Each morning, I pull a card from a box that lists an emotion or feeling that I reflect upon over breakfast. Sometimes I even act out the word in front of a mirror, a technique I use as an icebreaker activity for music/rhythm workshops I have facilitated in mental health settings. I love it when I get "grateful", because there's so much I have to be thankful for.
At least it gives me time at home to unpack this sea of boxes still sitting around since my move last month. Given my age, I don't have all that much stuff. That's an advantage of being a vagabond. But it's enough to make me a little crazy. Mostly, it's all music books and scores. So many scores.
It's likely I am subconciously putting off unpacking all these, because chances are good that weepy, nostalgic Sandy will come out of hiding during the process. Thank goodness he stopped drinking.
Wait! Am I now really, publicly narrating about myself in the third person?
I'm calm.
(from Essgee Productions 1998 revival of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum)
One evening in the not too distant past, I stood inconsolably weeping on the mezzanine of an old Melbourne townhouse, teetering over the edge of the shoddy railing and wondering if slamming my body against the many furnishings below would sufficiently break my neck and put an end to the chaos, or simply leave me in a similar vegetative state through which I’d watched my wide-eyed grandmother suffer during the last 20 years of her life. At that point, my partner at the time, estranged but caring, thrust a piece of paper toward me. It was a printed checklist of signs and symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder.
I fell to my knees, then and there, and read the list. Ticking all nine boxes, I was left reeling. My tears stopped abruptly. My shaking diminished. The violently floating Tetris blocks crashing about in my head began to slow and settle against each other, perhaps not fitting properly, but coming to a rest.
This was me. This was my head. This was my life, and it had been for countless years. I wasn’t nuttier than squirrel shit after all. I wasn’t simply a “spoiled brat”. And I wasn’t just a drunk. I was sick. I was treatable. Moreover, I wasn’t alone. Through some strange alchemy of the human condition, my hot tears of anguish became cooling tears of relief.
Any so my journey to mental health recovery began. To this day, it continues, as it will for the rest of my life. It isn’t easy, nor did I expect to be. But just as there are pitfalls and slippery rungs on the ladder to light, there are also a great many celebrations. Most days, I find beauty and belonging in everyone and everything I see in this slice of heaven on the far South Coast of NSW. Some days it’s hard to scrape aside the muck and let that heavenliness shine through. Eventually, however, it always does. And I relish every second of it.
I am grateful to my ex-partner for bringing about the awareness. I am thankful for the prayers, light and goodness sent upon me by friends far and wide. I am forever in awe of the pragmatic and (relatively) drama-free folks in AA, who serve as endless inspiration to me. I am especially full of gratitude for the medical staff who have worked tirelessly and endlessly to look after me. You are my tribe, and I love you all.
My story isn’t over, so don’t leave your reading glasses too far behind. There are many exciting ventures ahead, and I’ll be sharing them little by little. Sandy Ver5.8
I feel like blogging. And not just any blogging, but the sort I did years ago, during the hey-day of the genre.
The topic? Romantic inclination. (See those seatbelts? You may want to buckle them.)
So it turns out that I'm seeing a guy. Yes, that's right. I am *seeing* him.
Who knew? I spent three years in a gay mecca after the split with my ex, and no one paid much interest.* And now that I've moved south to an exceedingly rural (albeit LOVELY) location, I have a suitor. Go figure.
To be honest, I like this man. I like him a lot. We knew each other a couple decades ago in Arizona, but we never had a chance to foment a friendship. Now, however, all that has changed. Thank you, Facebook.
I don't know what the future brings. I do know that as of a few weeks ago, we at least Viber (free texting) each day. And we also Skype. A lot. (In fact, a helluva lot.) I'm not complaining.
Wait! Skype, Viber? Why not just meet up? While that is an awesome question, dear Reader, it is also one I hate to answer.
He lives in the US. I live in Australia. Math, anyone?
He and I don't talk much about the elephant sitting in the corner. (I think that creature must migrate easily, because sometimes she haunts me and sometimes him. I keep meaning to ask her how she travels so readily.)
I only know that I am very fond of this beautiful, beardy, smart, funny man. I will attempt a mindful approach to this burgeoning [whatever]. If it works, you know I'll be dancing. If not, then I have known a man who helped me transition from nothing to something. Oh, okay, much more than something. So much for playing it cool.
___________________
* Except for the occasional 18 y/o on Grindr. Really?
Today is the three-year anniversary of my father's departure from this world. In his memory, I helped my housemate build some fence, something Dad did often. Every time I look at my vegetable garden, I think of him. I could use his advice.
I really loved my dad, and I'm glad that he and I were able to spend a fair amount of time together during his final years.
My advice: do all that you can to reach out to the ones you love, to whatever extent you are able. All too soon, they are gone from your lives.
Like many, I grew up listening to the vinyl albums in my parents' record collection. My father was a pretty decent baritone and had a solid collection of albums by prominent singers of his time, eg, Perry Como, Andy Williams and Johnny Mathis. In my bedroom, I secretly played these albums and sang along...when no one was around, that is, for I was told by certain family members that I couldn't sing and should stick to the clarinet.
When my high-school choir director discovered my voice at a musical theatre audition during my sophomore year, she grabbed me by the ear, dragged me to the corner of the gymnasium and hissed sternly, but affectionately, "If you don't sign up for choir next year, I'm going to pull this ear off."
I do as I'm told, and the next year I signed up for choir. Soon, I was singing in nearly every ensemble possible, from choir to pop group. I began taking private voice lessons, and singing rapidly found its place, along with clarinet and theatre, on my shelf of favourite activities.
My poor parents just shook their heads as they saw me dive right into yet another artistic endeavour that would cost them a good penny to support. I look back in admiration and with intense love for that support, unwavering and nonjudgemental.
"Jenny", by Johnny Mathis (words and music by Paul Vance and Jack Segal) was the first song I ever sang as a solo at a school assembly during my junior year. When my choir director asked what I wanted to sing and I presented this song, she didn't bat an eyelid. Yes, it was exceptionally anachronistic, and I have no doubt it caused a good bit of head-scratching among the students and faculty. But I had grown up with the song, and it seemed only right for me to sing it. And sing it, I did, trembling and ready to faint at any moment. And at the end of the song, there was applause, from my teachers and fellow students. The appreciation was hesitant, but I was happy to hear it after many years of being told to shut up while singing along with the radio.
Just when I was concerned that my therapist and I were in need of direction, now that crisis-mode seems to be over, an event occurred.
That event was me realising that, during a low moment resulting in a pep talk to myself in which I swore an oath that I was not going to my next session feeling depressed, there's no one left to impress. So I 'm trying to impress my therapist.
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