Playing Tag

For decades, I have had dreams or nightmares, most that I can’t fully remember, and I wake up terrified, sometimes gasping for air, in a full-blown panic. At times, I can remember the last moments of the dream, the crucial moment when I am about to fall off the edge of a cliff, drive off the road, or be caught by the being pursuing me, which comes in many forms.

The ones I remember the most about are definitely dreams where I am driving a car, but on something like rollercoaster rails, and I keep losing control. I have turn after turn of barely holding the car on the tracks until I finally drive over the edge and begin falling and falling. That’s when I wake up.

It’s no coincidence that the more stressed or worried I am, the more frequent the dreams are. These are all clearly stress dreams, from all the books I have read about their meanings. The worst are honestly the ones I can’t remember at all, I am in a far worse state when I wake from those.  I have seen any and all doctors and looked into holistic options, but these particular dreams aren’t thwarted by much.

I have written before about dealing with my worries or these dreams when I was very young, and lately I have been thinking so much about those nights when I was still living with my parents, probably in the third or fourth grade, and the world felt so overwhelming. I would sneak to the hall closet and grab a blanket, then I would quietly slip down the hallway to the den. I would finally reach the sliding glass door and open and close it slowly, then tiptoe across the porch, down the brick steps and into the grass. I would select a spot somewhere near the middle of our huge back yard, and spread the blanket out. I would lie down and look up, trying to slow my breathing, trying to ease my worrying mind.

I can remember that feeling, looking up, the cool air, and the most beautiful splatter of bright stars against the black sky. I would just look up and lie there, sometimes feeling tears hot on my cheeks. I think that lying there, I was hoping the universe would shift, or the world would tilt, or something would happen to make things better. That somehow, after my midnight stargazing, all the things I felt responsible for (my parent’s fractured marriage, my father’s adultery and alcoholism) would be resolved and our family could be happy.

If only it were that easy.

A few months ago, I was having another bad patch of these dreams, and woke up crying and sobbing several nights. On one of those nights, as quietly as possible, I got out of the bed I share with my husband and two large dogs, and tiptoed to the den, finding my pace quickening as I got near the back door. As soon as I got the latch free, I bolted out on to our deck. I surprised myself by literally running into the railing, the top plank almost hitting my chest as I caught myself with my hands. I was out of breath, crying, and completely confused by this desire to run, to get outside, as if that solved anything. To be clear, I have a husband I love, a house full of rescue animals that are my babies, and finally, a job that I love that doesn’t involve working with horrible bosses. I don’t want to run away from these things, or leave my life. It’s just this desire to run when I wake up from these dreams, or when stress overwhelms me.

I have tried to figure out why me running down the street in the middle of the night feels like a solution for anything. 

Once in college, when I was first really battling deep depression, I had a horrible nightmare and just felt so overcome, that I grabbed my keys and shot out the door, at probably 2:00am. In just my slight little nightgown, I got in my car, rolled down the windows and started driving. I needed the air, I needed distance between me and (what I thought was) failure at the time. It was as if I was trying to go somewhere, leave all my emotional baggage, and return home, renewed. Instead, on this one night, red and blue lights flashed behind me.

After uttering more than a few four letter words, I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw, not only the approaching officer, but myself. Hair wild from the wind, yesterday’s mascara running down my cheeks, and IN MY NIGHTGOWN. Oh, and barefoot.

The officer approached and shined his very bright flashlight in my car. I had already been crying, and this really had pushed the sobbing to a new level. He told me I was driving a little erratically, and asked for my license and registration. Of course, I couldn’t find my registration, but I gave him my driver’s license, and he walked away.

I sat there sobbing, feeling like this was just a confirmation of all the things I believed about myself, and all the words thrown at me from my father that would not leave my mind.

He finally came back and kind of squatted next to me. He gave me back my license and asked, “What’s going on?”

I am sure it was quite the display as I tried to gasp for air and find my words, and mostly came out with, "I am just so overwhelmed. My parents are so disappointed in me, I can’t do anything right. I can’t make things better. Life is just so painful.”

I remember this part vividly, he stood up and said, with a lot of weight in his voice, “Yes, yes it is.”

He spoke to me a little about the fact that I wasn’t alone in feeling this way, and college was hard, and some other nice things. He said he had a daughter my age, and he would be worried if she went out driving as I was. He asked me to promise not to do this again, added on a few warnings about the dangers of the world, and then told me he was going to follow me home to make sure I got there safe. But before that, he wrote a name on a piece of note paper, telling me it was the name of a therapist he knew and recommended. He handed it to me and assured me he was in the phone book, and I could find his number.

He followed me home, and waved from his car and told me to be safe, as I turned the key in the lock.

I was mortified, touched, and glad I was living alone at the time. Most of my friends knew I struggled with depression, and I felt like it would be one more story to add to all of my others.

Once again, last night, I woke up, panicked, gulping for air and trying to hold tears back, and that same feeling hit me—run. Or get in the car—go. I shut my eyes and held my head in frustration, wanting this feeling to leave me. 

Then, for some reason, I remembered running at recess in the park at our elementary school. I remembered tag and “home base”, the place of safety—usually a tree. I thought of fun with friends, being out of breath as we all huffed and puffed our way back to the classroom when it was time to return. 

Later, I remembered truly scary moments with my father when I felt the need to get out of my house for my own safety, to really run, or get to my car, and sometimes couldn’t. Those were the worst times. Feeling trapped and scared.

Somehow, I like to think that all this got twisted together.

I know it’s easy to say that the urge to run means I just want to run away from my problems. I am sure that’s part of it. But somewhere in my mind, I am running fast, ahead of whatever or whomever is chasing me, ahead of my worries, my hair behind me in the wind.

I am looking for home base, wherever that is, so I can race up, grab on, and say “Safe”. No… I’ll yell it, scream it, feel it deep in my bones. 

Then I'll relax, the dreams will subside, and I will let go of all the worries, all the things I feel chasing me, and all the things I want to leave behind. 

Until then, some nights will still find me running, even if it is only in my mind. Hopefully the universe can shift and light the pathway for me to home base. 

So for now universe, Tag, You’re It.

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Back to Me

Take the pain from my heart this night-
Let it be swept into the undercurrent that frightens me.
Bring it to the surface clean, another beginning--back to me...
Allowing me to forget the hours and time before.

Take this ache from my being-
In unnamed places, grief in flashes, that won’t solve mysteries;
The somber cloud that promised never to come--back to me...
Yet slithered through the inky black cracks of night to find me.

Return the things I gave away-
Too easily, too cheaply, at such a high cost.
Then, their honest value could never be returned--back to me…
Not in any way that resembled my true worth.

Lead me back to an unknown winter-
Snow so deep, the air so silent--small flakes dancing;
Promising the beauty in my beating heart--would always be mine…
No need to come back to me; just safe and warm in my unbroken soul.

ksg 

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Becoming "We"

Over the last month, I have tried so many times to write here. In the past, I have written about some of the darkest moments of my life with greater ease than dealing with the normal life stresses of the last few weeks.

My husband and I moved across the country to a place I love and have missed so much since I last lived here over 10 years ago. It is hard for me to believe that I am back here. I honestly thought I would never be more than a visitor again to the Bay Area, and as we made the long road trip to get here, I had to pinch myself just thinking about it.

We have not had the best luck since our move, in fact the move itself was a horrible experience. Things that should have panned out work wise for me just didn’t, and my husband’s job search has been so much slower than I hoped for him. What I hoped would be a huge confidence boost for him has instead seemed to help solidify some of his deepest worries.

I have been in worse straits than this, in far more financial trouble, and even worse, I was alone in dealing with it. But I have learned that being with someone only means you worry more…it’s not just me that is affected by our move, by my ideas, by my plans-- it is also affecting someone I love dearly. I hate to see him in pain, and as things have seemed to go from bad to worse, I have blamed myself for moving us out here.

But the truth was, we were already struggling before the move. This move has given us the only real hope of better careers, decent salaries, and a future with some savings and possible retirement plans. That was why both of us made this decision, something my husband has reminded me of several times since we got here. This was our decision, not just mine.

I feel like I am learning new lessons every day. First, marriage is tough. Especially as stubborn as we both are, and because we were both set in our (single) ways for some time before we got together. We have both had to make adjustments, compromise, and learn to navigate the tricky waters of being a “we”. There is not a moment that I would take back or give up, but there are tough days. I think about the fact that my husband and I know we are meant to be together, we know neither one of us is going anywhere-- we are in this for the long haul, and yet, we still fight and struggle. How do people make it if they don’t have that foundation? In so many ways, I am glad I got married a little later in life. There is magic in finding your soulmate at a young age, but there (hopefully) is some wisdom and maturity in finding that person a little later in life. I think back on snap decisions and harsh judgments I made when I was in my twenties, just how much I have changed now…for the better. I am thankful I was only dealing with my life decisions and screw ups back then, and not directly involving my life partner at that time.

Yesterday, my husband and I laughed—a lot. It was one of those days when we just enjoyed each other, despite a stressful week approaching, and the juggling act we are playing right now with paying our bills. All of that weighs on us some days more than others, but yesterday, we were just enjoying the time together. Finally, when we went to bed, Shea fell asleep and I was awake thinking about the day and how completely myself I am with him, how unbelievably silly and real I can be around him, without concern or shame. I have never had that with anyone else. It’s sad, but true. There was always a guard I kept up, or someone I was trying to be for someone else—which I was sure was better than the real me. The great thing is that Shea is equally himself, and I know that this reality we are living is tough at times, but intrinsically genuine.

Laying in bed last night, I felt a twinge of panic. Over the last year, I have had several of these episodes where I lose my bearings for a few moments, thinking of losing Shea—not having this other part of me. I have learned all too well through the loss of friends, through stories in the newspaper, and shared through friends on Facebook, that there are no promises. I realized that over the years and through relationships, I would worry about losing a boyfriend, or someone close to me, but not the way I worry now. There is this unbelievable depth in truly baring your soul and being so real with someone. I thought about how hard it would ever be for me to replicate the simplicity of that ease between us with anyone else, and how I wouldn’t want to. Despite our struggles, even though there are times when we are truly at odds, I am so thankful for what I have with Shea and I want the whole cliché of growing old together, sitting in rocking chairs on some wraparound porch together.

Finally, over the last week, we both have seen our luck turn. We both have better work prospects, interviews, and we have some hope that the tide is changing. In the scheme of things, it hasn’t taken that long. We have only been here a few months, but it has seemed like a lifetime at times, waiting for the phone to ring. Things aren’t perfect yet, and a lot of what we are hoping for hasn’t materialized, but there has just been a shift in the way we are looking at things and the way we feel.

I know we made the right decision to take this risk and move here together and make things happen.

More than anything, I know we’re in this together, all of it. Every minute-- good and bad, raw and uncensored, blissful or bleak.

I try and think about how we will look back on this time…what I want to remember. I don’t want to remember the arguments, the stress, the worry—although that’s part of it. Mostly, I want to remember that this time was when we really pulled together and learned what being “we” and “us” meant. After the wedding, the flowers, the vows, almost two years of marriage, all the adjustments and learning, that THIS was when we knew that we could make it through anything life handed us.

I hope we will also remember it as the time just before everything clicked into place and the choices we made all made sense.

But, I’ll have to get back to you on that last part…or rather, we will.

~~

The beautiful papercut art featured in this post is by artist Joe Bagley. Visit his etsy shop by clicking here.

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Arrivals and Departures

I feel as though I have been on so many journeys in the past few years. The journey to find myself again and stand on my own two feet. The journey in meeting and dating my future husband, and then getting married, something I had given up on happening. Then, the journey into marriage, with all its beauty, pitfalls, daily struggles, and happy surprises. Those were more journeys in hindsight…I can look back and see I was on a path, on a journey. But heading into each of those periods in my life, it seemed just like the next day or week, not necessarily life changing events or plans.

However, as we headed into our move to California, I knew ahead of time that this was going to be a journey. This was an undertaking of big plans, unknown next steps, and plenty of risk. I defined this journey with a mix of hope, excitement, and trepidation. My husband felt the same way, with a lot more fear mixed in for him, as he set out to a place he had never been and knowing only one other person in our destination city. He is changing careers, and is still in transition as to what he wants to do. The level of uncertainty for him is daunting, I know.

But, I had been down this road before, and with such amazing results. I have been so positive about the whole process in spite of some initial setbacks in our plans. Little did I know, those setbacks were just the beginning.

As we scrambled to leave our home in South Carolina on an aggressive time schedule we had created in the hopes of saving money, little things started happening. An unexpected bill would pop up, eating away at our already tight funds saved for the move. After several moving companies couldn’t meet our tight deadline, we realized we hadn’t budgeted enough for the movers and had to pull more money from one budget to another.

My work schedule suddenly got crazy, with me hosting live web events for a client that required me to be a in a quiet environment with dependable internet. We both felt it was too uncertain to plan to host the events from the road, so we delayed our departure a few days. I had to be in California by a certain date to leave for an event I was contracted to manage. The timetable got more squeezed and the plans for driving only 8 hours a day were out the window. We knew we were looking at long days on the road to make up for lost time.

We got through packing our belongings, but it was stressful and our tempers were short. I was worried about so many things, my husband was understandably scared. It was becoming so real so fast. We were also leaving family members behind that had only been a ten minute drive away, and now would be a whole country apart from us. We both cried as we wrapped our things in newsprint.

Finally, thankfully, the movers arrived. We had both slept about two hours the night before, and were just relieved that the day was here. The relief was short lived. Once the truck was loaded completely, the back door closed and locked, the driver walked over to my husband and doubled the amount we owed for the move. I was at the vet with our cats, getting them shots required for air travel, as my husband feverishly texted me in a panic. We were stuck. We had a deadline to be in California, the movers were demanding more money on the spot. Somehow, Shea was able to diffuse the initial situation. We could not give them any more money at that moment. We would have to somehow figure out the rest. Our hope was that we could speak with the initial contact from the movers about the amount. Either way, they had our stuff, and weren’t releasing it without more money. We had to leave the next day to head out on the road for our own drive across the country.

Once we finally got on the road, we were so exhausted that the progress we were making was not enough to get us to the west coast on time. In the following days, we spent 12 or more hours driving each day, calling the movers from hotels across the country, trying to find some middle ground. What we found was that we were dealing with crooks. I have read stories like this before about the nightmare situations people have found themselves in with moving companies that are corrupt. Realizing we were right in the middle of that nightmare was honestly terrifying. They had all of our possessions, and were basically now holding them for ransom. Our already tight budget was impossibly stretched.

Two days after we arrived in our new home, paid our first month’s rent, and inflated the air mattress, I had to leave. I was headed to Las Vegas for work for a week, leaving my stressed husband behind to face a new city, a new life, and corrupt movers alone. The weight I felt leaving him was unbearable. But we had no choice.

Then, on the third night of working in Las Vegas, while holding a microphone and making an announcement to a crowd of 300+ people, I misstepped and tumbled down a small flight of steps. Marble steps. Immediately after falling, I felt the impact of what had just happened. I hurt everywhere. I was almost certain I had broken my wrist. It turned out I was just severely bruised and sprained and my knees and wrists were swollen, but I was OK. Thankfully, I didn’t hit my head or break anything. I was panicked, though, worried the pain would be too much for me to keep working. And I HAD to keep working. With our finances already so strained, I couldn’t afford to leave halfway through and risk the loss of the post-show payments.

I can’t remember the last time I have dealt with so much pain. Anyone who has worked in event management knows that events like this are 18 hour days of non-stop walking, working, being on your feet. That in itself is painful and hard on your body, but add in a very recent fall and bruises and sprains and it is nearly crippling. I honestly didn’t know I had it in me to power through that pain and stress. But I did. I didn’t have a choice.

I arrived back home, limping and exhausted after a week away, and we were still in a battle with the movers. To make a long story short, we ended up getting help from a friend to piece together the moving payment we needed ASAP and meeting a ridiculous ransom deadline. Our things arrived yesterday, finally. And in one final note of the move from hell…our mattresses were not on the truck. We had two mattresses- the king one for our bed, and the queen one for the guest bed- both gone. Poof. When I questioned our delivery person, he let us know that we couldn’t file a claim because neither mattress was listed in the inventory (of course). We were billed for two mattress boxes and that showed on our invoice, but it was no matter. They were gone and we were screwed.

Honestly, at that point, we were so exhausted, it almost didn’t matter. Except that all we had been thinking about for several days was being able to sleep in our bed again. Sleeping on an air mattress is fine for a night or two, but a few weeks is pushing it.

I made notes about our missing items on everything I signed, and the truck drove away. (Not before I slipped inside and searched the entire truck for anything else that was ours while the movers were inside our house).

We tried to call our contact with the company who had been just horrible previously, and who also (conveniently) doesn’t have voicemail. He ignored our calls, and I am sure we will never hear from him again.

I will be filing all kinds of complaints in every place possible about this moving company, I just wanted to wait until we had our things. Now that we have (most of) our possessions, I am on it. But, I feel like we have been robbed, violated, and just taken advantage of. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone—except the same people who put us through it.

Worst of all, I began to wonder if we had made a mistake. When I moved out to California in 1998, everything popped into place. My finances were so tight, but everything just clicked. Every time something else worked out, I took it as a sign that I was making the right decision. This time, so many years later, I felt like I had launched us into some nightmare episode of the Twilight Zone. I became afraid to look to the next day, when every single thing seemed to be going wrong.

It’s amazing the difference a day can make. We both woke up this morning in such a better place. First, we have a dear friend who helped us—saved us—and we realize the luck and beauty in that. Having most of our belongings back has also helped immensely. I set up the den last night and turned on the TV (something that helped heal my husband very quickly), and we looked around and felt a little more at home. We LOVE where our new place is, we can walk to trails, the dog park, and the beautiful little downtown area here. I couldn’t have picked a better location.

I also woke up to several emails with some excellent consulting prospects that could happen so quickly and aid our finances so quickly. And I LOVE watching my husband search for jobs in a sea of opportunity, almost overwhelmed at all the directions he could take. In a few weeks, things will be so much better.

The best thing is that today we were able to laugh. The laughter we share is one of my favorite things about our marriage. In some of the toughest times, we have been able to step back and realize that we have what is important—each other. That doesn’t mean that we haven’t spent some days in the last few weeks very stressed and often sharing harsh words and tense moments. But, we have bounced back in the face of non-stop tension and are thankful we have the couch to sleep on instead of the ever-leaking air mattress.

Today, I was also able to relax, knowing that what has happened isn’t foreshadowing our future, it is just life. Right now, so many friends I know are going through so much. Several friends are facing illnesses that are so serious and painful, and watching their daily battles (and strength) humbles me. Other friends are going through their own financial struggles, looking for jobs, worrying about losing their homes. As a friend said to me today: life is just so hard sometimes. It is. Harder than it should be, and at times, so unbelievably unfair.

Tonight, at least, I am going to bed feeling that tomorrow is a new start, and that life is good. Not perfect, not easy, but good. This weekend, I will take my husband to see the Golden Gate Bridge, and help him begin to see all the beautiful things I love in this area. We will take Bear to a dog beach, we will walk around the city, we will discover new places, and of this I am quite sure…we will laugh.

More than ever, I am so thankful for that.

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The Waste of Worry

"Yes, I worry about the craziest things, but better me than someone less qualified." -Robert Brault 

If you have been reading my blog for more than a year, you know full well that I have been through some stressful times. The last two years have been a delightful break in all that—first finding love, then getting married, and finally setting up house. We weren’t worry-free, but so many of my dreams came true that it all seemed a little bit magical.

The past few months have been a little more stressful. Just life stress. Money, job changes/layoffs, family difficulties. But hey, I survived a lot of stress over the years, a lot worse things than we are facing now, right? I have faced and conquered life-altering stress. I have stared down my demons, admitted all of my past pain to a complete stranger (therapist). I endured hours and hours of therapy that at times felt like some torturous prison camp as my scars and old wounds were torn open, baring everything I had ever feared or lost. All this while being out of work, pretty much broke, and trying to recover from a huge betrayal/ break-up.

So, anything now should be a cake walk. It should. But as my husband and I both face a tough job market, big decisions, and dealing with some hurtful and tense family issues, I am wondering if I have learned anything from all I have gotten through. Why do I worry myself into panic attacks and extra helpings of migraines? Why do I lay awake at night fretting about things I can’t change until I am sweating, counting the hours passing on the clock on the nightstand—the glowing numbers seeming to fly by at breakneck speed?

I know that this does absolutely no good. Worrying won’t help any of it. It also doesn’t help me be a better person, a better worker, or a better wife. What it usually does is leaves me sleep-deprived, grouchy, and less apt to find the solutions to what is going on than I would be if I got some sleep and gave the worrying a rest.

It’s different now that I am married. Before, I worried for just myself, and it was a huge weight dealing with everything alone. But now, I worry for my husband—for both of us. I want to be the best wife I can, I want to help us build a future together, I want to make the right choices about jobs, where we live, and what to cook for dinner. I am under no pressure from my husband, who believes I am gifted at all of these things. And sometimes I even worry about THAT.

We have both been under pressure as money has been tight, and sometimes it seems like an accumulation of little things going wrong turns into an avalanche. At one point last week, a lot had happened and it seemed like our house was running under Murphy’s Law 24/7. One thing seemed to stack on top of another. There was a quiet tense moment, and then… we laughed. We had to. It all seemed almost absurd. It was a good moment, and helped us to remember that we are in this together, and we are so good for each other.

It is 12:18am as I am writing this, and the last hour has been devoted to worrying about my dreams of being a writer—and how I can ever fit that into everything we are trying to do. I don’t want to lose that, I want to make it happen. Then it hit me that I was worrying instead of writing. So here I am. It’s one small step to slow down the wheels turning in my head, to try and take away one piece of the never-ending puzzle that is this need to fret.

I am sure by 1:00am, something else will inhabit my thoughts…seriously low bank statements, pain that I wish I could take away for my husband, the 100 things I need to do for work before 11:00am tomorrow…but for now, for the next 42 minutes or so, I am going to try to give it a rest. To breathe. In and out. Slowly. And maybe, just maybe, get some sleep.

Artwork by Georgiana Chitac. View more of her beautiful work here.

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