The Mysterious Universe

I try to be a good person. I try to align my actions with who I am and what I believe. When I fail, I try to get back on track, forgive myself, and focus on the person I want to be. I keep my faith that everything happens for a reason and, in the grand scheme of things, everything is exactly as its meant to be. I believe wholeheartedly in karma. I reap what I sew and the universe gives me the message I'm supposed to get about how to right IT, whatever IT was. When I've been in bad situations, when it felt like everything was just falling to pieces, when it seemed everything was destructing, when it reached a fever pitch that was intolerable, I always knew what was wrong. Deep down underneath all the facades and lies and denials to myself and others, I knew what change needed to come. I knew what path I was supposed to be taking. I knew what I had to do. Whether I wanted to do it or felt strong enough to do it or not, I knew what IT was. I knew how to right the ship. I knew what the universe wanted me to do. And I did it.

But right now, I'm being signaled and I don't know why. There are things happening that are beyond my control. There are things going wrong that are nonsensical and unusual. Things that are small when they happen alone, but are collectively massive. They are a message. I'm supposed to learn something. Something is supposed to change. Something needs to be done. I know this. I know it as well as I know how to breathe and walk and smile and cry. I recognize that the universe talking to me. It always has. It always will. I recognize these feelings of stress, pain, anger and desperation. I recognize the symptoms of my world out of whack. For the first time in my life, I don't know what I have to do. I have no idea what IT is. I can't figure it out. I don't understand.

My life is not in shambles. Things aren't wrong. I'm not pretending to be a champion swimmer while I try not to drown as I've done so many times before. There's no secret horror happening behind closed doors. I'm not faking it. My life is peaceful. Calm. Happy. Good. It's right. In almost every way, I'm in a better place than I've ever been in my life.  I've stumbled around in this safe cocoon of peace and normalcy and somehow managed to find forgiveness and healing. I've found a sort of strength I've never had before. The strength to stop being so strong. A strength to rest. A strength to ask for help. A strength to trust. A strength to believe that I am fundamentally ok now. And I am, fundamentally, ok. Nothing is wrong.

But the universe is throwing its message out there. It started in a low whisper. I heard it then but thought it was just hypervigilance. I was imagining a message where there was none. The message coincided perfectly with a change cycle that has been consistent throughout my adult life. Every few years, I finally stop ignoring the message from the universe and make the major change I know I am supposed to make. I thought I was just restless, but I have gained enough wisdom to know I can't ignore even a whisper from the universe. And I didn't.

I took a long road trip. I spent almost a month with no one but myself, all day, every day. I went places I'd never been. I got out of my comfort zone. I ate alone. I drove alone. I slept alone. I relied on no one but me. I sat. I walked. I listened. I thoroughly explored what the universe might be whispering to me and came up with nothing.

And then, I came home. I came back knowing with certainty that I was ok. I came back grateful that I didn't need a change. I came back with a certainty that I'd only felt one other time in my life, my time in Mexico. I came back from that trip and let myself be immersed in the peace I felt. I forgave myself for all the mistakes I've made. I forgave myself for the fumbling about I'd done in my life. I forgave everyone else as well. Everyone. People I didn't believe I'd ever be capable of handing my forgiveness.  I decided that was what the universe wanted from me. It wanted me to know that I was truly ok. It wanted me to forgive.

But it didn't stop. The whispering became a low rumble. The low rumble became louder, then louder still, until it became a scream. And I don't understand. I don't know what the message is. There's no denial. There's nothing I've missed. There's no bigger picture problem that I'm avoiding by focusing on little things. There's no false facade I'm maintaining to hide the deeper problem. There's nothing. Everything is good. There is nothing wrong. So why isn't everything working like it should? Why are things crumbling like they do when a change is necessary for survival? What is happening? And WHY?

In my world, there's no such thing as a "run of bad luck." There's no such thing as coincidence. Everything happens for a reason. My path is exactly as it should be and always has been. Every decision I've made, good or bad, had a purpose and a reason. I was to learn something. I was to make an impact here or there. I was to become everything I am. I will continue to become more with every experience. This is how it works. This is what I call "the universe" because I have no other word or phrase for it. Most people I know call it "God."

So, what am I to learn? What am I to change? I've explored every option. I went and talked to the ocean. I've meditated. I've even gotten good and drunk to let any pretenses or denials I might have had fall sloppily to the ground. Nothing. I am digging deep. And it's only made me surer that everything is as it is supposed to be. More positive that I am ok. But the universe keeps screaming louder and louder. It keeps throwing things in the way and refuses to stop.

I don't understand. I cannot understand. What does it want?

Am I?

Are we meant to be together with one person forever? Thats what we are taught. That's what society hands us. And isnt that the goal, socially and inherintly? Isnt that why we flirt and date and seek and marry? To find a mate. Procreate. Reproduce. Find love. So we can be with someone, forever. But does that work? Are there really any couples who are celebrating 50 years together that can say that theyve all been good ones? That they have no regrets? That they wanted to be there all that time? Or were they there because they honored a commitment society told them to make.

I don't regret any relationship ending in my life. I only regret having promised not to end them. It was a lie. I knew it was a lie sometimes, didn't others, but it was always a lie. Is it a lie now?

He knows I'm up to something. He's even asked. Am I? I don't know.

Cracked

I am covered in skin. And no one gets to come in. Its an awkward truth. One I lost somewhere and then regained again and then again. This has been a comfortable place. A cacoon. Somewhere safe to hide. No expectations. No requirements beyond my capabilities. I have just been. And that was good. That was necessary.

But have I felt? Have I experienced? What have I been doing? Just wrapping up in this spindley blanket of caterpillar spat safety? Am I to stay here? It's warm. And safe. And easy. But can I fly again? Is it worth it? Do my wings still spread? Do I still flutter and glide and land gracefully?

The cacoon is breaking open. What colors will I be this time? It is not ashes I rise from here. I did not burn to the ground and come up again with fierce, fiery might. It is a slow rebirth. A timid one. An unsure one.

What colors will I be? Bright? Black and White? Shades of gray? Will I be caught up in another net? Captured and contained? Or can I just fly? Flutter. Glide. Land gracefully.

The cacoon is cracking. The time is coming. Reborn again.

When I die

I don't expect to die any time soon but when I do someday, I have a few requests:
1. Donate any possible part of me for organ donation, science, whatever. I'd prefer to be useful.
2.  If there is some cost effective way by then, press parts of me into 3 jewels and give one each to my sons so I can be forever with them.
3. If those are not an option... do not embalm me! If I end up embalmed,  I swear on all the soul I have left that Im coming back to haunt whoever made that decision! Ill figure out a way! DO NOT preserve my body in an unnatural state after I have left it and moved on! Just dont!
*exception made if I'm donated to science. I get it. It'll be necessary to do something like that in that case. It's cool as long as I'm being useful. After I'm done being useful proceed to the other options.
4. Return me to the Earth. My absolute preference is to be buried in an unsealed box (or no box at all) so that my body can do what all bodies are meant to do and become food and fuel for nature. Yeah. Yeah.  You don't want to think of me all gross and getting eaten by worms and whatnot. Listen, I'm not going to be there anymore. I'll have moved on. My body will be food. As it should be. Don't think too much about it. Just remember I want to feed the flowers. Those flowers and grass and trees will be part me. And that is beautiful. And as it should be.
5. Ok. So it's possible there are laws against that sort of thing. It's also possible that I was donated to science and/or all split up into worthy recipients of awesome parts of me. MAYBE I am all embalmed and hacked on and used up from being useful. No worries! Burn me! If you bury me now that I'm all preserved, I'm not natural food anymore. So Burn me!  Cremate me and return me to Earth. Preferably half on a mountain and half in the sea. Just as long as I'm returning to the Earth, I won't be too picky. The yard is fine if that's all you can manage. No urns or trashbags or god forbid a tomb! Earth! Sea! Fish food! Yes please.
6. Erect a memorial if you must but don't lay me down next to 1000 others in a sea of Grey markers that all look the same. Give me a memorial that says "THIS IS SHANO! She was unique." Make it small or big or whatever but make it unique. *Sparkles preferred.* And I've never been grey. Who would describe me as grey?? No one hopefully! I'm deep black or colorful blue or black and white checkered or vibrant red or neon pink! I'm not grey.  Don't make my forever memorial grey either!
7. Regardless of how anyone might feel about this statement, I am not a Christian. I am Buddhist. Please don't have a pastor/priest do my funeral service and quote bible verses and generally droll on about how I'm tromping up the Stairway to Heaven. I'm not. I've moved on. I'm already starting my next life and my soul is probably in or on its way to another living creature just beginning. Instead, please gather and laugh and celebrate this life I had and wish me luck in the next one. Maybe you'll cry and ok. I mean, I understand. But laugh more. That's an order! I want to be remembered with a smile and an eye roll and a laugh and stories that make me live on forever. Do Not remember me with somber tears and silly talk of my new castle in the sky. I don't even want to live in a castle!  Remember me for my shiny moments and make guesses on where and in what form I've moved on to! (Hopefully I'll be reborn in Fiji. Fingers crossed!)

PS. If you happen to hate my guts and we are arch nemeses and all that life sort of stuff: I demand that you dance at or near my funeral. Show up and do it.  It's only right. And I would totally do it to you! You know I would.

Restless

What am I doing?

I have no purpose. I'm so restless, I can't keep control of myself. I cannot blow up my life again. I have nothing to run from. Nothing to blame these feelings on. Nothing is wrong. Is this a midlife crisis? Didn't I already have one of those? Aren't I just wasting time? I've nothing to run from. Everything is peaceful and calm and good. And I feel useless and unfulfilled. There is no passion.

And it makes me angry. And sad. And empty. And uninspired. And restless. So restless.

What am I DOING? How do I do nothing? I cannot blow up my life again. I cannot. What am I doing? Why am I doing this to myself?

What do I need?

Lucky

Sometimes, you cry. No, not cry. Beg. Sometime you beg for help; for support. For anything resembling support. For hope. For something in the neighborhood of love, even if it misses it by several blocks. Just a little bit of something resembling love and help. For something you have never really had. But it doesn't come. It doesn't come because you are so damaged that you don't even know how to find it. You don't know how to set yourself up for the very basis of what you might need. You don't know how to lay a foundation. And all you have ever really needed is a foundation. What a terrible Catch 22. And people don't understand why people commit suicide. Uh. Because of that terrible Catch 22. Because of old deep pain that never resolves itself and then the terrible choices you make after that that don't give you what you really need; even when you have enough self awareness to beg for it. Beg. Like a pathetic child. And that's what you are, isnt it? A pathetic child begging for help and shelter and a little peace. Ever elusive love.

On giving up the career I chose...

A long time ago, I fell in love with helping people. Years later, I realized through a mine field of good therapy that I had simply learned how to profit from my dysfunctional codependence. Whatever works.  Two days ago, my boss asked me if I'd ever considered counseling (belly laughter) after I cried for about 4 hours straight the day after I sent my resignation letter. The day before that, my Mom had some side eye comment about how all jobs suck and that's why they pay you. The day before that, my guy looked at me with an amusing terror while simultaneously telling me that he was totally on board when I had a long talk with him about needing to quit my job. He hugged me and I imagined that while his face was out of view, he probably had the wide, gaping, fearful eyes of a man who just realized he'd coupled with someone who actually meant all those head-in-the-clouds, wander-lustful, Buddhist sorta things she says that made him sort of love her.

Three days ago, I officially put in my resignation notice on my career.  It's not like this has never happened before. I've resigned. I've run off to Mexico to chase my dreams whilst losing my mind and finding myself. I've stayed home and raised kids and depended on someone else to make the money while I did whatever I did. But, I always knew I had my career in my back pocket. I always knew what I intended to be doing. I always knew that I'd return some day to the tumultuous, drama-filled, adrenaline rush of my career. It's addictive. I've always been well suited to it. It feels a bit ingrained in my me-ness. But, life throws some curve balls and I'm Babe Ruth reincarnate.

A few years ago, I got the diagnosis. I'd suspected the diagnosis for, sheesh, 12, 13, 15 years. I'd been afraid, no-- petrified, of the diagnosis since, well, as long as I can remember. But I got it. It became a reality. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I guess I've thought all this time that I was simply a fully crazed hypochondriac who had manifested these symptoms out of sheer projection and I was not, in fact, a sick girl. A crazy one, SURE, but not a sick one. And then, they gave me that damned test. Some marvel of modern medicine that keeps you from getting to pretend you're just nuts and instead, have to stare shit right in the face. Damn science. And that was that. I no longer got to pretend, I had to deal. And the doctors (plural. ugh) had a lot to tell me about how I couldn't fuck around anymore. Face sufficiently slapped once again by that asshole, reality. I hate that guy.

Sometime around the millennium, I was working in the basement of some insurance company where the CEO only knew me as "sweetie", and going home to a husband who liked to punch me in the face sometimes. I had two little babies and in hindsight, a horrifying lack of insight. I went to a psychotherapist and tried desperately to get him to tell me I was hopelessly mentally ill. He wouldn't do it. I think it frustrated him that I preferred having a diagnosis born of chemical imbalances or genetics instead of just a wretched string of circumstances that led me to feel like I did. You can just take a pill to deal with a clinical diagnosis. He was proposing that I had to, like, gain a bunch of awareness and work out my shit. Who the fuck wants to do that when your mind is fully occupied by your small children, your full time shitty, unsatisfying job, and a gem of a husband who thinks you are Mike--um...Mika Tyson. I preferred to be fully crazy in the clinical sense. So, I'd go to therapy. I'd get mad at him for saying I wasn't a giant fruit basket. And he'd get mad at me for saying I was. Probably the best therapy I ever had, for the record, and I've had a lot. (Have you thought about counseling. hahaha)

So, I did what any self respecting, barely 20something, screwed up gal would do. I divorced my therapist (not my husband) and decided to volunteer in a field that fights the very thing I came home to every day. I became a Court Appointed Special Advocate for abused and neglected children. Yes, I appreciate the irony of it now, and in a far less mature way, did then.

 I fell in love. THIS was my calling. You just know when you find it; that THING that you're SUPPOSED to do. I wasted no time in stopping all that volunteer stuff, divorcing the asshole, and going back to school for the express purpose of becoming a Child Protective Services Investigator. There was no other goal. That was all the goal I had. 3 years later, I graduated. Two years after that, I finally got the job. Ironically, my husband (a different one) was in a mental hospital the day I started, but that's a story for another day.

I didn't quit that job the first time. I mean, I technically did, but I didn't want to. Life threw me more curve balls (Babe Ruth, baby) and it all just fell apart. I was pretty much forced out of the job by life, a bit of a mental breakdown, some hearty misunderstandings, a murder-suicide plot (I was the murder victim piece of that) and a trio of paranoid, bitchy bosses.

I did a lot of things in the interim, including running off to Mexico and getting that goddamned diagnosis, but I reapplied for the career I chose over and over again until finally, 8 months ago, I got the job again. And I was overjoyed. I truly was. I loved that job! I'd wanted it back for years. It was everything I liked about work. I'd have preferred to be back in Mexico sipping margaritas and not giving a shit about anything, but who wouldn't, right? But that wasn't the reality I was in.

Two months after I started my job, I missed a doctor's appointment. This may sound like nothing to most of the non-chronic-diseased world, but when you have that damned reality happening like I do, that's kind of a big deal. Because I missed that appointment, I ran out of medication. Because specialists in our lovely healthcare system are as they are, I couldn't get another appointment for almost 2 months.

Some PA I'd never seen before took mercy on me and gave me a few of my meds back because his wife had my particular diagnosis and he (and his polka dotted bow tie) were beautifully sympathetic. But I didn't get the important ones back. The ones that make you really sick when you start them and take 3 months to adjust to. I had to quit those. Cold turkey. That went pretty well for me. Two months later, I started them again. And so came the really sickness. Two months after that, I had to quit them again because I couldn't do my job. And I got sick from that, again. If you're keeping score, my 8 months is up. And I've spent 6 of it in health nightmare.

And then I took that damned test and had that damned Come to Jesus moment with my doctors (plural). And it all came crashing down, again. I was sucking at my job. I was sucking at my health. I was sucking at my happiness. All around, I was just sucking. And then the doctors (plural) tell me (in a nutshell) if I keep doing what I'm doing, I'm just going to die. Let's not mince words here. I will just fucking die. My disease will attack the important parts like those two flaps in your chest that make you breathe and that muscle that pumps your blood around with it's rhythmic thump thump thump. So, for all my denial, I mean strength (ahem), it was face slapping reality time. I had to give a shit. And I had to give a shit now.

So, I quit my job.

And the next day I went to my office and I was relieved and happy. Until about lunch. Then I cried for 4 hours. (Have you considered counseling. Bwhahaahaha).I didn't cry for the job, I guess. I mean, I hadn't particularly enjoyed it this time, given that I was doing it whilst feeling like I'd run a marathon, with the flu, after being run over by a truck, for 6 of 8 months.

I cried because I'd never had to quit a job because of this (far too many expletive pronouns) disease. I'd never had this dumb thing - a thing that I stayed in denial about, that sent me to Mexico, that made me throw my bucket list into high gear, that had caused more tears then all 47 or so of my failed marriages and abuses and traumas combined -- have any real effect on my career. What? My life, yeah. My relationships, fuck yes. My thought processes, uh huh. My ability to open a jar of pickles, damn skippy. My entire outlook on life, Oh yes sir.  But my career, um. no. I guess I figured it wouldn't until it was straight up time to go on disability and rev up my electric, off-road, hybrid flotation device wheelchair. No, that didn't occur to me.

I never HAD to quit a job because I just couldn't DO IT. I had to leave my dive instructor course one day because I couldn't swim against the current towing a grown man in decent surf once. ONE DAY. Another day, I managed it. I had to take a leave of absence for a couple months once because life sucked too much. I've quit because I just didn't want to anymore. But I'd never had to quit a job so I didn't DIE. For fuck's sake, I'm 38 years old. I'm THIRTY EIGHT YEARS OLD.

And I am chronically broken and have to figure out how not to die.

And it was devastating. It IS devastating. This was my chosen career. This was my favorite job. This was my calling, my AHA job.

Not to brag or anything, but I'm the strongest bitch I know. What the fuck is happening?

Then I had to realize, it isn't just this job. I won't be able to do a lot of jobs in my profession. Stress is not allowed. Stress makes me sick. Stress will kill me. Wait. What? Stress is an integral part of my career. It's in the job description. It's like, the thing I like. I can't just not work as a CPS investigator, I can't work as a crisis counselor. I can't work as a case manager. I can't work as a social worker. I can't have a job that has my very favorite part of my career, DRAMA. I'm not allowed. Because I will fucking die. What the fuck?

What the hell do I do now? No, seriously, what do I do now?

In case anyone is wondering, travel the world and live on beans and rice in third world apartments has crossed my mind at least 374 times in the past 10 days or so. I'll let you know if I can work that out while maintaining my brand new car payment and raising the two kids I have left in the house. Somehow, I feel like maybe that time hasn't come yet. But, then again, I haven't had any Jack Daniels yet either.

(Maybe I should consider some counseling.)