enduring freedoms

let’s see. . .

• shock & denial                                          Check
• pain & guilt                                                Check
• anger & bargaining                                 DOUBLE Check
• depression, reflection, loneliness   um – polls just in: Overwhelmingly Checked
• the Upward Turn & Acceptance      well, still waiting on this stage to come around. . .

at least some days are better than others. i can sometimes talk about losing my house and not have a complete, teary break down. i can cynically joke about it. i’m past any more perceived suicide watches.  i’ve stopped calling my bank every day haggling second jobs & housemates and cold-turkey cut out daydreaming of some sort of last-minute Oprah Winfrey-type Happy-Ending  pardon.

has one reached the point of  ‘acceptance’ when you tell the Universe, “honestly, i can forego any other birds flying <<<THUNK>>> into my picture window and dying in my hands in order to tell me, ‘this dream is dead! ” – or is that more bargaining? either way – i really, REALLY do not need any more “signs”, mm’kay God? i get it.

grief is hard. long-term bereavement certainly isn’t attractive in a world that can only handle (on average) 7.2 second nightly news sound bites, one minute Twits, 9.75 minute YouTube clips and 15 minutes of fame. and a country that is already up to its Enduring Freedoms in unofficial wars and hurricane destruction and economic crashes isn’t historically one to seek more bad news from Michael Moore. let’s admit it: we Americans PAY heavily for our distractions.

so, even though it might feel like Seinfeld‘s “blah, blah, blah” – i continue to write about my own personal ordeals.  at least i’m a genuine person able to express bona fide feelings in real-time.

blah. i think i am in the “enduring stage” of losing my home. . .

actually, tonight, even though i’m dog-tired from painting and packing, i am feeling acutely cognizant of my indulgent American existence. i am reminiscent of past Brady Bunch lightbulb moments and it is granting me a deep sense of gratitude for my whole life.

i recall seeing the shanty towns of Tijuana for the first time at 7 years old and thinking, “wow. i’ve never lived in a cinderblock house with a tarp for a roof; i wonder what that’s like?” fortunately for me, i still don’t know what that’s like – and probably never will.

i remember when i was in NYC as – quite literally – a starving model; panhandling for salad money at Fulton Station.  even at 16 i knew how much more golden my life was than the battered woman at Grand Central with the bulging black eyes, missing teeth and 95% bruised stick frame – people at least would stop and talk to me; look me in the eyes; offer help.

memories surface of childhood abuse, juvenile rehab, near-rape, deadly addictions, destructive obsessions and debilitating compulsions. car crashes, drunken rampages, teen pregnancy  – there’s little lacking in my “poor-middle-class-white-girl” story.

i’ve been in worse off. i’ve seen worse off. i KNOW worse off. i am not worse off without my house. the worst of it is that i will be house-less; not homeless.

i am still tapping out words on my lap-top; in a heated room; with indoor plumbing; with food in my fridge, my children safe in bed; in my bomb-free neighborhood. i have people telling me, “You are loved” every day. moreover, i get to play with marching bands, sew costumes for circuses and decorate for some of the best parties in town.

and therein lies an abiding grace that envelopes me in my lowest moments : i have been endowed with a relatively charmed life. the majority of it hard-won, to be sure, but as the song goes, “I’m Still Standing.” – and that should never be discounted – because it is that knowledge which lends me such a keen sense of discernment for what it means to be truly downtrodden. which i have the luxury as an American to refuse to succomb to.