Posts Tagged ‘physical’

One Unit of New

A month of crunch at school, a new zeroed-in work schedule, a mild upheaval, a major trounce, new thoughts, refreshed views … that’s all it took to reintroduce me back into the world of blog.

I have a lot of back-reading to do on your blogs and I have swirling piles of ideas for my own. But for today, I need to feel the swing of a bat hitting dead center on a baseball and feel the sharp snap as it’s thrown back to me by my kids. Calzones for lunch and tilapia over rice tonight will bring some wholesome goodness and tang back into my mouth.

It lives and it is moving. And it is seizing the day!


The Amount of Time

It’s mainly about trying not being alone.

It’s tiring and deflating to walk in after midnight, open the door and see everything clouded in darkness. When the first light is turned on, the shadows around the disarray seem longer and rough edged. The stillness is loud and has a wry grin. The air is limp and never forgets that I will sigh loudly while I take off my coat and have an internal debate about whether I’ll hang it up in the closet or simply let it lie on the chair where I sit to take off my shoes.

The refrigerator light that engulfs me as I open the door seems the open eye of a witness who takes note of my late night slouch, my weary countenance and my disregard of civility as I pull out the gallon jug of iced tea and swig greedily.

I can look mere feet from where I stand and notice the dishes that need only to be placed within the grill of the dishwasher, the socks that make dramatic splashes across my bedroom floor, the unmade bed awash in wrinkles, the spot where a plant fell and still has beads of soil that need to be vacuumed up, the stack of pages, letters and mail that is opened, or needs to be opened, the shameful dust on the bookshelf, the stark white walls interrupted only briefly with photographs, the half filled storage bins with their covers scattered, the cabinet doors left open which look like broad wings in the darkness and the couch blankets that have been thoughtlessly tossed and are spread wide open.

The couch can attest to the lonely moments. I sit on the middle cushion, slightly hunched over and close to the edge so I will not sink in and stare at a random object. Not for the sake of study, or contemplation of some matter, but an effortless and blank gaze without the whirring of thought.

Sometimes the distraction of a TV channel causes mild focus and my mind blindly adheres to the chain of conversation or story on the screen and a half hour has gone by. A commercial interrupts the bland interaction between us and I stand, stretching out my arms, back and legs and the thought of lying down occurs. Not out of exhaustion, but out of boredom. Most nights it”s right there on the couch, the oldest inanimate object in my apartment – one that was given to me, where I surrender, without benefit of taking off my work clothes, to the loveless ennui and close my eyes not for weary eyelids, but for lack of emotional stimulation.

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Controlling the Gnawing

It’s been more than difficult.

It’s far too easy, and whimsical, for myself or anyone else to earnestly say “Good for you! I know you can do it!”, without realizing the accompanying throbbing anguish.

Tuesday should have been, but was not, the most trying day. You hear over and over that the first day is when the most panic is felt, and with it comes the likelihood of yielding to the snap judgment decision, despite all sane reasoning, to not even begin the process. Apparently, most who try only last a few hours during the first day. I intentionally forced myself to be busy. Busy I was – an all kinetic busy, mixed with a self-assured, false sense of Zen inner calm wrapped in a bravado attitude which boasted frequently that I’m better than the rest. Then came work where I mercifully could not leave. From there it was directly back to my building’s parking lot, and a quick and determined walk past the 24 hour 7-11 calling to me, into the building and the vertical zip ride to my apartment.

I first felt strong mental longing on Tuesday. My thoughts were a dilute mixture of steely logic while concentrating on the task directly at hand, and the icy juggernaut of thought that prodded and pinpointed my desires toward what I was denying myself.

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday each held their own tumultuous tempest that seemed pre-planned and coldly designed to annihilate any plebeian willpower reserves that I was accumulating which would allow myself the comfort of solid resolve. Each of those three days held its own devastating trebuchet in the guise of a postal letter, a voice mail and an email. It was as if a troika of Trojan Horses had been misguidedly welcomed inside my already timidly fortified gates, and out of their belly came such mean, significant pains and blows to my wavering goal that the combined fireballs felt as if they descended directly from within Pandora herself. Each of those three days saw my willpower insanely buckle and groan, but denying logic, held together.

I did not give way to the inhuman temptation.

Saturday and Sunday have now officially expired, and with them a crestfallen ego that has been scored much too often with the black steel wool of verbal abuse. But, though the vessel I ride is low in the water due to the cruel barrage of maltreatment on many fronts that has coincidentally coincided with the timing of my quest, the lust for my mission has amazingly remained intact.

I marvel at the money still in reserve, untouched by debit card ripples that until recently, had never seen the account so still and smooth.

Somehow, miraculously, thankfully, through a combination of self-denial, brazen luck and pretending that the desire was not there, I have not relented. At the end of each individual twenty-four hour interval, at the rounded-off anniversary hour, I plant another imagined victory flag.

I will not deny that I have held up my adult fingers and deftly imagined them holding one, and I admit that I have almost felt dizzy as I role-played the inhaling and exhaling, but on Monday, well, actually Monday late night into Tuesday early morning at about 12:30 AM, it will be exactly one week since I last smoked a cigarette.

It’s just the sound of my heart breaking – ship to shore.

I don’t even know how to start.

I just know that I’m not happy at all with the way that it’s become up to now. Life’s obstacles seem to make it a point to cluster all around me and I’m at a time and place where I’m even sometimes reluctant to step forward.

Spiritually, I’m in a constant battle with God to help me. I alternately lose faith, have read so much of the self-help books that I’m always confused about the line between helping myself and leaving it in God’s hands.

Physically, I’m in a constant battle also. I quit smoking for the last three weeks, but because of what’s happened to me in the last few days, I bought a pack today and yesterday. So ashamed of that.

I’m so fundamentally frustrated with my lack of formal education! I am enrolled for the Spring semester and am looking forward to that, but at my age when I finally get my degree, will it make a huge difference? I’m also looking at two more years after that in order to get my Bachelors.

My oldest, at fifteen, had taken a stand that it’s not worth it to come see me anymore. He feels that all we do is fight. I admit, that a lot of it has to do with his age, but I so desperately need to see him! I feel unloved by him – my greatest accomplishment and now, my most bitter disappointment.

I am so lonely! Long days without a reason to come home to. Home, for me, is not a single bed apartment with white walls and a television on for company. So lonely.

For the first time in years, I went to church. I asked God if he would recognize me. I did the rosary for the first time in years and could barely hold back brimming tears. I would steal glances of parents and their children – a remember sadly the way it was for me not too long ago. The crush of what was there, and now gone, was almost a physical weight on my shoulders and chest and again would cause me to well up. I felt so guilty with my tears and with the thoughts I’m holding that staring at the floor was the what I did for most of the Mass.

I have an issue at work that is coming to a head this week. Until they call me back from a suspension, I’m unsure if I have a job waiting for me at all.

I really struggled with the idea of putting this online. Will writing help me to sort it out? Who the heck, except for me, would read it? Even someone stumbling here would not see a value and quickly move on.

Where is anyone?

S.O.S. by Tim Curry

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