my relationship with him and half of me wasn't allowed to retain memorabilia from my shrapnel-filled past without extreme measures taken to induce guilt, fan my self-hatred, and block any possible fond memories of Life Before Jason.

I no longer have most of my photos from any previous romantic relationships (except for a few copies my parents still had -- like formals from high school. He hated those photos.), I got rid of several CDs and tapes of and from ex-entanglements that I now crave (the music, not the entanglements), and I no longer have any paintings, drawings or sculptures made of me or for me by any male that I've ever kissed. That's sad to me. I've kissed some talented men and probably the only common thread amongst them is how their creativity moved me in some manner. Those tugboats of emotion are now gone. Sad!

I managed to escape my marriage before my journals were censored by a big fat marker or fire pit. Such heretical acts were on the docket to take place any minute for almost a year. I put up with a TON of shit as a result of "procrastinating" on this request, but it was worth every insult and mind-fuck and argument and sneer and threat that came at my stubborn resistance to erase all proof that I had a life prior to meeting the man I married. It was worth it, but I'll never put up with THAT shit again.

Gyah -- that really sucked.

The quote from Conor at the beginning of this post is from the song "A New Arrangement" on "Every Day and Every Night" by Bright Eyes. It recalls nights spent alone in my Powderhorn Park apartment when I lived in Minneapolis and driving to and from my job at the Heart Association, the last full-time job that I held, over my lunch hours when I needed to hurt out loud. I only went home over lunch if I wanted to cut my forearms or play with my unlit fire swings in my living room. Jeff Buckley was great for doing both, but mostly dancing with my swings. I learned that a few minutes of getting my heart to speed up with oscillating arms increased the blood flow and somehow made my purging of pain in the form of blood just that much more effective. Conor's music was always good for urging on the anguish, pushing me past a point of resistance until I felt real. Alive. Involved in someone else's pain instead of the crushing solitude of my own.

Hearing this particular music again ----- I'm looking forward to a summer filled with writing. Maybe not on this blog so much, but for my memoir. To finish the healing process and give legitimacy and create proof beyond my scars that I have been to Hell and I made it out. Turns out it shares the same physical space as Heaven, as well as Mediocrity, and our experiences within this life are entirely determined by how we see the world both inside and outside of ourselves. I used to hear those four lines:

"Baby, when I call for you, I want you to come

And lay it out for everyone

Exactly how it was before any of this happened

And why I can't leave it behind"

and in my mind I was singing about "how it was before any of this happened" meaning how life was before my mental illness hijacked my brain and "why I can't leave it behind" because I was trapped, completely engulfed in hot blistered soul sores.

Tonight I heard these four line and in my mind, "any of this" was now my current living situation -- the serendipitous events and souls who have changed my world for the better -- and I now can't leave "it" (my years of living hell) behind because I meant it when I vowed to do what I could to help anyone else who suffers like I have, and I think that if I can somehow explain what it was like and what I did to find my happiness - I think it could possibly help someone. It's worth writing for that possibility alone. If anything, it'll help ME, so there's my one person. :)

So yeah. Looking forward to delving back in, from a new perspective. I hope that down the road I'm able to share the full story with all of you.

<3

~Q~

Dude. Whooping Cough? Really?

Hey there internet - all 4 of you -

I have apparently been the biggest slacker of all time when it comes to my writing this past month. It would be one thing had I been working on the memoir, and that's why I've been remiss in writing for the blog, but no. That is not the case. I just haven't been writing much at all for the past month.

Maybe that's part of the problem with my "trapped, icky, panicky feeling" that I attempted to fight off all day today, with little success. It's that feeling that I would do just about anything to escape. I contained it pretty well in front of others, but it was definitely creeping today.

I went back to Open Door today - the sliding fee medical clinic here in town. I've been sick since Valentine's Day, when I woke up with a sore throat but powered through to sing that duet with my friend Ocho at the Hope Interfaith Center that day. After that, however, my voice got all raspy and funky and I really haven't been able to sing since. I tried to do karaoke a few times maybe 2 weeks ago, but by the time I was on the last song I had chosen, my voice was pretty much a cracking mess. That was that. Maybe 1 1/2 to 2 weeks after the day I woke up with the sore throat, I went to Open Door for the first time. I was told I had an acute upper respiratory infection and prescribed some pretty hardcore antibiotics for 10 days to kick it out.

It refused to vacate.

I'm on probably week 5 of this illness now, and it's moved completely from my head to my lungs and although I don't feel terrible, my cough is quite impressive. I went back today, at the request of my parents, and was told that I now have pneumonia in my left lung - but the right lung sounds clear. The doctor seemed puzzled that the 10 days of augmentin didn't fix things, and she actually "suspects whooping cough", so I'm now on the Z-pack - another 5 days of a DIFFERENT antibiotic.

Whooping Cough? Didn't that disease die before I was born?

Apparently not.

The biggest bummer is not that I'm still sick, because honestly - I really don't feel all that physically awful. Perhaps I'm simply used to feeling off, as it were, so this is no big deal to me. The biggest bummer is actually that it's March and it's wet out, which means Lyric's pasture has plenty of mud for him to roll in, which means there is almost always a handsome yet crusty mud coated horse when I go see him to brush out. Anyone who has ever brushed mass amounts of dried mud out of an animal, particularly such a tall one, knows that the dust from the animal being groomed will inevitably be all over the person doing the grooming. I've never had a problem with this fact - I quite enjoy the smell of the ponies. My lungs, however, are not pleased with the inhalation of the small but potent clouds of horse dirt I deliver pretty much every day.

Since I didn't get out to see my man Lyric yesterday, I really wanted to make sure to see him today. He's a sensitive guy and gets quite hurt and offended if I don't see him for 2 days in a row. Seriously. I've never met such an expressive horse. Not only do I get the rump pointed at me if I fail to live up to his expectations, but he will also refuse to walk next to me AND he refuses to eat my treats that I offer. When I missed seeing him for 4 days in a row once, and I tried to make it up to him with food, I got the VERY DISTINCT message from him that he did not care so much about the peace offering. In my head I heard "I don't want your damn treats. I want your TIME. You cannot buy my love, lady. Where the hell have you been?"

I have not missed many days since then, although it does occasionally happen. Anyway - I did not get a chance to see him yesterday, but the previous several days we had been getting closer and closer, so I didn't want to risk another set back with his trust. I promised my mom that I would not groom him and that I would come home after the barn (instead of the open mic that I wanted to go to tonight), and I went out to hug my horse.

In my world, there is nothing more soothing than the sound of Lyric munching his hay, the feel of his inquisitive and tactile lips searching for the treats he knows are in my hoodie pocket, the sight of those giant hot chocolate eyes and the smell. The glorious smell of hay, shavings, leather and horse. It's most definitely the cure for almost everything that ails me.

Oddly enough, it didn't really work so well tonight. He was happy to see me, and he drooled water on my pants and sweatshirt after every sip he took while I was there, and he tousled my hair when I crouched down with my face in my arms, crying for no discernible reason. It actually made me cry harder. I don't even know why I was crying in the first place, much less any reason that his love would intensify that overwhelming sadness in my heart.

Is it easier for me to let down my guard when I'm with him instead of any bipeds? I honestly don't have an answer, or even a solid inkling. I want to believe that I cried in Lyric's stall because it was the best place for me to release my emotions - a place I always feel safe. That doesn't quite feel correct though. I mean, I absolutely do always feel safe in his stall with him, but that doesn't really hit home for tonight for some reason. I've only cried in front of him one other time, and that was the night he was gifted to me.

I have no memory of any tangible thoughts that were swirling through my brain at that time. I was curious and vaguely concerned to find him sweaty when I got there, even though it wasn't hot and he had been inside for probably an hour by then. That certainly wouldn't cause tears, though. All I remember is being flooded by that horrible feeling. The sensation that I was drowning, that no matter how healthy I get or how far I've come - I'm still crazy at my core. I still struggle to keep the self-destructive urges at bay. I still have bloody images flash through my mind when I'm having a hard day and I catch a glimpse of one of my arms, full of old scars, or I realize that I've once again been absentmindedly tracing the X's I carved into my chest above my heart several years ago.

Most days, my scars and memories don't trigger me or even bother me in the least. There are still times, however, when a memory overtakes my current situation and pulls me back to my apartment in Powderhorn Park, or my house in Montgomery, or my ex's apartment near Loring Park in Minneapolis. That was the apartment where my wrist was broken and only a few hours later I was curled up next to him, sore wrist propped up on the pillow in front of my tear-streaked stoned face. My apartment was the scene of so many cuts, several breakdowns, and horrible fights. The house in Montgomery. Absolute Hell.

I suppose it's to be expected that I will continue to have rough days. This is one of the ongoing issues I've struggled with, actually, so I'm not entirely sure why I'm sincerely surprised. I am though. I realized years ago that my memory for feelings is pretty shitty. In my mind, when I'm living in Hell, I cannot for anything in the Universe remember what it feels like to be happy, content, or even neutral. I'm learning to intellectually remember that I've felt otherwise, but it never convinces my soul when I most need it. Likewise, when I'm living in euphoria or am even vaguely happy, I have zero memories of that painful burn that runs from the center of my chest down to the deepest hidden cavern in my gut. Even reading my own words from other times in my life doesn't usually remind me that I've been through these cycles repeatedly and that it's quite possible that this is going to continue for the rest of my life.

Wow. To live this way is truly NOT for the meek. It's pretty exhausting and intense, actually. If I had any sort of choice in the matter, I don't know that I'd choose to be me. Maybe I'd surprise myself and pick to be Q after all, but I'm not confident about that. I know I exhaust people at times. I know for a fact that I've scared the shit out of several friends and made so many damn men nervous. Is there really any wonder I have huge abandonment issues? I think the only person that I've talked to consistently, that I've lost my shit in front of (many, many times), who has NEVER taken a break from me is my mother. Dad has never put me on even hold either, but it's Mom that I unload on most of the time. It's not easy being someone that many others can only ingest in carefully measured doses. They get to go home and return to less intensity. This shit is pretty much a constant in my brain. The only actual breaks I get from my barrage of crazy are when I'm sound asleep or high.

I AM EXHAUSTED.

And now I have the freaking whooping cough, or pneumonia at the very best. I did some superficial research on this whole whooping cough thing and apparently I'm maybe half through the course of the sickness at best. Great. That's another entire month at least that I'll be struggling with this cough. I hope these new antibiotics kick some major illness ass.

I suppose I should go to bed then, eh?

Love,

~Q~

Unexpected Reaction

February 2nd and I'm finally moving into the room I'm technically occupying. That's only - what - five and a half months of couch surfing in my mom and dad's home, where I grew up?

Not too shabby, Q, not too shabby. :)

I worked for probably five and a half hours, listening to the Cirque du Soleil soundtrack for "Varekai", which is achingly beautiful in a way that flies high above the various languages it speaks. I cleaned off the big dresser, which was definitely my sister's and before that I believe was my Grandma and Gran'pa Nelson's. Up until today, it had served primarily as a dumping ground for unopened mail, various hats, and a few things that Emily didn't move out with her when she left home many years ago. Now, it's much more in line with me. I also cleaned my highboy dresser, I cleaned the corner shelves and put all my books away, cleaned off the desk and even put several photos in new frames.

I'll post photos of my reorganized room when I get to that point. Right now, half of the room is in that awful middle stage, where things are strewn all over the middle of the floor. Mostly paperwork. :)

When I started this blog post, several hours ago, I was needing a break. I made the mistake of filing through a file folder entitled "Jason". My first Love got a Xerox box for all the 5 1/2 years of our sentiments. Jason got a file folder. A fat one, but not a box. It's either the 3 years vs. the 5 1/2 years, or perhaps I stopped collecting every little thing as I got a bit older. My husband and I actually lived together, too, so there wasn't nearly as many letters or notes to document our relationship.

Anyway - the point is -- that file folder: I wasn't expecting the reaction I had while looking through it. The times I'd go through the original break-up box, which generally happened about once a year, whenever I'd be getting ready to move -- my heart would ache and I'd generally end up crying. I don't really have many of those things left, as I was guilted into throwing away so very many things that had to do with my life prior to meeting Jason. Naturally, a similar sadness would be a reaction I would maybe expect from my first time really sifting through my estranged-husband memorabilia. What happened, however, was much more unexpected.

I literally and quite physically got nauseous. I had to put the folder away without quite finishing the perusal, close my eyes and breathe slowly and deeply so I didn't upchuck all over the carpet. Ew. I did not see that one coming.

Nor did I expect faint waves of sickness to return at the very thought of the things I read tonight. Gotta go - making curtains & watching "When Harry Met Sally". Much less volatile.

Love to you all,

~Q~

Weekly Reader + the Usual (ramblings)

Well, well, well.

So it seems that once you sincerely figure out what it is in life that will help move you towards happiness - AND (here's the kicker) actually rely on yourself and go after that elusive state of being - holy crap kids - apparently it's real.

WaitWhat?

I know, right? How else can one explain how my entire existence got so flipped upside down and inside out in such a short period of time. For awhile, after leaving the mr., I felt guilty. Not that I did anything wrong - I didn't. I finally took care of my own well-being and it's been the best damn idea I've ever followed through with to-date. No - I felt guilty for NOT feeling guilty for leaving my husband. I was happy and grateful and beyond finished with that entire way of living. Still - I always thought divorces were so sad, and no matter how "not-quite-perfect" the relationship was, it would always be really difficult.

I've changed my mind. Getting to the point where leaving was a preferred option - that was one of the hardest things I've survived. I mean - wow. Just when I thought I'd hit bottom and things wouldn't get worse -- yep.

"Just kidding! You thought THAT sucked!?! Wait 'til we see what's behind door number 3!"

Once I had actually made up my mind that I needed to change my situation and change it FAST, it didn't suck as much as I had anticipated. It was actually quite freeing. I cut my long hair off, no longer concerned with his opinion. I reconnected with old friends. I walked through the nearest wooded park every day - particularly loving it when autumn came. I hung out with Tyra & my cats. After a few months, I started heading out again & I met the most incredible group of friends.

So ok - I'm still legally married, so I guess I can't say it was "easy" to finalize the divorce (since I haven't done that quite yet), but that's because I'm so busy creating -- music, words, memories, friendships, & the Life I actually WANT -- I forget I'm still legally bound to a man who I haven't spoken to in months. Basically, I'm just too uninterested in going through my finances to finish the paperwork and I don't have any international rendezvous planned before 2012 (hiking the Inca trail with Ro, Heather & her kids, & ????????) so I'm not in any giant hurry. The reason that travel plans even matter (just realized how random that previous idea must've seemed) is because my passport never did get changed from my maiden name to my married name, so I have to legally reclaim my Q before crossing any borders. Unless it's between counties. Or states. Or cities. Or social mores.

The point I intended to write about when I started is this: Just this past August, I was completely miserable. I was living in a tiny town in southern Minnesota, where the only person I actually knew was my husband. Throughout the previous 3-4 years, I had gone through a massive mental breakdown that landed me in the hospital more than a handful of times in maybe a year to a year and a half. I fell in love and married a man who enthralled me because his energy was even stronger than mine, and he joked that his crazy could out-crazy my crazy under the table.

Helpful Hint: When someone tells you something important like this early in a relationship - they mean it. You should actually believe that. Another one I've heard is "you should run from me right now. I forgot how cool you are and how much I don't want to hurt you, but I think I will". Good call dude. Hind sight is 20/20, it's almost true. In that case though - he freakin' TOLD me what was up and I completely overrode the warning in my gut. Oops. You mean he was serious? Hm. Who knew?

Since I've long been convinced that my eventual partner-in-crime will be either a crazy conductor or a mad scientist (perhaps somehow both?) - the crazy thing intrigued me. Not gonna lie - it still does. Something about hitting 30 though -- I don't want to be crazy my entire life and I know I'm not going to be in this life forever. Been there, done that - what's next?

So I'm writing. And some girl friends and I just recently started a band -- it's called That's What She Said and it's already clicking into place beyond expectations. And I'm riding again - with the bruises to prove it. I should take a picture of the one from Saturday, when one of the horses I teach lessons on -Buddy the paint Quarter Horse - he got a bit bored of going so slow (beginner lesson) - he reached around when I was adjusting stirrup leathers and grabbed onto my arm with his teeth. That hurt - I have this pretty black 'n' blue half-circle on my upper arm. Ok - let's see if this works.......

Yeah --------> OUCH.




It's alright though - it was completely worth it. I think back to before August 20th and how insanely different my life was then from my life now.

#1 - I'm happy. Never thought it could happen. Pleased to be wrong.

#2 - I don't have to hide any of my injuries, because they aren't frowned upon (either because they were given to me by someone who never should have laid an ill-hand on me - or self-inflicted cuts that only served as short-lived eyes in that crazy-ass hurricane of yours truly during those years).

#3 - I was GIVEN A HORSE. On the day that I met him, by some people that I had only met maybe 30 minutes earlier because he & I clicked that well. The previous owners wanted him to go somewhere where he would be just doted upon. They/he chose wisely. I certainly do that.

#4 - I was given a keyboard. A nice one. Within 30 minutes of me putting mention on facebook. I named her Eirene. I have awesome friends.

#5 - I have awesome friends.

I'm pretty sure that this post is even longer than my usual ramblings. If you've managed to read this far -- bravo. Lemme know if you'd be interested in reading my memoir when I get that one finished. It's looking to be quite interesting. At least to me. :)

Which reminds me. The ENTIRE purpose for this post, at least as I had originally thought: my great new friend, Esther Marcella, hosts this radio show on KMSU, where she interviews writers. She knows that I write, and when she found that I write this blog, she asked me to be on her show.

Sure! So I'm told it's 10 minutes of reading work of mine and 10 minutes of Q & A, and she's already asked my permission to question my reason for starting this blog in the first place. I said "most certainly and of course". Abusive relationships and mental health issues and really unhealthy ways of coping with the stress that we ALL struggle with at some level or another --- not talking about it when it's been so integral in who I am today would be remiss. I have no intention of wallowing for the rest of my life -- continuing to classify myself as a victim when I know damn well that I am just as strong, just as brilliant, and just as beautiful as you are. Yeah you. We all are strong, brilliant and beautiful. So yes - I will talk about it openly. And I will NOT be returning to re-experience that chapter in my life ever again.

Wrap it up, Ms. Minnesota-Good-bye............

Alright. Later Gators. :)

Love you all,

~Q~

Reasons to be Grateful - Now

I used to sit and write in one of my journals for hours on end. Sometimes I was all hopped up on Sudafed (legal speed) and so my fingers could rush across the page even faster than usual and I was able to keep that pen clutched in between my thumb and first 2 fingers long past the point of cramping - where the pen left an indentation on the pads of my fingers. Yeah, so my jaw was clenched and I'm pretty sure my heart was racing - what's your point? This wasn't always the case by any stretch of the imagination. I wrote while sober quite frequently as well, just so you know...

The point here is that one of the things I used to write about were things that I wanted to be grateful for -- things that I had not achieved, primarily. I picked up this trick from watching "The Secret" more times than I can keep track of (not that I even attempted to keep track of this count). The entries always started with "I am so happy and grateful now that..." and I would list at least one full page full of my wishes for my life, as though I was already at that point. I'm not at home right now, so I don't have immediate access to those journals, but I imagine that to look back at those lists would be quite the eye opening experience.

Tonight, however, I don't want to live encased in dreams for the future. Yes, I am a dreamer and I will likely always remain a dreamer. I'm with you in spirit on this one, John, my second favorite Beatle. But lately - I'm living the most beautiful dream, one I couldn't even imagine this past summer. So here -- these are the things that I am so happy and grateful for in my life tonight:

* serendipity
* my amazing family, who have really shown their true colors to me since I left Jason -- they'd do ANYTHING to help me because they LOVE me, and I no longer harbor any feelings of doubt about my worth in our family system
* my incredible friends --- when I turned 30 this past July, I refused a birthday party because I was certain that nobody would make it, and that even if some people DID come to it, it would be awkward as ass because I'd be trying to make everyone happy and it would have been quite impossible -- as I was personally miserable. Now? It's amazing. Not only did I learn that my friends who have loved me this entire time still do, but I'm less concerned with possibly being rejected and more interested in exploring the world around me, including getting to know all sorts of wonderful, creative, beautiful souls --- so I'm making friends with individuals that I feel honored to know at all.
* my babies -- Tyra, Trinity & Maya -- and now my newest addition to my little Q family (which is getting more expansive all the time) -- Lyric, the most beautiful horse I've ever laid eyes on, who was flat out GIVEN to me on the night I met him because the connection between us was so intense
* the community that I live in -- I moved all over this damn country in search of myself and happiness, trying to find that feeling that I actually belong somewhere - somewhere that inspires me. Turns out? It's where I grew up. I love you, Mankato. :)
* Music - oh the music.......it's running through my spine once again and shooting out of my fingertips and the soles of my feet. It churns in my gut and spills out of my mouth, my ears, and my eyes. I've been introduced to an entirely new world of local musicians who continue to blow my mind away each time I hear them and I'm finally to the point that I feel comfortable enough in being Me that I'm willing to put my soft belly out there and open up as well. A few of my new friends and I are starting a band, by the way. It's a girl band. We just tonight came up with the name (kudos - brilliant Esther) -- we're going to be called "That's What She Said". Once the holidays are over in a few weeks, we're going to get this going. How exciting!
* Root beer and Wild Rice Pot Pie at the Coffee Hag, because holy crap -- if you haven't tried these sumptuous treats (especially this pot pie thingy) -- you just haven't lived a full existence.
* Esther -- you get a special 'shout out' (holla!!!!) because you just showed up and now I'm going to sign off and enjoy my fantastic evening with you!

love,

~Q~

Really? One month? Where have I been?

Wow - really? One month?

Ok, so I actually had a reason for not writing for an entire month. I still haven't finished the necessary paperwork to file for my divorce and I'm afraid he's reading my blog and I don't want him to have access to my world anymore. Needless to say -- one month more of living as myself and I'm once again feeling light-years ahead of where I was only a month ago. 4 months ago, I had an entirely different outlook, mental state and life. My entire life has literally changed.

Does that scare you or excite you? That your entire existence could be entirely rewritten in less than 4 months? Ok - so not 100% entirely, I suppose. You have the same parents and siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, & grandparents (should you be lucky enough to still have one or more living). You still have the same past, although 4 entire months have now gone by that did not directly include him. Funny how you're single and happy. Finally happy. It's not that I don't have difficult days, dear internet friends -- today was one of them and I was questioned by more than one person as to what was bothering me today. Was I sad?

I suppose I was a bit, yes. Interestingly enough - this is no longer cause for a meltdown, no longer an excuse to slam my entire body against the panic button and wait for someone to soothe me, to save me. I was perfectly content today to keep myself company for the most part, and to take my own happiness into my own hands (no, that's NOT what she said this time, actually). No matter how difficult following this thread through life turns out to be - I can really only worry about right now - and right now, I'm feeling happy and content. I'm running with it.

Still - I was sad earlier today, it's true. I talked to my best friend this morning, caught her up on my life over the past few days (since our last conversation), caught up with her life, and asked her opinion on my life at this point in time, basically. Since we live half-way around the world from one another and are not always able to communicate whenever we feel so inclined, we've learned to get to the important discussions almost immediately, so we can get to everything we want to talk about most fervently. She thinks I'm self-sabotaging again, and I tend to agree with her.

Why do I do this? Where on Earth did I ingrain this deep-seated belief that I am unworthy of unconditional love from those that I admire and respect most? I suppose it's been worse - I used to be unable to accept the love and companionship from platonic friends even -- and now it's just the concept of a soul mate that eludes me.

Meh. I'm sleepy now and I still have probably 70 more pieces of lefse to make tomorrow.

Night!

~Q~

4 years later & I still Love

I'm having a bit of a dilemma right now, and I feel the need to write, even if I don't end up even publishing this post. In fact, if my knuckles on my right hand weren't bruised from smashing them with my fire swings last night, making it painful to physically hold a pen and write, I would probably simply go to one of my many, many journals to find my best friend in the world. Well, the best friend I have constant access to, anyway (being myself and all).

What is it about vocal harmonies - any harmony really - that rips my heart half out of my chest and stretches my being out to infinity? Seriously - because it would definitely be a LOT easier to focus and write, maybe even work on the memoir that I've been neglecting lately, if I could just hit the "stop" button. Just when I think I can do that though......*sigh*.............it inevitably changes key or another song I must listen to is on next. Or maybe not even that much - maybe I just have to hit the "back" key just one more time, I swear. Uh huh. That's what you said an hour ago, Q.....

So what's the big dilemma, lady? Oh - it really doesn't go any deeper than that tonight for me, I don't think. Writing now vs. music now. Although, now that I'm thinking and typing.............. I continue to wait patiently for the fear to set in, to rob the present happiness I'm wallowing in, as it always has in the past. I used to be extremely uncomfortable whenever I would even catch a glimpse of life not sucking-ass for me. Lately though - I don't know what happened to me, and I want to figure it out, if only so I could tell other people in the hopes that it could be repeated for someone else. I am just so............content. It's weird, but in that very great way. The fear just isn't there.

I was rummaging through old writings from several years ago, and I came across this description of one night in my old apartment in South Minneapolis, in 2005. This was almost exactly four years ago for me now - November 18, 2005, to be exact. Wow - four years to the day. I didn't even plan that. Huh. I wasn't attempting to write in any sort of form at all - I was just in agony - I remember this night. My arms were on fire that night and I didn't call anyone - maybe because there was nobody I felt comfortable calling, maybe because it was super late at night, or maybe because I was being stubborn - that I don't remember anymore. I was sitting in my brown chair in the corner of my apartment with one of my notebooks, just........god that was a shitty time in my life. Anyways - please don't snicker at me, even under your breath or to yourself, because - well. Just please don't. Here's what I wrote exactly four years ago tonight:

So deliberate it can't be called an accident
So painful it couldn't be deliberate
but it was.
153 red lines marking a semi-decent night
that ended
Right
where the day began.
Alone.


I hear the hiss of the steam radiator
and the persistent tic of a kitchen clock otherwise known as a leaky faucet
into week-old dirty bowls and plates.
I see sixteen inches of paperwork to be filed,
an empty bottle of Premium beer,
and the bloody razor blades from last night's escapade.
I feel the warmth of sterile cotton sleeves,
taped on either end to hide
the violent map of repressed emotion sliced up both arms.
I smell a year's worth of animal life
that the occasional cleaning can't mask
and faint lingerings of opium incense and smoked resin.
I taste organic cheese ravioli,
my last Diet Mt. Dew,
and unbrushed teeth.
I am with pets in a human's world
inexplicably sad and existentially tired.


Hm. Maybe that doesn't make you want to cry when you read it, but that was a pretty accurate description of way too many nights for me at that point in my life. I don't ache to cry anymore when I read something like this, but I do want to somehow get to her, the girl who wrote these things that night, and assure her that it IS going to eventually be worth all the pain. Eventually, my love, you will no longer question your existence, curse your parents for bringing you into this eff'd up world, swear that having children is pure evil knowing how reality is, and you will smile - for real. Unfortunately, she still has to wade through several more years of hell and it's only going to get uglier before the nightmare ends. But it is worth it - I promise.

This is exactly why I want to write and talk with others and do everything in my sphere of influence to help. I owe it to her. I promised a long time ago that I wouldn't off myself if it would just stop hurting SO bad - just sometime, please. I didn't even demand immediacy or, shit - I didn't even specify "soon". Just - it can't be like this forever. Please take it away someday. Even when I compiled a document outlining my desired funeral plans, down to what I wanted to wear, what food I wanted to be there, and who got my beloved pets and music (Emily got the CDs - I think the pets went to my parents) and what music (including the all important lyrics) I wanted played during the service - even at that point, which was admittedly pretty low - that can't all be for no reason. I can't believe that - I need to believe that good, beauty and love can grow from where I've been and what I've survived, and what others have survived as well.

I do believe it. I'm living proof that healing is possible and that life is what you make of it. I've been asked by several people "what happened to you? what made you change so drastically? How did you get the strength to leave?" I think that trying to define this in one answer is a ridiculous undertaking, but not being one to shy away from the ridiculous - I'm going to go with this: I gave up control. I stopped believing that I could man-handle my life into fitting into how I thought I needed it to go. Giving up seems to insinuate something sad, negative or depressing, but I've found it to be just the opposite. I stopped lying to myself - I stopped pretending that reality was something that it wasn't - and I stopped pretending I knew how the rest of my life would unfold. I still don't know, and I don't really even want to know. I have a few vague ideas of what I'd like to work towards, but I prefer the future to more or less take care of itself, to keep myself surrounded in possibilities for the time being. I'm not saying that I won't make any decisions anytime soon. Hell - I decided to start selling lefse just 3 days ago, and now an entirely new avenue is opening up in front of me that I have never even considered, and I'm running with it.

Anyway - if any of you are in that shit place right now - oh honey child.....I've been somewhere in that neighborhood before, and I promise, I promise, I promise - this too shall pass and it WILL be worth all that you're going through right now. Oh - and you CAN write an entire post with great music playing at the same time. ;) I just did.

Much love,

~Q~

I'm going with....Moth......

One of my very best friends in the world took this photo just this past weekend. Her name is Heather Handyside and even though I already know she's a great photographer, I'm always pleasantly surprised when I see her latest images. I'm told this is a moth, because she had to wait forEVER for it to open up it's wings for a good photo. I briefly looked for what it's name is, but I was quickly overwhelmed and obviously in over my head, so let's just say it's a Moth. With a capital M.

We'll (hopefully) return to Moth down the page. I don't think these posts out ahead of time. I just start typing and go with it. This photo struck me when I first saw it (and when I look at it again) and I actually said "holy shit" out loud when I got to it in the online photo album. So - let's see where we go, shall we?

You know you're on the right track when things in your life are flowing so smoothly, it's hard to keep all your loved ones updated on the latest and greatest. :) That's my way of apologizing for not writing a post for over a week, by the way.

Since I was blown away by the Monsters of Folk show in Minneapolis, life just continues on getting better and better. The very next day, I met with the woman who is leading this - I don't even know what it's called - this class about self-growth, basically. We took the STRONG inventory several weeks ago, and she had each of us come in to go over the results one-to-one. The STRONG inventory, if you are unaware of this (as I was) asks you a bunch of questions to see what you're interested in and then it matches you up with possible career paths that you would probably enjoy. It's based on comparing your answers with the answers of others who are happy in each of these fields. The woman who I met with, the group facilitator, I also happened to graduate from high school with. We weren't friends over there at West. We ran in entirely different circles and if you had told me that we'd end up having SO much in common, I wouldn't have believed it. Not for a second.

Since I've actually figured out what I want to do with my career, we compared the results of this assessment with what I'm looking at (which is Equine Facilitated Mental Health) and lo and behold - it fits. :)

We spent the next hour or so just talking about everything else that is important in life. Although I'm enjoying the 10 week class she facilitates, I'm really looking forward to the end of it so she and I can actually be friends. Right now, that's an obvious conflict of interest, so we just don't go there. Anyway - this woman (who I will not name at this point) - she told me about this place in town here that I had never heard of before. It's called the Hope Interfaith Center and already - I'm madly in love with the place. I don't even know how to explain how cool this place is, or how at home I felt being there. If I wasn't fairly used to surreal experiences, it might've even freaked me out a bit, going to my first service this morning. Not even taking into account the vibe in the room that was so warm and inviting, friendly and - well - logical, to me - the service itself somehow managed to address the issues I've always had with the Christian church that I've always known (and I mean all Christian churches here - not the specific church I grew up in, which I still quite adore) - but without me giving any input, here was the type of service that addressed these unspoken issues. Apparently I'm not the only one who has taken similar issues before.

For example: Communion. It has always irked me in just the slightest way that we needed an ordained intermediary to "be forgiven" by God. Not only do I have issues with the concept of "sin", but I also have problems with the idea of not being to talk it through with God without someone with a degree coaching me along, telling me what God says. Isn't it supposed to be a personal relationship? Ok - well, anyway. I realize that I'm probably offending at least half of my friends and family, if not because they're Christians, then because they're atheists or at least agnostic. I can't honestly apologize for that and mean it, however, because this is my authentic journey. It doesn't have to be something you agree with for it be valid to me. And these are all real, honest thoughts and emotions. If you've known me for any amount of time, you already know that I have no filter on my words, so none of this should really be that shocking to you.

Anyway - communion at the Hope Interfaith Center was totally different. We ALL blessed, or consecrated, the bread. There was no talk of it becoming the body of Jesus, but there was room for that interpretation, should that be your belief. Once the prayer was said, we passed the baskets of bread along each row, each taking a piece and then passing it on to our neighbor. I liked that. A lot. It was like partaking in a family feast and feeling grateful for all that Earth gives to us. Awesome. There was no wine and it wasn't needed.

So that's just one example of the differences I noticed. Do you remember a few weeks ago, when I talked about how no language could possibly encapsulate the feeling you get inside when you meet someone for the first time and you've always known them? That's what this was like. It was like walking into a crowd of maybe 50-60 people (I didn't count - the chapel place was full though) and immediately feeling... at home. I had to leave directly after the service was over, because my mom's choir was singing at our own church today, along with a visiting choir, so I wanted to see that. I'm glad I did - they did a fantastic job. :) Still - my gut was not wanting to leave when I did, and I had to silence my instincts and remind myself that I could go back again, and that it wasn't cool of me to be selfish. My family is very important to me and I wanted to be there to support both Mom and Dad. Dad was playing in the band. He also did a fantastic job. Great job parents, great job. :)

So what does this all have to do with Moth up there? Good question. Maybe it has to do with trying to classify what Moth really is. I saw it and instantly thought it was a butterfly. Heather informed me otherwise, and when I went online to find The Truth about Moth, I faced so many choices - all with similarities and obvious differences, but none quite fitting my Moth here. Perhaps it doesn't matter how you classify the Spirit or God or what have you in the Universe. It's still beautiful and it can still cause your heart to swell with Love in an instant. That's good stuff. I'm excited for the future and yet I'm entirely content right here, sitting on the couch with my little laptop, good music streaming, my cats hanging out with me, and that darn caffeine keeping me up too late, yet again. :) It doesn't get much better than this.

much love,

~Q~

Some ponderings on the indefinable

So I've been pondering things again. I think that perhaps this is simply part of being human - we ponder. We're looking for answers to questions that are still undefined in language, and I believe a lot of us get impatient when the answers aren't lit up for us on our own personal electronic billboard.

"Hey you -- do _______________ and you will be eternally happy."


Well - there is that giant yellow billboard on both Hwy 22 and Hwy 169 (and maybe elsewhere) that I get such a kick out of reading to whoever I'm in the car with. If you've been down either of these highways, you'll know what I mean. There, in HUGE BOLD BLOCK LETTERS is one word:

JESUS.

I'm pretty sure the period is there as well. I love to scream this one out each and every time we drive by - in my best Southern accent, no less. It generally gets everyone to laugh - once they're sure nothing bad is happening at the moment. Most people tend to think I've seen something scary on the road when I shout. Interpret as you will.

Anyway - back to my ponderings. :) I've decided that the questions we're seeking answers for are never going to be defined in any language. Language, while utterly beautiful when crafted by skilled minds, is simply unable to encompass the depth of life. How could it? There are no perfect words to describe the feeling inside when you meet someone for the first time and you've always known them. I have yet to read anything close to the feeling of peace that comes, for me at least, from deeply inhaling the breath of the trees. For that matter, language doesn't do gut-wrenching panic or fear any justice either. I used to be so frustrated with my inability to express myself, to get that damn demon inside of me OUT, I got quite literal with it and tried to cut him out. With a razor blade. Imagine the terror when, in the dead hot center of a psychotic break, I hallucinated that the demon in my stomach (where I saw him), did not seep out of the cuts I had made for his escape. I only angered him and watched as his scary little fetus-demon body thrashed around inside of me. I was completely sober. How can language encapsulate THAT experience?

How did my mother, who lived in Mankato (I was living in south Minneapolis at this time), instinctively know to call me at that exact moment? I think I was supposed to be at work. She had no reason to guess what I was in the midst of, or what the previous 24 hours had been like for me. It wasn't language that she heard, telling her that her middle child needed help. I didn't call her or send her an email. I firmly believe that she felt my terror, and instinctively she knew that I needed her immediately.

Call it God, call it Buddha, call it Allah, or Jesus or whatever you want to. Heck, call it Frank if that makes sense to you. Whatever this great energy is that runs throughout the Universe - whatever word you choose couldn't possibly contain THAT which makes us alive.

The answers to these unspoken questions, then, will also not come to us through logical, rational, clear-cut words. It's a feeling we'll have. It's an innate knowledge that the path we're on is exactly the right path. Richard Bach, whose book "The Bridge Across Forever" I poured through last night, says "there are no mistakes. The events we bring upon ourselves, no matter how unpleasant, are necessary in order to learn what we need to learn; whatever steps we take, they're necessary to reach the places we've chosen to go." (It's the first paragraph of chapter 11, should you care to find it..)

I don't regret anything in my past. I don't resent my scars, physical or internal, and I'm not angry at anyone who has "done me wrong". I will never become a "man-hater" or a bitter person just because I've been forced to survive trauma. We all have, to some degree or another. It's part of the human experience. Anger and hatred, moral superiority, or negative self-talk or whatever hurts the soul - these things will never bring true love, peace and contentment. If I had the chance to go back and make different choices, I wouldn't. I am exactly where I need to be right at this moment, or I would not be here, learning life's lessons and nurturing my soul. And I'm quite happy to be here at this point in time.

much love,

~Q~