Psyche Soup

I have climbed up hills and fallen down mountains, swum in canals and come face-to-face with a water moccasin. I have played on rooftops and in trees. I wrote a book, at age 10, that was never published, and never will be, and won a writing contest and went to summer camp.

I have spent hours watching alligators swim lazily in rivers, and have rescued animals- lots of them. I have rehabilitated owls, hawk, ospreys, and other birds of prey. I brought a rabbit back to life with CPR, and killed a frog just to see how his insides were put together, then spent the rest of my life regretting it.

I have bared my soul, only to be rejected or ridiculed. I have bared my soul and found life-long friends. I have had boyfriends and lost them or left them, always avoiding a commitment. I have fought, loved, hated, felt homicidal and suicidal. I have had meltdowns and periods of life that were wonderful.

I have been chased around a parking lot by a strange man, and down a street by another. I was chased by a man with a hammer once at a traffic light, but I drove off and shot him a bird. I was chased in my car by two men who tried to run me off the road, and I chased a man down the street. I was in a car when drug deals went down, dozens of hands holding baggies waving their wares in the window. I hid my fear.

I have lived poverty and collected food from trash cans- before it was a popular sport. I have lived on food stamps and church charity. I have been without a home of my own and without a job. I turned my back on a man who needed bus fare, and still think about him with regret. I have given food to people who were hungry and rides to folks who had no transportation. I have denied money to beggars, and given money to others. I have volunteered and raised money for organizations and charities. I have offered shelter to friends who needed it.

I dropped out of high school then studied art, science, language, and linguistics, got a bachelor’s and a master’s degree. I learned a second language. I have worked in fast food and in retail, as a maid, a turn-down attendant, a receptionist, a cook, a rose seller, a kennel worker, a bagger, a veterinary assistant, a waitress, a bartender, a researcher, a teacher, a writer, an editor, a translator.

I traveled for hours by small plane, then bus, then boat to get to a remote rain forest in Costa Rica. I soaked in the hot springs fed by the volcano Arenal, and ate dinner while watching the glowing lava stream down its sides. I have been followed by monkeys who tried to pee on me to chase me away. I have seen endangered tree frogs and heard the distant roar of jaguars.

I have traveled to England, France, and Spain. I have traveled all over the US. I moved to Mexico with only 2000 dollars and no income and no friends yet at my destination. I drove for five days with everything I owned in my car to get there, after everyone told me not too- it was too dangerous. I did not encounter any danger, only difficulties in finding lodging that would accept me with my three cats. I struggled to understand and interact in another language. I received kindness from people who could see me searching for the right words to communicate. An indigenous woman gave me a mat to sleep on when she saw I was sleeping on the floor. I visited a shaman who got rid of my nightmares. I drove by a reputed warlock’s home every day. I made good friends who helped me become a better person. I learned it was ok to depend on others and be a part of the human race. Then I forgot that later when I returned to the States. I learned that life was not black and white. Mexico showed me the shades of grey.

I got typhoid and dysentery, then I got accustomed to life in a foreign country. I lived near a volcano and was showered on by eruptions. I exercised on a pyramid that was topped with a church. I walked to and from my school and work three miles a day. I bought fresh flowers from the market to brighten my bare apartment. I bought wooden crates to use as kitchen cabinets. I viewed the mummies in Guanajuato and smelled their earthy, papery skin. I saw the elaborate alters for el Dia de los Muertos. I have gone to Mardi Gras in Mazatlan and seen the parades for the Guelaguetza in Oaxaca. I lived in a cartel town with a population of 700,000 where there were 144 murders in one month. I was in a restaurant during a hold up, with four men waving automatic weapons and screaming for money. I fled the country I had grown to love.

I survived cancer. That’s still fresh.

Sometimes I think about how I could have done things differently, how that might have changed my life. But then I realize that these experiences, good, bad, or indifferent, are the network of my being. They interact with my psyche and form inextricable bonds, making me who I am. They fuel my thoughts and my actions and affect my relationships with others. I wouldn’t trade my experiences for anyone elses’. During down times, when I think I have done nothing with my life, and I wonder what the point is, I look at my list. I think also about the things I have not written down, for whatever reason, and I remember that I have done everything I have ever wanted to do until now.

How many people can say that?

©2010 frayedges and http://www.frayedges.wordpress.com

The Troll Under the Bridge- Er, The Dog Under the Deck

Lover Boy Nicolas

I am sitting on the deck watching my cat, Nicolas, saunter across the yard in search of prey. His white coat offers a sharp contrast to the green grass. He is one of my Mexican kitties. He found me on the campus of the university in Puebla where I was studying and working, and followed me around for six hours. I took him home, and he’s been with me ever since. I call him Lover Boy. He wants nothing more than to get full body massages all day. Plus, he is always jumping my cat Cristina, but he can’t help it- she’s hot.

He’s a lover, but he’s also a hunter, and a good one. Last summer he was perpetrator of the Peter Rabbit Massacre- 6 headless bunny bodies strewn across the front porch, made worse by the fact that they were found when my sister stepped on one of them. Well worse for her, hilarious for me.

Today, Nicolas is hunting, and I am glad to see there are no baby birds or bunnies about. I watch him move lazily across the yard as he heads for the stairs to the deck. He is about to climb them when I hear a muffled bark. Nicolas shoots straight up into the air, his fur on end. I distinctly hear a muffled giggle from below.

Ah, so that’s where Susie is. I hadn’t seen that dog all day. Nicolas lands with a hiss and a dirty look at the dog under the deck. Rather than use the stairs, he opts for leaping up onto the deck railing to avoid contact with that “thing” hidden below. Although Susie believes differently, Nicolas and she are not friends.

Cristina Potosina- drives all the boy cats crazy!

Enter stage right, Cristina. Well, that is a pleasant surprise. Until recently, Cristina never bothered to come outside. She was perfectly happy in the bathroom sink or shower, or hidden in a closet somewhere. Nicolas spies Cristina and, unable to resist her tempting, sexy figure, he jumps off the railing and jumps on to her. She is not amused. Nicolas begins enjoying himself immensely as Cristina growls in irritation. I am beginning to think they missed something when they neutered him. He is always so feisty.

I hear another muffled bark, and this time two cats shoot straight up in the air. That worked better than a cold shower for Nicolas. Cristina lands and looks angrily between the boards on the deck below her. Nicolas decides to head for the dog-free zone of the front yard.

Ok, I decide to intervene. The dog is bored and needs to walk. I head inside and grab her leash. I step onto the deck, the leash rattling in my hand. There is a commotion below me. I can feel the excitement emanating from the deck boards.

Susie, A.K.A "Psycho"

“Come on, Susie! Let’s go for a walk!” I hear a thud as Susie tries to come through the deck. There is more excited shuffling below and another thud.

“Come on Susie, you fool! Come around the deck.” She is apparently still not fluent in English (she is from Mexico, like all my pets) because she tries to come through the boards again. I move towards the stairs, trying to lure her to the direction of the hole in the deck siding that she went through. This does not work. In her excitement, she tries to dive through the deck siding to come out between the stairs. I sigh and try again.

“Come on Susie! Come around the deck. Come out the hole on the side, you idiot!” But who is the real idiot here? The dog, or the human who is trying to reason with the dog? I hear more shuffling below. The dog is still trying to come out the wrong way. I decide to go down the stairs to the hole in the deck siding. I approach the opening carefully because the dog is psycho. I know in her excitement she will produce enough energy to light a small town. Sure enough, as I near the opening, Susie tears out from beneath the deck like her tail was on fire. She zips past me, runs in a circle, then leaps chest high before landing on my foot. OUCH! I utter a few choice words and tell her to sit.

She sits for a half second, then leaps straight up into the air before doing a quick lap around the yard, pausing only long enough to run up on the deck to scare the bejeezus out of Cristina, who runs inside to hide behind the door, and coming full circle to sit on my foot, once again. OUCH!

“Dammit dog! Calm down!” She tries. Her whole body quivers with excitement. Her little behind rises off the ground repeatedly, but drops down quickly as she remembers she is supposed to sit. I reach down to put her leash on, and that sets her off again. Another lap around the yard. At this rate we’ll never get out of here.

When she returns, I tell her to sit, and this time I manage to leash her. Thank god! I head for the gate. We are going to take a nice, long walk.

“Good riddance,” I hear Cristina mutter behind me. I smile as we take off down the road.

Susie as a pup in one of her spastic moments

©2010 frayedges and http://www.frayedges.wordpress.com

Sausage Gets Fit

She looked like a sausage. Her casing was a tight, white tank top that rolled with each bulge around her waist. This was offset by a pair of short, bright orange, terry cloth shorts. Her face was spackled with heavy makeup that only served to make her look older. Her hair, framed by a pair of dangling earrings, was bleached blond and tossed into a fluffy ponytail that streamed down her back. She appeared to have spent the last several months toasting in a tanning bed. She had that deep, orange glow that you associated with those contraptions. She stepped into position in front of you. You checked yourself in the mirror. Did you commit any fashion sins? Nope, all was good. Your eyes strayed back to the specimen in front of you. You tried not to stare, but it was difficult.

The music started- a deep, thumping beat.

“March it out!” shouted the instructor. You marched, the sausage marched, the edges of her shorts fluttering in the air. This was going to be a long class.

“Grapevine!”

You switched your moves, trying to arrange your uncooperative feet. This was the part of the class you liked the least because you had no coordination whatsoever. Who would have believed that you were spawned from two people who regularly won dancing competitions? Just trying to keep up in a fitness class was an ordeal. You concentrated on not tripping. The class moved right as you moved left. You corrected. The women around you were now kicking back their legs madly as they did the grapevine. When did they start doing that? You start to kick your legs back just as the rest of the class starts to kick their legs out. Almost over, hang in there.

“Inhale!” The instructor sucked in air and lifted her arms above her head. You followed, two beats behind.

“Exhale!” The instructor brought her arms down and followed with the rest of her body, ending in a stretch. You liked the stretching part. It felt good on your spine, the backs of your thighs and your calves. You hung suspended for a moment, then began to rise when cued.

A flash of blinding white. Whoa! Two cheeks puckered with cellulite stepped into view. You tried not to stare, but it was impossible. Your eyes were mesmerized by the show. You really wished that what lay beneath those shorts could have been left to your imagination. You frantically check yourself in the mirror again. Anything amiss? No, still good. You breathe a sigh of relief, but are quickly distracted as the sausage bends over and those two friendly cheeks wave hello. You look around you to see if anyone else has noticed. Then you wonder if anyone has noticed you staring at the other woman’s butt.

How embarrassing that would be!

You bend again at the waist, and this time close your eyes on the way up. Ah yes, that’s the ticket. You can’t be distracted by what you can’t see. You open your eyes again.

Too soon! Too soon!

The woman is bent over in front of you, the fabric of her shorts caught between her two cheeks, which peek out like pale belly dancers flirting behind a thin veil- two large belly dancers. You try not to laugh. How much more of this can you take? The instructor takes you through the stretches before you move to the floor. It’s time to work with the weights. There will be no more flashing buttocks in your direction. You feel for the woman who is positioned to the right of the sausage, though, because now the sausage lay there with her knees up in the air, her shorts riding up her crotch, giving the other woman a show. You can only imagine what the view is, and you are grateful for that.

©2010 frayedges and http://www.frayedges.wordpress.com

abeam

Picky Me

I read a post today on Shine from Yahoo that said the American Psychological Association is considering classifying picky eating as an eating disorder. I wanted to print the post, frame it, and hang it in the kitchen for all to see. I am, you see, the quintessential picky eater. Oh how nice it would be to blame it on a disorder! The article went on to say that unlike other eating disorders, picky eating is not life threatening. I had to laugh. The author obviously never considered the danger picky eaters face from parents who want to strangle them at every meal. I know my mother probably needed years of therapy once I was done with her. I was/am so obsessed with my food presentation that I actually developed a set of eating rules that I follow to this day. So now, for those of you who struggle to categorize your picky-ness, I have compiled a helpful list:

No! Milk is never a beverage! See Rule #1.

Rule #1: Ok, folks, write this down: milk is never drunk! It is not and never will be a beverage. Never, never, never! You may cook with it, bake with it, or add it to your cereal. But when you finish eating the cereal, the extra milk gets dumped. This is very important to remember. This rule may never be broken.

Rule #2: Cheese can only be eaten if it tastes like butter or pizza. When you order a pizza, though, always ask for extra sauce and less cheese so your taste buds don’t get offended by that yucky white stuff. This, of course, limits the types of cheeses you can eat, but who cares? Think about it, cheese is made using the enzymes from a cow’s or goat’s stomach. Eww! And then there’s that whole mold issue…moving on.

Rule #3: Yogurt is avoided at all costs (see note on goat stomachs in Rule #2).

Rule #4: Eggs must be thoroughly cooked, no runny yolks. This rule was instituted after I accidentally collected a chicken’s nest when I was a kid. Mom cracked open an egg over the fry pan, and out popped this mucous-y, stinky embryo. I still get flashbacks when I see an undercooked egg.

Rule #5: Real butter is good. Use lots of it. Eat it plain if the urge strikes you.

Rule #6:Don’t let the elitists sway you- ketchup is good on steak, provided that the steak is not accompanied by any other sauce, which brings me to…

Rule #7: Sauces can’t mix. If you have more than one item with a sauce, they must be served on separate plates. Also, foods with sauces, in general, cannot touch foods without sauces. There are some exceptions, but when in doubt, serve on separate plates. That way, if you aren’t sure, you can dip a little teeny weeny edge of the dry food into the sauce to see if they are compatible.

Rule #8: Wet foods may not touch dry foods or foods cooked in oil. For example boiled cabbage cannot be on the same plate as say fried chicken or sauteed asparagus. The water might run across the plate and touch the chicken and asparagus. Bread should not touch anything that is wet lest it becomes soggy.

Rule #9: It is fine for foods prepared in the same manner to touch. So if you have grilled some summer squash, and it touches grilled chicken, it will be ok.

Rule #10: Barbeque sauce may never touch anything except what it is barbecuing. I don’t want to see barbeque sauce on my corn, my salad, my bread, or anything else it was never intended for.

These are all good items for a salad.

Rule #11: Cole slaw must always be served separately. It is not allowed to touch anything.

Rule #12:Salads are also always served separately. Plus, except for croutons or bacon bits (but see below for bacon bits rule), salads should only have greens and other salad vegetables like cucumbers, tomatoes, and carrots…and maybe some jicama. Bacon bits must be real bacon and they can only be used with certain salad dressings, like 1000 Island. Also, salad dressings should be used in moderation. Why eat a salad if you’re really only interested in the flavor of the dressing? Just skip the greens and eat the dressing straight if you have to.

Rule #13: Desserts, of course, are always served on a clean, separate plate. Sweet does not get mixed with salty- and don’t throw the bacon and maple syrup argument at me. That’s just gross. What a way to ruin perfectly good bacon!

Well, I think that’s it. This should provide you with all the guidance you need when you are dining. I find that the rules are most easily implemented if you have either really big plates or lots of small ones. I hope this helps. Buen provecho!

A properly presented plate. Notice the clean margins around each food item.

©2010 frayedges and http://www.frayedges.wordpress.com

Part VIII: Sorting It Out

The anger has left. It didn’t happen gradually. It just disappeared. I woke up one morning this week and realized I was not upset. And then I realized I had slept all night without the help of a sleeping pill. Oh, don’t get me wrong- I still think about cancer constantly. It consumes my day and leaves me restless, still unable to focus. But it is manageable, today anyway. I have crossed a rocky shore and can now feel the soft sand between my toes. I can relax.

I have tried to figure out what I have done differently. I suppose one change is that I am no longer hiding. For some reason I have difficulty understanding or explaining, I have kept my cancer a secret for the most part. Oh yes, I have written about it, and I have told a select few about it (mostly by email), but I was embarrassed and avoided disclosing this information to people I deal with every day. When I learned of my diagnosis, I told my immediate supervisor because I knew I would need to take a day or two off (haha, a day or two! I was so naive!). But I didn’t tell my main boss. I told no one else at work. It was only after my surgery that I finally came clean, when I realized that the strain of hiding it from my employer would be too great, that I would need to rearrange my schedule a bit to accommodate treatments. Then I told one or two others at work, but the rest I dodged as skillfully as possible. I wanted no one to know. This has taken its toll on me.

My first foray into the public world was through a writing group. I brought the manuscript of my cancer experience for feedback, and it was nerve wracking. I don’t know what I expected, but what I got was positive feedback on my writing and compassion for my experience. I survived exposure.

Then I told a friend that I was falling to pieces, couldn’t get a grip on my reality. He knew about my cancer, had been there the whole time during my treatment, but he was surprised because, as usual, I was hiding my pain and confusion so well. He mentioned that hiding might not be the best approach since others pick up on the subtleties of behavior, and if there is no rational explanation for the way a person is acting, others become confused and possibly assign meaning to those behaviors, and not necessarily positive.  So I stepped back and had to wonder, what do other acquaintances think about me? It is unfortunate, but the majority of people I know in this town I met after my diagnosis. Yet they know nothing about what I have been going through. So did they think I was odd, unfriendly, unstable as I stumbled through the world of medicine and sickness, blind to activities beyond its borders? I could beat myself up for that, but a person is only capable of doing what they are capable of at the moment. For me, my mechanism for dealing was to try to do it on my own, in secret. I can say that hasn’t worked too well, but I needed to find that out on my own. And I needed to come to accept that my life will not necessarily be defined by cancer from now on, but it will be marked by it. How can something that is so much a part of you not be revealed?

I decided to quit hiding. I didn’t run out and make a public announcement, but I did tell a few more people when the time was appropriate. Then I started this blog. Perhaps no one will read this, but the fact that it is out there on the internet makes it public. That has a psychological effect that is cathartic (as another friend described it) in nature. It is an avenue of healing, and it gives me an outlet for my thoughts. It also gives me a purpose- to write. For this I can focus.

So will my mood last? Who knows? There is a little part of me that waits apprehensively for the other shoe to drop, but for the moment I seem to be ok. I will still talk to my oncologist about support groups or other resources, just in case. But I will take my mood at face value and enjoy it. After all, as I have been so brutally reminded, I only have today.

©2010 frayedges and http://www.frayedges.wordpress.com