Mourning

The Jewish mourning process is supposedly set up to help people mourn in stages. Five stages from what I've read in all those miserable books. Filled with rules and laws that no real human can follow. Maybe guidelines or traditions. Who knows.

The first stage is called ANINUT (or aninus for the Ashkenazic Americans). One who is in this in-between stage is called an ONEN. This person is free of all positive commandments. The law was established with the knowledge that all focus should be on the immediate death. I was in ONEN status for six hours.

It's not easy to get that call. And I have gotten it a few times over the years. The "you need to come now" call. And every time, I fly to the nursing home or hospital. Wherever we are spending our lives during those days. Driving like a maniac. Wondering is this it. Do I turn off the music. Do I run home and cut my nails. And, yeah, sometimes it was pretty scary. Walking into a hospital room. My family surrounding a large bed. With a very small person. My mother gasping for air.

But she has always made it through.

Except this time.

This was it. The final call. The call you think you have been preparing for your whole life. But when it comes. Total shock. Denial. Flying down the streets one last time. Maybe it is a false alarm. Maybe you misheard. Doubting your own ears. Your own comprehension. But you did hear it clearly. "Come now. Come now. Your mother is not doing well. You need to come now." And then within a few seconds, "she's very cold. She's dead." How can one deny such definitive words.

I entered the room and my mother was no longer. She was cold and grey. Her trach was disconnected. A gaping hole by her neck. Her eyes were slightly open. Limbs no longer stiff. Machines still beeping in the room. Feeding tubes and IV’s reaching to the floor. No longer attached. My father sitting by her side. Holding her hand. Crying silently.

My usual composure shattered. My cries uncontained. Sobbing. My mother died. My mother is dead. She lays before me but she is not there. I am motherless. I am an orphan. Have I willed this. This is what I always wanted. Freedom. From pain. For her. For me. Freedom from responsibility. So then why wasn't I ready. Why the intense shock. The overwhelming pain. How could I feel so alone. When she hasn't really been here for a long time. Maybe never.

Rabbi comes in and says we need to cover her. It's time. I scream and yell how I am not ready. I touch her feet. Something that she has always hated. Earlier years complaining. Recent years a grimace on her face. I stroke her face. Kiss her cheeks. There is no soul inside this hollow body. My mother died. My mother is dead.

We plan the funeral for later the same day. Allowing just enough time for family to come in from New York. The funeral home comes to wheel my mother's body out. All the doors are closed. We follow in sorrow. The tears just won't stop. At home, I shower and cut my nails. Not knowing when I will do them next. I sit on my bed to write my eulogy. Still regretting not speaking at Bubby's funeral. I will speak no matter how hard. No matter how painful.

At the funeral home, my siblings and family finally arrive. Thirty minutes after the service was supposed to begin. We all follow the casket. Of my dead mother. We enter a room filled with people. No seats left. People standing in every space available. No spare room to be found. In a box. In the front of the room. A large box. Way too big. My mother is dead. Inside this casket. A golden star of David on a blue cloth. Inside is my mother. My mother died. My mother is dead.

At the cemetery. We must rush. Have to beat the clock. Make it before the day becomes tomorrow. Lots of Rabbinic advisement. A rush job. Get the box in the ground. Cover it as fast as possible. So many people surrounding. All happening so fast. And then my brother says Kadish. For the first time. Something that he will have to say three times a day for the next year. Mourning publicly in front of a gathering of ten men. A minyan. Never to be missed. The mourners are ushered through two lines of people. One for the men and one for the women. And then we sit on the ground. Take off our shoes. We are officially in stage two.

The second stage includes the first three days of SHIVA, which immediately follow the burial. In an uncommon way. We started our Shiva at the cemetery. So as not to miss a minute. Delaying would cost us to sit Shiva another day. As we approach my father's house. Formerly my parents’ house, people are already on the porch. Waiting to comfort us. The mourners.

The point of this second stage is to allow mourners to experience their grief. Humans need time to be angry. To feel their feelings. Whatever they are. With no one to dictate how to behave. Mirrors are covered. Low chairs around the house. Hands to be washed. Washing away impurity. An egg to be eaten with bread. Symbolizing the circle of life. Perhaps. And in our case, due to the upcoming holiday, Shiva will only be during those three days. People will come in droves throughout the day. To comfort. Some to listen. Many to speak about themselves and their own pain or loss.

From early morning until late at night. I sat in that low chair. And I felt nothing. Empty. I laughed with some. But I could not remember any good memories to share. The disappointment in the picture painted of my mother. The careless things people said. The constant "well meaners." And yes. There were some who made a difference. But mostly numb. Until the night. When the house emptied out. When we laid in our beds. And we cried. I cried into my pillow. I sobbed. My mother died. My mother is dead. I will never see her again. I wasn't there enough. Who am I now. Without her.

The third stage is the reminder of the SHIVA. Literally translated as "seven." Referring to the seven days. This was more of a quiet stage for us. Unimaginable if we had to sit for an actual seven days.

The fourth stage of mourning is called the SHLOSHIM. Literally translated as "thirty". This stage refers to the thirty days from the burial on. Including both the second and third stage. I am now in Shloshim. The laws are not as strict as Shiva but they are still existent. Less joy. Less of everything. This numb feeling still overtaking.

And then she finally leaves. I am finally alone. After two intense weeks filled with people. I am back in my own place. My own bed. All I want to do is feel. So I open the link. And I watch the funeral. I cry out as if it is all fresh and new. It is fresh. I have not had a minute to feel anything. My mother died. My mother is dead. And now I am lost. I lay in my bed and I don't know what to do.

The fifth and supposed final stage is the year of mourning. It will be a long year ahead. Decisions to me made. Life to adjust to. New reality. New existence. Potential. Freedom.

Maybe the stages aren't so bad after all.

I was the Shabbat Imma in Gan. My mom always came. 

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... 

Bruised

I have been told by many recently that I should share what I am feeling. Not hold back. Playing the martyr. Adult. The one always in control. I'm afraid. Afraid that if I share, I will never survive. I will unleash this flood of tears that is suffocated so far down in my soul that I will not be able to stop. I will drown if I open up.

The truth is that I am bruised. Inside and out. My skin is black and blue. The staples go way deeper than my skin. They puncture my heart. Each metal piece cutting deeper and deeper until I am almost see-through. Non-existent.

I'm tired. Worn out. Beyond exhausted. Too much energy needed to pick up all the pieces. Again. Put everything back together. Function. Would you be surprised if this time I just can't. That I just want to give up. To be done.

Have I not lived long enough. Gone through it all. Put in my time. Why is thirty not considered a full life. I've given it all. I've lived. I'm tired. No more.

Whatever. That's it.

What Are You Waiting For

Don't ask me for an update. If you really cared, you would just show up. I know that you have your own life. Wrapped up in your own world.

So far away. Four whole hours.

But seriously.

It is really hard for me to be understanding. Stay open-minded and positive. Your occasional message checking in. What are you waiting for.

A funeral.

Because it will happen one day. And then what. What will you feel then. Will you regret. All those times you did not bother to come. Those precious moments that you missed.

You can still catch that brief smile of recognition. It's not too late. But the clock is ticking. Decline is happening. And you are not here.

What are you waiting for.

Waiting for that phone call.

The phone call that will change all of our lives. Alter reality as we know it. And then you will show up. And be sad.

Mourning.

For this tremendous loss you feel. But never actually took advantage of the time that you did have. And did not bother to come and make a difference. You left it up to others.

Us.

Always our responsibility. Burden. Pain. Privilege. To care for. And hold. To feed. And cheer up. A lifetime revolved around. Affected.

In the end. We will have very little regret. Will feel pride and comfort. That we did all we could.

Almost.

That we were there.

And you will come and it will be too late. You will drop everything and finally show up. And it will not matter anymore. Because you missed out. Your loss.

And while it will be a loss for us. We will be consoled that our faces were recognized. Hands squeezed. Occasional name uttered.

We were always there.

Wake Up

I'm still here
And I am tired
I need a break
From life
From everyone
But mostly from myself
A minute
Would be nice
Of calm
Freedom
From reality
Life
Just one second
Pain free
No thoughts
Sleep
Why does my body
Betray me
Just need a break
Not sure how much more
I can take

an orphan with living parents

How do you write about something when you've been avoiding facing reality for so long. How do you open that wound that has been so neatly packed. Danced around for so long. What do you say when you don't think anyone is listening. And if they are, you know they can't handle what you have to say. What do you do when you are afraid of your own humanity. Your own reality. The power. The sadness. What do you do when the sadness takes over your life. Threatens to swallow you whole. Suctioned to another place. Six feet under. How do you verbalize those words. Capture those deep emotions. Where do you place that self awareness. How do you keep going.

I am an orphan with living parents. I am alone. I am surrounded by people but I am alone. My parents are living and breathing. But they are not here. They do not know me. They do not want me. They are selfish. They never really looked at me. Seen me for who I was. They used me. Abused me. And left me to rot. All I wanted was to be loved. To be welcomed. To be wrapped in their hearts and never let go. But they were distracted. Consumed. And I was left to fend for myself. I am left to pick up the pieces. Of my shattered soul.

You have abused your power. You were supposed to be there. Love me. Hold me. Guide me. You held the blueprints to the future. And instead you shunted my growth. You altered my reality. You forced me into roles where I did not belong. I took on everyone else's burden. But no one was there to protect me. You abandoned me. I am abandoned. And now all I feel is a void. An emptiness deep in my gut. That cannot be filled. You were supposed to be the parents. You were my example of how to navigate this complicated world. And you failed.

All I ever wanted was unconditional love. And support. And you couldn't even give me that. A basic need. My human right. Everything with you comes at a cost. A hefty price. Sanity is not an option. You don't care if I make it through the day. If I ever materialize to be something real. You have sucked me dry. Corrupted my thoughts. Controlled my mindset. Your voice echos in my brain. Saying nothing helpful. I lead my life in fear. Of others' knowing me. Of myself. Of never amounting to anything. Because you never believed in me. You didn't even give me a chance.

And now you have robbed me of my anger. The only defense mechanism left. There's no more hiding. Or avoidance. The truth has finally surfaced. Hit me in the face. You are toxic. You were never good for me. No matter how hard I try to find another conclusion. I can't. There is no choice. I can't survive with you in the way. You missed out on knowing me. Of being in my life. Of making a positive impact. I am an orphan by choice. Because although you are biologically my parents. You don't deserve the title.

I am an orphan with living parents. It's not something anyone wants to hear. It's not something I want to say. But I can hide from it no longer. I am an orphan with living parents.

ICP Monitoring

You know it's bad when I give in and go to the doctor. Again. The question is do we research the cause of these headaches aggressively? Or continue to "manage" things. I seem to be all talk in front of the neurologist. Confident that I want them to figure this shit out. But when I get home and research the testing they would do, I must admit... It kinda  freaks me out.

Or is it just that I don't want them shaving part of my head. My hair is finally so beautiful and long. Do I sound crazy? Or the fact that I have no one to talk to about this. Or better yet, wouldn't tell anyone that I would be in Hopkins for three days with a catheter in my head. I know I can't blame people if they don't know. But the truth is I'm sad and I'm in pain. Yes, even strong, obnoxious me needs someone right now.  Someone to talk this through. Someone to hold my hand. Tell me everything will be ok and that this is the right step.

To help with my diagnosis. Am I in remission or not? Are these low pressure headaches? Cluster headaches? Migraines? Or is it just my occipital neuralgia? Maybe my shunt is draining too much. Or maybe I've just convinced myself in the shower that I'm being paranoid. It's the summer. I always feel sick in the summer. This will pass, come cooler weather. Or that I'm not taking care of myself. I'm stressed. I have trouble with food. With sleep. And all these things are affecting me. Causing my head to feel like an explosion will go off anytime I laugh, cough or sneeze. Totally normal, right? Or how about the nausea and the acid reflux. Do I sound attractive yet?

So you know what I do to make my life better? I went cold turkey. Stopped all my pills. I told the doctor that I have had enough. I need relief. I have always believed that quality of life is better than quantity. And no, don't assume that this is me being suicidal. I'm trying here. Get it? This is me making an effort. I do want to feel better. Even if there is no one around. No one that really notices me.

Side point, I finally did something good. And again, I told no one. Because that's me. Ms secretive. Living a silent life. But you know what? Fuck you all! I'm going to stress about this and figure it out on my own. Just like I always have. And when I figure it out. I'm going to make my own decision. And no one one will tell me what to do. And then I will make something of myself. And I will never look back.

Don't you love how I'm all talk. Now you know the truth. I'm one big fraud.

explosive

Why are you driving so god damn slow.

Head is going to explode all over your windshield.

Sometimes I wonder why thoughts only come to me while I'm driving. The windows are down and the music is loud and my hair is blowing in the wind. My mind just wanders and I can't stop thinking. Did I mentioned the my head is going to explode. Do you ever drive and think you're just going to crash. Drive over a bridge and land in the water. Do you ever imagine your own funeral. Does that make me crazy. Don't answer that. 

The pain just doesn't end. There is no relief. No sleep allowed. Pain from here til tomorrow. Random daydreams. Or are they night dreams. Because they happen at night. Sitting on a roof. With someone you don't want to be with. In a glass room that should be covered. With wall to wall newspaper clippings. But you are exposed. Doors everywhere. People walking in and out. No privacy. And you are waiting. No one gets you. They still don't get you. You have closed yourself in. Ostracized yourself. And you don't even care. Random people walk by in your dream. And they all wave. Some stare. And you could care less. You know what you are doing is wrong.
Anything to avoid the pain. You are sweating. Your sheets are wet. Your hair is tangled. Because everything hurts. There is no relief. Go to the emergency room. How will that even help. It's all in your head. You are one big crazy. You want it all to end. Pills. Overdose. You could go in many ways. Blood everywhere. It could be epic. But no one would appreciate it. Not as much as you. Only you would feel relief. Or even joy.
Admitted. Committed. Take me. Free me. Release me. Unleash me.
You win.

Pseudo means FAKE

It's too good to be true
You don't see what's under the surface
Don't look at me
And think you see me
All I want is to disappear
Crawl under my covers
The fan blowing
Someone take a knife
And make a nice incision
In my eyes
To let out all the pressure
So I can feel some relief
A pain free moment
Fluid free lifetime
I need a breather
Just one second
To myself
You ask me what's wrong
Half-heartedly
But you're not even listening
Don't even care
Can't understand
It's because I am ultimately alone
I struggle through all this on my own
Always by myself
My own problem
It's all under the radar
Because you can't see this disease
There are no outward symptoms
Pseudo
Therefore it means nothing to you
It's fake
Non-existent
I fight alone
So I appear grumpy
Or depressed
Miserable
Did you ever wonder if maybe I was in constant pain
That my eyes feel like they are flooding
My head might just explode
That basic conversation is so difficult
Friendships are a waste of time
That I am ruining everything
I just need someone to hold me
Take care of me
Call my doctor
Make everything ok
Hold my hair while I throw up
I need someone to drill a nice little hole
Let out the pressure in my back
In a little cord
All the fluid can come pouring out
Did it ever occur to you
That I might need
Me
Need

PS. This is a joke.

Cloudy

A cloud that follows you around. Daily. Hourly. Minute after minute. Refuses to abandon its post. It has been assigned to you since birth. Been very loyal. More loyal than most. The cloud follows you wherever you go. Never far behind. A cloud filled with sawdust. Filled with blood. Sometimes you think you've managed to escape. To hide. That you've managed to dodge the cloud. But it always, always finds you. Never gives you a breather. The cloud always finds you. Trails right behind you. If not immediately above you. Sometimes the cloud drifts far away. Sometimes it leaves for a long time. But the cloud always finds it's way back. The cloud will never leave. The cloud is constant. The cloud is reality.

The cloud is my comfort zone. It's my security blanket. I don't know how to live without it. I am naked when it leaves me. I am cold and alone without it. The truth is, I am vulnerable. That is my confession. And that is something most people will never hear me say. I am not that strong person everyone sees. That wall you all see was built to protect myself. From all the pain and heartache. The constant disappointment. Letdowns. The sadness. For the little girl who had no parents. Who had no love. Who now spends her life trying to pick up the pieces. Who spent her life being an extrovert and finally came to terms with reality that she was really an introvert. I am just a little girl. Stuck in a woman's body. Learning how to navigate this life. This world. With this cloud over my head. 

Three

Why is it that I did so many good things today and I still feel like crap.
How can someone else's good fortune make me feel so down.
I know that you have every right for your life to move forward.
That you do not owe me anything.
But seriously.
Can't a girl catch a break.
Three?
At least I got what I asked for.
At least God answered my prayers.
Is that evil.
Is that wrong.
I know that I am busy and that I should focus on that.
But some times things are difficult.
No matter how long you know things are happening.
And no matter how long you think you are prepared.
You never are.
It always hits you in the gut.
You can smile.
And make jokes.
And post funny or sarcastic posts.
But it hurts.
Your eyes water.
And its not just because you are tired.
Not just because of that terrible pain in the back of your head.
It's that throbbing in your soul.
That sadness that you've brushed under the rug ages ago.
Resurfaced.
All of a sudden.
But you can't find tears.
They've all run out.
Ages ago.
You are a dried well.
In every way.
Three

cold

my brain hurts
the whole front of my face hurts
i cant keep food down
im doing fine
i wish i was dead
out of my misery
nicholas sparks separated from his wife
seriously?
when you say you are going to drop off soup
and someone else does
it hurts
lying on the couch
in the freezing cold
alone
i cant do this anymore
why are people so stupid
just shoot me
i cant function
i wish to be
pain free

Spasms

I'm all alone. Laying here. In a hospital bed. In some exam room. In the neurology department. There's no one here. But me. And I can't stop the tears. I can't handle the pain. Spasms into legs. Sharp stabbing in my hips. A bruised back. Hole in my spine. In between two vertebrae. Laying here. In a skimpy hospital gown. No one around. Not a soul. It's me. Always me. Only me.

I squeeze the pillow. Try not to yell out. Not a single peep. No noise. Body bent. Back arched. Needles. Five times. Numb. Catheter. Cerebral spinal fluid. Pressure. Paralyzed. I'm silent. Until I can't hold it in any longer. The pain overwhelms. The tears explode out of my eyes. I gasp and try to breathe. The world is collapsing around me. Suffocating. Unbearable. 

I lay here. I'm all alone.

Never Dull

After Shabbos

Driving alone 

Road trip 

Music blaring 

Pop pop

Loud noise 

NJ TNPK

Highway shoulder 

Flat tire 

No answer 

Mile marker

Reading book 

AAA

Spare tire

50 mph

Exit 3

Motel search 

Indians 

Shady 

Rundown 

Econo Lodge

Room 101

Bolted door

No toothpaste 

Broken vending machine 

Eventual sleep

3:45 wake up 

Cursing

Fight 

Loud 

Shouting 

Police

Domestic violence 

8 am checkout 

Orange juice 

Banana 

Forgotten ring 

Pep Boys

New tire 

On the road again 

Monsey 

Friends 

Wedding 

Bride 

Dancing

Sleep 

Couch 

6:45 am

On the road again

4 hours 

Sleepy 

Work 

Sleep

Work 

Hopkins 

Sleep study 

The Truth Hurts

Hi S,

I'm sorry that I didn't respond and have not been in contact. It means a lot to know you are thinking about me. It's hard for me. I know that's not an excuse. As life has never been easy. For me. Or for anyone. Especially you. But it's definitely on the difficult side now and I am holding on by a thread. Therefore, it makes being "open" and "keeping in touch" very difficult. 1. I have nothing good to share and I try to avoid complaining. 2. I feel as if I have disappointed you. You have always seen the good in me and truly feel that I have all this potential. And I have flat out failed. I haven't accomplished. So it becomes easier to just keep to myself. To not reach out. It's a cop out. But it's less threatening. I'm not sure if anything I am saying is making any sense. I look around this life. Mine. Those around me. And I see pain. Sadness. It's pretty hard for me to relate to any happiness at this point. And that is a sad thing to admit. 

Thanks for always being there.

R

Congrats

I sit here listening to Avraham Fried live

I'm reminded of all that I've lost

And all that I've given up

Of opportunities I'll never have 

That I let slip between my fingers

That I handed over to another 

More capable

More willing

Than me

I handed over on a silver platter 

Ripe and ready 

To live a life

I was not ready to live

I sit listening 

To music of the soul

And feel the life I will never have 

A life that goes on without me

Moving forward 

Very quickly 

While I stay still 

Congrats on living the life you always wanted. Congrats on baby number two.

Itching at your fingertips

Do you ever listen to this cd

Does it hit you

Strike you straight in your heart 

Do you avoid these songs

These lyrics 

Do you remember

What the words mean 

What the words do

Do you feel the words in your soul 

Crawling on your skin 

Itching at your fingertips 

Does this cd take you back 

To moments no one knows 

Secrets 

Hidden moments 

Do you remember what this cd does 

What these songs represent

The power of the verses 

And the beat 

What the beat does 

Do you still feel it 

Better

I have been slowly getting back to myself after an awful stomach virus. Still feeling pain in my stomach and pretty weak at times, but back to work. Back to normal routine. Although, I do rush home to put my pjs on and still am not able to eat normally. I'm still not sure if I was really sick. I tend to convince myself of things. Or maybe its convince myself that nothing happens, when really things are happening. Unsure. I do have physical proof that I was sick. I don't think I was making it up. Nor am I making up the terrible pain I felt. But I do think it's pretty curious that the second after I sent that email, I started feeling nauseous and then threw up all over the place. Psychosomatic much?

So it's been a pretty quiet week (plus). Haven't really talked to anyone, pretty much kept to myself. I learned that I like sleeping on the couch. Or maybe it was just more comfortable than my (creaking) trundle bed. Real reason I realized is that it feels like someone is holding me. Or rather laying next to me. When I sleep with my back to the couch, it feels like I am being spooned from the back. And when my stomach is facing the couch, it feels like someone is close by and I am able to sleep better. It sounds odd or maybe just desperate. But I don't care. It's funny (or maybe not) that I was never able to sleep with another person in my bed. And now that's all I could think about as I lay in agony on the couch. But I guess it was more than that. It was the fact that I was sick and felt all alone. It's not my parents responsibility to care for their 27 year old divorced (nebach) daughter. It's not my sister's job to take care of me. She has way too much on her plate. So I drove myself to the ER. Because there's no one that has my back. Yeah, I could have called a friend. But it was just me. I had to take control of my own life and drive myself. Sit there by myself. Because that is my life. Alone. And most of the time I am ok with that. But not when sick.

And now it's Chanuka. I am so grateful that I moved back home and am no longer in NY. I like lighting the menorah with my family. And the thing I value the most is following our minhagim. Every time I make the bracha on the candles and I say "lehadlik ner SHEL chanuka" I am so thankful for my freedom. It sounds silly. But it's important to me. It's important to me that I have the freedom to be who I am and to do the things that I hold dear to my heart. Even if it's as nutty as singing the last paragraph of Maoz Tzur to the tune of Hatikva. It's meaningful to me.

Sad that Chanuka is almost over. Thank G-d the Jewish calendar is cyclical. You always know another holiday is around the corner.