Danny Boy an Irish Song

From Valentine's Day to Saint Patrick's Day.....where does time go?
Another performance from the dynamic duo of Marco and Eva ..."The Ruby's"
This is a little star in the making folks, enjoy!  And Happy St. Patrick's to you!

A fighting chance

                                                                      my art

All is fine.  I went back for the followup x-ray.  My daughter went with me although I told her again and again that it really was no big deal, she didn't need to go.  But sometimes you can tell that the going, the lending of support is something they need more than you do.  So the look on her face when they said, "just a cyst" was more relief to me than the diagnosis itself actually was.

I'm not afraid of cancer.  Maybe I should be, but I'm not.  This is probably a ridiculously delusional  attitude, of which I've had many in my long and winding life, and comes in part from surviving it once already.  On a more rational level I know it's nothing to be cavalier about, it takes many, many lives every year.  But for me, in the particular play of my own life it is not at the top of the list.  I worry more about the everyday struggle of coping with PTSD from unsharable things and the littered path I have to walk from a lifetime of undiagnosed and self medicated disarray.  And how to make the path easier for my exquisitely wonderful, beautiful, smart, funny, savvy and brilliant daughter who has guilelessly inherited her own journey with it's particular brand of disarray.  She has taught me so much.  I've always known, from day one, that she was way, way smarter than me.  I think, now, that we are coming to a place where we mutually help one another.  I hope so.

"Inner" disabilities come with their own often invisible struggles.  Invisible to others that is.  As they are very, very visible to us.  When you look normal on the outside and even beautiful, as in my girls' case, but are forever mopping up hurricane like devastation on the inside it wears you down.  It's a daily mountain to climb to find a place to stand solid.  I get very jealous of people sometimes, who's disabilities show.  I want mine to show - no I don't - yes I do, sometimes.  I want people to understand - feel for her, for me.  It isn't polite to show the inner........stuff.  So we don't .  Except to each other, or when it accidentally spills .....  seeps under the door.  But you work really hard to prevent spillages, keep that black door closed,  if you know what I mean.  No body likes to see that kind of stuff.  I wish I was as strong as Maggie May who lets the all of her life show with brilliance and grace.  But I am far from that in courage and in prose.

So, anyway.  I was not worried about a malignant diagnosis.  They are sooo good at mending physical things now - you really have a fighting chance.  And of course there was the off chance that with a new bout, I might get some reconstructive surgery to fix the lopsided terrain of my chest - we laughed about that one, leaving the doctors' office (cancer humor).  So now I am back to trying to get a fighting chance for my girl - and for me.   I'd say, it was a good day.  Yeah, a good day.

Thanks for reading, you have no idea what it means to me.

A Valentine Song - Fade Into You (Mazzy Star cover)

These Sweethearts are my dear friends from Moscow  -  An expat living in Moscow with the love of his life, his daughter......Enjoy!
 He writes my most favorite blog   impressions of an expat




Happy, Happy Valentine's Day.
Love, Liv

I've been thinking

Don't know where I got this, don't know who she is, but she looks like she's lost in her thoughts too.

I took about a year off from here.  There was so much to do in my life.  Some crisis, some joy, some just the everyday in and out of life.  What I was really trying to do was learn.  Figure out what it was that was keeping me in so much pain and confusion.  I would work my ass off to get it right : be kind, be honest, no hypocrisy or manipulation and still it felt that I was constantly getting slammed to the ground when I least expected it.  I was beyond naive, I always have been.  Gullible was - and probably still is - an adjective a lot of people used with me.  And then , of course, if you read me before (that year when I did post) you remember the tales of abuse - in my childhood, adolescence and beyond.  But at a certain point - your life just isn't about that anymore.  You've worked it out , intellectually at least.  You've cut the offenders to shreds in your mind or in therapy and then forgiven them and then cut them up again - if you've been at it long enough.  I've finally wound up someplace between compassion - empathy - and I just want to move on-ness.

That means - I don't trust people so much anymore.  I don't need them to like me quite as much.  And I don't take the blame for everything anymore.  If you've fucked up, you better own it.  I can work with that.  Otherwise, I may not cut you off, but I'm walking way over here.    These changes, and I think they are good changes, came because I had, finally, found a therapist that was trustworthy enough to help me understand that I knew more than I thought I did and it would be ok to put it to use.  In other words, the whole victim thing, just wasn't working anymore.  And by the way, people don't choose to be victims.....they are VICTIMIZED.  And once that happens it's probably going to happen again and again until it becomes a way of life.  And when it's a way of life, it's just that - your life - you don't know anything different.  With a lot of help from a lot of people this last year, I know something different.  And the amazing thing is that they have all been people who know what I'm talking about because they've been there or are there, still struggling to unravel it and they are good, they are good people.  It will always be one of the saddest things for me to comprehend in life - that people who haven't suffered don't generally know how to help people who are suffering.  Of course there are exceptions, I know that, I've just never encountered many of them in my life.

So anyway, I feel I've learned enough to come back here, but it's still kind of hard.  I don't know why it should be, because everybody I read is just like me.  Wanting to be loved, accepted.  Sharing what's in their hearts - which is actually a lot of pain, doubt, angst and anger (if you read with an open heart) mixed with the joy and small triumphs that keep them going (keep us all going).  And actually, I find just as much inspiration and motivation for my own life from the kind sharing of the harder parts of your life as I do from the fun stuff.  And that does not exclude the many decorating blogs that I read by any means.  Those people, talented and industrious as they are, reveal more pain and need between the lines than they know.....

But I struggle still, and I'd probably better get used to it. Because it seems that most of us are in doubt as to whether or not we are accepted, loved, heard.  And this is the core of what I struggle with  - so bear with me as I relate this short little tale :

When I was in about, oh, fourth grade, I guess - so that would make me about 9 or 10 - there was this really, really popular girl, Cecelia, who was rich and pretty to boot.  Cecelia, or Cea as she was called (because all popular girls get cool nicknames...) sent out invitations for her birthday party.  Skinny, little poor me (and we were poor, dirt poor) with her stringy hair and scaly, red rimmed eyes ( I had conjunctivitis - I was so stressed already!) wanted in the worst way to be invited like all the other girls.  When that invitation didn't show up in my desk, I wrote a note to Cea, saying that I would please love to be invited to her party (wouldn't ya' know I'd do that?) That afternoon, as I came out to the playground for recess, there was Cecelia - standing at the incinerator with a ring of laughing girls around her, tearing into small bits, that fluttered down into the smoldering ashes, that heartfelt note from that lonely little girl.  She looked up at me, that securely popular, pretty girl and smiled.  The biggest most confident smile you can imagine.  She's changed.  I know she has because over the years I've encountered her a few times, in the grocery store and once in the mall and she was kind - in that overly, gracious way that reveals repent without actually saying the words.  So I forgive her.  I mean, my gosh, we were kids, all is forgiven.  And I think life has probably dealt her a few, so that she sees life through a different filter now, or at least it felt like that when I saw her.  But for me it's still there.  That small rejection has been in my pocket all the rest of my life, like a tiny sharp edged stone.  I have moved boulders of anger and despair over far greater crimes committed against me, yet still, that little rock remains.

I think no matter what I do, it may always remain.  So I accept it.  I accept that I will always worry about whether I am accepted, loved, heard.  Maybe we all do.  Maybe we all carry little rocks in our pockets and in spite of them we just get on with life.  That's what I intend to do, rocks and all.