Thanks

I think I’m going to be done with blogging.

When I first started writing this blog, I needed to write.  I didn’t have an outlet.  I couldn’t say what I thought or felt.  Either I wasn’t brave enough to say it, or couldn’t identify it until I started hammering the words out on my keyboard; I’m still not sure which reason is the truth, and it’s most likely some combination of the two.  Regardless of the reason, I couldn’t talk.  This blog has allowed me to do that over the last two years, and to say in writing what I couldn’t say aloud. 

But I don’t need it any more.

It’s very cool to be able to say that.  To say that, right now, I am okay.  I feel whole.  Safe.  Joyful.  I’m in a good place.  I feel healthy for the first time in a long while, and I even like myself.  You have no idea what it means for me to say that.  I. Like. Myself. 

Over the last year or so, I feel like I’ve changed a lot.  I’ve grown into someone else.  Someone who’s a lot more comfortable with herself, and happy with who she’s becoming.  I thank God for that, and for all the other changes he’s allowed to happen within me throughout the last few months.  He’s helped me to do what I wanted to do.  Let go.  Grow up. 

I’ve still got a lot more growing up to do, and I recognize this.  Maybe I’ll start a new blog, at some point in the future.  If I do, I’ll be sure to let you all know.  Until then, thanks so much for traveling with me, and blessings to you all!

~Melissa

…Mom’s dating…

Watching your parents date is just weird.

My parents have been divorced for almost thirteen years, and my mom’s dated on and off throughout that time. The two most memorable men have been that one guy my sisters and I tied to our clothesline, and Jack, who my mom saw for about ten years. He’d live with us for a few years, and then they’d break up for a few months. He’d move back in with us, and they’d eventually break up again. It was a cute little cycle that repeated more than a few times.

So now mom’s dating this new guy. It’s odd to see her so enamored with someone again. Everything is Joey-this or Joey-that. It’s cute to see my mom so happy – she’s like a high school girl with a crush – but it’s also a little annoying. Especially since I don’t really like Joey.

While there are lots of little things about him that rub me the wrong way – for instance, he calls me “honey” like he actually knows me, has obnoxiously white teeth, and seems to be one of those guys who knows everything about everything – Joey’s got two main strikes against him. One being that he is not my father, and two being that he is dating my mother and, based solely on the fact that she is my mother, Joey cannot possibly be good enough for her.

Poor Joey.

Twisted.

“Call me if you need to.  Otherwise, I’ll see you in May, when you’re working full-time and completely freaking out about it.”

These were the parting words of Robin, my NP, earlier this afternoon.  Right before she patted me on the shoulder, wished me Merry Christmas, and sent me out of her office.

I sat in my car and cried.

May?

As in the May that’s five months from now?

I should be thrilled about this.  I should be shouting it from the rooftops.  I am healthy!  I am no longer required to make monthly trips to Robin’s office so she can check up on me – I don’t have to be weighed, or harassed, or see her again for a whole five months!

But I’m not thrilled about this.  Honestly, I think I’m struggling to even be happy about this.  How can I not see Robin every month?  How can I still be okay if she’s not checking up on me all the time?  My nurse practitioner has always been a safety net – how can I possibly be safe if she’s not there? 

I hate that this is bothering me so much; I feel like I’ve become the nightmare client who has no respect for professional boundaries.  I’m like that character on Monk, who gets upset when his therapist refuses to meet with him on the weekends.  Or the guy in What About Bob? who tracks his psychiatrist down while he’s away on vacation.

Maybe I am blowing things out of proportion – I will admit that I tend to do that sometimes – but that’s honestly what I feel like.  I’m nervous I won’t be okay, and I’m also worried that my relationship with Robin will change if I’m not so sick any more.  Isn’t that twisted?

Dimensions.

My daddy called me early this morning, before I was even awake, and left a message on my cell phone.  “I just wanted you to know that I love you.  I don’t know if you remember what today’s date is, but it’s …um… it’s an emotional day for me and … um… I just wanted to let you know that I love you.”

Today’s date?  What’s today’s date?  My cell phone’s beeping woke me up, and, listening to the message in my semi-conscious state, I had trouble remembering that today marks the third anniversary of my grandmother’s death.

 Oh.

So I started off this morning thinking about people dying, and about relationships changing.  Daddy used to try and tell me that that’s what life is all about; relationships changing or ending, and new ones being formed.  I didn’t believe him back then.  Of course my best friend from high school would be my best friend until I died – how could she not be? 

I love looking back and reflecting on all the relationships I’ve had in my short little lifetime.  So many of the ones that I thought were so significant in the moment have only lasted for a season or two.  And then there are others –relationships that I can’t explain and that should never have been – which have slowly developed over the years and become so deep and meaningful that I can’t imagine my life without them.  I think about all of the dimensions that have been added to my life because of the various people who have walked through it, and I realize how very blessed I am.  Each person has left me with something, or helped to teach me something valuable.

Maybe daddy is right. Maybe life really is all about relationships.

Peggy.

“Melissa, do you have three minutes to spare to help me do something?”

I don’t.  I am running around like crazy.  The last thing I want to do is help Peggy, a seventy-something, much-loved but slightly-loosing-it, nursing professor, with some random task that I am certain, in spite of what she’s said, will take much longer than 3 minutes.

“Sure, Peggy.  What do you need?” I ask my professor.

“Can you walk me over to Pearce?  There’s black ice.  I don’t want to fall.”

I grab my coat, and Peggy links her arm through mine.  She makes me think of a little girl; her head comes up to my shoulder, and she lets me lead her down the path.  The walk to Pearce, the next building over from the Science Center, would normally take me three minutes on my own.  With Peggy, it takes ten.  She asks about my finals, and we talk about how we’ll each spend Christmas.  In Pearce, I wait for Peggy to run her errand, and then I escort her back to the Science Center.  She grips my arm the whole time.  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.”

…..

I feel like a brat for being annoyed with Pegs originally.  Yes, I was busy, but I wasn’t that busy.  One of the things I love most about the college I attend is the nursing faculty there, and the relationships they take the time to develop with each of their students.  I almost missed the chance to do that with Peggy, because I was being selfish.  I’m glad that I didn’t.  The twenty five minutes I spent with her was probably the high point of my day.

Regardless of Whatever the World Thinks.

A few months ago, back in October, I made a trip to the lake.  On the beach, I ran into an older woman, walking her dog.  She noticed me taking photos and looking for sea glass, and stopped to ask me if I was an artist.  She was.  We ended up talking for ten minutes or so, about art and all sorts of other things, before she sent me off to a different part of the shore to take pictures of some interesting sand formations.

The woman was one of my favorite sorts of ladies.  Everything about her screamed Eccentric and Fun.  Within the span of our ten minute conversation, she told me about how she’d grown up on the Atlantic, and now came to Lake Ontario every day to swim.  On this particular day, it was 50^o out, and the woman was still planning to take a quick dip.  Trekking back up the shoreline, returning to my car, I watched as the woman stripped down to her swim suit and walked out into the lake.  In an odd sort of way, watching her slowly wade out into the water, looking strong, proud, and incredibly at peace, was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

I want to be like that.  To have the courage to do the things I love and the things which make me happy, regardless of whatever the rest of the world thinks about them.  Or about me. 

How lovely it must be to feel that okay with yourself.

Filters.

Work last night was an adventure.  One of the elderly women with dementia whom I was caring for became really violent.  Hitting, kicking, biting, spitting, swearing… she did it all.  Everyone on the floor because monsters, screw-ups, and baby-killers, myself included.  It was a long shift, and I was so happy to go home to my bed at the end of the evening.

One of my worst fears is that I’ll end up with dementia and act like that. In working with the elderly (even the ones without any form of dementia), it seems as if they’re all either incredibly sweet and kind, or terribly mean.  As people age, it seems like whatever filters they’ve had in place throughout their lifetime to keep them socially appropriate slowly break down.  What they say and how they behave reflect who they really are at their core.  It’s a scary thing.

I’ve started praying, earnestly, that God will clear out all the junk in my soul – I don’t want to be mean when I’m old.

Refocus.

A few weeks ago, daddy invited me to his church for a hymn sing.  It was probably the best time I’ve had in church in a long while, and the whole evening was so nice.  It was great just to do something different.

Daddy’s church is a lot smaller than what I’ve grown used to.  The church where I attend now has about 900 people in its sanctuary throughout any given weekend.  Daddy’s church had about 50.  Wooden pews, and families crammed together.  Nothing but a piano and three ladies with a microphone, standing in front of the congregation and leading us all in hymns.  It was very simple, and very nice.  It felt homey, and it felt focused. 

I love my church.  I adore it.  But sometimes I feel like I get so distracted by the lights and the noise that I lose track of what I’m really supposed to be worshipping while I’m there.  It was nice to get away, just for one night, and to refocus.  Funny how things can look so different when you just take a step back…  The evening made me want to find other ways to refocus my faith.

my body.

“I do love my body…  Just not the parts that I don’t think should be there.”

-Me, after spending an afternoon shopping for dresses at the mall with Rachel.

…warning signs of impending car trouble.

Over the summer, I got a new (used) car. It’s a good little car, and I like it a lot. Recently I’ve noticed that, sometimes when I drive it, an icon lights up on my dashboard. It looks sort of like this (!) I have no idea what it means, but I imagine that any warning light that looks like (!) is probably not warning of a good thing. But, seeing as how the signal is only illuminated every once in a while, and doesn’t come on every time I drive my car, I’ve been electing to ignore it. I refuse to take out my owner’s manual and figure out what (!) means, because, on some level, I’m convinced that if I don’t know it’ll somehow go away. Or, when my car falls apart in the middle of the highway one afternoon, I’ll be able to act all indignant and ticked off because I had no warning.

Stupid, huh?

I’ve started to think about how often I do that sort of thing, emotionally. Denial’s wonderful, but only to a point. Eventually, whatever it is that I happen to be trying to ignore comes up to bite me in the you-know-where. My car falls apart in the middle of the highway, if you will. I get angry at myself for letting things falling apart, but, to be truthful, I get even angrier at myself for ignoring the warning signs of impending car trouble.

And I’m sure I’m not the only one who does this.

So why do we do it?