Find Out What It Means to Me

Sock it to me. Common theme in life this week: self-respect and making your word mean something. Now maybe it's just me, but I find that these two things are becoming slippery notions and falling just out of reach.

When you're cleaning up the past, apparently you encounter a lot of cob-webs. Let's get more graphic; they are not cob webs, because those are easy to clean with a little feather duster or broom. These nasty things are something straight out of a sci-fi movie. You know the B-rated ones I am referring to: giant, rigid and obscenely awkward representations of real-life arachnids, encasing rural towns in pathetically represented silk webs as frenzied citizens scurry about in shear terror. Those are the ones.

I would like to officially announce that I have been ensnared. As much as I writhe about, attempting to free myself, I become more entangled in their traps. I guess the past continues to haunt you, as long as you let it. Lately, I have been gripping it ever so tightly. Maybe, it's because I'm afraid of the future. Maybe it's because it is familiar and homey. Maybe, it's a habit. More than likely, it's all of the aforementioned.

So where does that leave me? I look at many of my relationships, whether longevity based, superficial or peripheral and begin to realize that people tend to treat me the same way. From my relatives to my business relationships, many people I surround myself with resort to behaviors wrought with manipulation, placation and domination. Against my own will, I have been forced to take several steps back and look hard upon myself and these people. Why is there a continuous pattern of behavior exhibited by people that I surround myself with? Well, as much as I wish to avoid admitting being an enabler, I cannot; the answer is that I allow people to treat me poorly.

I do and always have allowed people to treat me as I treat myself: without respect and consideration. People tell me they will call; they don't. I text people; they don't text back. People owe me money; they don't pay. People use words and similar behaviors to try to enforce a belief that I deserve poor treatment. People use words to turn their bad behaviors into the powerful suggestion that I am crazy. I have done wrong. I am the reason for their bad behavior. Well....guess what people? Today is the day of my epiphany. I am not crazy. I did not behave poorly. I am a tremendous and special individual, worthy of your respect just as you are worthy of mine.

With all of this cleansing, comes a lot of pain. Realizing that the one that you have hurt the most is not as you always suspected, not as you always blamed yourself for and not as you always assumed you were doing wrong unto is yourself is immensely painful. Realizing that you allow people to push you around is downright disarming. How could I do this to myself? How could this happen? Where have I been this whole time?

At this moment, I make myself a promise: I will no longer encourage others, no matter how much I love them or care for them, to manipulate me. They will act on their words. They will be called on their bad behaviors. They will treat me with respect and consideration. They will do this, because today I start doing this for myself.

As much as I need to call others on their sh-t, I have had to begin to clean up the biggest pile of my own.

An Ithakian Once Told Me

Like an orange. Life. Thick skin on the outside (for some of us), juicy, sweet meat on the inside. If you can get to it. Day by day, we peel back the layers in search of the treasure.

Sometimes it feels like a navel orange, others a clementine.

Yesterday, just as I was beginning to think that I was nearing the reward of its sustenance, I felt as if I was encountering that thick, immensely undesireable white stuff that adheres to the outside of this wonderful fruit. You know the 'stuff' I am speaking of....stringy, annoying, abundant and basically lacking in flavor; it was always my deterrent for eating these silly fruits.

Again, we are talking about life, the orange being a metaphor, and it occurred to me that in my mind, a typical set-back, a minor event is always blown far out of proportion and feels like the end of the world. Put simply, it isn't. It is just life. It is just that one bad fruit out of the batch. It was the looming and ever present reminder that life is not always rosy and it is far from a garden of them. Yesterday, I was simply overwhelmed.

The sensation of being overwhelmed stemmed from the inability for my tiny brain to accept the fact that we don't change in a day, there are always elements we cannot control and it really is not the end of the world. It is simply one day.

Work was trying. Work was hot, stressful and wrought with cranky patients and demands. Work was pharmacy---typical day. Friends were calling. Friends wanted to hang out that evening. Old friends: the 'outside' friends. I miss those friends and I try to surround myself with them as much as possible, as often as possible. They represent my 'old life,' the one I am trying to exit, yet they are necessary for my survival in the 'new' one and precious to me. After work, there was a meeting. I was invited to attend, as usual, and I had the desire to go. But I wanted to see my friends. Meeting or friends. Tough decision. I'm supposed to be making phonecalls. I am supposed to be going everyday. I am supposed to have a sponsor. I AM TRYING.

There are so many elements to consider and so many situations involved. And yet I continue to consider myself unique. When I miss meetings, I feel guilty; guilt comes from the feeling that I am not giving my all, that I am not trying as hard as I can. I do this in every aspect of my life. It is part of the distorted thinking. The workaholic. The over-achiever. The 'Miss I'm Never Good Enough' crazy head trap. When I see my friends outside the program, I feel temptation, but I also feel whole and 'normal.' It is essential to maintain my relationship with them. They were there before I started my metamorphosis, and they will be there at the time of my emergence. My renewal. My fresh wings and bright eyes. Knowing all of this, still, yesterday I felt trapped; blocked off; cheated; like an insolent child.

Some days I don't want meetings. Some days I don't want to work. Some days, I want to run around Sheep's Meadow like a goddam hippie. At the end of the day, I am who I am and I must remember that these challenges are simple. It all comes down to one thing.

When I traveled to Greece, I spent my time on the island of Ithaca, Ithaki, the island of Odysseus. It was healing. It was magic. One day, I will live there---this is inevitable. A friend I made while abroad had told me, whilst sitting outside a monestary, that there is only one thing that is essential to life for one to succeed. He was no soothesayer, no wiseman, no profit. This was not the Oracle at Delphi or the mighty Sphynx. This was simply a man. A sweet man whose rivers ran still and deep. 'Dear Nico,' he said, 'the secret to everything is balance. Only balance.'

Now the first thing I want to do is argue. The second thing I want to do is run back to shove my hands in and begin to manipulate and control my life. I pause, take a breathe, and remember this word. Although he is far away, although I may never see him again, as simple as he is---he knows. Thank you Stavros for granting me such insight. Thank you for giving me such a wonderful fruit to peel. You are my Oracle at Delphi.

Drop The Needles From Those Hands

Picture a woman. Not an older woman, but middle-aged. Her face still radiant and fresh, but bearing the slight lines and scars of her battles. She carries herself home every night, weary and tired from the work of the day, but no longer aching, weak and disheveled as before. Her pains are honest. Her work is just. Her days end on her time and not on the time of another. She is learning. She is succeeding. Her body, once ruled by others, is now hers; her soul, once gripped by darkness, now glinted with light; her mind, once swarming with torment, seething with hurt and anger, now quieter. Clearer. Lighter.

There was a time when the fields were fuller, the land far from barren and the work much easier. In her mind, she remembered them. She remembered those days, those times and the joy. That was long ago when life was different. That was before the pain. Before the dirt became too stiff and the weeds too high. Many had been left behind, a few had moved on. Bearing the burden of such work had become far too great, however and these few were not enough. Their toils were not enough. Love for those fields was not enough to carry them through.

She waits at a crossroads. She waits with patience, empathy and compassion for one who will soon join her. As she has not traveled too far, she does not mind the wait. She rests. She reflects. She gains more knowledge everyday. A brief reprieve is welcome. Lingering here is comforting.

In the distance, she sees a figure coming toward here, although misty and formless just yet. She knows it is her. She knows that she will be coming. She is already on her way. Thinking her rest to be long, her time at this place to be lengthy, she begins to settle in for a while. Amazed by what she sees ahead of her, peering down the path that she had once tread, the ruts worn by her very feet, she draw closer and closer. Faster than expected. Her arrival will be soon.

Only steps away now, she remembers her when she was young. Nothing more than just a baby. She smiles at her passing thought of how important it is that even she remembers herself that way: just a baby. The love that she feels is immutable, the empathy she feels is intense. They are alike in so many ways; they are different in so many others. She looks at her, a younger version of herself, and grabs her by her hands, turning them over. The palms are sore and stingy, remnants of the dirt remains. She remembers it all too well. The face she stares into is desperate, the eyes drown in despair. The soul she sees before her is lost.

Gently, she speaks. 'I will take your hands and mend them. I will bandage your wounds and your heart. With my love I will protect you. With my knowledge I will enlighten you. With my experience I will shield you. I know the way. I have begun the journey. All you have to do is follow. You do not have to feel the prick of the needles. Throw them down. Drop them from your hands. You need never look back upon that field. Never to work the earth. That earth is barren, hostile and dead. Nothing will grown there anymore.'

I tell you, my sister, that you do not have to feel those needles. Turn your back on that field. It is our time to know joy. It is our time to know life. The salve you apply to mend those cuts you cannot remove; you cannot tear at those scabs; you cannot reopen those wounds. We must heal. In our time we will. It is that word, 'will', that kept us in the fields so long. Humility is our future. Let go. Follow me. I will lead you to new fields. In these fields, we ALL work.

Two Star-Crossed Lovers

"For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo"

Though full of woe it truly was, I have to disagree that their situation is neither unique nor completely without its ability to allure readers and leave them enchanted for centuries.

I have read the play. Yes, I waded through the oceans of challenging, Shakespearean language, articulating the meanings and reflecting on the text for enhanced understanding. Indeed, there were times where I simply had to press on whether I lacked a complete comprehension of the printed word or no; so as not to insult the late William Shakespeare, I invested much time in breaking down the language. I did him justice.

I have seen the 1960's classic, Franco Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet, several times. A dusty copy sits atop my stack of favorite DVDs in my apartment, and I cannot help but admit the strong desire to remove it from its resting place, pop it open and place it in the player. Of course I have seen the inferior version of this classic, starring Claire Danes and Leo DiCaprio; I find it to be less than ideal and lacking the eloquence, magic and ethereal beauty of the first. For whatever reason, perhaps many reasons, I find that the two individuals cast for Franco's version were the perfect duo. If you have ever seen this gem of cinematic deliciousness, then you have witnessed the breathetaking beauty of these young actors. In simplest terms (in Nicole's little mind), they represent the epitome of my vision of the fictional pair; they exemplify these characters perfectly. They were innocent, pure and amazing---mesmerizing to watch. I was instantly sold.

Although my appreciation for this tragedy has never truly left me (for we hold them within our hearts), lately this literary masterpiece has begun to haunt me in many ways. I heard the Killer's cover of the Dire Straits track, 'Romeo and Juliet,' recently and suddenly had to pull out my CD. Not only did I listen once, I played the tune a few times, analyzing the lyrics, applying them to my life. If you have not heard it, I highly recommend.

I believe they call me a hopeless romantic. I sit. I wait. I dream. One day Romeo will come to call. Until then, I learn to truly love myself. Often times, although it is the grandest love affair of all, it is the hardest.

I Hear Ya

Does this look like the face of a criminal? Perhaps a cruel, cold-hearted or devisive seductress?


I didn't really think so either. Perhaps once upon a time (for those of you who remember me in my more Jerry Springeresque days), I held far less regards for the feelings, thoughts and/or egos of others. I was a miserable cuss. I was judgemental, conceited and downright crude at times. For those of you who are familiar, entering a state of retrospection paints a pretty dismal picture. For those of you who I looked upon and treated with such blatant disregard, I am sorry.

These days, one would find a much different version of Nicole. If I were a purchased at a toy store (packaged in a cardboard box with a cellophane viewing-window), I would be the doll with the cheesy advertisement printed on the exterior: something like--"New and Improved! Now With COMPASSION!!" You can chuckle, it's okay. Sadly, it is true.



There was a time when I barely possessed the freedom to run to the restroom, however now I am one of the semi-unemployed and therefore you are subjected to TWO blogs today and not just one. Unlike its predecessor, there is a moral to this story (I think), so settle in and stay for a bit. I'll keep it as painless as possible.



Getting back on track...these days, one would find this rare species of 'Nicole,' indigenous to upper Manhattan and until recently, rarely seen in captivity. Fortunately for those around her, it appears that the more primitive and less evolved version has reached extinction and has only been seen on rare occasions. Something akin to a Sasquatch. Experiencing life as this 'newer' version, if you have been been following, brings with it exploration of foreign territory. Today, that territory was one of being that person who fails to reciprocate feelings to an admirer.



I hope your still there. I had not really decided from what angle I was going to attack this one, therefore this is strictly 'from the hip.' He is a friend. He is a dear friend and someone that I spend a significant amount of time with as well as confide in and he has seen me at my worst and most vulnerable. As much time as we have spent together, I feel nothing more for him than the love and affection of a friend. We all have experienced this. We all probably have someone in our lives that views us in a way that surpasses our feelings and desires for them. Lately, as I go through some of my own relationship angst, I have watched this person grow closer to me. I have felt, whether intuitively or assumingly, that his wishes have gone straight past the friendship boundaries and into the realm of significant other. If he reads this, he may deny those things. If he reads this, he may even accuse me of being mistaken. I very well may be. There is one thing that I know for sure, and that is this: yesterday, he made his postition extremely clear, even if it was unintentional.



Whilst sitting at Chipotle (uptown hotspot for you non-New Yorkers---kidding), talking about a boy that I once fancied (and still do), he expressed aloud that he wonders when I 'will realize that he is a perfect boyfriend for me.' Suddenly, my steak burrito bowl lost its appeal. My solar plexus knotted up, the butterflies were on amphetamines and I caught myself going into defense-mode. Allofasudden, I felt trapped, angry and sad all at the same moment. I had to look at my dear friend, straight in the eyes and explain what I thought we already knew. What I thought was a 'given.' What I thought....was simply 'understood.' I had to be the person that I have been so many times. I had to be the person that I have been the opposite of for so many years, living a fantasy, making assumptions, creating a dream....with someone else.


Isn't life funny? And...isn't God wonderful for teaching us lessons the way that he does. In a way, I am crestfallen. Someone that I respected, admired and loved as a friend and fellow, beautiful human being is now distancing himself from me. Doubtful that those I have had to do the same with in my life were so sad to see me go (being the wonderful person that I was/were/have been). This was my lesson for the day and maybe for the weekend. God, karma, the divine, the universe---whomever---takes our lives and flips them, rearranges them, positions them and places it all perfectly so that we see reflections of ourselves, learn lessons, become better and stronger.



I don't know what will happen with the friendship. I do not know where he will be. Inside, in his head or in his heart. That's none of my business. A dear friend once told me that I can't know what will happen....I don't know what will happen five minutes from now. He also told me that you have to make your word mean something. So...I did. I told him we were friends, and I meant it. It doesn't make it any easier to hear.

Apparitions

I did it. I raised my hand. I spoke. In a two minute monologue, I allowed the words to come pouring out of my mouth and into the air, carried away and quickly vaporized. No one knows me there. Well, they know of me and about me and many of the elements of 'me' but they don't know me.

As strange as the aforementioned statement probably sounds, it makes sense to me. Being a member of this secret society, flanked by celebrities and everyday joes, one foot in the spotlight and the other in the shadows I realized that there are people in my life who have remained as much of a stranger to me as I am to these people.

For many years, I have known someone whom I have realized is almost a complete stranger to me. As I come clean with my life and as I discover more and more of who I am, clearing up the wreckage, dissecting the past and living in the present, I have awakened from a dream. Smoke and mirrors. It sounds more magical than it feels. I am to this relationship as Robert Angier was to Albert Borden's 'Transported Man:' obsessed. One thing at a time, one friggin day at a time. I removed the job that was tearing my insides out from my life and now I move on to the next department. The next set of boxes. The next reel of tape.

Often times, taking a strong inventory of life and relationships is tedious, gut-wrenching and achingly humuliating. I guess that is where I stand now. After a few years, you think that you know someone. After ups and downs, good times and bad, you think that you have some insight into their personality, their mannerisms, perhaps even their thoughts. Hell, you even go so far as to assume that if they have stuck around this long, if they have trudged through the mire, gone to the trenches, reached out to you and stayed in your life in some fashion alllllllll of this time, that you know something, you feel it, you understand them. As tough as it was to admit to myself in the last few days, I have experienced much with this person, taken a few hits and threw a few punches of my own---as tough as it was, I admitted that I do not know him at all.

How does one spend years interacting with someone (YEARS!!!!) and not know them? Why would I have believed that he was in it for the same reasons as I, that he felt similar feelings, thought similar thoughts? 'Why' is a stupid question. 'Why' is a waste of energy. I am not sure, but I finally had to wake up from the dream, come out of the fantasy and into reality. I had to cut through the smoke and break the mirrors, whether it costs me seven years of bad luck or no. Angier, give up your obsession for it is a young man's game. Nicole---give up your obsession. Wake up from your dream and see him at face value.

Sometimes, we create the story. We derive the fantasy and we construct it to suit whatever we need it to be. Sometimes, people are strangers, but only because we refused to see who they really were the entire time. There is a ghost of something that was that I have chosen to allow to continue on its haunt for a long time. Having to perform an exorcism is not something I want to do, yet is something that I must. I reach out to the 'good book' with apprehesion, reservation...simply because I have never performed the ritual. I have forgotten the steps. Who am I really kidding. I had come to love this ghost and his hauntings; I had welcomed him continuously into my inner world.

Obsession is a young man's game. Obsession is also tiring, both physically and emotionally. Right now, I'm all tapped out. When I sit back and think of it, like Angier, the method to the trick he sought so feverishly was right before his eyes the entire time. It was simple. The real person, not the apparition has been in my life the entire time. It was simple. I simply chose to create the fantasy.

Letting go will be the hardest part, severing ties the most painful. I'll miss that damned 'ol ghost. No trap doors here. No escape plans and no more chasing the apparition. You are free to go now. You are not needed here anymore. I really wish it were that easy. A part of me still loves him.

I guess old habits die hard.

Inspired by Andy Dufresne

Life felt like a prison. The steel bars and shackles were theoretical, of course, created by my unbridled and somewhat crippling imagination. I still find myself there, as you have heard me describe before in this blog, confined to solitary and supplemented with nothing more than bread and water.

Lately I have begun the slow, peculiar and yet glorious process of nourishing oneself. To some, this may come as naturally as breathing in and out. To others (you know who you are), this is a skill which must be learned. It's not so bad, actually. I find it absolutely exhilirating and yet frightening at the same time. Alas, I press onward.

For some odd reason, as I was perusing the racks of the 'not-so-desirable' and wanton DVDs that can be found at various grocery stores, convenience spots and local pharmacies (ie previous employer), I spotted a dear, old classic--The Shawshank Redemption. Now I'm not saying I am comparable to Andy Defrain, his character's plight or his actions in the movie; I am simply stating that for whatever reason, although having seen this movie several times before, that I found inspiration in this character. Confined to a prison for a crime he did not commit (as I am sometimes confined to my head, thinking thoughts I did not invite), he never lost himself.

Relentlessly, he carved stones into chess pieces---a lover of the game. Stoicly, he navigated the prison, doing as told yet always maintaining his identity. Whether it was a voluntary offering of tax information or playing an Italian opera over the loudspeakers, he affirmed that his place in the world was to always remember who he was, no matter what the cost.

For a long time, I thought that I was doing the exact same thing: pioneering, creating my legacy, 'doing my time' and paying pennance in exchange for some prize like a laurel wreath, championship belt or some new empire. Sadly, I worked, I toiled, I struggled for nothing and for an image that was as transparent as the individuals who urged me along. I want to be like Andy Defrain. I want to write two letters a week, requesting the allocation of funds for literary materials and I want to do it until I have achieved my goal. I want to dig through a wall of plaster with a rock hammer, even if it takes me six years and unlimited patience if that's what it takes to live out life the way it has been planned.

I have begun experimenting, exploring and creating over the last couple of weeks, regaining strength and obtaining insights I had never possessed before. There was a time, as a young girl, that I baked, I concocted, I tested the waters of the culinary world. I am no baker, although my finished projects are usually edible. As I grew, I acquired a unique appreciation for pancakes. Yes, pancakes. GAME--BLOUSES. I can eat them anyway I can imagine on any day of the week and at any time of day. They represent one of the most versatile foodstuffs that has ever existed and I am quite confident that the world could possible sustain themselves on a steady diet of them. Yet I digress.

I had always wondered where this passion for these warm, flat, buttery and cake-like little morsels would take me. A diner? Perhaps, but I really don't see myself as a Wolfgang Puck. A constant admirer? I doubt that a pancake really cares. No, there was a reason for all of that mixing and measuring and creating---sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. There was a reason I went to pharmacy school to obtain and incorporate a few more skills, just to solidify things. Like Andy Defrain, I will use my talents and skills to perform valuable service and be the model prisoner.

One day, not too far on the horizon, I will break free from my prison, crawl through that tunnel of mire and into the light of a new and glorious day. What I plan as I chip away at the plaster, tunneling through will not be to free my physical being...it will be to free my spiritual one.

Like Watercolors

Purple. Like the vestment of a priest during Lent. A priest. I have a confession to make: I feel.

There is something mystical to this concept, for some of us, and the mystique eludes me. Instead of being afraid of it, I am fascinated by it---drawn like a moth to flame.

Perhaps it is my nature as well as my current position in life that allow me to observe the inability of some to do what comes naturally to me: FEEL. I have no filter nor do I construct sandbag levees against the floods of my emotions. I simply immerse myself in them as they come.

So much of what many of us do, in my observation, is refuse to allow these little gems of the human condition to entire our consciousness, our daily existence. From moment to moment, from day to day, these weary travelers approach our counters, ring the bell and ask for a key to a room in our hearts and our heads. Some of us offer a comfortable bed, a dry roof and a warm meal; come in, sit, stay awhile. Some of us throw up the 'No Vacancies' sign and turn them away.

Many of the most important people in my life are such individuals. They stare their emotions and feelings straight in the eye and refuse them a place to rest. If you do not feel, then how do you live? For someone who drinks or drugs, this avoidance is as easy as taking a drink or doing a line. In our world of Western thought we have derived and created many terms for numerous 'non-feeling' types: narcissist, emotionally-unavailable, emotionally crippled; I guess we could even go so far as to delve into the concept of 'macho' or the 'man's man.' This may all be relevant to an extent, but it does not explain the lack of emotion in our female counterparts.

My life without feeling would be nothing. It would not be life. It would be existence, and for me, existing is not enough. I love. I feel pain. I cry...a lot. I feel anxiety and angst and sadness. All of these things are not to be feared but embraced for they are those things which make us human.

I guess the reason for this entry is the struggle with people in my life who refuse to feel, whether it be those interactions I seek everyday or those old skeletons collecting dust in the closet. My parents do not feel, and at times this leaves me baffled, discouraged and even bewildered. I love them. I wish to share their lives with them, but they chose to distance themselves from me. Many significant people in my life have chosen to shut me out, shown me the sign and pointed to the door. If only some of them knew how wonderful life can be if you just put the coffee on, let your guard down and invite me and all of those feelings in. They are not to be feared but to be embraced. Accept them for what they are, they do not go away. They will simply sit outside of the window in the pouring rain, watching, waiting, wishing that you will let them inside.

I let them inside. Everyday. Every moment. Always. They are not always kind and they are not always joyous, forgiving or monumental. They are, however constant, necessary and healthy. In all of their burden, they allow me to share with the world what I hold inside and who I am. I invite anyone I know and love to do the same. I invite you, unknown reader, to do the same.

Just as a watercolor takes many forms---sometimes saturated and wispy, barely reminiscent of color; sometimes bold and intense, screaming from the page---emotions are much the same. Fear not, for they are your life-line. Resist them, and every moment, a tiny part of your soul dies.

Not Everyone Grew Up Like You

Today, I sat at a meeting. It's no big deal....I sit at meetings often times, throughout the week, when I could squeeze it into my old work schedule.

The meeting was different today, because I heard a man talk about going home to see family. How interesting that this was the topic of discussion! I had just been home this past week and realized that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Unlike any other occasion where I had lived in another state and travelled back, this occasion was different. I am different. I am on a journey, learning about myself and most importantly--I am sober. Now, to the average person this does not mean much; for those of you who grew up the way that I did, family can be a bewildering, heartbreaking, joyous, touching and unique concept in and of itself.

I realize, although it may seem strange and out of the grasp of many, that I was born unto the perfect parents: my soul planned it that way. In order to become the wonderful butterfly I am one day supposed to be, I had to endure the pain, the suffering and the heartache that was my youth, my childhood.

Growing up this way, envokes certain feelings of apprehension and anxiety for me as much as it would feelings of warmth and nostalgia in another.

I stay at my grandmother's when I travel back to where I hail from, simply because she is nourishing, loving and provides the most stability for me; these things I find are important for me, even in my adulthood. I did not see my father. Oh, sure, I called him--on Friday, as a matter of fact. He answered and explained to me how busy his weekend was, when so-and-so was working, his band practice and so forth. I did not see my father on my visit. My mother, the member of the family most responsible for my angst as a child, shared a brief car ride with me to pick up my house key; the ride was mostly silence and dotted with her screaming at me for getting too close to the shoulder, asking a few questions about my life in New York and talking to herself, apparently. At least I think that is what she was doing; maybe I just want her to do something odd so that it makes it easier to detach from her.

My grandparents, the paternal ones, are in denial about the problems of our parents. 'I think we are on the verge of becoming a dysfunctional family,' she says. You think?

From my mother's mother, I receive the constant flow of love and support that I always have, even if she doesn't understand my ohm bracelet, my fascination with crystals and chakras or my love of the big city. She is and always will be more like my mother than my own. If it hurts my mother to hear this, I do not feel sorry---what I feel is sadness. I frankly do not know her anymore. She is not my mother, but merely the shell of her.

So as not to run completely off course, my father calls today, asking if I was still in Illinois. With regret, I said 'No Dad, I'm back in New York.' When he told me that he had wished we had seen one another, I told him that I thought he was too busy or at least that's what he implied. He apologized, and I know he meant it. Maybe next time, I said. I still love him even with all of his deficiencies. They made me who I am. They did it perfectly, just as I said.

One of my dear friends remarked to me today, that the odds were against me turning out the way I did---that I am truly a miracle. I guess there is no way I can deny that. The odds were against me, and yet here I am.

Taking Out the Trash

Here's a little throat chakra action for ya'....blue, the color of the throat chakra, the center of energy by which we control how we communicate with one another from our hearts and our minds through our voice.



Today, I felt like embracing the inner-child, the child within me, the same child within all of us who experienced life and took with it all of the lies, lessons, support, harshness and love into our adult lives. Here I sit, nestled in my down comforter, in the middle of my bed (and comfy it is!) in my studio on 70th Street.



Before I returned to the city, I found a stack of pictures of myself, my brother and my sister as precious youngsters, smiling for the camera, innocent, pure and lacking the premonition of what our lives would be like in the future. Now, the pictures sit atop my altar (a holy place for prayer and meditation, not sacrificing rats) to remind me that we are still those little children inside, though our outsides have grown and aged and matured.



I suppose that my reflection in this entry is one of epiphany: the realization that I grow a little everyday, I wipe off some of the old dirt to find that buried child---and people insist on PILING IT BACK ON! On of the most difficult thigs for us to accomplish in this life, is the practice of unconditional love.



Case in point: I loaned my sister a lump sum of money a couple weeks ago for a large purchase she needed to make for her survival in the working world. I did so with the reassurance that I would receive the funds, in full, within a short period of time, after this takes place, once I get this and so on....I trust her. I love her. Of course, I would always be there for my siblings or anyone that I care for and give my whatever I could to assist in a time of need. She was in need and I obliged. Here comes the tricky part: the pay-off. As we get closer to the time of reimbursement, the debtor struggles with the debt. I have borrowed money numerous times. I have failed to pay people back, as well. What is occurring is a shear act of karmic wonder, I can assure you. I love my sister, however when faced with her communications about not having the funds as planned, I found difficulty in deriving the proper words to convey my feelings.

As I struggle within myself, day-to-day, in sobriety and outside of it, I realize that one of the most difficult things I encounter is making my word mean something. Within this activity comes a wealth of responsibility. Sometimes, you have to say what you mean: this means being honest. I realize, it is a terrible notion, as most day to day interactions omit this basic element of respect and dignity. Sometimes, the words you have to say ellicit reactions from others which require us to be responsible for continuing the conversation, defending ourselves and possibly hurting someone else.

I suppose the point that I am trying to get to, in such a roundabout way, is that when presented with the notion that money loaned so quickly and with such ease would not be returned under the same pretenses, I felt a bit indifferent. I guess there was a touch of anger, a bit of betrayal and even an twinge of foolishness sprinkled in the mix. I love my sister, wish all the best for her and would even gladly give up the money if I had it to spare. I politely stated my position and reiterated our agreement, and much to my dismay, I was met with resistance and even felt a bit of a backlash. As I said, sometimes the action of adding meaning to words comes with its own repercussions; my dear sister, no doubt hurt and disappointed at my response, lashed out at me about my 200K yearly salary and why I needed the money so badly. I wish someone had told me I made 200K a year! I would likely go searching for it--I could use some right about now!

I love her and cherish her and will undoubtedly reach an agreement on the loan. This entry is not about a loan, it is of course about the continuous daily lessons, the rigorous path on the way to discovering who I really am.

In two days time, two people I considered close to me have turned a mirror on me; in that mirror, I see a reflection of my former self. I am changing. The process is no prestige, I can assure you. No 'abracadabra' here. Nonetheless, I am changing just the same. It is time to stand up for myself, make my words mean something, gain some respect and stop giving all that I have to others, leaving the crumbs for me.

I will continue to love these people, but I have to let them know that the game has changed. I try not to hit that ball back anymore. Harsh words and hurtful accusations will not provoke me....not the way they did before. Perhaps one day, when I have reached that pinnacle to which I march toward, these moments will occur less and less. Perhaps not. Until then, I keep working, loving and cleaning. There is still a lot of dirt on this girl, but through the cracks I see her peeking through. Yep, it's her....and I think she'll shine up just like a new penny.

I love you Toni.

I Would be Famous....

That is, if I could find a pill that eased the pain of heartache. I would be a (insert your profane adjective here) millionaire. As I have stated in previous posts, much to my dismay, much to the resistance of my heart and my inner being (heck call it my soul), I have chosen to walk away from the man that I love. Today is no easier. In fact, it is worse. The tears flowed, the anger steeped, the resentments deepened. I know not where it will end up, for the future is none of my business, that is for certain. I am simply stuck here, clinging to nothing---something out of 'The Neverending Story'. This feels like 'The Nothing'--the giant storm that ripped through the land of Fantasia. Well, I guess this was my Fantasia, and he was my Prince (although anyone who knows that story knows that there was no prince). To make my point, I simply wish to convey the void in my heart. Sometimes, you love hard and true and give all that you have and wear your heart on your sleeve and let it all hang out and bear your soul in a fit of vulnerability (GASP)---only to receive crumbs in return. Maybe, he is not capable of loving me....if I were truly honest with myself, maybe he does not love me, not that way. Maybe he is afraid. Whatever the reason, whatever the thoughts in his head and the feelings in his heart---I may never know. I gave it my all, dammit. Isn't that supposed to be good enough?

I'm a pharmacist. With all the remedies that I can market, mix, label, pour, sell and regurgitate fascinating facts on, including but not limited to: physical properties, chemical properties, pharmacokinetics, pharmacologic profile, side effects, interactions and half-life---why do I fail, in all of my education, to find a cure for heartache. If only there were a magic pill. I would take two and call in the morning.

It's Where the Heart Is....Was

Here I was on a plane home from Illinois, a plane that I had hoped would bring me solace, comfort and put me on the mend. As to not sound ungrateful, the love supplied to me by my grandmother was unique and irreplaceable, the joy bestowed upon me by the children of my best friend was both exhilarating and magical in its ability to heal a heart, a weary soul and a tired body.

My trip was planned to reach out to one of my dearest friends whom I have known for a long while--we are both in search of comfort and have found another link to solder the chain which binds us in life even tighter and stronger. What I found whilst there, was a pile of wreckage left behind in my escape to New York City: stones left unturned, familial bonds frayed at best and ahome I once inhabited and loved now vacant, on the market and in need of TLC.

The family, well, that will take time to make amends with old wounds which continue to fester as old habits die even harder. Melissa--she is the one who needed me most, so I came because the timing JUST-FELT-RIGHT. I lover her, as I love all of those dear to me, even when my ways of showing it lack the warmth, closeness and intimacy sometimes needed. We realized we are forever bonded in our disease and will never leave each other's side. A compensory glance is all it takes or the utterance of a word--I KNOW you, sweet Melissa. You know I know your head all too well.

The house was painful--I have memories there. Seeing something you love in disrepair, uncared for, screaming for warm bodies and voices takes a toll on a person. She was mine and I loved her. Now, no one ever will again...not without abandoning her. I told her that I had put some love in there, I prayed and I locked her doors to leave her for good, just as I left her before. Someday, perhaps, she will be found againa and I hope that she is restored and renewed and given the chance to live once more. When it came time to leave, I felt torn...my life moving in 50 directions at once. There is a life ending in Illiniois, as it should be, I suppose, and one just beginning in NYC where my heart truly belongs.

It feels eery when memories creep back in--the boy you met three summers ago who changed your life, the grandma up in age that you question the number of visits you have left with. The 'old' life.

"Cleaning up the wreakage." My life was once a wreck, alas I begin the salvage, the inventory, the appraisal of what is left---what is worth keeping and what is ready for disposal. It is bittersweet in sensation, more than anything else. So now...I return to my concrete walls and my tall buildings, my street vendors and my crowded corners feeling like home. Feeling like I never left.

Internet Vomit---or Maybe It Actually Applies Today

Tuesday, Aug 11th, 2009 -- If you are struck with an idea about a new way to do a repetitive task, follow your hunch. Your mind is less restrained by old habits now, enabling you to see your work in a new light. Your brilliant conceptual breakthrough might not work in reality, but you'll never know unless you are willing to try. Don't give up if you're not successful right away; it could take a few attempts before you get it right.

Why Is Love Not Enough?

I chose pink. Pink is the color of love. Pink is the color of Shelby Eatonton of Steel Magnolias--her 'signature color' to be precise. Pink is the color of the heart chakra.

For whatever your beliefs are, leave them at the doorstep here as you may find it difficult to afford predjudices of such nature at this blog. Here, all religions are welcome as are all schools of thought, theology and the divine. I embrace many cultures and many of God's messages as they flow into my life masquerading as many denominations and/or factions under the spiritual sun.

My heart chakras, so I have been told, are far too open, allowing me to freely and openly express what is in my heart so much that it is not censored by my head or my mind and at times may over-power or overwhelm others. How was I to know? I am, unfortunately, the only individual that I can be---ME. I realize that with time and effort come filters and responses, not just reactions and unrated conversations. I honestly never thought that I was doing anything wrong here. Isn't it freedom of speech? Are we not taught to always speak with our hearts and always be honest? Well, I thought that is what I was doing.

For over three years now, I have known a man who has changed my life profoundly. When I met him, I was on top of my game (so to speak): I was a resident in pharmacy, owned a home, was making great money at the start of my career, was vivacious and beautiful and most of all I was POWERFUL. It seemed, at the time, that I could have anything that I wanted be it material, academic or homo sapien. I felt amazing. Enter: G. (I will refer to him as this throughout this entry so as to protect the innocent. I would never, should he or anyone he knows read this, to feel implicated, alienated or scrutinized.) After all, we are all friends here.

G came into my life at the apex of this period. We met unconventionally, however this never bothered me for a moment. A little suspect of his position, I made some slight requests which he obliged and before I knew it, we were off to the races. From the first day I met him, I was enchanted, enamored and smitten. This is the kind of syrupy crap that love stories are derived from, in essence. Things may have been 'nothing special' to anyone else, but I felt this way. From the first moment I heard his voice to the first moment I saw him, the feelings intensified. He was witty, charming, responsive, sensitive, honest and most importantly, appeared to be amazed by me. At the time, I felt that he was 'it'...and what perfect timing! Had I not waited long enough?

I suppose that things continued on as they were for a few months, plans were made, arrangements taking place until one day my life simply s-h-a-t-t-e-r-e-d. Iiiiiiinto roughly 5,000 pieces, some of them I am still attempting to reclaim. As for G, he seemed to have given it his best shot. Hell, I know I did. What ensued (as the empire crumbled) was a string of vicious, malicious, slanderous and curse-word laden conversations and fights. Yes, all of those things that you say when you are terrified, desperate and hurt and don't really mean---Said them. All of those ridiculous things that some unhealthy people do to get attention or block the door from their lover leaving---Did them. I am not removing all of the blame from his shoulders and resting it on mine, please don't get the wrong idea. In retrospect, I now see the errors of many of my ways. Wishing, wishing and wishing that I could take it back. Who was that wretched girl? I had never seen her in my life before those days, but she came for a visit and stayed for a while. In her aftermath, she left an emotionally distraught head, a tremendously broken heart and one unsalvageable relationship.

This year, in the beginnings of my searching, I have forced myself to look at the ugliness that is within me. I have had to say sorry to many people, apologize for my misgivings, my shortcomings, my rudeness, my ugly behaviors and most of all my destruction. The one person I feel that I have tried to perform this same act of apologetic mastery with is G. Unlike alllllll of the others, it seems, the wounds run too deep and the scars are to painful to look at. Maybe I am wrong, I don't know. Maybe it was a fantasy. Could have been. Maybe it is the perfect entry for 'He's Just Not That Into You'---totally possible.

What I know, from the bottom of my heart, is that I love him. I always have loved him. In many ways, he never left me. I would move, I would date, I would start a new beginning and there would always be that day where my thoughts would turn to him. From the dark corners of my mind, would float out the balloon of a memory. Maybe that makes me crazy, co-dependent, a whacko, an 'obsessive lover' as some would call it. I think of it as too many things to sum it up in one reason.

For three years I have gone from losing contact with G, to gaining it again. I forget whom is the initiator---it really does not matter. No matter how far along I get, he pops up again. I have no one to blame but myself for this for I let it happen. I simply cannot stay away. Once speaking again, we play the game for a bit, volley back and forth, try a visit or so; no matter how many times we have played the game we end up right back where we are: HERE.

Today I write this after coming to a conclusion: love, this go-round, is simply not enough. If he were ever to read this (doubtful that he would), he would see my heart on this screen, stretched to every corner of the monitor and on display for every follower and complete stranger who stumbles across this blog and sits down to take in the words. I saw him not long ago for a brief time (always expecting something magnificent to take place when I do) and he was as dashing as ever, the apple of my eye. I found him no less charming, no less handsome and no less unique than the day I saw him in Chicago. For months we have talked, though brief it usually is, and I realize everyday that I am still in love with this person. I know not why and I suppose it is none of my business (the insides of someone else's heart and head), but he does not open to me the same way. We are not the same. We are not lovers anymore. Game over.

This time around I really did show my softer side. I really did try not to 'rock the boat'. Sometimes, I have finally begun to realize, love is not enough. Wherever he is in his life, he is not here with me, ready to come forward. I mean, I guess that is my best conclusion. I have given G all that I have and yet I stand alone, weeping, aching, tired. I used to be the type of person who thought she could always do more, do better, BE better so that things could stay afloat. I just turned my back on a job where I was not supported and that hurt. It hurt like hell. What hurts more? Having to turn your back on a man you love---to the bottom of your soul.

Maybe it could happen. Maybe. Someday. If this or if that. Maybe not. One of the hardest things about being sober is really having to feel feelings. No drink this time. No help. No crutch. No potion to take the pain away. I get to do this one solo. It's a one-man job. Whatever happens, I guess I'll still see those balloons float by. I suppose I can grab for one, or just let it float away. No one knows what will happen tomorrow.

So Maybe This Is What Emancipation Felt Like...

It was Wednesday. I sat across the street from my place of work as I had on many other occasions in the Starbucks on the corner of 76th. I glanced out the window with terror, shaken by the sensations that just the mere thought of entering my place of employment had begun to evoke within me. Aprehension. Anxiety. Hesitancy. A list of other undesireable adjectives could be inserted here.

8:50 A.M. Almost time to walk over. God I do not want to go in there. I do not want to work today. I feel exhausted. Am I crazy? Is this what other people feel like before they go to work? Is it the job, is it me...job, me, job, me. No, it's definitely the job. It was the job.

I went in, clocked in as usual at 8:55 and made the walk down the two sets of stairs and into the basement. The F-ing basement. Like Joe Versus the Volcano, I worked in the basement of a store sharing space with the apartments upstairs, ornamented with fluorescent lights and adorned with brick archways for that superior 'feel.' Eight months of fluorescent lights, brick archways, no lunch breaks, concrete floors, assembly-line work conditions and no technician had put me on the brink of pharmaceutical disaster. I was a physical wreck---20 lbs lighter than a month and a half prior and achy all over, dehydrated, sleep deprived and over-all, deprived of LIFE.

I admit, I signed up for the duty. I asked for the overtime and I most certainly tore through the first few months of employment in a new pharmacy with the fervor and grit of a strung-out rodeo clown. I was novel, brave, earnest, dignified, diligent, accomodating---I was the epitome of customer service, charm and beneficence. Until I wasn't. Until I assumed the look of a maniacal, waif-like crack addict.

I was always a workaholic. I have been for years and I have worked 60+ hour weeks without a second thought for eons. For some reason, this was different. Was it the basement? Maybe. Was it the demands of the clientele? Probably not. Was it the hours spent, day after day, on my feet, pulled in 12 directions, responsible for the work of three people when I am merely but one? I suppose so.

Well how in God's name did I allow this to happen for so long, one might ask. I had to ask myself the same thing. The best answer that I can come up with is that I have always been the one who deserved the worst treatment. I have always given far more and accepted far less than what I deserve. One of the toughest elements of such a 'disease,' is retraining yourself to make different choices: to work less, give less, go to the gym less, spend less, and most of all, tell YOURSELF 'yes' and others 'NO'. This was my first lesson in doing such a thing. At around 11 A.M. that day, I texted my boss that I would be leaving at 3 P.M. and had asked for relief the previous day. After a bit of a disagreement, he told me that relief would arrive at 5 P.M. Reluctantly, I agreed. To be honest, I have no idea if my body would have made it that day.

The mere presence of my physical being in this place had begun to manifest as aches, pains, raging anxiety and rampant feelings of depression. The moment I left the building...the moment I set foot on concrete---I felt relief. Sounds crazy, I know. It is, however the absolute truth.

5 P.M. rolled around, no one had arrived to take my place and so, for the first time in my career at this pharmacy, for this corporation, I asserted my place in the world. I did it to save my own life. I texted my boss and stated that I was leaving, locking the pharmacy and relinquishing my place there, as difficult as it was to leave my favorite customers behind. He asked me to stay and I declined.

I grabbed my belongings, removed my keys from my ring, placed them in a vial and rolled around them my letter of resignation. As I locked the gate, people were waiting, their faces filled with bitter confusion and angst. I looked around and said 'I am sorry' to all and departed my tomb, eager to see the light of day.

Leaving was difficult for many reasons, some of which only I can understand. Sometimes, lessons are painful. After I arrived at my apartment, I sat for 20 minutes and cried, not out of sadness but out of anger. Anger at myself for being so diseased, subjecting my body to pain and pushing myself so hard. Anger at myself for allowing it to hurt until I couldn't take it anymore. Most of all, though, I was angry with those that I worked so hard to please. I had given every particle of my being and every piece of my soul to that place and those patients, half killing myself in the process. What I got in return, was absolutely nothing. I realized, at this moment, that this was all I ever give to myself---NOTHING.

This day marked the start of my liberation. I have one month before my new job starts. I have one month to focus on teaching myself that I am the most important. I am the most valuable possession that I have in this life. I had better take care of me, because unfortunately, when push comes to shove---no one else will.

Red....it's a good choice for a blog. It's the color of the Root Chakra, the first chakra---the chakra of survival.

I Would Have Probably Told Them They Were Full of IT

So I moved to New York City in October of 2008. This was a tough decision for some, although easily made by me. My grandmother, bless her soul, cried the day I left her home on North St. in our little Illinois town. My parents were likely indifferent as they most usually are about my endeavors; most of the time my life probably appeared to outsiders like an episode of Jerry Springer, a show put on by Barnum and Bailey or some wretched new-era, prime-time reality show.

I live here. By 'here' I mean deep in the heart of Manhattan in the Upper West Side. For those of you who do not know the city, this is an area that was (from what I am told) a much more morose and 'exciting' place filled with bars, lines of blow and rampant debauchery. Oh how it must have been! There is that little dark man inside of me (indeed I did say man) that such nostalgic fantasies appeal to in a strange way, yet I find that the quiet, lighter form of this part of the city in present day is simply perfect for my existence.

Everyday is a gift in the upper 70's, the friends I have made true family and the neighborhood quite the contrast to the assumptions and presumptions of other areas of the country.

When I came to the city, I was a girl lost in her own struggles, fighting an uphill battle and, despite having dear friends and family whom I love and adore, feeling extremely without purpose. THERE IS MAGIC IN THIS CITY. You spend enough time here and you'll hear it everywhere. Clowntown. Tit-town. Strollerville. Call it what you will, this is the center of the universe. I say that not with an arrogance but of honesty---this is the land of Oz, the place where you can be anyone that you want to be.

Quickly, I realized that I did not want to be anyone. Not just ANYONE. I wanted to be me. For those of you who do not believe in the power of the divine, the cosmos, God, fate, energy or whatever name you decide to pin on this force---I can assure you that all of this exists. Stumbling into the heart of her towering buildings and unkempt streets, I had no idea what each day would bring. I was still the girl planning my next move, strategizing, controlling, over-thinking. I was miserable. Almost a year in, I am realizing that here I will find my truth in existence.

The world is not flat as they thought in days long since passed, nor is it round as it would be explained by some---the world is magic. It is particles and energy and atoms abound and everything flows about in swirls of divine mastery, completely unable to be shaped or molded into anything. It simply just IS.

Everyday I grow. Everyday is a gift. Most importantly, everyday I find that love grows within me. There will be days where I feel loss, sadness, complacency, lack and all of the range of negative emotions. I must not forget that a short time ago, I was dark, lonely, desolate and desperate. That version of Nicole is not too far around the corner. Alas, however the corner has been turned and the new path lies ahead. With each step I find joy easier to accept and love easier to create. A dear friend here saw me one day, leaning against the post at my job on trip back to the pharmacy. I asked him as plainly as I could, as sincerely as I could have possibly been 'Will someone just tell me what is wrong with me?'. Just as he told me that day, he continues to reinforce the sentiment that there is nothing wrong with me, I am just a sick person getting well. I was never a bad person getting good.

I never believed that before. Not once in my life can I remember really believing that I was a good person, capable of having it all, fully equipped with all that I needed to live a full life.


So....here's to you New York, New York. The city does not sleep, this much is true. It's not because it cannot, it's because those who nestle within it's confine will not allow it. There is another city who stole the namesake 'City of Angels.' I have to disagree.....there are angels here. I see them everyday.