Admitting that you're still not over it

I have something I want to say, but I'm not sure I can put it into words and have it make sense to anyone else. That's why I've never said it before and am not sure I should now. And why I'm rambling like this is a super huge big deal, but to me I guess it is.

Once upon a time, about 11 years ago I spent most of the year living and working in Dubai. Anyone who knows me or has known me for a long time knows this, but now and then I mention it to someone at work and they are surprised. I don't talk about it much and find myself changing the conversation topic though because it makes me sad. Sad because leaving there makes me feel like I failed at something, something big, and I'll never have another chance at it again. So I don't talk about it or think about it and therefore don't have to deal with my issues of failure - whether it is true failure or all in my own little noggin'.

I'm thinking about it today, however, because in a nifty turn of events, next weekend I get to travel a couple of hours north of my current hometown and have a visit with my boss from that short time overseas. I haven't seen her since that day almost exactly 11 years ago that I walked out of the gates of the school where I worked and headed back to the US, so I'm pretty excited that we'll get to visit and catch up on each other's lives.

After we talked on the phone last night to solidify some plans, I found myself crying and I couldn't figure out why. That's when I realized that I really do not talk about having lived in Dubai or the reason that I left - fear. I was there on September 11, 2001 when the World Trade Center in NYC was attacked and so many were killed. I also had a horrible bout of food poisoning that day, so it was pretty miserable watching news coverage and being so far from home and violently ill. And that event gave me an escape route out of a situation that was only starting to level out.

I was told when I went over that it would take about 6 months to a year to really acclimate and get used to living in a new place and be ok with it and boy was that true. I had moved over in February and by mid-August, when the new school year started, I was finally starting to feel better about things. I realized that yes, I had made some friends there and had people to hang out with. Things were looking up and then this happened and I let the fear take over and I ran. I ran away. I failed. And I'm still pretty unhappy about that 11 years later.

I don't want to lay blame on anyone else, but I think if my family had been more supportive while I was gone, then I would have been better able to stand on solid footing and stay. It's not that they were unsupportive per se, but I remember calling home one time because I was so homesick and my father not wanting to talk too long because it would run up long distance - very long distance - charges. Then I would hear other people talk about having hour long phone conversations with family back in the US and once again I would be sad. Maybe if it had been in the age of Facebook and international texting and all that then things would have been easier because I could have communicated with family and friends back home faster and easier and more often. I would not have felt so isolated. But I did feel isolated and alone and am so thankful for my friend Cynthia who took me under her wing during the time I was there. I would not have made it through without her.

I was only home for about a month when I realized what a mistake it was to have moved back. I should have stayed. I shouldn't have made a fast decision to leave, but we were on a time table with the "out" we were given in our contracts should be choose to use it. I think if I'd had a month or so to calm down then I think I would have chosen to stay and work out my 3 year contract. If I allow myself, I think about what "might have been" if I'd stayed, but I know dwelling on that is an exercise in futility. So I really do not think or talk about that time in Dubai so that I don't dwell on it and get myself all riled up and start wallowing in the big, fat failure of the whole thing. (Yeah yeah yeah, it was a life lesson and blah blah blah whatever shut up I can bitch about this if I want to.)

Not long after I came back to the States, I was interviewing for a new job and trying to explain why I had left Dubai after only 8 months and even though it was barely 1 month since the September 11th attacks, the people I was talking to did not get it. Truly. They did not understand why I had left. Sure, I did not say I was afraid and felt unsupported by family and friends in the States (who, regardless of whether they will own up to it or not, all were behaving as if I should drop everything and pack up and move home although now I get comments like, "You didn't stay long enough for me to come visit!" as if that's the only thought they had ever had about me being over there) and so I tucked tail and ran home, but I would have thought people would "get it" about why I left, but some of them didn't seem to.

Once I was back in a job a few months later, I found myself also going to therapy for all the anxiety that the major life changes had caused me. I was sad about having come home and couldn't shake it, plus I was in a job that was not right for me and where the boss seemed to dislike me so I'm not sure why he even hired me to begin with. I had no friends and no life outside of work and was mostly hiding out in my apartment. No wonder I needed therapy! And group therapy is amazing. Everyone should try it if only because you realized that your problems are so microscopic in comparison with some of what other people are going through. Ultimately therapy helped and when I moved again in a year I was in a much better place and agreed with a new therapist that I didn't need to keep going regularly unless something happened and I felt that I really needed it.

But still... it's been 11 years and I really don't like to talk about living over there because inevitably the question comes up of why I left and while I can explain it to people (and generally even admit that I left because I was afraid), I really don't think they understand. I really, really don't. And I don't know how to make them understand even a tiny little fraction of how I felt or why this was and still is a big deal to me. Even as I type this I'm starting to tear up and wanting to make a break for the restroom (note to self: never blog about emotional things on your lunch hour while in the office) and have a good cry and just get all that pent up emotion out of me. Hopefully I won't do that to Sue when I see her on Sunday and start the waterworks, but I'm afraid I might. Because that time in Dubai might have been long ago and far away now, but it still lives in me and I never get to talk about it or see anyone that was there with me then. I've never had the closure that I need to get over it all and move on and by suppressing it all I know that isn't healthy either, but...I dunno. I don't know what else I want to say right now, but I needed to get that out and if you'll excuse me, I think I might have to make a break for the restroom anyway and have that cry. I've got to get this out of me and get to a healthier place. One where I don't think of this as a huge failure anymore. One where I learn whatever life lessons this was supposed to teach me. One where maybe I can forgive myself for what I consider one of the greatest mistakes of my life - not believing I was strong enough.

I'm about to have a birthday so I'm getting introspective. Bear with me.

The older I get, the more I understand, well, a lot of stuff I guess.  But recently I have been thinking a lot about what is "appropriate" behavior for people at various ages.  We talk about how children should act a certain way and if a 10-year-old is throwing a temper tantrum, down on the floor actually thrashing around in a full-scale screaming fit, then the majority of folks agree that the child in question is too old to be doing something like that.  We get older and make mistakes and someone says, "You are old enough to have known better". Or maybe we say that to ourselves in certain instances. It keeps going on and on and at various ages and in various stages of our lives there are societal norms that we are expected to adhere to.  Or rather, they are there and people think we should adhere to them. 

As I get older I am struck by how I refuse to have those "norms" apply to me at times.  Actually, that's not an accurate statement because I'm not a rebellious person and I'm not bucking convention or anything like that, but I'm not sure how to phrase what makes total sense in my head.  *sigh*  Story of my life.  Anysnootch,  I'm nearly 41-years-old and standard/normal/traditional/whatever society says I should be married with a couple of kids and a house in the burbs and a nice little job with a nice little life. Or maybe that is my assumption of what I believe society thinks.  Or maybe I'm right.  Meh. Whatever.  Back to anysnootching...Whatever it is I'm supposed to be is not what I am. Or maybe what I am is exactly what I am supposed to be (I think I'm finally on the right track here...), but for some reason it doesn't seem to be what I should be. How I should be/act/think/whatever.



Attempting to get back to my original thought processes... When I was younger I used to think that adults should act a certain way, behave in a certain manner. They didn't go out to bars and clubs and stayed home with their kids and had family game nights and basically grew up and calmed down and changed who they were.  But you can't change who you are, not down at your core.  Who we are is who. we. are. no matter what age we are. So as I grow older I'm just becoming more of who I have always been. I'm still not really sure just who that is or who I will ultimately be when I die - which could be tomorrow or could be 40 years down the road - but I appreciate having the knowledge and self-awareness that while the thoughts we think and the opinions we have may change over time, who we are won't necessarily change on some basic levels.  Hopefully that means we'll all become better, not worse, versions of ourselves as we age and grow, but again, it's nice to know that if I live to be 90, I'll still be me.  Probably still listening to 80s hair bands and thinking David Bryan is super hot (although if I live to be 90 he'll be 101), refusing to wear makeup unless I have no choice and, knowing me, still bleaching my hair blond.  Or maybe just wearing that hot pink wig I've always wanted...

Home sweet (former) home

Not long after I moved (which hasn't been that long ago at all really), a couple of friends asked me if I missed my house.  My easy, and oh-so-true, answer was no, I don't miss it. While I loved my house, it was a lot of work.  All I can think of now when I think of the house is having to mow the lawn all the time and having to keep it clean. My every Saturday morning revolved around getting up and trying to get in some kind of workout, followed by cleaning the house. Mostly so it was in good condition on the off chance that a potential buyer would come along to look at it.  That became my life every week, for a couple of years at least.  So the joy of owning a home and having space that I could decorate in whatever way I chose was soon lost to the reality that I had to paint over colors that I liked and remove items that I wanted and used just so some anonymous buyer could envision themselves in the space.  Personally, all the process of selling my home did was make me dislike home buyers intensely.  I think if you can't look beyond whatever you are seeing and envision what you want a place to look like then it's your problem, not mine.  I really resented having to do all that work, constantly, to make the place look good for someone else. I stopped being able to enjoy my own home and that makes me sad.  Because I really did love that house. Not everything about it and not every minute, but it was (and still is) a great house. I hope the new owners are enjoying it.

I drove by last weekend when I was in town just to look and see how the sunflowers were doing. I planted the seeds about 2 weeks before the offer finally came in on the house.  The lone survive smack in front of the house is HUGE and so much taller than I ever imagined.  Honestly, it could be 10 feet tall.  That's insane.  The other patch that sprung up seems to be doing well and all in all, everything is the same except for the chidlren's toys in the back driveway and that huge eyesore of an inflatable pool in the backyard.  But hey, less grass to mow and I'm all for that.

I was going through the pictures in my Photobucket account today and came across some oldies of my house that I thought I'd post.  I changed the house alot over the 7 or 8 years I lived there and the new owners will change it more as they live there I know.

When I bought the house, the kitchen and den area looked like this.

Looking at these pictures, I kinda miss the original paneling in that room.  If I could have afforded it, I would have changed out the carpet instead. Never could afford new carpet.

 

 

  And then eventually it didn't look like any of that, but I don't seem to have any pictures of it.  Ah well.

Of all the wacko colors in this house when I bought it, the one I understand least was this gold leaf-type paint job on the master bedroom walls.  And those curtains! I gave them to a friend to use the fabric and to this day we call them "The Bordello Curtains" since she thought they belonged in a New Orleans cathouse!

A much better upgrade, if I do say so myself.  And I do.

As God is my witness, I had no idea how green that paint was going to turn out to be. Honest.  This didn't last long, but long enough to burn the eyes of many visitors to my humble abode.

The living room never changed much.

Eventually I did have to paint over my lovely purple door.  I was not pleased.  Black is so boring.

A much better choice of greens!

Enough pic spam for today.  Hope everyone and anyone reading this is having a great July 4th holiday!

Movin' right along

Anyone who knows me knows that I moved a couple of weeks ago.  I'm pretty settled in already and while I wish I had more space in my apartment (it's challenging to move from a house to a smaller apartment), I'm going to look at this as a chance to purge more of the "stuff" I've collected over the years rather than keep thinking of it as needing more space since I have things to fill up the space. 

A couple of friends have asked me this past week if I miss my house and the answer is no. I loved that house. I really and truly did. If I hadn't had to move for work reasons I'd have kept that house indefinitely I am sure. It was a great place with lots of space, but I did have 3 rooms I never used.  Except to fill up with "stuff"!  I feel like I should miss my house, so the fact that I don't is a bit odd to me.  I guess I was more ready to let go than I thought I would be.  So I say good for me!

And now, moving madness in pictures!

Bathroom cleaned and empty and Pooh was ready to move on!

I have too much stuff.  Anyone want some stuff??

Why do we always forget that after you pack, you have to UNpack???

Looks a leeeeetle bit better now that things are unpacked.

Some day I'll use matching pillow cases.  Maybe.  And I might even put the comforter on the bed.  Possibly.

Mysterious ways

I was driving home from work today thinking about, well, a lot of things. I drive a lot and therefore have time to think a lot.  About this and that.  And sometimes the other.  In the midst of all this thinking, my mind jumped over to thinking about The Mystery Man.  And as I said in this blog post of many, many months ago, I said a little prayer for him. That he is well and happy and I thanked God for having met him that day. Whoever he is.  Be well Mystery Man. I'll never forget you.

Ruminations of God and Band-Aids

Every day for well over a year now, when I am walking to and from the lower parking lot at my office, I’ve seen a Band-Aid stuck to the sidewalk. I’m not sure who lost it or why they didn’t realize it and stop to pick it up, but it’s been there so long that I can’t truly remember how long I’ve been seeing it.


At first, I thought I’d get a paper towel or some latex gloves (I work in a medical facility, so that’s not a hard thing to do) and pick it up and dispose of it, but I never did. Then I thought eventually the rain would wash it away, but no such luck. And then I thought, surely someone else will see this every day and decide to pick it up and dispose of it. But I guess they all felt like I did and at some point, you really don’t want to touch something like that. Who knows how many feet – both human and the stray cat I see around that area – have walked over it. Birds, squirrels even.

Now, that Band-Aid is looking pretty rough. It’s a little mangled. A lot dirty. It’s been used, abused and thrown away. And we all walk over it – or in my case, around it – every day and for the most part, probably don’t give it a passing thought. But I look at it every day. Every day, twice a day. I’m not sure why, but I’ve been thinking about it and how it sticks. It sticks and no matter what is thrown at it, it’s there day after day.

I’ve also thought a lot about what I could say about this Band-Aid since it seems to fascinate me so much and walking into the office today I realized that Band-Aid is a lot like God and His love for us. It sticks. It may be used, battered, beaten, and abused by us, but it sticks. We may walk over it or around it. The rain may come and try to wash it away, but nothing can get rid of it. Even if someone picks it up and throws it away, the stickiness is still there – whether it’s God’s love for us or that gnarly old Band-Aid. The sticky stays.

So to anyone reading this out there in cyberspace – whether you are a believer or not – I hope that the sticky stays for you. God loves you and believes in you even if you don’t reciprocate and I sure am glad about that.

Still trapped in the body of a fat girl

Instead of writing another blog entry, I am reposting a link to something I wrote nearly 2 years ago, but that sadly applies to exactly how I'm thinking and feeling lately. 

Trapped in the Body of a Fat Girl

Once upon a time, I took a pottery class...

For several years I have wanted to take a pottery class that a friend of mine, Laura, teaches at the local art gallery.  Laura and I are veterans of working in the place that laid us both off a few years back, but we got the last laugh as we've both landed in what I would say are much better situations.  But still, finances always play a part in what I can or can't do and it wasn't until recently I could pull together some cash to take the 6-week class. 

Laura is a great teacher and the class is clearly a boon for those who want to try their hand at making pottery.  I can't say enough positive things about it on that end, but in the interest of full disclosure, I have to say that I didn't really enjoy it.  Don't get me wrong, I didn't hate it by any means, but it wasn't my thing.  Of course, if I hadn't gotten around to taking the class, I never would have known that, right?  Right.  Overall I am very glad to have taken the class and have some new pieces of artwork to show for it, but it's not something I'm interested in doing again.   Some of my work turned out pretty ok and a few pieces are somewhat homely, but one of them I actually tried to make uglier when I glazed it because it was already heading down that road, so why not! LOL

So what's up next for me?  I want to learn to juggle. I have to check out YouTube and see what kinds of instructional videos might lurk out there in cyberspace and see what I can teach myself.  No, I have no idea why I want to learn to juggle, I just think it would be fun to try it.

Before....

After...

This was was going along great on the wheel until I pulled out too much and thinned it out at the top so much that it basically exploded.  Or whatever you call it in pottery terms.

But in the end, I think it looks pretty ok when it was glazed, so I ended up liking it and not thinking it was particularly ugly.

Again, another potentially good piece that just kind got screwed up. But hey, it's all about the process, right?

I painted this one these colors in an attempt to make it hideously ugly because a friend/co-worker really wanted me to give her an ugly piece of pottery so she could re-gift it to someone.  But in the end, I think I like this too much to give it away. Not that it's gorgeous, but I made it and I can't really see parting with any of the stuff I made.  The color on the inside reminds me of an elementary school cafeteria circa 1977.

Adopting an Attitude of Adventure by Susan Ellingburg

I was reading this article earlier and thought it was definitely worth sharing with anyone who might mosey over here to my little corner of the blogoverse.

The original can be found here: Adopting an Attitude of Adventure

Adopting an Attitude of Adventure

Susan Ellingburg, Crosswalk.com Contributing Writer

Thursday, February 02, 2012

I once interviewed a delightful cookbook author from Georgia who got one of those ‘things to do before you die’ books for her sixtieth birthday and declared, “I’m going to open this book at random and whatever page I land on, I’ll do.” She confessed to me she was hoping for “visit a world-class spa” or something similar. What she got was “climb Mount Kilimanjaro.”

“And?” I asked.

“Oh, I did it,” she drawled. “Took me a couple years to train, but I did it.”

Now that’s an adventure. But so is taking a side road instead of the interstate, joining the church choir, or trying your hand at a soufflé instead of the usual PB&J. Adventures are not reserved for the rich, the young, the accomplished, or the brave. Adventure, my friends, is an attitude.

There’s a big difference between enduring each day and enjoying it. I’ve done both in my time and the second option is definitely best. What’s the point of life if you’re not going to live it? Having an attitude of adventure means being open to the possibilities. It means asking “I wonder” “What if” and “Why not?” It means shaking off the fog that covers us so much of the time, looking at life with a fresh perspective, and being willing to do something about it.

For the record, my personal style of adventure does not involve mountain climbing or pulling the kind of stunt that tends to land one on the evening news. It’s more the type of thing that tends to land me up to my elbows in boneless duck, at a private showing of a sculptor’s work, or . . . um . . . kicked out of Westminster Abbey. (But that’s a story for another day.) Regardless, I’ve never yet had an adventure that was not totally worth it.

For those who are new at this adventure thing, here are a few tips.

Advice for Would-Be Adventurers

•Pay attention. This is key: I can only imagine how many opportunities I miss every day because I’m not alert to the opportunities around me.

•Expect to enjoy yourself. If you decide in advance to have a good time, odds are you probably will. If you go looking for reasons to be unhappy, I promise you will find them.

•Take the first step. You don’t always need to take a huge leap of faith; often a little hop is all that’s required.

•Show interest. You may not think you care about the topic at hand, but you never know where it may go. Discussing a glassblower’s work led to a fabulous love story (they met in glass class but she didn’t speak English and it wasn’t until years later…), an up close and personal view of glassmaking in progress, and the gift of a hand-blown vase. And the best way to show interest is to…

•Ask questions. There’s nothing wrong with honest ignorance; only God is truly all-knowing. Most people love to share their expertise with someone willing to listen. “What made you decide to be a (whatever they are)?” “How did you learn to (do whatever it is they do)?” “You know that logo we see on TV, the one on the wall…?” Just ask! What’s the worst that can happen?

•Be sensible. Actually, “what’s the worst that can happen” is a valid question and one you should ask yourself at the start. The sculpture viewing mentioned earlier would have been a little creepy had there not been three of us and only one slightly loopy artist. Being sensible also helps keep expectations in check. Adventures come in all shapes and sizes; some are more exciting than others.

•Be nice. The old saying goes, “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar” and besides, it’s the right thing to do. Nice will take you far, whether it’s to the best steak you’ll ever eat in the middle of nowhere, the front row of a sold-out musical, or the inner sanctum of your favorite television network.

A Real-Life Example

My merry band of foodie friends and I were in New York to sing at Carnegie Hall—an adventure in itself, but that’s another story. We visited Chelsea Market, home of Food Network, with one goal: an “I was here” photo in front of the Food Network logo. Alas, the logo was nowhere to be found, even after totally unauthorized trips up random elevators in the faint hope of running into an Iron Chef. (We did stumble onto an imposing news network office, but mumbled excuses and hit the “down” button. Fast.)

We also spotted a notice about an event to be held the following day, which included an interview with the Food Network Test Kitchen’s Executive Chef. (Pay attention.) So we came back (take the first step) and had a marvelous time at the event. (Expect to enjoy yourself.) During the program we were an engaged audience (show interest). Once the program was over, we engaged the Chef in conversation and inquired about the logo. (Ask questions.) “It’s not anywhere you can get to,” he explained, “but…I can take you there.”

Which is how we got our own personal mini-tour of Chelsea Market, recommendations on restaurants and attractions, and a rather fabulous photo with not just the logo, but with the Executive Chef, as well. They were filming inside so we didn’t get a kitchen tour (be sensible) but it was a highlight of our trip nonetheless. We thanked Chef profusely (be nice) and I managed not to squeal like a little girl until the elevator was on its way down.

What if we hadn’t been able to take that photo? It still would have been a fun day, an out-of-the-ordinary experience, and an excellent adventure. It’s attitude, not outcome, that makes the difference.

The Best Adventure of All

One of my favorite adventurous people is author and speaker Luci Swindoll, who tells us: “The most important thing for each of us is to embrace and celebrate life for what it is. Being alive is a gift, and we will never exhaust all the adventures of possibilities that are ours because Jesus Christ has provided an inexhaustible legacy for us, established before the foundation of the world. Every day he opens new doors for us to walk through. He gives us a new way of looking at old problems. He challenges us to take him at his word as we consider how to resolve different dilemmas. He assures us of his constant presence. And here’s the best adventure of all—He lives in us! We can go anywhere and do anything, because the One who leads us never fails.” [i]

So, what do you think? Are you ready for an adventure?

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[i] I Married Adventure © 2002 Luci Swindoll. Published in Nashville, Tennessee by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission.

Susan Ellingburg is a natural-born Texan who sings at every opportunity, reads as much as possible, and cherishes every day she gets to spend with friends. She's a serious foodie and not-so-serious gardener who is determined not to let being single stand in the way of living an amazing life. Read Susan's blog at TastingGod.wordpress.com.