Solitary

While looking for school supplies in my old bedroom at my parents house, I stumbled upon a notebook of poems I wrote in middle-school. Most of them are stupid. Some are copied down from books of poems I liked. Others are surprisingly good. This one seems particularly poignant:

Solitary

Hide me in the corner
Where no one can see.
Let me cry my eyes out
Where no one can hear
And if you see a tear,
Just turn your head and glace away
But always remember
That never have I been as brave as I have today.

Check back later for more excerpts from my adolescent period.

Steve the Housefly

One of the boys in my classroom is a guarded 5 year old who, among his many other issues, has suddenly developed a pervasive phobia of flying arthropods. This normally excessively tough little boy is suddenly unable to play outside. He talks about bees all day long, and makes up inane excuses to avoid going outside to play. (For example: "I've never seen a movie before"). Once outside, he is uncharacteristically timid. He stands right next to adults, and twitches erratically in an attempt to avoid proximity to bugs, flies, moths, and butterflies.  He has difficulty walking in the grass on his own, and when outside will make up reasons to go back inside.

A few days ago, it was about 85°, and the bugs were in full force. We were outside together. He was standing near the monkey bars. I was trying to encourage him to play. Then he began to dance around and announced that he had to use the restroom. As I escorted him into the building, his bus arrived and I silently rejoiced that the stressful part of my day was almost over. 

When we arrived in the bathroom, he froze like a spooked horse.  There was a fly, buzzing around in there. I rolled my eyes, irritated that this was going to needlessly prolong the day, then turned on all of my therapeutic skills.  I got down on his level, reflected his anxiety, and explained "that's just a housefly.  Houseflies are nice.  It's not going to bother you.  You can go potty."  I then walked out of the restroom to give him some privacy.

From inside the door I hear a little voice whine "Bulinda!" (Yes, he calls me Bulinda.  No, I don't want to talk about it). So, I took a cleansing breath, and walked back in.

"What's up buddy?" I asked.
He pointed spastically at the fly, "what's it's name?"
"That's a house fly, friend. It's nice.  You don't need to worry about it."
He twitched as the fly spun circles a foot above our heads, and said, "but, what's it's name?"
Confused, I responded "it's called a house fly."

Now sounding annoyed and still jerking his arms and head randomly, the boy asked a third time.  I repeated my answer. We went around like this a few more times. Eventually, knowing that he was stalling and attempting to avoid the restroom, I replied:

"Friend, I just told you his name. He's a house fly.  He's nice, and he's not going to bother you.  Now, your bus is here. It's time to go potty.  I'll be out here." But, before I could leave he asked me one final time.

Now, I'm not really sure what was going through my head when I responded.  Possibly I was exhausted, maybe I was done being therapeutic for the day, or maybe I'm just nuts.

Clearly exasperated, I threw up my hands and sighed "dude! I don't know his name. He doesn't have one. I guess we could make one up for him. What do you want to call him? Steve? Okay. That's Steve. He's Steve The Housefly. He's a friend. He's just visiting. Steve is not going to bother you. Now go potty." I then strolled out of the bathroom looking bewildered.

Because of the elevated tendency for trauma reenactment and high need for supervision, the door to the bathroom is always left open for adults to monitor. This means you can hear everything going on inside.  On this particular day, I stood in the hallway and listened as an anxious 5 year old argued with a house fly named Steve. "What have I done?" I thought to myself, as I heard the following:

"Steeeeeeve! Steve! Stop it Steve! Quit looking at me! Bulinda! Steve's staring at me!"

At this point, two of my colleagues walked by and, upon hearing the one-sided conversation inside the lavatory, shot me quizzical looks.  I shrugged and explained, "he's in there with Steve The Housefly." Then I called out to my phobic friend, "Steve will stop staring at you if you go potty."

"That's an interesting intervention," my coworker said as she walked away.

At last, the little boy came out of the bathroom. He stood in the doorway with a complacent expression, as he gestured back inside. "Steve's crazy," he stuttered.  He then joined me in the hallway, but not before yelling "YOU CRAZY BABY STEVE!" over his shoulder.

The Usher in my Mind

I've always been somewhat of an enigma. I'm overly rational and incredibly emotional at the same time. It's common for me to find myself torn between two completely opposing psychological responses. I've always been aware of this.

I recall a conversation, when I was about 12 years old, in which I described how my mind works. I likened it to an old fashion movie theater in town. This theater only has one auditorium, and it is huge. It has an upper section of seats (the size of a small modern theater), and a larger lower section that would rival the size of most theaters. I went on to explain that being inside my mind was like being an employee at this theater when there are only two patrons. 

One of the patrons sits in the very front row and is completely run by her emotions. She's exuberant and garrulous. This young woman is irrational, and doesn't seem to realize she's in a movie theater. She honestly believes that, if she cares enough, she can change what happens on that screen. For this reason, she's screaming at the bad guys, jumping out of her seat when the good guys do well, and she cannot contain her anxiety when the music becomes ominous. This young woman has all kinds of ideas of what needs to be done, and she's sharing them all at the top of her lungs. She seems to think she's the only one in the room, and that she has control over whether or not the heroine goes up those stairs.

The other patron sits in the very back of this theater, and cannot stand that twit in the front row. The person at the back knows it's just a movie, no one can hear the cheering and advice from the audience. She can't understand why anyone would even think this was possible, there's no evidence supporting that theory. She just wants to sit back and watch the show. She knows that it's not necessary to get all worked up, because in the end that's all it is: a show. Emotional responses aren't going to change anything, and there is ultimately no control over the final result. This movie will end how it's going to end no matter what she does about it. She's logical to a fault.

Working this shift can be rather difficult. The customers are completely different, and it's damn near impossible to please them both at the same time. It's a complicated job, but that's what I've been tasked with.

Venting

It would seem that lately, I've been suppressing some feelings. Outwardly, I'm expressing frustration at my circumstances. However, for fear of  being dramatic, I've been containing the rest. This is not okay with me. Historically, holding back my emotions has resulted in worse turmoil then letting it out. 

Discussing it, releases me of the negativity.  I feel better once I've complained. I no longer carry it around, as it expands inside me. This is especially true for things that I know don't matter, and that's the point. Why let it fester inside of me? Why let a little thing grow?

This emotional load I've been bearing is one of these things. It doesn't matter. In the grand scheme of things, it's miniscule. In the end, I know where I'm going, and not much will change that. However, I'm here now, and I need to deal with it.

I'm a careful person. I plan and prepare in order to set up best case scenarios. That makes it especially aggravating, when it doesn't work. When I squeeze every ounce of myself out, to make sure my decision is supportive for all those it effects, only to learn it was pointless, it makes me want to scream. I feel jaded, unappreciated, and bitter.

Don't feel the need to console, commiserate, or empathize. I don't want any of that. Nor should you tell me to get over it. That's just what I'm trying to do. I know that this issue, like all others, shall pass. I'll get over it. In time, I'll forget I ever felt this way. But for right now, I'm getting this toxic time bomb out of my mind before it explodes.

My Own Personal Undertoad

There's something that happens to young skiers as they learn to descend a mountainside on the planks attached to their feet.

They fall down.

A lot.

Sometimes they fall because they are new to the sport, and they have yet to master it. Sometimes they fall because they are relatively new to the world, and are still rather clumsy.  Other times the snow is sticky, or hard, or the hill is uncharacteristically bumpy.  Then, there's the inexplicable fall.  This occurs when everything is going great.  You're on your skis. You're making all the right turns. Conditions are good. You feel like a pro. When all of a sudden....Bam! Yard sale. You're ear deep in a mound of powder, one of your skis is twisted beneath your legs, and the other one is 2 feet up the hill between you and your poles.

As a child, I found this type of fall especially troubling. See, I hate falling. I hate it so much, that I rarely took risks on the hill.  Sure, I could get up a good speed, and do relatively well on the more advanced runs. However, if I perceived even the slightest loss of control, I'd pull back.

So, as you can imagine, it was particularly hard for me to cope with falling when I felt that I was completely in control. "I don't know what happened?" I'd cry. I didn't understand, and that was aggravating.

However, my parents, in their infinite wisdom, always had the answer: It was snow snakes.

According to them, snow snakes were just that: snakes, that live in the snow.  They lived where it was cold. Slithering around within ice patches, and freshly frosted hillsides. I couldn't see them because they were white, and dwell within the snow. But nevertheless, snow snakes were there.  They were mischievous little creatures that found amusement in gliding beneath the skis of inexperienced humans. As my parents explained, snow snakes liked to trip people.

I can't even explain to you how much I latched on to this explanation. In my youthful eyes, snow snakes were real.  They had to be! Why else would I fall over?  I went so far as to look for them when I rode the chair lift, or sat at the bottom of the hill contemplating the next run.  I never saw any, but I always knew they were out there. Waiting to get me when I least expected it.

As an adult, I reflect on this memory and I'm not amused by my innocent acceptance of this inane theory. I'm blown away at how unknowingly accurate I was.

Snow snakes are absolutely real. They are out there, invisible to the human eye, and waiting for the perfect moment to trip you when you least expect it.  However, my parents were misinformed about one thing. Snow snakes live in every climate.

Mom's Turn

There are very few good pictures of me and my mom. This surprises me. I spend a great deal of time with her. She's an amazing person.

When I think of my her, I think of my youth. I remember being carried at bike races. I recall resting my head against her chest, and listening to her voice as she bellowed about incorrect number placement or announced the on-deck rider without a megaphone. The sound was loud, but for me it was reassuring. No matter what was going on, my mom would pick me up if I needed it.

My mom is always trying to make things easier on me. She's there to assist me, whether I need it or not. I know I can call her for anything, whether it's what aisle the Texas Toast is in, or how to do my taxes. She listens when I complain about things that don't matter, and she indulges my dork-moments.

There are times when I wish I could shrink back into my 5-year old body, and crawl into her arms, because I know she'd make the bad world go away for a little bit. I'd listen to her voice echo in her chest, and know that everything will be alright. I think letting go of my mom's hand is the part of growing up that's been hardest for me.

She's the first person I think of whenever I need help, and I'm most excited to share my stories with her. She's my greatest advocate, and I'd be lost without her.

Essay on my Father

As we once were.

My dad regularly mourns the loss of his children.

This is not to say that I have siblings who have passed. My father simply explains child rearing as akin to making a friend who slowly dies.

That sounds exceptionally bleak. Maybe it is. Maybe I don't fully understand. What I think is: my dad thoroughly enjoyed raising the three of us. We were fun little kids to have around. And while he loves us individually as adults, we no longer are who we once were.  Sometimes I feel bad about that. I worry that my inevitable maturation is distressing for him.

Then, I reflect on the times we spend together, and marvel at our conversations. I'm amused by our mutual sense of humor, and I appreciate my ability to understand him on a new, more grown up, level.


It's pretty cool that we get two chances to develop a relationship, and learn about one another in entirely different ways.

Dad and I after a ceremony symbolizing my entry into adulthood.

My Anonymous Childhood Boyfriend

I used to believe that there was one person for everyone. This was not so much a hopeless romantic thought as it is an innocent yet irrational child pondering.

When I was little, I honestly believed that people were somehow assigned to one another by a higher power (FYI: I'm not religious at all). I used to think that there was a boy out there that was literally my counterpart. To me, this meant that a young man existed, somewhere in the world, who was exactly like me. Not only did this boy think like me, act like me, and want the same things as I did, but we had simultaneous actions.

I gave this a great deal of thought. From early on, I have memories of exploring parks while my parents participated in a bike race. As I climbed trees, spun on the merry-go-round, and pumped my legs in the swings I envisioned that somewhere, someone special was doing the same thing. Sometimes I'd argue with my brother, and then run to my room. Once there, I'd console myself with the idea that someone knew how I felt because he had just fought with his brother (or would it be sister?). Also, I would harbor immature amusement, and then subsequent bewilderment at the idea that he used the restroom at the same time as I did.

I no longer think this particular man exists. He's not out there writing a blog contemplating my existence. Nor, do I believe that people are arbitrarily assigned to one another by some magical power. However, I do think some people are meant to be together. Those connections present themselves differently, and at different times, but they are always clear.

Bookmarked and Waiting for the Next Chapter

Location: Bedroom
Mood: Benign

I think a lot about relationships in all their various forms. This often starts with me pondering the various intricacies that make up a particular connection in my life, be it a bond between myself and a family member, an interaction with an acquaintance, or the dynamic I have developed with a client. Recently, these pondering have routinely turned to one of two subjects:

My romantic relationships, or my relationship with myself.

Lately, I find that one begets another. It seems that I've reached some kind of interpersonal stalemate.  I have been single for the last two years, and this time has been incredibly valuable to me. It seems weird to say so, but I had no idea how much I didn't know about myself. Don't get me wrong, I'm in no way saying that any of my previous relationships have kept me from learning about myself. However, they've definitely served as a distraction from me and my own world.

I think that everything about me is somewhat contradictory. For example, I'm pretty neurotic, and relatively insecure. In contrast, I'm comfortable in my insecurity, and I find most of my neurosis empowering. I'm able to laugh about myself, and accept teasing or criticism in most instances. In fact, I often invite it as an opportunity to connect with others.

In the past, I allowed myself to become distracted by romantic relationships. This effectively kept me from embracing who I am, and it was easier that way.  I couldn't describe why I was the way I was, because the opposing aspects of my personality were confusing and stressful. Instead, I unknowingly ignored it. Thinking I knew who I was, I forged on with external relationships, before cultivating the one that is the most important and will stay with me for my entire life. I don't think this was unhealthy, but I do think it set me back in creating a future for myself.

In the last two years, I've had the time to get to know myself in a way I never really did. I've acknowledged the enigmatic aspects of my personality. I've embraced the parts of me about which I am unsure.  I have developed a trust in who I am, and what I am capable of. I find solace in my introspection, and enjoy the idiosyncrasies that make me who I am. I'm sassy and sweet. I'm wrecklessly cautious. I'm silly, but serious. I'm gracefully clumsy, and accommodatingly ironic. I'm insightful and entertaining, and I'd have it no other way.

 There are roads I plan to travel, and places I intend to take myself in this journey. I'm prepared to grow, and learn, and laugh, and love. Despite my fears, I'm ready for this life. But, like I said, I've come to a stalemate. I've reached a page break in the story of my life.

I've cultivated my relationship with myself; it is strong and reliable. Which means it's time for me to look outward, and develop other meaningful relationships. One begets another.

Standing Up For Myself

Location: Apartment
Mood: Irritated

I've reached my breaking point. I'm done. I'm tired of dealing with this crap.

What am I talking about? Glad you asked.

It turns out I've surrounded myself with a group of people who are not so great at the whole friendship thing. For awhile, I thought maybe I wasn't trying hard enough to keep contact. So, I turned that up. I made every effort to contact distant friends, and make plans. I called, texted, and wrote, but got minimal response.

Then I thought, maybe I was bailing on my "friends" more than I should. That's when I decided to try a little harder in that department. I started dropping everything whenever they called. This is when I realized something: They don't call me. They are standing me up. They are being flaky and passive aggressive with me.

For this reason, I'm over it. I'm done. I don't care any more. I'm out.

I'm tired of pretending we're friends. Let's call it what it is: We're not really friends.

If we were: You would be calling me too. You would be making an effort as well. You would not be texting me once every 6 months telling me you miss me and we should "hang out soon." You wouldn't be telling me you'd love to hang out if your prior commitment ends early enough. You wouldn't blame it on the 11 miles between us. You wouldn't say "if I wasn't so tired," or "our schedules are just so different." If we were friends I'd hear from you, I'd see you, and I'd know what was going on.

I have a few friends I can rely on. You know who you are, and you know this doesn't apply to you. For everyone else: That's it. I'm done trying to contact you. I'm not going to expend the energy, and ultimately end up alone on my couch because you slept in, or forgot we had plans. I deserve better than that.

Don't get me wrong. I still care about you, and I'd love to see you. However, it's your turn to make it happen. You need to take a second to figure out if you actually want to see me too. If you don't, than this is it. No more. I'm not going to be the reliable one anymore. The ball's in your court. Try stepping up to the plate, and working around my life for a change.