i've updated my website. please visit!
now offering thai yoga bodywork...mmm, give it a try you won't regret it. so good for you!
i organized my yoga/massage room in my house, it is now clean and organized. what a nice feeling.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
ouchies
I wake up in the morning. I sit up slowly, sit on the edge of the bed. I feel stiffness in my lower back. Other areas feel sore from exercise the day before but this pales in comparison. It doesn't register. Only now, thinking away from the situation, do I feel these other little aches. It's the lower back region that immediately grabs me and forces me to stare at it.
I feel people who live with chronic pain are very misunderstood. They might be taken for being selfish, narcissistic even, instead of simply in a great deal of pain. Feeling pain every single day is a blessing and a curse all rolled into one. I've been thinking lately how chronic pain has made for a great deal of depression in my life. Feelings of helplessness, loneliness, unworthiness, and oftentimes feeling suicidal because there is no "end" in sight. Many times desperate attempts have been made to feel relief: a back crack, a neck crack, an alcoholic beverage, sleep, mindless eating, over-exercising, crying and feeling sorry for myself. Most of these actions were taken when I still worked behind a desk, sitting for very long periods of time, which ultimately led to the deepest pain I've ever experienced on a regular basis. There are days now when I feel angry because I don't make a lot of money, and I feel helpless as I remember that I actually can not go back to what I used to do for money: work at a desk 9-5.
Why does this make me feel helpless? The thought process usually goes something like this: I am frustrated because I want to make more money, there is a moment where I ask myself why I feel this way? And this (evil) part of me usually steps in to say, obviously, that this isn't the point - the point is that because of my back I can not work a 9-5 job, even if I wanted to. This makes me feel helpless...and pissed off. At what? My back, the situation, the people who don't take this issue seriously, the overeating I did yesterday because I just didn't care, the car I drive because I have to sit in it, all the people who just don't get it because they don't feel pain on a daily basis, you get the picture.
Do I sound sorry for myself? I kind of am. It's been a long, long time I've been feeling this way. It's become habit. Nowadays I realize this, and then continue to beat myself up for feeling this way - obviously not the solution. Just another mess. I try to be aware that I'm ok, in fact I'm more than ok, it takes a lot for me not to jump on the pity train and go far far away. It's as if being on that train is sort of what helps me to understand. I wish some other people were on the train with me.
I do have people in my life to talk to, but I'd like someone who really gets it, who identifies with the very real issue of chronic pain and the debilitating effects it can cause on a life.
In this moment I am irritated because my back hurts bad as I sit here and write this. I took a yoga class this morning, felt fine immediately following, and now the pain is back.
I know that people can feel quite unsettled when they hear other people complain. I don't want to complain, I want to share, to relate to someone, someone to relate to me. I think I just need to verbalize some deep-set feelings within, I'm not sure people take chronic pain seriously. Our society wants you to just get better. To shut up, and just deal with it. They believe a sickness is temporary, there's a medicine to fix it, a surgery to fix it, right? So strange, this situation to be in, so frustrating. It makes me feel...aloof, alone. Maybe I am unique.
I guess I'll leave it with a quote that runs through my mind almost every day by Ani Difranco:
"Would you prefer the easy way? No? Well ok then don't cry."
I feel people who live with chronic pain are very misunderstood. They might be taken for being selfish, narcissistic even, instead of simply in a great deal of pain. Feeling pain every single day is a blessing and a curse all rolled into one. I've been thinking lately how chronic pain has made for a great deal of depression in my life. Feelings of helplessness, loneliness, unworthiness, and oftentimes feeling suicidal because there is no "end" in sight. Many times desperate attempts have been made to feel relief: a back crack, a neck crack, an alcoholic beverage, sleep, mindless eating, over-exercising, crying and feeling sorry for myself. Most of these actions were taken when I still worked behind a desk, sitting for very long periods of time, which ultimately led to the deepest pain I've ever experienced on a regular basis. There are days now when I feel angry because I don't make a lot of money, and I feel helpless as I remember that I actually can not go back to what I used to do for money: work at a desk 9-5.
Why does this make me feel helpless? The thought process usually goes something like this: I am frustrated because I want to make more money, there is a moment where I ask myself why I feel this way? And this (evil) part of me usually steps in to say, obviously, that this isn't the point - the point is that because of my back I can not work a 9-5 job, even if I wanted to. This makes me feel helpless...and pissed off. At what? My back, the situation, the people who don't take this issue seriously, the overeating I did yesterday because I just didn't care, the car I drive because I have to sit in it, all the people who just don't get it because they don't feel pain on a daily basis, you get the picture.
Do I sound sorry for myself? I kind of am. It's been a long, long time I've been feeling this way. It's become habit. Nowadays I realize this, and then continue to beat myself up for feeling this way - obviously not the solution. Just another mess. I try to be aware that I'm ok, in fact I'm more than ok, it takes a lot for me not to jump on the pity train and go far far away. It's as if being on that train is sort of what helps me to understand. I wish some other people were on the train with me.
I do have people in my life to talk to, but I'd like someone who really gets it, who identifies with the very real issue of chronic pain and the debilitating effects it can cause on a life.
In this moment I am irritated because my back hurts bad as I sit here and write this. I took a yoga class this morning, felt fine immediately following, and now the pain is back.
I know that people can feel quite unsettled when they hear other people complain. I don't want to complain, I want to share, to relate to someone, someone to relate to me. I think I just need to verbalize some deep-set feelings within, I'm not sure people take chronic pain seriously. Our society wants you to just get better. To shut up, and just deal with it. They believe a sickness is temporary, there's a medicine to fix it, a surgery to fix it, right? So strange, this situation to be in, so frustrating. It makes me feel...aloof, alone. Maybe I am unique.
I guess I'll leave it with a quote that runs through my mind almost every day by Ani Difranco:
"Would you prefer the easy way? No? Well ok then don't cry."
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
now or never
it's now or never...time to take my workout routine out of the gym and into my own hands. it is the only time i see results and stick with it. by doing Ellen Barrett dvds at home, and other dvds, I feel way better and get a more well-rounded workout. i also need to get into taking Turtle for long walks again. i used to be very dedicated to my home workout regimen and really enjoyed it and the results. now is the time to begin again. what goes around comes around!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
poetry from 2002...wowzers
can it be
that you were there
just for me
that I counted it down
and then you came
I know (it is fact) that you followed me so well tonight
Because I saw you (watched you closely)
didn’t know you
but liked
your ideas
I could read them in you
you came to
!me!
and everything has echoed ever since
you came
to that road!
Where I exited,
you entered
your blood was warm inside your shoes
(I liked your socks)
and you
looking over your shoulder
as if the first few were not enough
but
(oh my god)
they were.
--
4.20.02
I’m so much lighter than you!
You were there, warming
Getting ready-oh my
(god god sweet I love this place lift me up hiiigher)
I’m lighter than you!
When you were young, I came to you
Where you were
I knew it by heart
I memorized it without you knowing
And I ran there every single night for a year
To be light with you and your touch
That gives me such a nostalgic essence
It takes me away from now
It brings me back to where I used to belong
With you
Nothing was so wrong then
Except empty blades of grass
I sang to you on the weekends
Handed you my hand
I rested my headache on your lap
Counted all of your hairs and
Warmed you
--
stay oh my god why don’t you?
I just warned you
It’s not enough?
Sweet you
Be wicked with me!
I’d love for you to
Be by my side
During each meal
I’d turn and smile
I’d love you
I’d turn your eyes into light.
that you were there
just for me
that I counted it down
and then you came
I know (it is fact) that you followed me so well tonight
Because I saw you (watched you closely)
didn’t know you
but liked
your ideas
I could read them in you
you came to
!me!
and everything has echoed ever since
you came
to that road!
Where I exited,
you entered
your blood was warm inside your shoes
(I liked your socks)
and you
looking over your shoulder
as if the first few were not enough
but
(oh my god)
they were.
--
4.20.02
I’m so much lighter than you!
You were there, warming
Getting ready-oh my
(god god sweet I love this place lift me up hiiigher)
I’m lighter than you!
When you were young, I came to you
Where you were
I knew it by heart
I memorized it without you knowing
And I ran there every single night for a year
To be light with you and your touch
That gives me such a nostalgic essence
It takes me away from now
It brings me back to where I used to belong
With you
Nothing was so wrong then
Except empty blades of grass
I sang to you on the weekends
Handed you my hand
I rested my headache on your lap
Counted all of your hairs and
Warmed you
--
stay oh my god why don’t you?
I just warned you
It’s not enough?
Sweet you
Be wicked with me!
I’d love for you to
Be by my side
During each meal
I’d turn and smile
I’d love you
I’d turn your eyes into light.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
New Hope
wrote this a while back, too. to my friend Ashley, we've definitely talked since i wrote this (4.14.2004), but not as much as i would like. miss this.
---
Dear Ashley,
I’m near the water now, standing on the bridge, minutes from the dozens of shops we used to almost live in, and I’m very close to your favorite, the one with the stickers and candles you like so much. It’s very rainy, but I’m fine. The rain lets the water do its thing, straddling the legs of the bridge and punching the sides of the land with great strength. How are you? I want to find the love those shop owners once shoved in our faces—I wonder if our giggles that followed were riddles to their ears, or if inside there existed a kind of connection. I remember watching the ducks in that one pond, near the theater, and I would look at you and them, you and them, and then most likely we’d head to lunch after a cigarette. Summers are beautiful here. In my old car, before it went far off that road and died, we listened to good music, music we understood and felt. So many dollars we let melt out of the ATMs and into cash registers. But it didn’t matter, the future didn’t exist to us then, nothing else did except the streets with unusual shops and food and people. Now, today, I’m alone. No one I know is here, I can’t feel, and I’m hungry. I just went to that one ice cream shop that has the almond flavor we adored, with the mean employees that always seemed extremely bored with life. And the stairs where up top we threw away our cares and turned to books and magazines. In a desperate attempt I guess to somehow ignore the cold rain drops on me, I’m thinking of that place as I write you. And it’s working, kind of. We are slightly stoned as we saunter along the brightly lit streets. We just indulged in the almond flavored ice cream and I see that the summer is working hard for us, the night is lovely, and the idea comes to me that we should get tattoos. Tattoos below our shoes, I say. On our feet. Like sisters, friends, good friends, forever. But neither happened: not the tattooed feet, not the part about forever. That’s why I’m writing this letter, because this place is beautiful still, even when it’s raining hard, you’re still slipping through the cracks of the sidewalk as I check the clock above the bank and climb the stretch back to my car. Here I go again shouting aimlessly until there is no end, whispering to you the silent story of my life. I say whispering because I do not call, I write instead, as if all is ok when the truth is that I miss you terribly. Perhaps we’ll talk one day, maybe here at the restaurant with the outside seating. Do you think I’m asking too much? God knows I want the tea with all the sugar. He knows that I want the thick milk to stir it with. And when I sip the power, he also knows that I often think of you. I know I’m selfish and I’m so afraid to find out the truth that I hide in it because I can’t admit that I want to know the answer. I want two years ago back: when we shook our hips around and around and our eyes never once touched the ground. I still want to dance the streets at midnight with you, bow to the fancy moon at dawn, wrinkle our noses at people. I want to wear a morbid face as we swallow espresso in unison. I want to bow to the goddess, although our heads held high, drink from the almighty sky, then fall below into a shop with trashy hippie skirts. Perfect insanity led us to each other. Gotta love New Hope. Gotta love us.
---
Dear Ashley,
I’m near the water now, standing on the bridge, minutes from the dozens of shops we used to almost live in, and I’m very close to your favorite, the one with the stickers and candles you like so much. It’s very rainy, but I’m fine. The rain lets the water do its thing, straddling the legs of the bridge and punching the sides of the land with great strength. How are you? I want to find the love those shop owners once shoved in our faces—I wonder if our giggles that followed were riddles to their ears, or if inside there existed a kind of connection. I remember watching the ducks in that one pond, near the theater, and I would look at you and them, you and them, and then most likely we’d head to lunch after a cigarette. Summers are beautiful here. In my old car, before it went far off that road and died, we listened to good music, music we understood and felt. So many dollars we let melt out of the ATMs and into cash registers. But it didn’t matter, the future didn’t exist to us then, nothing else did except the streets with unusual shops and food and people. Now, today, I’m alone. No one I know is here, I can’t feel, and I’m hungry. I just went to that one ice cream shop that has the almond flavor we adored, with the mean employees that always seemed extremely bored with life. And the stairs where up top we threw away our cares and turned to books and magazines. In a desperate attempt I guess to somehow ignore the cold rain drops on me, I’m thinking of that place as I write you. And it’s working, kind of. We are slightly stoned as we saunter along the brightly lit streets. We just indulged in the almond flavored ice cream and I see that the summer is working hard for us, the night is lovely, and the idea comes to me that we should get tattoos. Tattoos below our shoes, I say. On our feet. Like sisters, friends, good friends, forever. But neither happened: not the tattooed feet, not the part about forever. That’s why I’m writing this letter, because this place is beautiful still, even when it’s raining hard, you’re still slipping through the cracks of the sidewalk as I check the clock above the bank and climb the stretch back to my car. Here I go again shouting aimlessly until there is no end, whispering to you the silent story of my life. I say whispering because I do not call, I write instead, as if all is ok when the truth is that I miss you terribly. Perhaps we’ll talk one day, maybe here at the restaurant with the outside seating. Do you think I’m asking too much? God knows I want the tea with all the sugar. He knows that I want the thick milk to stir it with. And when I sip the power, he also knows that I often think of you. I know I’m selfish and I’m so afraid to find out the truth that I hide in it because I can’t admit that I want to know the answer. I want two years ago back: when we shook our hips around and around and our eyes never once touched the ground. I still want to dance the streets at midnight with you, bow to the fancy moon at dawn, wrinkle our noses at people. I want to wear a morbid face as we swallow espresso in unison. I want to bow to the goddess, although our heads held high, drink from the almighty sky, then fall below into a shop with trashy hippie skirts. Perfect insanity led us to each other. Gotta love New Hope. Gotta love us.
hands and feet are all alike, but gold between divides us
some ooolllddd writings. circa 2004.
---
I want you to be more focused
on poetry, my ass, eyes, smile, and lips,
on the fact that we don’t have serious conversations.
I’d like for you to rub my back, soft and hard,
and thank me for letting you do it,
wanting to envelope me afterward, kissing my naked back, bare shoulders.
What is it with us? Are we ok?
I can’t stop looking in the mirror and I feel that this is a problem.
---
trying not to be loud by crying
trying not to cry loud while crying
desperately seeking someone to listen to me cry and not say a thing just
hold my entire body against theirs for a very
very long time.
---
Free write....
The time you went to a drugstore wearing red and wanted a hat but you will never look good in hats. Instead buy fish so that you can be free when you look at them, they’re cheap anyway, and very pretty. Free. They’re free unlike you who are taken by a girl under your belt you are wet by her and you are not strong enough to leave the vulnerable thoughts behind and concentrate on life rather than love. It is night and I’m sitting across the table at the library with Gerard. I am stating the obvious while he draws lines with a ruler with a pencil on a white piece of paper. He is concentrating and busy. My back is out of line, again, I am too strange to care, I care but I’m lazy and without money to go to the doctor. I need a massage. Maybe I’ll get a massage. Get rid of all the bad in my muscles and bones, let it crack healthily instead of by me, a forced crack that kills and injures, doesn’t help.
---
Sorry, sad Jeff Buckley music.
So sorrowful, so full
of words that most humans are afraid to speak
---
a girl at the bar in white pants
sings it.
Sings the songs that make her feel neat,
in place.
---
I want you to be more focused
on poetry, my ass, eyes, smile, and lips,
on the fact that we don’t have serious conversations.
I’d like for you to rub my back, soft and hard,
and thank me for letting you do it,
wanting to envelope me afterward, kissing my naked back, bare shoulders.
What is it with us? Are we ok?
I can’t stop looking in the mirror and I feel that this is a problem.
---
trying not to be loud by crying
trying not to cry loud while crying
desperately seeking someone to listen to me cry and not say a thing just
hold my entire body against theirs for a very
very long time.
---
Free write....
The time you went to a drugstore wearing red and wanted a hat but you will never look good in hats. Instead buy fish so that you can be free when you look at them, they’re cheap anyway, and very pretty. Free. They’re free unlike you who are taken by a girl under your belt you are wet by her and you are not strong enough to leave the vulnerable thoughts behind and concentrate on life rather than love. It is night and I’m sitting across the table at the library with Gerard. I am stating the obvious while he draws lines with a ruler with a pencil on a white piece of paper. He is concentrating and busy. My back is out of line, again, I am too strange to care, I care but I’m lazy and without money to go to the doctor. I need a massage. Maybe I’ll get a massage. Get rid of all the bad in my muscles and bones, let it crack healthily instead of by me, a forced crack that kills and injures, doesn’t help.
---
Sorry, sad Jeff Buckley music.
So sorrowful, so full
of words that most humans are afraid to speak
---
a girl at the bar in white pants
sings it.
Sings the songs that make her feel neat,
in place.
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