Polk Street Blues

Her small form hovered around me like a mother bear doting on a sick cub.  Silently picking up after me in the tiny disaster of a room that I occupied, her compassion was overwhelming.  Dirty laundry, plates, and pans, grimy windows, dusty knick knacks, an old, gray shag that had seen better days and, lets not forget, the lingering stench of death impending peppered the room.  This was the cheery reality that my mother came to when she visited me in SF during the spring of '98.  

I had previously crescendoed with the bipolar disorder that I had gotten slammed with a few years back and was subsequently reeling in it’s wake.  Having ridden its manic wave for all it was worth and then some, I was now experiencing its polar opposite: a tormenting depression.  But back to my mom.  I cringe to think of how helpless she must have felt watching me spiral into that harrowing abyss but she never let it show.  Instead, with a tender smile and a calm demeanor that never left her, she rolled up her sleeves and went to work tending to her sick daughter in one of the bravest, most important roles of her life.  No small feat.  Being present to me, who at 26 needed constant attention and care was, I’m sure, exhausting.  She bought me food, stayed by my side ever ready to listen, affirm and humor my gloomy ramblings, took me to nice restaurants which I couldn’t enjoy because of the eating disorder I was still plagued by and was, simply, saintly in every way.  

Something bizarre that I wouldn’t let go of during her visit was the need for me to write my mother a letter.  Let me explain.  Since I couldn’t communicate well through words (depression had stolen my coherency) I became obsessed with trying to write her a letter instead.  Too sick to realize that she knew it anyway, I thought that if I stole away and penned her an essay about how much I loved her, she'd know what was in my heart and I’d feel better.  Communication has always been key for me.  

This warped thought process led me to leave her side for chunks at a time in which I’d desperately stuff myself in some cafe or bench along Polk, the street I lived on and try to compose something meaningful, which never worked.  In fact, it only served to heighten my anxiety because I knew that I was wasting precious time.  My mom, gracious as she was, played along hiding what I’m sure must have been a growing concern for me.  I know my futile attempts at scribing broke her heart as they only made my illness more glaringly obvious.

In one of the few pictures I have from those painful times, you can see my mother smiling and diminutive, arm around my waist as though holding me up and I, an unhappy giant hovering over her tiny frame, leaning on her as though I was losing my balance.  The misery of the moment is obvious on my face even though we were framed by a gorgeous, sunny day.

My mom was a slice of life in the otherwise dingy existence that I dragged myself through during those parched years.  Brave and determined to help, she was the singular reason I didn’t let myself die.  Her love, fierce and loyal cut through my anguish when nothing else could and even though I would face many more years of mental malady, knowing that someone unconditionally loved me made the difference between life and death. 

I’m in a completely different place now, in fact, it feels as if I’m talking about someone else when I revisit those crazy years.  Since then, I’ve grown in more ways than I can count and of course, life has happened as it does. But my mother’s love, the one true thing that has sustained me my whole life, still lights up my world.  For me, it is like the dawn of a new day or the scent of a daisy, pure and honest and true.  I know that at some point, I’ll have to let her go, but for now I will enjoy the love that has always warmed my bones and and healed my heart.

Look ma, no hands!  

Wait

Waiting.  I could write the book, but you wouldn't be impressed.  No, it's been a long, hard, haul full of whining and pining and the wait continues. Waiting has been the bane of my existence, the rock in my shoe, the proverbial dangling carrot.  God has promised me a husband and I have dutifully sat tight (but not too tight, 'cause I'll test the waters ever so often just to make sure the pie is still cooking) waiting for the green light and, at 47, I'm still sitting.  

I wish I could tell you that during my 25 year (yes, 25 years) long wait, I've been heroic and patient - a real Joan of Arc - but that's not the case.  A great many of my moments have been pockmarked with debilitating impatience, fits of anger, pouting and other unsavory cajoles to quicken the delivery up just a tad.  None of which has worked.

I'm not proud of how I've handled the wait.  At times, I've humiliated AND disappointed myself - it just hasn't been a pretty sight.  On more than one occasion, out of rage, I've chosen to regard the Father with disparage and scorn to punish Him.  Needless to say, it has availed nothing.  One time, things got so bad that He literally told me I was nanoseconds away from choosing evil over good, for good and to decide wisely.  I listened.  At the end of the day, I love God and want to obey Him so I snapped out of it, but its been an uphill climb...   

I've had to learn what it means to become patient, to lay down my desires at His feet and simply to trust, time and again.  These have been near excruciating lessons to apprehend (for who, in this day and age, wants to be patient?), but they have been necessary.  Had I been given what I so dearly longed for years ago, I would have destroyed it.

I've had many false starts with partners, the endings of which have often been brutal.  This time, I'm doing things differently.  I haven't dated (not even online) in a chunk and I feel readier than I ever have in my life to meet someone, in fact, I feel primed.  We'll see what happens.        

        

  

About Time

Sitting in my room listening to the quiet patters of falling rain, my thoughts turn to growth.  Not  physical growth (I'm holding steady in that respect), but the change in my inner being, psyche and thinking, which has been nothing short of miraculous.  As I look out the window at the grey, dreary afternoon whose daylight is wrapping to a close, I marvel at how even keeled I feel.   

There was a time when I’d look outside during the dark winter months and feel my soul shrink right before my eyes.  I was always so moody and prone to reacting to outer stimuli, whatever the source, that looking back, I liken who I was to a giant barometer.  Things like the weather and peoples moods once had the power to send me reeling as I had less control over my reactions and, was much more prone to internalize everything I came across, including my own emotional landscape.

I won’t say that I’ve arrived, as we are always morphing as human beings, but it is good to put the proverbial stake in the ground and sit for a while, recounting the changes and steps forward I’ve taken, guided by the invisible hand offered me so many years ago now.  My moods have gentled, thoughts become more even keeled, as opposed to jagged trains of words I’d have to catch and unravel with some effort.  I’m more composed, confident and, I feel whole, not like before where I felt I was made up of so many pieces just trying to hold it all together.  And people notice the change.

Scene shift:  it’s 6:00 Wednesday morning.  I’ve just had coffee and breakfast and am back in the saddle of my writing chair.  Settledness is a sensation I can honestly say I’ve never experienced on a regular basis, until now.  The swiftly tilting planets within me just never let up their motion and I had no choice but to follow behind like a dutiful pooper- scooper running after a horse.  The emotions and moods that sloshed around inside me like an ocean during a storm were always threatening to bleed into the fabric of my day and often did. 

What a joy to feel composed.  What a treat to feel empowered and competent in my own skin, to not constantly feel like I have to prove and demonstrate the validity of my being, my worth, because I already know it deep down inside.  People take me seriously now, because I am doing the same.  I never thought I’d arrive at such a state of personal wellbeing.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was beginning to thrive and at almost 48, it’s about time.