Shut Up and Smell the Coffee (Yet Another Note to Self)

I admit it. I'm a talker. I will go so far as to say that there are times when I talk too much. In fact, most of the time I talk too much. It has always been this way. The only way I can think to explain it is that I have so many thoughts and ideas and words tumbling and colliding around in my brain, that I need to release them to give myself some kind of relief. Sometimes, talking is my way of handling social anxiety. (Yes, even chatterboxes like myself get social anxiety). Rather than clam up and remain silent when meeting new people, I tend to be the one filling even tiny silences because God forbid they become awkward ones! Even talking as much as I do does not fully quiet the chaos of my thoughts. (Hence, the writing). There have been countless times with my name on the board in elementary, endless "shhhhhhh's" and "be quiets." There's even been a few "shut up's" here and there. None of it has ever stopped me. I just keep on talkin. It has always been something that I accepted about myself, but lately I have been wondering if acceptance of this trait is really such a good thing after all. What has been eating at me is not my inability to stop talking so damn much. What has begun to creep its way into my thoughts is that perhaps all of this chattering is preventing me from being a good listener. (*She says with a shudder*)

This epiphany is quite the blow to my womanhood you see, as we are supposed to be all nurturing and supportive and what-not. But really. Is it possible for me to really be a good listener when I am always jabbering away? I feel like I am a good listener. Sure, I may always have some input to offer. I may always feel the need to put in my shiny 2 cents. But I am listening to what the person is saying. I am engaged in the conversation and my eye contact and head nods should show that, right? Some people think its enough. But really, logically, when I spend most of my time talking, isn't that taking away from the time I spend listening? As much as I feel like I am comprehending and acknowledging all of the thoughts and feelings of the person I am conversing with, am I really being an active listener? The kind of listener who isn't sitting there thinking of the next thing they want to add to the conversation? The kind who doesn't feel the need to chime in about how they handled a similar situation? The kind who can give undivided attention, and focus solely on what the other is saying rather than focusing on the internal swirl of thoughts going on inside of their own head? If I am being honest with myself (which I usually am, because otherwise whats the point), no not really. I am not that kind of listener.  I am not truly an active listener. And if I am just beginning to see this, then how many in my life have already realized it long ago, and have just come to accept it as part of the Venus Beaver package? Oh, the horror!

Seriously though, the horror. I have no desire to be that self-absorbed a-hole that can't let someone else have their moment in the conversational sun. I don't want to be that annoying douche-bag who just enjoys the sound of their own voice. Dear God! Am I that annoying freak that people roll their eyes at each other about when she walks into the room?!?!? (Woah, woah there social anxiety!) The bottom line is that I really don't want to come across as any of these things. Yet, by running my damn mouth and not stopping to let others run theirs, isn't that exactly what I am doing?  Something must be done to stop me!

Oh.
That something is me?
You sure there isn't some kind of pill I can just take?
Fine.

Well, as they say... admitting it is the first step, right? And somewhere down that list of recovery steps is making amends. So let me take this opportunity to do just that. To anyone who has ever felt over-run by my loud mouth; My bad. To anyone who has ever gotten the feeling that I wasn't really paying attention; I apologize. To anyone who has ever just wanted to scream in my face, "Just shut the F*#K UP!! Shut the F%&K UPPPP!!!" I think you may have some serious anger issues to deal with. And also, I'm sorry. Forgive me because I knew not what I had done. But now, I have made myself aware and now I am actively trying to be an ACTIVE listener. It may take me some time, because like all of us I am a work in progress, but from this day forward I will go into each day with my ears open and my mouth closed by golly!!

And since everyone who knows me knows that the closed mouth part will never truly happen, the best we can hope for is the open ears. Wish me luck and feel free to shut me up.

A Day Like Today

I can still hear your voice and your laugh exactly the way that it was when you were still here. Sometimes I am glad for this, and sometimes the pain I feel remembering that voice is almost too much to stand. It hurts so much. Sometimes it really feels like a physical pain, missing someone so much. There really is not a lot of things worse than the feeling of missing someone who is dead. There is no hope of relieving the pain by seeing them, or hugging them or hearing their voice ever again. Its just done. My only hope is if I die, too I guess. And thats obviously not a good option. There are days when I take comfort in knowing you are around but I just can't see you. Most days, in fact I am comforted by this thought. These are the days that you feel very close, and it makes it easier to carry on. Then there are the days, like today where you seem so far away. You being invisibly around is not enough. I want to see YOU, dammit. I want to hug YOU and cry to YOU and tell YOU how much I miss you. Not the air around me. Because today it really just feels like air. Empty and hollow with no trace of you anywhere. Today is one of the days where I can't stop thinking about the fact that you actually DIED. You fuckin died and left us all here. You are in a better place, sure. But what about us? What about me? How can I ever really feel joy again without always feeling sad that you are not here to share it with? How can I ever stop being afraid that something is going to happen to someone else I love so much? How can I stop thinking about the way things might have been if you were still here? How can I stop these pitiful fantasies that refuse to stop playing in my head, of what our lives would have been and the things we would have done together and the conversations we were going to have and every other small thing that I stupidly took for granted when you WERE here. Is there ever going to be a time when this feeling will stop hitting me out of no where? Is there ever going to be a time where time will actually ease my pain? Is there ever going to be a time where I forget what your voice sounds like and what your laugh sounds like and all the facial expressions you would make? Because as painful as those memories can be, I don't think I could forgive myself if I ever forgot them. I am not sure I would be ok if I ever forgot them. Sometimes the things I tell myself to make myself feel better and to make it easier for me to keep going...they don't work. On those days I have no clue what I should do and where I should turn. Because the truth is, no one wants to be brought down by these things a year and a half later. No one really wants to hear my pain or see my tears. They will do it, because they love me. But they don't want to. Why would they? What is going to happen in 5 years, in 10? What if I am still like this? What if time just keeps making it worse, rather than better. Because honestly, the more time passes, the more I miss you. I guess the only thing I can hope for is that I don't forget your voice.

Spunky Old Me

When I'm an old woman, I will have spunk. I'm not talking about being a mean old granny. I'm talking about being a spunky old granny. I won't be a grouchy loudmouth, but I will put people in their place when they need it- in that wise, good-natured way. I will dress up for no other reason than to pass by a mirror and give myself a wink. I will reject the seniors menu, the senior discounts,  and the senior prices at the movies- because I won't feel like a senior. I will let a fine young man know just how fine he is with a wink and a smile, and it won't be creepy it will be cute. I will be the most bad-ass grandma in the world. I will go to school for nothing more than the knowledge, and grin at the people who stare. I will keep my hair long for as long as I please. No matter how hard it is to take care of, how thin it gets, or how gray. I will get regular manicures and pedicures, and treat myself to massages because an old woman with so much spunk deserves to be pampered. I won't look back with fondness at "the good old days," because I will still be living them. I will ride my bike to the store and roller skate to the library where I will spend hours on end in the soothing silence of books. When I'm an old woman I will command respect. Not with my words or because my age requires it, but with my mere spunky presence on this planet. I will be best friends with my children and even when I am so old that I need them to take care of me, they will still feel I am watching out for them. I will adapt with the times and never look my nose down at the new generation but spunky or not, I will never be that old woman wearing skinny jeans. I will wear push up bras though, even when gravity is winning. I will take my aches and pains as part of the changing seasons and I won't be the old lady announcing them to any passerby. I will give my wisdom to others freely, but only when it is wanted. I will say things that make people think, make them smile, make them wish they had thought of it themselves. I will learn my 5th language and travel to a country that speaks it, and just basically show off a little. I won't be afraid to drive. I won't keep driving when I know damn well I shouldn't. I will do yoga in the park. I will have picnics in the park. I will be that old lady holding hands with my husband that makes you say, "Awwww." When I am an old woman I will be the me I have always been, right down to my core. I will be me, only with a little more spunk.

A moment

High, higher still, she soars into the chilly late afternoon sky
The song of a content childhood on her lips, the carefree aura of someone so fresh, so new to the journey of life
I gaze out the window taking in this moment and all it has to offer
It is a moment destined to be frozen in time
Kept still in the place where my memories pool together and settle into sweet stillness
Unsure if I have created moments like these of my own, I am content to take hers in as they come, savoring each giggle and making sure to taste every delicious smile she shares with me
I marvel that I had a hand in creating something so utterly lovely, such an endless source of joy
It is a magic that I was unaware could be real, and it is a pureness I treasure
High, higher still, she soars

Ode to the Funeral

You would think that the funeral would be the most sad, most difficult part. In my humble opinion, you would be wrong. I'm not saying that the funeral isn't its own fucked up brand of depressing, but the fact of the matter is, it just isn't the hard part. Sure, if you have the honor of preparing said funeral, it can be pretty damn traumatizing to sit and calmly talk about the “arrangements” or discuss in detail what will be happening to the lifeless body that was once a somebody to you. Of course, there will be moments where you will sit with either a numb disbelief, or a burning rage, staring at a contract that is meant to burn or bury or basically vanish a person who but mere days before you could reach out and touch. But really, the funeral is the best you will have it for a long time to come. The time period immediately following the death of someone close to you will feel like some of the worst moments of your life. But in reality, you should enjoy them while they last because they are the easy times. It is the time where you are allowed, no you are expected to let all that shit out. Cry when you please, and do it as often as you want, by all means, you are in pain. Don't feel like eating? Fuck it! You don't have to, you are mourning. Want to be a complete asshole to those around you, lay around doing nothing in bed all day, or simply not speak to anyone at all? Go right ahead, it is acceptable, normal even; You are grieving after all. But don't get too comfortable, because once the funeral is done, and all the kind words and tears have been shed, there is an unspoken expectation for you to pull your shit together. Don't you know that a funeral is all about that one magic word. Yup, you guessed it: closure. Ahhhh closure. Such a novel concept. The idea that there is an end to this nightmare, a time when the lights come back on and the credits roll. The thought that all of this anguish can be neatly wrapped in a nice little package, and put on a shelf with all of the other finished business of our lives. Sadly, closure is rarely a destination that can be reached. It seems to be more of an elusive pot of gold at the end of a vanishing rainbow. In other words, closure is some bullshit. Because guess what really happens after all of the glitter of the funeral fades? Life. Goes. On. And despite your allotted time for unrestricted sadness, it just isn't enough. Truthfully, it will never really be enough. Life goes on, but you are not ready to go on with it. Shit is finally starting to hit you. I mean really hit your ass hard. Reality is sinking in and if you thought you were in pain before, you were sadly mistaken. And now, now that you are being hit full force with what this loss has actually done to your life, the people around you seem to be going on their merry way, living life with no effort, as if its the most natural thing in the world. And you, with your grieving time behind you, and time ticking on before you.. are stuck. Fucking stuck. You are existing with a gaping, open wound that feels like it may never heal. A wound that some carefully ignore, and others not so carefully ignore, pouring in their salt in a dozen different ways. People don't mean to be insensitive. But they are. People don't know what to say. So they don't. People don't intend to infuriate you with their constant admiration of your "strength," but that's exactly what ends up happening. And all the while you want nothing more than to shout, "Listen, fuckers this isn't strength! This is my feeble attempt at joining the rest of the human race in normalcy, and for some odd reason its being mistaken as strength." People tell you that you are strong because they so desperately need you to be strong, because death among its other charming qualities, is uncomfortable. Comforting someone who has had their world flipped on its ass because of death is no fun. No fun at all. Listening to the pain of another is a dead end  for the person listening. So you learn to paste that smile on your face. You know, the one that says, "Don't worry, I'm fine. You are off the hook. Lets talk about something that gets that annoying look of pity off of your face." And this is how you carry on. You do this for long enough that you may even start to feel that you are finally starting to extract yourself from the sticky pain that you have been immobilized by for some time now. And then BAM!! Out of no where like a sock in the face, there will be a smell, or a song, or a word, a place, a picture, a food, or one of the other millions of little things that remind you, and you are right back where you started, just as fucked up as you ever were. 

Enjoy the funeral while you can.