Vacaville, Baby!

Sacramento, CA, West Coast-ish USA, called out to me, at one point in my life.  I interviewed for a position there and drove in to Sacramento from San Francisco (because, that’s how I do), passing Vacaville on the way.

Cow Town.

I TMBG’d all the way there and all the way back!

I did not get offered the position (boo on you, Sacramento!).  However, as the butterfly effect goes, recently I DID go into my local butcher shop at the crack of dawn one morning to pick up 4 cow eyes, 2 cow ears, and one sweet giant cow heart, for SonHerisme’s science time at his Montessori school.

Things I learned (re-learned, as lessons are prone to be):

I appreciate the local farm/butcher traditions and role in the community

I do not like to eat meat

I do not deserve to eat meat, because I could never ever ever ever do what these hardy humans do.

Yes, I moved a giant pile of very clean precision eviscerated innards from my yard (cougar much?), but it was with as much reverence as I could muster as they were FULL and required me to use 2 shovels.  I cried for the unidentified guts, placed them into the woods and gently covered them over with dead leaves.  I said a prayer that the animal had died swiftly, fed something well, and lived a lovely wild life prior to their drawn and quartering.

Guts

I believe that I am in a different place than I was when my gut hated me so much.  I am trying to s-l-o-w-l-y embrace my yuck (not other’s gut yuck). With so many struggles, I think that I can let the meat go again.  Or not.  Just not to guilt myself into a frenzy if I eat it or not.  Coffee was recently made redundant as well.  I am eyeballing sugar with some serious side-eye, but don’t want to get too carried away (s’mores season).

As my veils and shields that I have spent years wrapping myself in, fall away, my body continues to break down from the relief of unburdening and recognizing my own truths.  Melanoma, degenerative discs (current severe nerve pain), arthritis, over-fullness-of-body, tendonitis, etc

Sounds like my guts got lonely and invited other areas of my body to their protestations.

That’s right – I am a barrel of laughs!

Introduce me to all of your single man friends – what a catch!

 

SO:

I’m going down to Cowtown, ‘cause cow’s a friend of me

He lives beneath the ocean, that’s where I will be

Beneath the waves, the waves, oh that’s where I will be

‘cause I’m going to see the cow beneath the sea.

(not exact lyrics from the Brooklyn Ambassadors of Love, but this is how I singidty sing it)

 

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

 

Also, my melanoma margins were clear!  No further action at this point, other than vitamins and stay on my recheck schedule.  phew

Also, I am not heading your way anytime soon, Sacramento (sorrys).  However, I will possibly take a plastic cow to the pool, throw it to the bottom, and visit it there.  Singing!

 

 

Joe Jackson and such

There’s something going wrong around here

 

Ahhh, 1979.  Many of you weren’t alive then.  I was.  I was living in Germany wild and free on my bicycle, sneaking onto the ferry, eating spaghetti ice and liquor filled chocolates (as one does in childhood).

 

I knew everything.  EVERYTHING.  Being all pre-pre-teeny. And I marveled at it all.  I was the kind of kid who unwaveringly knew that magic was spiritual and real.  I could feel it in my very essence and could see it everywhere. I could tune anything out in an instant in order to experience some magical sense.

 

Fast forward, fuh reahls, to today.

 

All of the wrongs swirling around me, in my brain, on my skin, in my house, with my family, in my town, in my country, in the world etc  are completely overwhelming.  I have had a few tantrums.  Most of mine are internal because they cannot be tolerated in my current personal circumstances, or in writing (not posted bc feeeeeeelings), or on almost daily brief #$%^@&#*$&^%^% phone convos with my endlessly patient life-long soul sister.

 

My life-long practice of flipping the switch and tuning out has a name: disassociation.  It’s so very difficult for me to embrace tuning in for any period of time to purposeful sheer sharp painful unpleasantness.  This is why I cannot tolerate the Zoo.  Also, it recently occurred to me that this is why I excel at creative diplomatic problem solving.  I am compelled to make the difficult things disappear, be worked through, resolved.  I am quick, concise and no nonsense about resolution.  Even if the resolution only happens internally for myself, it happens very quickly.  I do not linger in distress.  Not by will, but by instinctual life-long self-preservation practice which is now ingrained habit.

 

It’s like my “meet-er/great-er” disease that is joked about in various circles I have inhabited throughout my life.  When someone is approaching, or I drive past someone walking on the road etc, I can’t stop myself, I greet them.  I make eye contact.  I say, “hello!.”  I wave.  People receive this as me being super friendly.  I am not.  I am, by practice, anticipating and resolving any potential friction we may experience as two humans, by offering a greeting as a peaceful cleansing wash over our potential interactions.  Again, this is not pre-meditated or meant as a manipulation, it is an ingrained habit I have cultivated over my life as a means for survival.  It’s a tangible example of my switch flipping mechanism at work.

 

The other day in therapy (SURPRISE! I’m in therapy), my therapist was attempting to get me to connect with my own skin as I am currently waiting on results from my latest melanoma biopsy.  She attempts to bring me back to and connect with my physical self.  My brain is supremely resistant. (insert life story here)  It sounds so simple, doesn’t it?  She says things like, “when you place your hand onto your arm, does that feel pleasant or unpleasant?”  I feel like an idiot because I do not know.  I can clearly feel that I am touching my arm (I do not have a neurological disorder), and that my hand is warm, my arm is cool.  I do feel things when I am pointedly asked to think about them.  It would not occur to me to wonder how my hand feels on my arm, to even be aware that I have placed my hand onto my arm, or that my hand was warm and my arm was cool, if I wasn’t asked about it.

However, what has me disturbed is that niggling notion that I am supposed to know if my hand on my arm feels pleasant or unpleasant.

I do not know.

Not in an obtuse or try-to-guess-what-I-am-feeling way. I truly do not know.  Then my hand and arm feel like nothing because I am trying to figure out what is pleasant or unpleasant, and worried that I cannot tell the difference that seems like it should be easy to describe.  Then – WHOOSH – I am gone off into thinking about trees and how do they feel?  My son, how does he feel?  How is his arm?  Does he still have the tick scar? How strong my son looks when he does chin-ups with his gangly boy arms. etc. I bet the universe has arms it is desperately trying to hug us with to quiet all of our earthly crazy fear-based interactions.  Why can’t I feel anything yet?  Is my hand even warm? Gah!  I can’t feel it!

 

So, anywho.

PTSD

Melanoma.  It’s on the skin that I am in.

I hope that therapy is not a pass/fail thing.

 

Which brings us back to Joe:

 

Tonight’s the night when I go to all the parties down my street

I wash my hair and kid myself I look all smooth

Look over there! (Where?!?)…

 

 

Love, Ms Herisme xoxo

 

Hopefully not on the verge of a nervous breakdown

Hopefully still on my NewPath