Note To Self. . .

I just dropped my best friend off at the airport. She is so excited, so ready to go home, be with her boy and her cats. It's never easy to see her go. But there's some part of me that breathes easier knowing she is happy where she is, and I've already seen her go away from me. I know that despite the distance we're still in each others' lives.

That knowledge is helpful, but doesn't necessarily ease the discomfort I've been feeling lately. Having her around has been lovely, but having her around brought into sharp relief how solitary my life has been of late. I have wonderful roommates that I interact with on a regular basis, I have a great circle of friends, and I realize how much control I like to have over how intimate I am with them.

I realize that I like sleeping alone, in the center of my bed.

I have been a mess of tears lately.

Maybe one has to do with the other, maybe not. I realize that I have grown leaps and bounds at setting boundaries, at knowing how to communicate in a way that's respectful but doesn't discount my experience. I know that today I am so different than I was six months ago. For that I am insanely grateful.

But, too, there's an edge of discomfort that I think is pushing me to make some decisions. One of my co-workers constantly tells me to get a masters, and I reply that there's nowhere around here where I want to get my degree. She pushes her alma mater, but I argue that I have too many associations of not belonging there.

What that means is, I'm stuck here. But not like I can't leave here, like, if I stay here, I've gone as far as I can go. Maybe. If I've learned anything I've learned that most of the time, when I think something is absolute, I'm wrong. I'm trying desperately to remain open, but I feel myself wanting to shut down, wanting to go to that place where I can't get out of bed for days. I don't, I find new ways to cope with it, but I wonder what needs to shift to make me feel excited and engaged and vulnerable again. Often, I feel excited and engaged, but I find myself more and more closed to vulnerability. Maybe that's what the poet's visit brought into relief for me.

I said to my father, "I'm tired of being motivated by fear". And that's true. Now I have to figure out what to do with that.

I'm in Loveland, visiting with a good friend who is moving to Australia tomorrow.

My best friend, who has been in town for almost a month will be leaving on the 18th.

One of my very good Boulder friends is agitating to leave town by the end of the summer, another friend is definitely moving in early August.

Is it apparent that I'm feeling a little lonely?

Because I am. I'm feeling a little lonely.

I'm scared about stagnating, but I'm scared of failure. A month ago, I was pleased with how my life was; I liked my job, I was felt good about it, I felt good about my level of social interaction, and then I remembered what it was like to have people in my daily life who know me in an intimate way, and now I'm struggling to start to figure out how to reground. I know that struggling to find ground is a futile struggle, I know that. But goddamn.

Something in me knows that in the next year or so, I need to make some pretty monumental changes in my life. But something else wants this sweetness, this comfort to last. Even though something else knows this isn't real comfort, this is distance, this is a desire to control what gets in and what doesn't.

I'm scared, I suppose, of getting too good at that.

Gather round friends for tales straight from the Bosom of My Family.

I was having coffee with my middle sister yesterday. We had a great time, just shooting the shit. It was hot and we sat outside and drank our iced coffees and smoked cigarettes.I've missed my sister, the not-so-easy comraderie that we have, and I am so thankful to have it back in some capacity. We could've sat for hours on that porch,  alas, I had to work so, I was driving her home, talking to her about my decision to believe that our parents, our family is doing the best job we can at loving each other, and that we're only all going to get better at it.

My sister told me this story: she was at home with my mother and my mother's mother, the Catholic grandma. Apparently, the conversation turned to me, and my magical capabilities as The Baby Whisperer at work. It's true. The infants, they love me. Even the little crack babies are still with me. I have mad baby skillz. Which is what my mother and grandmother were discussing. Which of course, makes me nervous. I don't need to feel any more pressure to be the daughter my parents wanted, which means babies of my own. But, apparently, my grandmother was making some comment about my mad baby skillz translating to my own babies. My mother made the comment, "Emily's a lesbian," according to my sister. And my grandmother just looked back at her and reacted like, "Well, yeah? And? She can still have babies." My sister telling me that story made my heart so so happy. Never mind that they want me to have babies and I"m not so sure that's ever gonna happen. Never mind that I'd prefer to be identifed as queer, not a lesbian. My mother uttered the words "Emily" and "lesbian" in the same sentence without keeling over dead!

Wow. There is hope, I suppose, as long as we're all still breathing.

I had a lovely 4th of July. Coffee with my sister, and work. At work, I found myself sitting in the living room, a plate heaped with grilled corn, potato salad, baked beans, my senses completely full with the smells of home cooking, slow roasted ribs in the oven all day, sounds of women arguing and laughing, and happy kids running around, pelting each other with water balloons, it was one of those times where just the information I was getting from my senses made me happy, without bothering to interpret that information at all. I realized again how lucky I am to have landed where I've landed, and how lucky they are that I'm there. I doubt it was anybody's idea of the "perfect" holiday, but it was beautiful in it's unexpectedness, in it's patchwork quilt of patched together community. I hope days like yesterday  are ones my clients can hold on to when the allure of being taken by whatever their drug of choice is, days where nothing especially spectacular happens, but where you get to just be glad to be alive. Hell, I hope I can hold on to those days next time I find myself holding on by my fingernails.  

So, here's why you shouldn't e-mail when you're not paying attention:

Last night, my friend and co-worker and I were being Team Awesome, which is how it is when we work together. I got an e-mail from a dear friend who is hosting a birthday fete for The Poet who is in town. I got a little stupid excited about it, because I'm going to be off on the night of afore mentioned fete. Woo! A weekend night off of work? What'dya talk? And, being the resident Best Friend, I have some guilt around not being more intrigal in the party planning. So I shot off a quick e-mail that was silly and sort of like, "BLARG! Day off work! Me party, too!" And, trusting my friend as I do, I figured that she would laugh at my silliness.

And then, I went about my work and handled many things beautifully, and went back to check my e-mail hours later.

Aaaaaaaand I sent my "BLARG!" e-mail to the whole damn e-mail list. Shit. Damn. Fuck. Arg. I fancy myself as being able to pull off a sort of cool, sexy, vibe and I'd really really like to do that at this party. I know that even if I did manage to pull of a cool, sexy vibe at this party, I wouldn't be fooling anybody and my chagrin about replying to this whole e-mail list is really about lingering insecurities in this particular social circle because it is not an uncommon perception that I slept my way into it. I'm more often than not known by my former relationships in this circle. Certainly there is a movement away from that lately, certainly there have been moments when I feel like I get to be known as me not as so-and-so's ex. And still, I'm feeling like I'm earning my place, and damn it, I want to come off as cool!

Note to Self: You are not anybody else's definition of cool. Ever. That doesn't mean you're not cool. You can pull off the quirky-awkward cool, but not hipster cool. Don't even try it.

Something lovely about the past four or five months is that I've rediscovered my laugh. My restuarant laugh, the Poet calls it, the laugh that is loud and unapologetic, and easily identifiable. A client of mine that recently discharged from our program said that was a gift I gave her, permission to laugh loud and long. I love it.

How is it that a smattering of silver hairs woven into dark ones can make me want to get on my white horse and slay the evils of the world?  

Notes on Pride, 2008

Late June is perhaps not the best time the universe to hold an outdoor festival. Although this year was substantially cooler than it was last year, it was really, really fucking hot.

This was the first year in quite some time that I went to Pride and had fun cruising and being cruised.

I think I offended the poor, very earnest woman, who was there to try and sell wedding rings to the queers. She approached me and said, "Ready for a ring?" I laughed for about a minute and said, "absolutely not!" "Oh," she stammered. "Not yet"? "No," I said, walking away. I meant, no, not yet, not ever, but who knows how she took it. She seemed a little shocked by me.

I love Pride, but I wish there was a greater focus on community building and resources and less of a focus on consumerism and producing everything you could ever imagine in rainbow. It's fun for a while, but damn. Really? How many thongs do you need in rainbow hues? Lots, judging by the number of people selling them.

Can I just say that taking a young, queer person to Pride is worth all the counting, and the low grade stress that comes with being partially responsible for 8 teenagers, in a crowd of zillions when he looks at you and says, "I've never seen so many gay people in my life!" And you get to say, to him, and to your 17 year old queer self, "Happy Pride, man."

Pride just isn't Pride without hearing "It's Raining Men," or "Dancing Queen" and having giltter involved somehow.

As cool as I like to think that I am, there is no graceful way to extricate oneself when one has said hello to someone who clearly does not remeber you. At that point, you just walk away, friend. Just walk away.

As pleased as I am for my ex who has recently come out to her family and is busily planning a wedding, I don't want to be there while she and her betrothed pepper  local queer friendly ministers with questions and shop for a wedding photographer. I just don't want to.

Also, a few notes to the queers. Folks, mullets are so out of style they can't even see the light of day anymore. The mullet just needs to go. It's gotta go. Couples, don't dress alike. Especially if you just met yesterday. Nobody believes it was just an accident. If I as a queer woman am disappointed in the focus given to queer women, maybe I should take into account the voice with whicle gay and queer men announce themselves. There's glitter and leather involved. It seems as though I need to engage with a deeper analysis of gender identity and expression and the attention we give to people who demand it. It's pretty hard to miss someone in three foot platform boots and a pink sparkle wig. Just sayin.

I am exhausted. I'm tired to the point of dilerium. I was up early and up late yesterday and today, with elements of physical and emotional exertion in both days. And the bad news is, it's only my Wednesday. I still have to work tomorrow and Tuesday. Oh sweet baby jesus.

There's something I'm a little worried about right now. Are you ready for some intense naval gazing? Here we go.

I love my job. Love it. And I'm really fucking good at it. And there is drama, poor supervision, some anti-oppression things that we need to catch up with but, hanging out with this particular clientele rocks my world. They’re frustrating and lovely and so brilliant and strong and impossible. I have had nights/days when I just want to throw things. Sometimes I have to leave work and just yell for three or four blocks. Not at anyone, and I’m not yelling words, I’m just yelling, releasing pent up frustration, frustration at these clients because I’m asking them to change so much that sometimes they revert into old behaviors that make it very hard to deal with them. I’m frustrated with the system that has victimized these women in so many ways. I’m pissed at boyfriends and husbands and lovers and baby daddies who are unsupportive, codependent or abusive. I’m frustrated and scared because I don’t know how the world will treat these humans when they leave this place.

But at least once a shift, I laugh out loud, or I am honored to have a conversation with a client that is so so real. I love that my job allows me not to have to exist in the realm of small-talk. I don’t, generally speaking, make small talk at work. It can be light and fun, it’s not always big stuff, but there’s this quality of authenticity and realness about most of my contact with clients that is so valuable to me.

And I’m worried that I’m too entrenched in it. I’m worried that I’m basing too much of my self-worth in it. I’m worried that I’m distancing myself in relationships because I’m tired of getting hurt and fooling myself about it because I’m working. It’s scary, a little (a lot) because I know what happens when I do that. I set myself up for a crash and burn in a big way. I got a letter today from a client who is discharging from our facility this afternoon after six months here. She said I helped her find a higher power. I feel so honored, so humbled, so grateful for this work, but the question is, am I using that as filler for connecting with real people? Not that my clients aren’t real people, but there’s something safe about my role here. I don’t, can’t reveal too much of who I am, least that interfere with the journey that they’re on. I am something of a blank slate, and I’m afraid that I’m too comfortable in my role as blank slate, or at the very least I am too comfortable in a role here I am the helper, because that provides something of a veil. I’m here to help you, but truthfully, doing this work helps me more than you will ever know.

I was something of a cranky pants yesterday afternoon, and it lasted into the evening and permeated my mood this morning. But I got to work this morning and got this letter, and suddenly, I just felt good. Like, yeah, my heart is broken. But sometimes, if I am exceedingly lucky, I will be granted a glimpse into change and hope and joy and something I say may make a difference. If I just keep showing up, if I just keep doing what I need to, even broken hearted, it’s OK. But, here’s the question: is it really OK? Or am I just distracting myself?

I don’t know yet.

I want ice cream.

I want a vacation.

My best friend comes to town Thursday. Note to self: Must finish vacuuming bedroom before then. Further note to self: good progress on maintaining a level of order in your space.

I have been working on average, 6 days a week for several weeks. The monitary reward is nice.

I have been working on average 6 days a week for several weeks. One of my jobs has to go. Sooner rather than later. I think I have made that decision.

I, as a human, seem to be drawn to the melancholy. Why is that?

Will it ever be easier to be confronted with the horrors humans perpetrate on one another? Note to self: Be grateful for the progress. When confronted with horror last night, I went home, cleaned my bathroom, read a book and slept soundly. No nightmares. That's progress.

I am grateful for sleep.

I want to finish the three paintings I've been working on for weeks now.

I'm charting at work -- the abbreviation for "client" is clt. But you can easily make a typo that is. . .well. It's Fruedian.

I am consistantly amazed with my own ability to do 27 bazzillion things at once. Take note, y'all. I am cool. One of my clients has an absolutely accute memory for phrases. I told her once, weeks ago, that I don't make unilateral decisions. She threw that phrase back at me last night, and then grinned. I could all of a sudden see her as a little kid with lopsided pigtails and skinned knees.   

Perceptions are a funny, funny thing. For example: I had a lovely morning, in which I rode my bike downtown to Word is Out where a book that I ordered came in and then wandered over to the farmers market where I got some fresh spinach, goat cheese, bread, raspberries, chocolate. I rode my bike home, where I got ready for work, packed my farmers market goodies to take to eat on my shift, and came in. I fixed myself some tuna, toasted some of the bread I had and spread goat cheese on my toast and topped it with tuna and ate it. Delicious. I opened my chocolate bar, (Dark chocolate with ginger, for those of you playing along at home,) and have had it sitting on my desk throughout the shift. Clients have been in the office, one of my favorite clients asked very politely for a piece of my chocolate.

It may be important to note we don't let clients keep sugar, especially chocolate here at the facility, because when you're trying to detox your body it isn't helpful to feed it lots of sweet things, and also, chocolate especially can cause heroin cravings for those that have used heroin. Chocolate hits the same recptors in the brain that heroin does, so it can be not helpful for clients to eat large amounts of chocolate when they're detoxing or are in the acute phase following detox. But, heroin was not my drug of choice. And I like chocolate. And I don't think that keeping things as forbidden fruit is particularly useful.

So, this particular favorite client came and asked me for a bite of my chocolate and I was more than happy to share. She took the little square I offered and went outside the staff office to where the client computers are. "Emily even eats different chocolate," I heard her whisper. I laughed, which caused her to laugh, and the other client she was talking to to laugh. This client refers to me often as "her Bohemian counselor," because I told her once I get lotion mixed for me at Rebecca's Apothocary, because I lead a group on DBT which incorporates mindfulness and meditation into cognative behavioral therapy, because I'm from Boulder. I'm very aware of those things that clients often project onto me have little to do with me.

But I'm also acutely aware of my privilege. I know that my life experience isn't like the experiences of many of my clients, and even something that I think of as simple, like dark chocolate with ginger is not something that's in the realm of experience for a lot of the women I work with. I'm paid to be here for them, but the truth is, I am blown away by their strength and savvy and their humor and their anger. The truth is I think that I benefit more than they do.  

My Friday night? My Friday night has been spent making dinner for 10 teenagers out of whatever I could find at the house (usually a community member or a restaurant donates dinner at the teen shelter where I work, but not tonight!). And what night is it? Friday night. When does the shopping happen? Sunday. So, what ingredients do we have at the house? Nada mucho. My first thought? Spaghetti. Because, well friends, my coworker made it abundantly clear that the dinner issue was to be my concern. And, we had noodles! But we didn't have sauce, or the raw ingredients to create some kind of sauce. My next thought? Tuna noodle casserole, because again with the noodles, and an abundance of canned tuna. But, again the ingredient problem, and also, the picky teenager problem. So, I figured that instead of generating ideas based on the presence of one key ingredient, I would gather up the ingredients that we did have, try to hit the major food groups, and see what I could come up with. So I rummaged. I got creative. And I tried to be practical and nutritious and time effective.

 So what did we have? What culinary delight did the offspring of a former restaurateur create? Breakfast dinner. Scrambled eggs, (2 kinds! One plain, one with onions and cheese!) toast, sausage, vegetarian sausage, toaster waffles, warmed tortillas, salsa, yogurt, fruit. I was sixteen different places at once, scrambling a zillion eggs, cooking a ton of sausage, making sure the veggie sausage didn’t come into contact with the real sausage, getting creative with serving utensils and serving platters, directing my very eager assistants.

But it turned out OK. The meal was wolfed down and I gained confidence in my culinary skills.

And then, I searched all of their rooms.

I should start off by saying this morning dawns with me playing the role of CapitanCranky Pants. Because I'm the new kid on the block, I "get" to work on Memorial Day (it is double time so I work 8 hours but get paid for 16, so that's not so bad.) but it is worth noting that I worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and I work today and tomorrow and have staff meetings all day on Wednesday. And normally, it works out OK for me. But, working the swing (3-11) shift and then coming back for the day shift (7-3) means that I am off of work for 8 hours, about one hour is spent in transit, one hour getting ready for bed, one hour getting ready for work, that means I had 5 hours in which I could sleep. And God Bless Her, one of my roommates had people over. I suspect what actually happened is that the bars closed and they weren't done partying, so at a little before two there are voices speaking in very loud tones outside my window. Now, if we're following along at home, I got home between 11:30 and 11:45, I turned my light out at about 12:45 and I'm woken up at 1:58. And it's no one's fault, my roommate and her pals weren't being especially loud, but my bedroom is on the ground floor, I'm a light sleeper, and it takes me forever to go back to sleep. So the last time I remember looking at the clock was 3:10 this morning. And I had to be at work at 7. I am cranky about it.

That said, I find myself experiencing a lot of tenderness these days. At my teenager job, at my rehab job at least once a shift, I find myself overwhelmed by an experience of gratitude to be able to work where I do, to see the changes I see, to be a witness to some amazing stories. Even in the messiness, or maybe especially in the messiness, I offer thanks for the ability to hang out with it, and maybe, sometimes be of service. My coworker at my teenager job and I joke that a "successful" shift is one where we leave the shelter and all the kids are there, and still breathing. It's maybe setting the bar too low, but it's also realistic. If I hope to have a major breakthrough once a shift, I'm setting myself up for a whole lot of heartbreak. But if I think to myself, "all that really needs to happen is to help these kids survive the next nine hours," I find myself inundated with the ways these human being surprise and delight me. The same is true for my rehab job. I was sitting with a client on Saturday night, and I was in awe of her process and the work she was doing, and the bravery and grace with which she was doing it. It's also true that sometimes, I have to hang on to that time, five and a half weeks ago when a kid who thinks my name is "fuck you, get outta my room" actually used my given name. Sometimes I have to remind myself that when someone starts using drugs or alcohol thier emotional development stops. Sometimes I have to remind myself that getting triggered is not an excuse to behave in a way that is less than kind, compassionate and respectful.

And this tenderness thing, it's not just at work. I was walking around the Boulder Creek Fest yesterday morning, before I headed in to work. I was just pleased. I was pleased to be in Boulder, I was pleased the weather was nice, I was pleased to be able to sit and watch all these crazy Boulderites dance to a great band. I didn't get the usual twitchy "I don't like to be around all these people" twitch that I usually get. I found myself thinking of ancient societies, how dance has been a part of celebration for as long as human beings have been able to use their limbs. Boulder is still very white, very rich, very snobby, but yesterday morning I was incredibly glad to live here.