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~

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~

You're right Michael Stipe - Everybody DOES hurt, sometimes...

I moved out of mine and my husband's house on Thursday, August 20, 2009. Two days later, various members of my family and I returned to the house for my things and my two cats, Trinity and Maya. I was still so angry with Jason that I was able to go through with all the packing and leaving, but it did hurt to see the pain in his eyes and to see him cry, knowing that he still believed I had the power to heal those wounds.

Since I've been back in Mom and Dad's house, I've been getting stronger and stronger. After several days, I was able to put my contacts back in, as the days of sobbing slowed considerably. After about a week, I took my wedding ring off. I started reconnecting with good friends of mine, friends I had been keeping out of my life either at Jason's request, or because I was afraid that they would find out the reality of my current situation.

The reality of my life was nothing near the romantic scene I had scripted for everyone. Some people knew of the drug abuse, both Jason's and my own, but we consistently lied to the world about the actual frequency of our use. Even when I did not use with my husband, I more often than not knew he was going to get high, and covered his tracks for him. A few people questioned the abusive nature of our relationship - the emotional, mental and physical abuse that had been escalating over our three years together - but we both did our best to paint a smile on our love. I feared the end of our relationship probably as much as he feared 2012, the end of an era. Having survived all too many failed romances, including two engagements that never made it to the altar, I was terrified that the end of this marriage would most certainly launch me into "spinster" mode for the rest of my living days. I believed him when he told me that "nobody would ever love me" and that I "didn't have the strength to leave him".

I don't believe either of those things anymore.

When I was in high school, I fell madly in love with a boy who, for the first time in my life, fell madly in love with me in return. I was 14 and he was 16. We dated for about 5 1/2 years or so, the last year and a half being an excruciating experience for both of us. Well, I'm pretty sure it was for him - you'd have to ask him. It certainly was for me. It was when I moved away from Mankato to go to college in Missouri that our relationship started falling apart. He once quoted the band Fifteen at me, saying "you seem to need a man, to retain an identity". Of course it pissed me off, but over 10 years later, that still sticks with me. Was he right? Am I the only woman in the world that has this problem? I doubt that I'm alone here. Why do we, as women, feel incomplete when we're single? Why this lifelong quest for finding THE ONE? For that matter, is this strictly a female issue?

Without diluting the strong emotions I've felt for the loves in my past, I do have to wonder: do I even know what real love is? I've heard that you cannot truly love someone else until you love yourself, and this has been a serious roadblock for me, until very recently. I didn't believe it, I didn't want to believe it, and I even tried convincing other people that I did, actually, love myself. There was no fooling Q, however, even if I did manage to fool a few others. The scars on my arms, the x's over my heart, the lines on my stomach - these remain as visible proof that I did not, in actuality, love myself. As disturbing as the volume of old cuts on my body may be to some, they don't even come close to the emotional wounds I've dealt with. Those inner wounds are so much trickier.

As I've been back in Mankato, I've learned that I am far from unique in my pain. This is a fact that I grasped years ago intellectually, but was only able to truly "get" within the past few months. When I tell people of my broken wrist, when I show people my scars from cutting, when I open up about the hurtful words that were pelted at me, and the equally horrible things I've said and done in retaliation - people understand all too well what I'm going through. I have met more women who have been in abusive relationships than I knew existed. I have related to more cutters and other people with Borderline Personality Disorder - outside of a hospital setting - than I thought possible. I've been more in tune to those in grief, to those going through the death of their own relationship, and to the mass quantities of suffering in this world. And for perhaps the first time in my life, I feel humble in my suffering, and grateful for the love and support I do have in my life. You cannot measure pain - one person's suffering is no better or worse than their neighbor's.

So far - and it's only been a few months now - I've learned several key lessons.
1 - Everything in this world is on a continuum. Nothing is black or white.
2 - Humanity is ultimately good. Negativity seems to come from suffering, from an attempt to avoid the inevitable pain that comes with being alive. People will generally help you if you let them.
3 - There is a reason for everything in this universe. You are exactly where you need to be at all times.
4 - I do love myself. I am worthy of love and I do not need anyone else to complete me. I have always been complete - I just didn't realize it.

So, with that said, I hope you decide to come back once in awhile to see how this journey unfolds. Feedback is always appreciated as well, although it certainly isn't required. :)

much love,

~Q~