Cheery Pit BBQ's and Coma-like Sleep

I had a beautiful little Friday. I slept a bit, visited with a few people and let the lack of sleep put me in a subdued state. Yesterday was a continuation of this happy, zen state. I slept, I sat, I ignored the chimes of my various technological devices demanding my presence here or there.

After an afternoon to myself, I decided to re-enter society. Kaitlin wanted me to come over and grill and Jo and Nelson were still at the market. I called them to see if they wanted to come along. It was one of those perfect afternoons that come together effortlessly. They were happy to pick-up the supplies and take me downtown, Kaitlin was happy to host and be descended upon; I was just plain happy.

Riding down the FDR, watching the city fly by on my right, the east river on my left and my best friend in front of me bantering happily with Nelson, I felt as though I was seeing a mirage. I was almost afraid to move for fear it would all melt away. Everything was as it should be, or as I have always dreamed it to be.

Everyone was happy, everyone was here with me. I was peaceful, basking in this vision. Dinner on the Terrace kept me floating in this state. We cooked and laughed and soaked-up the perfect summer evening. Thinking about it, I had to fight the moisture in my eyes. It was all to easy, too good. Life has not given me much of that. Possibility is what I live on, but actually having it is terrifying to hope for.

God how we laughed! We ended-up playing an infantile game, spitting cherry pits over her balcony. Jo and I returned home and kept each other in stitches dancing to Journey and Asian renditions of American pop. I have not laughed like that in ages. That silly, pure laughter. I laugh, but it is always tinged with irony, always with an underlying tragedy to it.

I let go over the last few days, riding a wave of irrational passion and possibility. Rather than slamming me into the beach, it set me down gently. I am calm now, the sky's just opened and as I hang out of my little window watching the torrents, a smile spreads across my face. Even the rain is beautiful right now.

I have not had any great epiphany, I haven't reach some new level of understanding, but somehow floating along I found comfort. What was I running from? Where am I running to? I haven't a clue, but I suppose we work out a lot of things we don't understand when we are sleeping. Perhaps I simply had to run myself ragged until I could sleepwalk myself home.

Absconder

I have been lost lately, running as though my life depended on it. There has been no quiet, no calm. I have been unsettled. The unrest within me, the nervous energy, made it impossible to be still, impossible to be quiet. If there is no calm within, how can you possibly sit idle, feeling the torrents surging through your chest?

It was an odd feeling, hearing people comment on how well I seemed to be doing. I felt only an inexplicable urge to push forward, to surround myself with people and chatter. Up was down, my focus and priorities skewed. The guilt about that nipping at my heels as I ran faster and harder. The thing is, eventually you will be caught.

I hit a wall yesterday. My brief periods of sleep were rot with nightmares and anxiety, and the numbness was replaced with sadness. I couldn't see and I crashed.

I let the melancholy wash over me through the day and finally sought solace in a kitchen, with an idealist. I put on my cosmetic armor and went up to Ma Peche to watch Emily cook and wait for her to wrap-up for the night. For some reason, sitting in a restaurant, watching the precise, uncompromising work of a chef, I was able to be still and quiet. I sat for two hours, watching her plate, watching her break down. I was still and silent. The sadness would nip at me and then scurry away. She finished her shift and took me to a quiet bar around the corner.

There I told her about my unrest. I told her about my guilt. In the midst of my mad dash, I was walling myself off from those important to me. Speaking in anecdotes to acquaintances and leaving no time to truly talk to family (both blood relations and dear friends). I was not writing, I was not thinking, I was starving my soul with the iceberg lettuce of activity instead of true sustenance. The disconnection brought guilt and the guilt pushed me on.

Realizing the futility of the life I was living, seeing how far off-course I was floored me when it caught me. On the surface it looked like the life I aspire to: active, social, exciting; but without substance it is vapid.

Like a crazed hunting dog chasing a rabbit into a briar patch, I found myself pursuing the wrong things. I was out of balance and out of energy.

Emily sees me as the woman I want to be. She loves me, but cannot be hurt by my distress. She is not afraid to confront me, but will never judge me. She still holds strong to ideals that age has softened for me. She is like a younger version of myself and it was with her I found my refuge. I was able to stop running.

There was not a monster hot on my trail; it was simply the helpless powerlessness that comes from loving people. I feel it when I look at my brother struggling, when I read about my terminal and broken patients, when I watch Jo fight for the life she deserves, and perhaps, if I am honest, when I realize that as long as my life includes people I care for, my own happiness is at stake. I cannot save them and I can only save myself to a point. I can work hard and attain much of what I want in life, but when it comes to people, what you want doesn’t matter. No amount of work or ambition will enable you to change them.

I was seeking without knowing what I was looking for. I was accepting facade over authenticity. And I was scared.

I think having Joanna here with me shifted my thinking back to a place where I no longer centered around my own core, instead I started trying to center around a pair. I can craft my life, but when you try to start building for two, your foundation will be a shaky one.

How could I not be anxious? I accepted the idea of sharing my life again, but with no guarantee of her participation. You cannot expect the actions of others to match your own. That is a recipe for disappointment and heartache. All you can do is live your life the best way for you with an open invitation for those you love to participate or not.

I don't want a taco truck of a life, constantly chasing the crowds. I want a brick and mortar abode. It will always be open for those I love to come and find laughter, consistency and refuge. Most importantly, no matter who is coming or going, I will always be home. A true home is not a place that resides in a crowd, or family, or a friend or a lover, but inside of me. Trying to find it anywhere else makes me an anxious vagrant, running frantically from one crowded room to another. I somehow forgot that over the last few weeks.

Sitting quietly in my apartment, not a sound or a soul around, I have settled back into myself. I can let go. I do not need to save anyone, that is not my job. I need only to continue building a strong foundation for myself. As MFK Fisher said, "Like most humans, I am hungry...our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it...” It is only after I satiate this hunger in myself I am able to indulge in “one of the pleasantest of all emotions… to know that I, I with my brain and my hands, have nourished my beloved few, that I have concocted a stew or a story, a rarity or a plain dish, to sustain them truly against the hungers of the world."

As long as I am wholly me, those I love know where they can find comfort. My life is a beautiful bungalow not a prison. It is exactly what I want it to be and will always be open. It was shuttered these last few weeks, but I am here now. I am smiling and free and ready to welcome and savor each guest who crosses my threshold or to relish it in complete solitude.

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow!

"Bet your bottom dollar on tomoroooooooow!" The sun did in fact peek through the clouds on Thursday. With it's rays came a hint of optimism.

I think I may truly be solar powered, with the sun comes hope, positivity and the possibility that things might actually be okay.

I am surrounded by friends, getting stronger by the moment and have nothing but wide open spaces ahead of me.

You can knock me down, but you certainly can't keep me there.

Coming Home to N Y U!

I scheduled a meeting with my advisor today, and in typical Felicia fashion, I ended-up getting lost and arriving late and frazzled. I went to 35 E 4th Street, which was an abandoned building. I circled said building twice before deciding it was the right address, but clearly the wrong place. I did not bring the phone number, because I am a fool, so I wandered and cursed and kept calling 411 until I finally got a hold of a woman who informed me the office was 35 W 4th Street. As I roamed around I kept telling myself “you are the customer, you are the customer”, but it didn’t matter, I still felt like a douche!

Dr. Ray had taken his next appointment early, so I sat down to wait for her time slot. I happily read a pamphlet about the NYU Library food collection, a welcome distraction from my shoddy nerves. After reading it twice, I slipped it into my purse and started flipping through a culinary trade magazine. The receptionist called me back and sent me into his office. He was a handsome Indian man, with whom I was already dually impressed with after reading his bio online. It is rare that smart men I am attracted to on paper actually turn out to be so good looking. I guess today was just one of those days.

I was completely unprepared for the meeting, forgetting the forms containing my student number in my office (and the aforementioned phone number!). He was gracious and said he would see if he could locate my file.

When he left the room, I began running my eyes across the stacks of books and the blasted pictures of children, which I am sure are his (how could this man be single?), but the books are what really caught my eye. Sociology, history, cookbooks, novels, for some reason they made me so quietly ecstatic, so deeply happy I wanted to cry. I suppose it is like seeing home for the first time, you spend so much time imagining it that when it appears in front of you it doesn’t seem possible. My vision of “home” is still a blurred watercolor, but something about those books, all the adventures they represent, they felt like my first glimpse.

My file had not yet arrived from admissions, (I did just get in on Friday!) but he said we could do a broad advisement now anyways. That would allow him to clear my account for registration. I already knew exactly what I was planning on taking, but I coyly said, “Oh, I have a few ideas”. (I didn’t want him to feel like his job wasn’t useful, or that his advising skills were not appreciated).

I explained my choices and he laughed, “You certainly are easy to advise! I suppose that must come from your prior training”. I replied, “I think it comes from all the waiting!” He commented on how difficult it was to get in this semester. He printed me some information on how to register once my account cleared and gave me his business card. He told me that I could write him anytime if I needed help. He would even walk me through the online registration if I needed him to. He then mentioned for the second time how difficult it was to get in to this program this semester and how proud I should be; I just reiterated how excited I was. We said goodbye and I floated out to the elevator and back down to 4th Street.

Walking back toward the VA, I again felt the seemingly permanent smile playing across my face and felt the tears begging to come out of my eyes. This flux of emotion is new and familiar to me, I can’t quite place it.

Back in the good ol’ “mental” hospital, I decided to e-mail Dr. Ray my student number, and let him know what a pleasure it was to meet him. He promptly replied, saying the number would help and that it was his pleasure meeting me today and he looks forward to working with me. That e-mail was followed by a CC to his assistant, asking her to clear my account. I am in Love!

Now it is time to get back to the present, back to discharge rounds tempered with dreams of things yet to come! There has been a shift though, rather than living with possibilities alone, hope is accompanied by anticipation. I got into NYU!!!

Everyone keeps telling me my life is about to change, I have no doubt. The future is bright and therefore backlight, I have no idea what is to come, but I feel like it is going to be beautiful.

Winter's Last Throws

I have been bracing lately, waiting for the punch of reality to come down on me. As with most things, I believe that waiting for this particular ax to fall is the worst part of the experience. See, I know D and I ended it, I know it cognitively, but my heart has never really learned the art of letting go. Due to this fact, I knew that in the end it would still be him who would walk away.

In 2010 technology has taken the place of telepathy. We no longer have to wonder what other people are thinking, all we need is an internet connection and the online stalking tools of facebook and blogger. I was in the mood for a little self-mutilation, so I logged-on and looked at his facebook page. There it was. Flashing across the screen; "updated status-It's complicated to Single". Ok. I knew it was coming, but seeing it, knowing everyone else was seeing his departure too, that really drove the punch home.

It's going to hurt like a bitch when he comes home, packs his bags, and physically walks away. Once again, I cognitively knew it, but now I feel it too. Damn.

I suppose this is all just part of the process. I know that things are going to happen just as they are meant to. If we are meant to be together, nothing will keep us apart. If we aren't, well then, I suppose that will be okay too, I just haven't really been able to face that one yet.

I think I am going through the grieving process, entering into the anger phase. On of my EWI members sent a request to the group for input on which restaurant he should take a date to. The thought and effort he put into the planning and reservation pushed some serious buttons for me. I began to think about the fact that no one has ever made a reservation for me. This boy's actions flew in the face of all the male excuses I have heard before as to why date planning and reservations were always left up to me. It left me feeling cheated. It then left me wondering if it was my fault. Maybe there is something about me that makes putting in too much effort seem unnecessary.

Well, my anger is waining. I sent D. a curt message about his "new status". It was childish and unfair. He did not do anything wrong. He is going through exactly what I am in his own way. I suppose he is just doing what men do, he is turning the page. As I mentioned, this is not my strong suit. I guess I just never really was able to wrap my head around the love thing. Not the beginning or the middle, but the end. In my mind I suppose love does not have an end, and this is not so much the end as the evolution. Still, I guess I have not learned how to make my mind and heart come together on this point.

What I do know, in my heart and mind, is that this is going to hurt like hell. I have not changed my relationship status, I don't think I can right now. Though we are not together, though I suppose I am single, my heart is far from open, my heart is far from available. I still act as though he is waiting just around the next bend, I still hear his voice in my ear, I even still write as though he is reading every word.

I have emotional anesthetic pumping through my veins at the moment, but I am not foolish enough to think that it will be any match for some of the things yet to come. There is hurt on the horizon, but just over the peaks I know there is something else coming. There is a peace, a calm, a glorious moment when I will be neither hurting nor numb. I can't see that ray of light yet, but I know, I just know it is coming.

I wonder what that will feel like. I imagine it will feel like the first real day of spring. That day when you walk out of your door and don't have to flinch at the sting of a cold air, the day that you walk languidly down the street feeling everything fully, a gentle breeze that soothes rather than torments. That day you feel so lucky to bask in perfect climate,free of the anxiety that comes from waiting for the next chill to strike though your bones. Yes, I imagine that is what it will feel like.

Bouncing Back

Well, it was one hell of a week! I had the most atrocious look of misery plastered on my face, there was no rallying. The gig took a huge turn for the worse when I was stripped of my office and put in a little box with two clerks, phones that never stop ringing and not an ounce of privacy. My foodie group was being somewhat unresponsive and I was feeling very bleak. Nothing could pull me out of this funk, not a wine tasting, not kind words from Gus, not a damned thing!

Well, I hit rock bottom today and miraculously bounced. Things began to turn in my favor when I spoke to my "big boss" about the unacceptable office situation and she was as outraged as I was. Then I got a surprise call from a fellow in our Brooklyn office asking if I would be willing to come conduct some cooking classes for his PTSD patients. This pleased me immensely.

I wandered down to the 14th St CSA and met the lovely woman who runs the program. I should have know that she would be great, she is after all one of my "food people"!

All this positivity was enough to prevent a complete brain aneurysm when I received a call informing me that I was going to be stuck with an outlandish car repair bill. Yes, I took that one like a man.

Feeling almost human, I went to my bodega and bought some "almost real" food. Nothing much, just some soup and a frozen Kashi pizza, but it's a start! It is baby steps with me and my oven. The thought of cooking is starting to feel a bit less nauseating. In my mailbox I found my gift subscription to bon appetit, inspiration! This made me smile.

I suddenly felt excited about the new possibilities. This weekend I am going to get my home back in order, relax in my own skin and maybe, just maybe buy some real food to start cooking again.

I smiled effortlessly for the first time in days, not a cynical smirk, but a summertime, breezy, heartfelt smile.

I know it seems crazy, my current aversion to my greatest pleasure, but the idea of cooking for one, pouring my heart into a dish with no audience in mind; it is heart wrenching. Last summer was different. Each dish was for me, but I also knew that the great successes would be repeated for D when he got back. Cooking is an art, it is meant to be shared. Cooking for yourself is more like painting your walls. I must start thinking of it as a way to live well. I typically begin to eat simple, healthy food when I am alone. No great effort or creativity put forth. It is utilitarian, not artistic expression. It pains me to think of cooking a beef burgenon in my new Le Cruseut for an empty house. Perhaps I can learn to create beauty for me though. I am at least going to try to begin sustaining myself!

I am feeling hope anew today. On one of the harder, uglier days the sun seems to have peeked through the clouds. I suppose it feels as though the hole in my chest is beginning to be filled, one grain of sand at a time. That has been my overwhelming ache this week. Emptiness and anger.

You see, I did not realize what a huge, gaping hole D. would leave in my heart. The excitement and contentment I felt coming home to him, cooking for him, laughing with him. I have tried to fill that blasted hole with cocktails, food (Poor fattie Fi!), friends, work, but it all just disappears in the void. This, of course, leaves me starving for more: more attention, more carbs, a better job to lose myself in. When it all fails, I truly feel like I have nothing. That's where the anger comes in.

I have been so angry at myself, who else is there to blame? I am angry about my paranoid delusion that my neediness is poisoning my group, my heart and everything in my life. I am angry about screwing up, because only a screw-up could have such a shitty life. I am angry that I am stuck in a stupid job that doesn't even serve as a distraction for me. I am angry that I thought things would be for the best this way. I am so damned angry for not knowing how hard this was going to be. I am furious that when it comes right down to it, I have nothing real in my life or on the horizon. That's how I felt anyways.

The rational side of my mind knows that I am starting a new part-time culinary job on Saturday, I have an EWI Bo Ssam Event on Sunday (and no one is turning against me, there is an ebb and flow in participation in the group), NYU is still a possibility, Keith is coming in March, Jo is coming in May, Gus has already planned me one birthday outing. Basically, things are good in my life, it is just my pained perspective that is discoloring it. Guess what though? The rational side is finally gaining the upper hand!

My heart is starting, every so slowly, to see the beauty, to allow for genuine smiles. I know this burst of euphoria will probably not last, but I have gotten to the point in my life where I realize that it is not the unwavering durability of happiness that makes it valuable, any appearance it makes is worth savoring. I no longer live in fear of disappointment (well, not all the time!), I relish the good moments, knowing they Will not last indefinitely.

Life is long;long enough to see us through the bad times that seem interminable, and long enough to allow us to revel in the good times that we wish would never end. Who knows what kind of day tomorrow will be, but for tonight I will cherish my easy smile and glimmers of hope.

The Gray Waiting Room

Waiting rooms can be places of anticipation, of fear, of boredom, of detachment.
The gray waiting room, with mere sadows pacing back and forth offers little joy. Looking out the window for a glimmer of beauty I see only gray clouds, no sunlight or signs of life to distract me. Distraction, that is the order of the day.

I move to another waiting room some days, this one is beige. There are a few distractions here; a joke, a smile, meaningless banter. Between these rooms, I search for signs of life beyond the walls,but those here with me seem to have found their home here. Even their dress reflects the monotone palate of the space. They are here and they aren't going anywhere.

I come to this place in the shadow of darkness and leave after the sparse rays of light have gone. My hours are good, much more limited than I have ever had before, but the weariness I feel seems to lengthen my days and steal my time away from this place.

I have been working here for a month now. I paint on a smile like a warrior puts on camouflage; just part of the uniform. I am good at my job, but I always am. My heart is not here though, it is too busy doing somersaults inside my chest. Watching the parade of sick old men come through my office affects me in ways I never expected.

I have never been squeamish before. I spent time in the hospital in Mosul, Iraq. Never was I taken aback or nauseated. The young wounded and ill, my brothers and sisters, they did not frighten me. The deteriorating lives I see on the wards and the infectous disease warnings that flash across my computer screen make my stomach jump. My compassion is stronger than my reservations, I touch the patients- a reassuring hug or pat on the shoulder, but this is always followed by a large dose of hand sanitizer when I am back in the confines of my little office.

I help them as best I can, but in a large bureaucratic organization, I am just one tiny piece of the machine. Reading the files I am filled with sorrow and rage as I read about men who destroyed themselves and who were destroyed by others. My job is not hard but it is heavy. I am just so tired.

I built my new life this year on the knowledge that your job does not define you, that life can be lived around your 9-5. I am struggling though. I need the life, the beauty, the hope that springs from my pretty past-times, but the gray exhaustion has consumed some of that. I find it hard to come home sometimes. I work a second job, make plans and go out, the gray exhaustion waits for me when I enter my apartment, throwing me into bed and pinning me down for anxious sleep.

My glimmer, my shining star on the horizon is starting school at NYU in January. Yesterday, as the impatient admissions aid told me that I had been wait listed, I felt my heart drop into my stomach and I felt my hands begin to shake slightly. For some reason, through all the little sorrows of the last few months, tears have not come for me, and yesterday was no different. How I long for tears, but my eyes are like deserts, instead re-routing all the anxieties in my life to the pit of my stomach.

Wait listed is not a no, I know that. I need this so badly though, I want to cling to it like a life raft when the gray walls begin to close in on me! I need a place in my life where intellect, creativity and passion can take me out of this waiting room, help me soar above it and see it as merely a tiny piece of my world, not the hulking megalith that stands before me now. But it is not a no. I will move forward as though it WILL happen. There is always a sweetness to painful longing, it is the knowledge that you have found something to desperately desire, kind of like being in love.

Perhaps it is not the room but the season. Winter is a gray bitch indeed. For now I will cling to my sweet distractions, continue to paint-on a smile and pray for the warm sun of springs yet to come.