A Eulogy

Dear Ma, 

What can I say to the woman who brought me into this world.  You waited for so many years. So much pain and heartache.  You suffered through so much.  But despite all of the suffering, you were still my mother. Our Ma. You were so proud of us three children.  

The person that people saw in the last few years was not the real you. Although, your personality definitely peeked through. Your stubbornness. Your spunk. Your fight. You were a survivor. You taught me what it means to live. To hold on. 

I want to share some memories of the good times. 

Remember the time that we went horseback riding and you sat on the side reading a book waiting for us as a pig tried to eat your chair. 

Remember when you got your hair cutting license in Israel. You were so proud. Little did I know I would spend my childhood with short hair and short bangs as you would practice on my hair. Everyone in the Dorset area came to you for haircuts.

Remember how you were always bickering with Aunt Naomi on the phone and whenever you got together. You always argued about the time you walked through the glass door, you only got a book about animals, and when Aunt Naomi fell out of the car, she got markers. I can’t even count how many times I had to hear that story. 

Remember how you always had to match everything. Your shoes matched your skirt, which matched you shirt and eyeshadow. Your earrings were probably heavier than you.

Remember how you made coca cola chicken. Apricot meat that would melt in your mouth. And the best Bubby Kugel. 

Remember how you bought every Jewish book that came out. Your love for Rabbi Biographies. And millions of Miriam Adahan books. You went to almost every WIT class possible. Your notes were everywhere around the house. You went to shul every Shabbos. Always sitting up front. 

Remember Tai Chi. Remember how you and Bubby would be sitting by the window in Household two waiting for one of us to come. The minute you would see Abba walking towards you, you would stand up and mimic his motions. Putting your arms up above your head and copying all the arm motions he was doing in the parking lot. 

Your love for Abba was beyond anything. 

Remember how proud you were of Chaim. He is your pride and joy. Your obvious favorite. 

Remember when you found out you were pregnant withDevora. Was probably the happiest day of your life. 

Remember how you would talk to your father every day on the phone. 

Remember how you loved Simcha and Shira. How proud you were of the families they crated. 

Remember how grateful you were to Yechiel for the dedication and care for Aunt Naomi. You finally get to be with your sister. And your mother. And Bubby. You are finally pain free.  

Your hand has always been warm. You always smiled when you saw me. I am your first. My voice is the one you always recognize. I am your original. Been there through thick and thin. Ma. Please. I'm sorry. Sorry for this life you've had. Sorry for all the pain. Sorry I haven't always been there. I'm sorry.

Ma. I love you. Mommy. I’ll miss you. Imma. Forever your daughter.

Surgery #8

They came to get me that Friday evening. Transport that is. Two women wearing nets on their heads, chatting the whole time about their lives. As they wheeled me into the elevator on the 12th floor, “bump” one of them called out to me. The pain was so overwhelming, shooting through my lower back. My back that had been cut open two days earlier to stop my leaking spinal fluid. Here I was having to come to terms with another surgery. Was I avoiding reality? In denial. Most probably. 

We get to the large pre-op room and I am placed in a little cubicle. Two men come forward. One steps close to the head of my bed and informs me that he is a graduate student and has to ask me some questions. Ok I think, here we go. And then he stupidly asks me if I have ever had any surgeries. Umm hello? Are you for real? Have you even read my file, I ask him. He steps back as if a wounded puppy and then the next guy steps forward. 

Now this guy looks more seasoned. Not his first time at the rodeo. I ignore him and watch the TV above my head as it silently plays Will & Grace. Alex is his name. He has a faint Russian accent and informs me that he is the anesthesiologist and apologized for his acquaintance. He clearly sensed my frustration. Alex is one of those doctors who emanates bedside manner. He stood there holding my hand and chatting as we waited for my operating room to be ready. He was trying to rile me up, kept telling me to curse if I felt like it. We schmoozed about his family and career and my past surgeries, good experiences and bad. I felt validated and listened to. 

Finally the time had come to head to the operating room. They asked me if I could scoot from my hospital bed onto the operating table. I find that table laughable. How is a person meant to actually lay on that tiny board without falling off? I always ask what a fat person does. The operating room staff snicker at my questions and sarcastic comments. I try to wiggle my way but cannot maneuver or bend my back without screaming in pain. Alex and the grad student grab my arms and lift me onto the table. Holding a mask over my face and reminding me to breathe deep breaths. It’s not working, I am still alert. I feel the needle puncture my hand as they search for a vein for a second IV. I wince and Alex grabs my hand tightly while gently rubbing my forehead and whispering that all will be ok and I am doing great. 

That is the last thing I remember as I drifted off into a silent reality. I woke up less than two hours later as they pulled the tube out of my throat, me vomiting everywhere. Wheeling me directly to postop, it was then that recovery would begin. The last four months would no longer dictate my life. This surgery was going to be a solution. No longer the bandaid approach.

To be continued... 

Ma

Mother. Is an abstract concept. A given. Everyone has one. Or do they. Biological. Part of humanity. Society. Way of life. But is it. Some do not choose it. Others forced. Precious few are deserving.

My mother wanted me. She waited and waited. Let down one too many times. She suffered. Suffered for years. Much heartache. And then I appeared. Tiny but not really. A bundle of joy. Surrounded by difficulty. Constant suffering.

Ma. Mommy. Imma.

Where are you. Why does this keep happening to you. To us. I just don't understand. How are you able to withstand all this pain. All this sorrow. Ma. I wish you knew who I was. I wish you were my real mother. I wish you could make everything ok. Make me ok.

I can't look at you. So pathetic and sad. So small. How did we get here. How did this become our lives. How could I have thought we hit rock bottom so many years ago. And look at us now. Broken. Alone. Ma. Where are you. Open your eyes. Can you hear my voice. Blink.

Where is the justice. On your birthday. Is God mocking. Playing the evil puppeteer. We are helpless marionettes. Ma. Wake up. Breathe. Take those precious breathes. Fight. Don't leave me. I can't live without you. I need you more than I have ever realized. So what if you weren't perfect. You were still there. And maybe I wasn't always there. Still not. But I knew where to find you.

Your hand has always been warm. You always smiled when you saw me. I am your first. My voice is the one you always recognize. I am your original. Been there through thick and thin. Ma. Please. I'm sorry. Sorry for this life you've had. Sorry for all the pain. Sorry I haven't always been there. I'm sorry.

If it's your time. Then let go. It's ok. We will all understand. We just want you to be calm. At peace. Pain free.

Ma. I love you. Mommy. I need you. Imma. Forever your daughter.

Sarcasm is A bitch

Once upon a time there was a girl named Olive. She lived in her perfect little world where everything was amazing. She was surrounded by butterflies and unicorns. Money grew on trees. Her family and friends all adored her and appreciated all her many great qualities and talents. She was happy and healthy. Life was fabulous. She just emanated joy. She had a future. And lived every moment of her present.
The end.

permanently agitated

Am I agitated because my head hurts
Or does my head hurt because I'm agitated
Questions I ask myself
Every single day
Does everything have to feel
Like it's falling apart
Collapsing around me
Curve balls being thrown
Directly at my face
Tripping me as I move
Is the anger real
Or is it chemical imbalance
Am I kidding myself
Not going to therapy
No antidepressants
Faking this positive life
Suffocated by my own thoughts
Unable to handle real emotion
All sadness masked
Expressed as anger
Bubbling at the surface
Internal discomfort
Emotional immobility
Can't a girl catch a break
No pain
For a few minutes
No aggravation
For one day
Support
Attention
Love
Wouldn't that be nice
To feel like you belong
And not constantly abandoned
Over and over again
When will the agitation end
In others
Myself
Tell me. When.

What Did I Do

What am I supposed to take from that
Is there a lesson somewhere
A punishment
Were you trying to give me a message
A wake up call
Did I need it that day
That minute
Of all places
I had to pass by then
Cross the street
At that very moment
On that specific day
Exact hour
Tell me why
What did I do
Why did I need that
What were you trying to say
Did you want me to think
Feel
Pretend there's such a thing
As coincidence
Random chance
There's no such thing
Everything matters
Has a purpose
Meaning
A reason
So tell me why
Why did you do it
Do you even care
See me
Hear my silent pain
Is that your plan
Destruction
Shame
Slow
Agonizing
Life-long
Agony
So blatantly obvious
In my face
On a terrible day
The worst kind

Tell me why

Organized Chaos

This blog is my diary. I can look back and see the last 5 years documented in ink. Organized chaos. I write when I am angry. Sad. Agitated. Introspective. When there is a big or momentous event coming up. Or passed. It's pretty rare for me to write when things are going ok. Status quo. And there are times like that. When I am managing in this life. Holding shit together. Not sure I would call it happy. Maybe satisfied. Surviving. And that may sound negative. But I (partially) mean it in a positive way.

I write to let things off my chest. Because most of the time I can not share what I really think with others. Choose not to. I write in a blunt manner. Say it how I see it. How I feel. But then there are times I can not be honest. I hide behind the words. Cryptic messages. Beat around the bush. Because even though you don't know me, I am still cautious. Sometimes scared to reveal myself. Rip off that outer layer. For fear of being recognized internally. Apprehensive of the vulnerability.

There are so many unfinished drafts. Of writing. Indicative of real life. The thoughts are there. They come at random times. Driving. In the shower. When I shut off technology for the night. That's when I'll come up with my best thought-processes. Begging to be written down. But somehow, the minute I sit in front of my computer and open the blog option on my phone. The inspiration evaporates. Disappears from my head. As if it was never there. And sometimes, I'll try to write. A sentence here or there. But it's filled with emptiness.

There are topics that I completely avoid writing about. Or I write in code. Sometimes they are places I would rather not dig through. Or situations I cannot analyze. Pretend they don't exist. Harmful or traumatic experiences. You would look at me and feel bad. And I can't bring myself to share.

But in truth I am doing all right. A close friend called me stable the other day. And I realized she was right. I have mainly conquered my demons. Made some smart choices. Leading a good and honest life. My emotions and feelings are under control. And I've realized that loyalty is most important when it is to myself. It's taken me almost thirty years, but I finally put me first. I matter.

It's possible I won't fast on Yom Kippur. I didn't last year. And I feel no guilt. I am doing what's best for me. And not letting religion or guilt dictate my life. Other people no longer control me. Nor does the fear of the unknown. People in the past may have always thought of me as controlling. But in truth, it was me who was controlled. I lived a caged life. Stuck. Hiding. And now I am done. I will live however I choose. In my own comfort zone. With no apologies.

So there.

Side effect

My best friend is in active labor. I'm so anxious to meet this baby. Almost like it's my baby. It's actually holding me together. I started taking diamox last night. Again. The dreaded diamox. I was up the whole night. I had to pee almost every single hour. And then when I had to get out of my bed, my head was spinning. Oh how I hate diamox. The side effects take over your life. How is a person expected to function. How can I do anything. Be anything. I can barely lift my head. I know that there are people that care. And want to help. But it's hard for me. Hard for me to ask for help. To turn outward. But it seems it's getting to that point. The stage in life when you can't always be strong. Need a shoulder. Support. Diamox will do that to you. Rearrange your life. Your mind. Your every move. Wonderful.

Sun-kissed

Roadtripping

Ultimate therapy

Open road

Mountain view 

God's creation 

Beauty 

Zero traffic 

Windows down

Hair flying 

Music blasting 

Sun-kissed arms 

Freedom

Clear mind

Peace

Complete

Whole 

Pause on life 

Break from reality 

Time alone 

Breath of fresh air

Hours of clarity 

Much needed 

Traffic

Home 

Back to reality. 

One Tiny Little Pawn

I did it.
Took the first step.
Again.
Agreed to play the game.
Showed up.
Faced my opponent.
I made a move.
Moved one pawn.
One tiny little pawn.
I committed.
It's just one move.
But it starts the game.
Gets the ball rolling.

Timer is ticking.

My message to you

If one more person asks me how old I am and then tells me that my life is not over. That I should choose to make my life better. I'm going to scream. I can't bite my tongue anymore. Am I choosing to be miserable. Am I choosing this unhappiness. Do I have anything to show for myself. Do I have anyone to go home to. Am I wanted anywhere. Is it so easy for you to tell me to snap out of it. To get help. Go on medication. You have all the answers. And I'm once again a failure. You can call me a fair weather atheist. Whatever floats your boat. He can keep spitting in my face. Laughing at me and my pathetic life. Let the lightening strike I'm ready. I have a message for all of you. Fuck off.

"I am not..."

I'm listening to Israeli love songs. The music breaks my heart. The Hebrew words are so beautiful. So raw. Yearning. I try to find meaning in this life. I aim to feel joy and happiness. Purpose and fulfillment.

I have been following this "what I be" campaign. Basically this photographer has been taking pictures of people with a word or statement written on their body with a black sharpie. Each person revealing and unleashing a different insecurity that they hide from the world. I can't stop looking at the pictures. What word would I choose. What statement would define me. The first word that comes to mind is DIVORCED. My statement would be "I am not my trust issues." Or how about ALONE, followed by the statement "I am not my depression." I could go with ANXIETY and say "I am not my suicidal ideation." I think this photographer is brilliant and is effecting tremendous change in the world through this movement. 

I think about the fact that I should be pursuing dating. And yet I can't make myself do anything about it. Going to shadchanim. Saying yes to profiles. Judging a book by its cover. A first phone call. All makes me want to puke. And that's even before going on an actual date. The prospects are embarrassing. Pathetic. Almost worth it to be alone. Almost. 

Going to a new neurosurgeon tomorrow. The saga continues. Can't escape it. A routine appointment. Still have this unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. What will be. Have I been through enough. Have I not put in my time. Suffered enough agony. How long can this life go on. How long can life go on this way. At what point do I get swept under the current. How long can I tread in this ocean. 

One more day. One foot in front of the other. 

A Millisecond of Time

It's that fear of the unknown. Of walking into a familiar place and not knowing where you are. Forgetting who you are. Being accosted by memories. Glimpses of a past you. A previous lifetime. It's the lead up. The buildup. The knowledge of what if.

The moments before are just as bad as during. The anticipation and over obsessing that make the actual moment worse. Almost unbearable.  Thoughts of nothing else. No matter how prepared you are, that moment knocks the breath right out of your chest. Your brain pauses. Your heart stops beating for one tiny, little second.

A millisecond of eye contact. One intimate moment shared.  If it was a movie, still pictures would flash through your mind. Time would slow down. Nothing else would exist. Familiar and foreign at the exact same time.

Then in a flash it's over. As if it never happened.  Maybe it never happened.  All made up. Imagination gone wild. The mind playing tricks on the heart. But the anxiety blazes through every vein. Pulses beat throughout the body.  A packed room keeps the body erect. Standing still.  In place.

And then life goes back. Back to normal.  Time fast forwards to the present.  No more glimpses of the past.  The mind is propelled back to reality. The body can stand on its own. Control returns. And life goes on. Once again.

Once a Cheater...

I just don't understand why a person would do that. Is there ever an excuse?

Abuse. Neglect. Escape. Need.

Truthfully you're selfish. All you can think about is yourself. You obviously don't care about anyone else but yourself. You don't care about the consequences. You don't care how it affects those around you. You are playing with fire. And while you are definitely burning yourself, you are also burning those around you. Your husband will leave you. He will not forgive you. He will take your child. He will remarry. Your child will have another mother. Your child will be burned. Damaged for life. Your parents will choose his side. What you're doing is unforgivable.

And you can't see it. Any if it. All you care about is yourself. Your pleasure. You. You're selfish and narcissistic. Self-absorbed. You can't stop.

I think there is still hope. You can still save yourself. But you must get out. Now. You must stop. Now. Cold turkey. You must get help. Now. There's no other choice. It cannot wait. He might still be able to forgive you. Or at least try to work through things. But you must choose him. You must choose your family. Stop choosing yourself. Stop choosing your pleasure.

You have a disease. You are unwell. You need help.

I hope you make the right choice. Because truthfully, if someone did this to me. I would never be able to forgive. I would not stay. No tolerance. Unacceptable. Trust would be gone, forever. You are a cheater. You will always be a cheater.