Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be

So Lama Sura Das is my dude! (in my head at least) I credit the man for penning the book that introduced me to Buddhism. It took quite a few years for me to fully be able to implement it in my life. To the point where I intend to start a full business based around spreading the wealth of mindfulness, in addition to and I'm writing two books about it. I recently started following him on Instagram. I guess it's official.

My first introduction to him was his book "Awakening the Buddha Within." That book taught me how to allow Buddhism to heal me and make me a better person. It taught me how to fully exercise compassion for myself and others. It made me a better version of myself and allowed me to be whole and be comfortable in my discomfort and embrace change and the ebb and flow of life. Trips to the Soto Zen Center only completed the transition.

I tend to collect and hoard books. I dumped a lot of books when I moved to Cali, but I held firm to my books on Buddhism and mindfulness. I held on to them mostly as research for the books I'm still writing, but also because I hoped to pick them all up and fully immerse myself in them one day- and I guess that time is now. I was reading some other work on Buddhism when another author listed "Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be." I wouldn't normally have picked it up, except I recognized the author as Lama Surya Das and knew that it deserved a place in my collection, to be picked apart later. 

And my current job is apparently later. I often get quite a bit of down time and I knew early on that I intended to start reading between calls. The book didn't do much to tickle my fancy early on, but I enjoyed that it re-immersed me in Buddhist teachings, so I stayed with it. I rather like the woman that I am becoming and I'm exceptionally proud of her. I've done pretty good at shedding the former version of myself, so the name wasn't really needed, but it was what it was.

A large part of the book talks about death, more so as an example of major loss that most of us suffer. I haven't thought about Pete as much lately, although cold weather seasons and early spring tend to make me think of him more than normal. Just the other night, I stepped outside and I saw a giant star. And I felt him. I felt Pete looking down at me and smiling. I've suffered so much loss lately, that it felt good to be attached again.

The book discussed how we should accept the good and bad in our life. That we should acknowledge it and own it. We should accept it, examine it, learn about it, and release it. It was pretty cool reading in this book what I already know and practice. Then it started talking about journaling *ahem* Discussing writing down our feelings and thoughts. I guess I'm ahead of my time? Not quite, but still.

As I read through the book, one of the challenges it poses is to think about a major loss we've suffered in life. My mind immediately went to Pete. I remembered his smile. I remember how he always made me feel warm. I remember how without saying a word, I was always able to read him. Once he died, I realized how much he really gave to me. I mean, folks at the job were pretty sad that he died. But I was absolutely devastated. I took that to mean that he shared more of himself with me. Because anyone that saw what I saw in him and knew what I knew about him would understand what an incredible being he was. He shared his art with me. He shared his heart with me. No man has ever let me in that deeply. And then he was gone. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Next up, I realized that I mourn the pregnancy and family life that I never got. The one guy I got pregnant by was a lying sack of shit who made it his mission in life to punish me for not aborting the baby he told me he was okay with me getting pregnant with to begin with. I never got the loving maternity photos.  He never once kissed my protruding pregnant belly. He never rubbed it lovingly. I didn't get appreciation for loving this child and raising him to be an absolute rock star. Nope, I was shitted on constantly. And I mourn the praise and relationship that I should have had from my ex. I'm not angry as much. Just sad and disappointed.

Then I thought about the job that fired me for something I didn't do right after I finished grad school. I asked myself why that still hurt me so much almost 6 years later. And I realized that it was because I'd worked my ass off in school, only to land my first adult job and be dismissed. It hurt me on a personal level. What hurt even more was knowing how much my coworkers liked me and wanted me there. I just wanted to get a decent paycheck and pay my bills. After having to lean so hard on my family while in school, I just wanted for once, to be able to say "I got it, I don't need your help." And they took that from me. All for something that wasn't even my fault.

I thought about my amazing cousin, Tracey. What made her so special to me? I realized that after the tumultuous relationship I had with my actual big sister, Tracey, had the heart of what a big sister was supposed to be. For the short time she was in my life, we shared secrets, tears and laughter. She treated me like a young adult. She valued me. And she was taken from me too. I remembered how when Caleb was a baby, wishing like hell that she'd gotten to meet him. I imagined the tons of baby clothes she'd buy for her young cousin/nephew. I imagined her willingness to babysit, and see her being the only one in my family that could see how hard I was trying to stay afloat. Tracey was my real big sister. And she's gone.

(side bar- This is quite possibly, the most difficult post I've ever written)

The last thought that came to me was my ex, Theo. I think about that sorry piece of garbage far more than I care to accept. In spite of him clearly showing me that he brought so little to the picture (which is why I kicked him out fairly early). But why did I mourn the relationship? I don't miss him at all. I don't miss the relationship. But why am I still thinking about him now? I had to dig deep, but I realized it- I mourn the lie that he sold. He sold me a lie of wanting to go out on dates and grow together. Lies of connection and affection. Lies of appreciation. Lies of wanting me and not needing me. Lies of not resenting me for not needing him.

I mourn that he sold me on the idea of the ideal of the perfect connection, one he wanted but was nowhere near capable of achieving. He sold me on that lie- and he got here and pulled the lie from up under me. I mourn what was supposed to be.

I'm roughly a third of the way through the book. A lot of it is stuff I already knew. But I'm learning about things I didn't even know that I was grieving. Bring on the knowledge.

Lessons and Legacies

I didn't really watch Ellen's show. Daytime TV has never been my thing, outside of the addictive Young and the Restless (before it jumped the shark). Never the less, I heard about the recent suicide of Ellen's sidekick, Stephen "DJ tWitch" Boss. What struck me first was his poor wife. After the loss of Ali and me forging an even closer relationship with his widow, I have an up close seat to what that looks like. Watching her raise 3 children, much like Twitch's now widow. My heart hurt for him and his kids. But for some reason, my eyes and heart zeroed in on his poor wife.

I said before, I now work on a crisis line. I speak with people who are dealing with mental health issues. I often discuss our extensive training and say how they prepared us for the next apocalypse, while most of the calls are people who are just lonely and need a bit of support, especially in the middle of the holidays. Most of our training dealt heavily with individuals who are suicidal or homicidal. I'm kind of thankful for the support calls though. It keeps the job pretty light. I can almost hear people being relieved to be able to just have some kind human interaction.

The thing that kind of sucks is that I'm still in training. Many of the people who started when I did are no longer in training, and many of my trainers have assured me that I have it and I'm good to handle calls without the extra support. I'm still a little shaky on some of the paperwork aspects of the whole thing, but I'm comfortable and definitely ready to handle calls on my own. I'm confident in my therapeutic skills. 

Another thing that has helped me has been my decision to read at work between calls. I amassed a pile of books by my work desk, so that whenever there is a lull, I look down and pick something up. My latest book is called "Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be." I purchased the book because the author wrote what I consider my personal bible "Awakening the Buddha Within" and I heard that this was a good companion to it. I don't consider myself to need to let go of my former self as much (been working on that long before I picked up this book), but I enjoy that his book keeps me grounded in Buddhist teachings.

Last night, as I was with my trainer and another trainee, we waited quietly for another call. LGOTPYUSB was in front of me, some random business card holding my place. I realized that I had to go to the bathroom, but I decided to hold it (in spite of the fact that I recently told myself that as I get older, holding it is not something I will be making a habit of). As I read along, suddenly, I got a call.

I heard him crying. I wondered if it was a prank, as it seemed so dramatic. He began speaking. He told me that he couldn't take it anymore and he had a gun. He wanted to end it all. He said that he wasn't sure why, things in his life were well, but he still wanted to just end it all. My first thought was DJ Twitch's new widow. Her pain. Her confusion. I couldn't let that happen to another woman. I can't talk much about his issues, or even what I said (HIPAA).

But I assured him that he'd be okay. And I encouraged him to discuss his feelings with loved ones and to seek out professional help. And he agreed to it. He thanked me profusely. I thanked him for calling in. After he hung up, I immediately threw off my headphones and walked away. 

When I returned after a few minutes, my trainer told me that I'd handled the call amazingly. I was so full of adrenalin, I was literally rocking back and forth. While I was in the middle of it, I was calm and collected, quite the deviation from the spaz I normally am. But once it was over? Holy shit. Did he really call in here, seconds from shooting himself in the head? And I talked him down? Me? Me?

My trainer praised my quick thinking and my staying calm in the moment. I didn't raise my voice, I didn't make him feel bad or guilty. I encouraged him and allowed him to feel how he felt. I shared later with my trainer that I strongly believe that my Buddhist faith has allowed me to really meet people where they are with no judgement and to give them the same kind guidance and support I have needed in my darkest hours. Just coincidentally, earlier in the day, I was at the gym with a coworker, when I told her that after my suicide attempt, it wasn't uncommon for my friends and family to literally curse me out for trying to take my own life.

Looking back, I realize that they were fearful and worried for me. And they encouraged me the only way they knew how- by making me feel even worse. No one asked how I felt. No one hugged me and said they are glad I'm here. They told me that life is fucked up and to not be a pussy and just deal with it. I swore that I'd never be that person to other people in pain. I may fail at times. But I try damned hard to give others the support that I wanted and needed.

I did it. I was there. I met him where he was. And I used two people's tragic deaths to prevent another tragic death. Right place, right time, I guess.

Navigating New Nails

Part of my ride into recent adulthood has included getting professional manicures every 2 weeks. Something makes me feel so feminine and pampered by looking down at these gorgeous, brightly colored nails. This feeling was only heightened when I met a manicurist nearby who was able to create designs on my natural, short nails. 

I rather enjoyed the attention that my manicures bought. When I'd stop to make quick purchases, it wasn't uncommon for baristas and cashiers to compliment the complex designs my new manicurist laid out. I even had a man compliment me on my nails yesterday. It made me feel seen in such a small, yet seductive way. I've also heard other men, in passing, say how much they thoroughly enjoy seeing women with freshly manicured nails. Thinking back on it, I don't think it's about the nails themselves. I think it's more about a man being turned on by a woman who is able and capable of keeping herself together.

I was raised to never walk around with chipped, funky nails. The message it sent was akin to walking around, holding a sign that says "I'm a broke harlot with no home training." When your manicure outlives it's usefulness, you either go in for a touchup, or the polish comes off at home. There is absolutely no in between. Coincidentally, I met a woman my age a few years ago, and we both shared how our mothers instilled in us from the very beginning that you are absolutely not be caught dead walking around with chipped nails, lest you besmirch the family honor. 

Lately I started to notice that my nailbeds were getting weak from their regular trips in to meet with the nail lady, which resulted in more chipping my manicures early. I was out yesterday, and stumbled upon a nail shop, and long story short, I ended up getting my nails done by someone new and she even put acrylic on them, which would help prevent the chipping as my nails grew out. For the average layperson, this probably seems like a rather trivial thing to care about. But as we all know, that ain't me.

As a bit of a backstory, I swore that I'd absolutely never get acrylic nails after a good friend from high school had her acryliced thumbnail ripped off in her locker, right before graduation. Dozens of manicures throughout my adult life, and I'd always sworn them off, fearful. I stuck proudly to my gel manicures, with no desire to wander out into the wild, wild west of manicures. Young me, remembering my classmate wearing a massive bandage on the injured appendage, the rest of her nails blue and gold, our school colors, never desiring to delve into the possibility of such a horrific incident.

But as I watched the temporary manicurist slather a gorgeous pink shade on my nails, complimented by hints of glitter ombre, it felt amazing. Like I'd made it. While younger, I always observed the hands of women, fascinated by how neatly manicured their acrylics were. These were women who clearly valued their appearance, in addition to regular care. Theses were women that obviously had the money and time to do the little things for themselves that made them feel good.

I told someone a while ago how I'm 42 now, and I've literally never seen my mother's nailbed. My mother was a fierce devotee to her regular red polished manicures since I could remember. As I began to dive into adulthood in my late 30's, I began to gravitate toward things that my mother happened to love, including her Coach bags. My mother was a bigger fan of the plain black bags, and she wore the same bag regularly, until her bag fell apart and was promptly replaced. I, on the other hand, am a fan of Coach's more colorful offerings, and I switch all 5 of my bags out regularly. I still occasionally browse Coach's selection in store and online, my eyes peeled to any offerings that were colorful and bold.

I'll be honest, I rather enjoy it when I'm wearing one of my little pretty bags and some random person looks down and compliments me on my taste in purses. It feels amazing to be acknowledged as an adult with good taste, rather than the young woman trying her best to pull together whatever is the least wrinkled outfit in her closet.

Speaking of my mother, my biomother and I have reconnected lately. It feels kind of strange though. We first reconnected last year, when the family, knowing that Ali was sick, opted to pull together for what could possibly be our last holiday together. I mean, we all knew it was a possibility, especially since he'd lost so much weight. But still... who knew on Thanksgiving that he'd be gone by Valentine's Day? 

Anyway, my mother and I have connected again. I see that the house prices are dropping significantly, and I'm still not making major bucks, but I'm weighing the possibility of buying one, if the right circumstance presents itself. I ended up calling my mother and asking her thoughts on the housing market. We ended up having nearly an hour-long conversation about things like motherhood, my father (she told me why she'd finally divorced him), and of course, the housing market. My mother said that based on some things going on around me, including my plan to move back to the west coast, buying a house doesn't seem worth the headaches, especially if I end up having to rent it out to strangers in the end. It was nice. I almost don't recognize her, but I can say that I genuinely like the person that she is at this point, and I hope that she can say the same about me.

So here I am, I'm typing away in a coffeehouse, as my son is in the movies. I occasionally hold up one of my hands, to admire my gorgeous, non-chipped manicure, my trusty peach/multi-colored Coach bowling bag, guardedly close by. My once stubby nails are slowly being replaced by longer, shapely, consistently manicured nails and I'm having to get more familiar with typing like this.

And it's so reflective of what's going on in my actual life. I'm surrounded by nice things, in a warm and comfortable place, as I contemplate how far I've come, in addition to how far I still plan to go. Slowly knocking out my second book. Currently learning how to publish my own books. Plans for yet another epic birthday vacation in 6 months. I'm finally free to let go of what doesn't feel good and make decisions that I know are best for me. I'm learning. But I think that this is the best version of me yet. 

Healthy and Happy

I surprised myself recently. Devon had invited me to go to a Tambor party with him. Tambor is a large dance party that happens periodically in Atlanta. Devon had reserved a ticket for me at the door, but surprise to him, I already knew the woman at the door. I congratulated her on her recent wedding and waltzed on into the party.

I found Devon, tall and yummy, dancing his heart out. I quickly joined him. I managed to dance through at least 4 songs, and found myself surprised at not even being tired. I knew that I'd been hitting the gym more lately, as my schedule is perfect for it. But still, keeping up with him in the middle of the dance floor showed me that I've made more progress than I'd given myself credit for.

This morning, as I strutted into the gym, I decided that rather than doing the exercise bike or elliptical, I'd challenge myself to see how my jogging skills faired on the treadmill. Much to my delight, I was able to knock out a mile. 

Can't lie though, that treadmill was giving me the business!! I sweat like I haven't sweat in some years. I was exhausted. I felt those little beads of sweat appear on my head. I felt my knee start to question our relationship and threaten to leave me on the floor of the gym, battered and embarrassed. Thankfully, I finished before my knee and my ankle decided to remind me that I'm not 30 anymore and I was pushing my luck. Mental note, invest in a good knee brace!

I'm thrilled to see that in spite of it all, my body is doing okay. I'm making peace with the lil fupa that I've had to call my stomach, but my blood sugar numbers are low and my diet is steady once again.

After the last few years, it has become so apparent how important health is. I talked to a good friend recently, and wished him a happy 47th birthday. I encouraged him to start going to his doctor to make sure his health is okay. He assured me that he's' fine and that he'll start doing the doctor thing when he's 50. I told him that my beautiful cousin was only 47 when he died from cancer and that my friend, Pete, was only 47 when he died from a heart attack. My friend sighed and agreed to meet with his doctor.

Not only am I focusing on my physical health, I'm trying to focus on my financial health as well. In the new year, I plan to engage far more in investing and saving. My son has just over 3 years until it's time for him to graduate high school and I'm heavily focused on moving back out west. Things at my job are going surprisingly well and the beauty of this organization is that I can move literally anywhere in the world and transfer jobs.

I'm so thankful. I'm also planning to pour more of myself into writing another book or 2, and about to look at some self-publishing in addition to finishing reading a few books that I have piled at home. I'll be moving back into the city soon.

Christmas is coming. My soul is at ease. I am happy.