Lithium

Courtesy of Deviant Art

Karma. I never used to believe. But now I know...

He hates me. It is evident in the way he treats me and looks at me. I can see love has long departed the palpating chambers of his heart and he no longer considers me his own. He no longer bothers to find the emotion that currently disrupts my heart. My tears no longer hold equity.

I fell in love with him and his tender actions. I fell in love with his tender words that promised protection and eternal affection. I wallowed in the sunshine that had entered my life and rejoiced with wild abandon. I was raw and alive and wanted to experience anything and everything. I stopped sleeping and started living once again. He was my drug.

But then began the lies. Rumblings of accusations that something was awry. The lies he fed that told me I needed help. Why would he do this? Didn’t he see how happy I was and how happy I made him? Why would he want to ruin it?

I no longer believed. I no longer believed in his words and he ceased to be my reason for living and my crutch. I withdrew. Days and weeks would pass where not a word was spoken. Clouds already had made their way into my world again and had returned with that constant familiar of hopelessness and despair.

He offered words of reason and hope and love. But I no longer believed. Instead I wanted apathy. Just sweet, disconnected apathy. Leave me alone.

Slowly he began to learn my ways. Two strangers living in a house divided.

“Never stop loving me,” I would whisper tenderly in his ears late at night when he was asleep.

“Never,” my heart would respond.

And in time, he eventually left, no longer wanting to enable, no longer wanting to obey my requests, no longer standing sentry to my desire to self-destruct. With withered heart he kissed me goodbye. A tear escaped from his eye with a whisper of "I will always love you."

He hates me. He doesn't know it, but I do. Of this, I’m sure. He no longer loves me or considers me his own. He no longer cares to find what emotion fills or riles my heart. My blood-shed tears having lost their equity. Karma, manifest destiny, call it by whatever name you desire, because in the end, that which I gave I received; in the end, I am once again left alone.

A Story That Warms Your Heart

A beautiful reminder of the limitless love we have within ourselves to share....


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Blessings

Courtesy of Deviant Art

The beloved threw me for a loop this week. A simple doctor's visit on Monday quickly turned awry. The possibility of him now having some serious health issues were suddenly forced upon us and it unnerved me to my core. The armor of strength I usually wear to protect those I love, I now had to make sure would protect him most of all. Always a very healthy individual, he was unprepared for the news. So was I. How could this be? I tended to all of the preparations and questions with quick precision all the while holding his hand and offering words of encouragement and telling him that everything was going to be alright. I believed it in my heart to be true; him, not so much. It was going to take some work to get his mind in the right place. That first night I waited until he finally slept to allow myself to unravel. My nerves were taut and needed an outlet; a gush of tears later, I picked myself up and continued once again.

"Do not tell anyone what's going on," he warned the following day.

"Of course not," I replied. But, then again, when was the last time I listened to him? I told my family. I have a large family. I have a large, loving, supportive family that loves him as much as they love me. Did he really think I would not utter a word? Sorry, love, you need me, and I need them. It's the only way I can be strong for you and get through this. This time we are not doing it your family's way; this time, we are doing it my family's way. In my tribe, we become stronger in numbers. They came for him and for me; they called him and made him laugh; they gave me words of encouragement and love and told me to be strong. They know he is my Achilles Heel.

A few days and one single important procedure/operation later, he was given a clean bill of health. We all sighed a big sigh of relief and were now overwhelmed with joy. Having heard the good news, he was his old self again joshing around with the medical personnel and being charismatic and charming as is his norm. This is not an effort on his part, it is a trait that comes naturally to him. It is his mother's way.

This was my week. A week that began with dark clouds looming overhead ended with the Sun shining brightly through the panes. I admit I was scared. I prayed that God would had chosen me instead because I can take it. I am strong in this area; he is not. His weaknesses are my strengths and vice versa and that is why we depend so much on each other. I can take a personal hit but have to really fight to find the strength to see a loved one take it. But he has always been there for me and has taken good care of me and now it was my turn even though I was scared inside. Now I know how he has felt and what he has gone through and it is unnerving. It was a momentary peek inside each other's life. And it was just one more thing that melded these two hearts ever closer. This was a week filled with fears but it was lived with gratitude, blessings and faith. And like many times in the past, I again did not falter in my belief in him nor in Him. And my beloved is well and all is good with the world once again.

*sigh*

Courtesy of Deviant Art

So last week in class the POD decides to channel a Russian. Don't know why, but in a Russian accent he taught all the way. He was quite good and entertaining and perhaps he's training for some undercover operation that I don't know about.

MKIA decided to dye her hair red. It wasn't working. Thank goodness for her the Fashion Police wasn't around because they would've arrested her on the spot. It was criminal I tell you. With her red hair, ruddy complexion and red outfit she looked like a Twizzler. 'Nuf said.

Dr. Phil was sick and left during break but by then it was too late because he already had spread his lovely germs around... inside an enclosed classroom.... with no open windows. *sigh*

Meanwhile, a student who had been absent for a couple of sessions resurrected and she, too, had been very sick with the flu though she informed us it was not of the swinish variety. She decided to sit next to me. Obviously, the dress code for the day was to wear one's Hazmat suit but I didn't get the memo. *double sigh*

I had a nice conversation with our resident published writer and found he idolizes Sherlock Holmes a bit more than what I would consider normal but I suppose that's par for the course for creative writers. Loopy or not, I like him a lot. He's very sweet.

Big Dude was present of course and sitting in the corner like he usually does ignoring the rest of the human race. I actually saw a hint of a smile touch his face last week and deducted he had human genes after all. I think. The jury's still out on this.

And tonight's class again. Didn't read one single word for today's assignment but being that last week I was so exhausted from work that I could barely masticate without the help of an assistant who moved my mouth around and ordered me to chew and swallow, I think that's okay. I'm still exhausted and wonder if I will actually be able to absorb any of the words that will come out of the POD's mouth tonight and hope I don't manage to frustrate him because he will undoubtedly fail to understand my mumbling, lethargic language and take it as a sign that I'm either uninterested or having a stroke. If he only knew that the last thing I want is to be in class tonight and instead want to be home on my couch with some cushy pillows and comfy blanket, eating some junk food in the form of sugar and fat, and having complete control of the remote control with the beloved silent and reading and not saying a word. I can't process. I can't talk. I can barely think. I've hung my cape and put my superpowers on a break. Actually, I'm so tired right now that if I had someone standing next to me talking smack about me or saying something indecent, I would fail to pick it up. And that's just too bad and too sad because it would've made for some terrific interactions.

A Boy, A Ball and a Lesson

Courtesy of Deviant Art

The day had gone well. I went into my home office and turned on the music that would accompany the thing I hate to do most: exercise. I boarded the treadmill and adjusted the settings to the right speed and incline and hit go. The treadmill is positioned by the window so when I exercise I can see what's going on in the world outside. Something - anything - to make this dreaded thing seem a bit more interesting.

Ten minutes in I notice something that brings a truth home and automatically changes my view of exercise. I see this boy. I see this boy in the driveway of a house across the street. He is playing soccer with another boy - perhaps a brother, a cousin or a friend. I gauge them to be ten, maybe eleven. I don’t see anything unusual at first, but then I see it. His arms are fine; his legs are not. One leg is shorter than the other and he walks with a limp. He is having a bit of trouble handling the ball with his legs. At times, when the ball is kicked gently to him, he misses it. Yet, those failed attempts do not seem to deter him. I no longer hear the music as I am now transfixed, watching this brave boy play. I silently applaud his victories when he kicks the ball and feel a heaviness of heart when he misses it. I begin to wonder what is going on in his mind as he is playing ball with this other boy and find that I do not have the emotional strength to go there and imagine. As a mother, it is too heartbreaking to think about although the boy appears healthy otherwise. The other boy at times takes the ball and bounces it from one knee to the other. All the while this boy patiently waits and watches as his brother/cousin/friend does things that he cannot do. My heart breaks and I want to go outside and tell this healthy boy not to do that. That doing that is mean. But I do not. A vocal person by nature, I do not concern myself with matters that are none of my business. It is not my place. My eyes begin to water at the injustices of life and I begin to wonder how his mother handles this. I claim to be strong yet have no emotional strength in this area.

I begin imagining him as a teenager, a time that is difficult enough for teens when they are finding their way in this world and are busy trying on different suits and characters in an effort to find the one that fits them best. I imagine for a disabled child, this cross must be heavier. I wonder what he will be like as a teenager. Will he turn to drugs or liquor to numb his difference? Will he begin to mock himself in front of friends and peers as a means to fit in and show that it’s no biggie and that if he can make fun then, hey, so can they? I pray not. I think of him falling in love and wonder if he will get his heart broken which is part and parcel of this rite of passage? I begin to pray that he is spared that much and, instead, meets a girl that sees his tender heart and promises to love it and protect it.

Or, maybe...

I am wrong altogether. Maybe he has found a way to handle this and doesn’t see himself as having a disability at all but sees himself as one who is just different. Maybe he will be one of the many who will not allow his aspirations to lie fallow and will persevere and become very successful. The trials he has gone through and will continue to endure prepares him well in life. It takes courage and unbending determination to walk in his shoes and to be successful is in his destiny if he so desires. There will be no limit to what he can do. I know a few disabled individuals who are extremely successful and know they do not like labels. I think they find this an insult. I can understand this. Yet my heart still says a silent prayer for them whenever I pass or meet one and wish them much love and strength in their lives.

My mind then wanders to this sweet and friendly student we have on campus who is also disabled. He knows everyone and everyone knows him. Whenever I see him, a smile lights up my face. He is so tender in heart and always so happy. I see how students interact with him and welcome him with open arms at their tables during lunch. In an environment where different cliques reign, he belongs to all. I most especially enjoy watching the tough guys and cocky jocks let down their guards and show their hearts to him when they are always so careful not to show it to anyone else. They all protect him and love him as one of their own. He is loved in this school. The community of students and staff and professors are and consider themselves to be his family. And, as his family, they are there for him. This is what I wish for this boy. To find a family of friends who will value, love and protect him.

My thoughts wander back. I see the boy. He is no longer playing ball. He has grown tired. He stops playing and goes inside the house. Meanwhile, I am still on the treadmill walking, doing something so natural that it does not require my undivided attention. Unlike this boy. Unlike this boy with the short leg. And suddenly I feel ashamed for taking for granted the blessings I have. But I also note that disabilities come in different forms - emotional, learning, physical (some which are not seen) - and, if one's disability is not a visible one, then another never needs to know. And in this respect some have the advantage and are spared the uncomfortableness that sometimes comes with being treated differently. A disabled person always gets treated differently (although in a good and well-meaning way), but I wonder if sometimes they wish for this not to be so. If one is disabled, but not in a visible way, then another is none the wiser and then the disabled person is treated 'normal.' So why should this be any different for them? They have a right to this. They have a right to be treated just like everybody else, but yet are not. And I wonder if they at times resent this. I don't know. All I know is that we become better people when we are in their presence. They open our hearts and show us what true strength, perseverance, and courage is all about. They shine a light at us and we see the better part of ourselves - our love, compassion and caring - reflected in the mirror. So then perhaps it's not so much the disability that we see but the strength and courage and love and compassion and caring that fills us and takes us to a better place; a place that shows us that humanity still reigns. Silently, we all wish them the best and pray for them and send them our blessings; yet it is us who have been blessed by them. That is power. That is love. That is our humanity in its purest form.

The Final Goodbye

Courtesy of Deviant Art

Morning comes. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee filters through underneath her bedroom door. She closes her eyes and inhales the aroma of strong and black as it cloaks the stench of Death that has arrived. All of her life she wondered how people knew when their end was near and it was time to cross over to that ethereal world that promised happiness and peace. And now she knew. And it was not what she, or anyone else, thought it would be. No family member long gone came to greet you to guide you into this new world; no benevolent light shone; no peace of mind and heart were to be found. Instead, Death came to visit. And it was ugly. Death came to visit with its rotting smell of carcass to stand vigil at your bedside, silently watching and waiting for that last gasp of breath. It waits for you to die as it tries to contain its ambitious desire of claiming you before your time. Its cold, fetid breath enclosing your world even more.

Each day she has been held prisoner inside the same four walls - four telling walls that could write the story of her life. Walls that once bore witness to the moans of slow, rhythmic pleasures that happened within; walls that now, instead, bear witness to the moans of pain that is slowly leaching her of life.

What kind of God would allow Death to visit and mock her pain? Was there a God? She had prayed to him for guidance and strength, yet Death had come. She guessed He must’ve been busy.

She hears her door crack ajar. A young face, ruddy with life, peeks inside, "Are you awake?"

"Yes. I smelled the coffee." She attempts to sit up in bed even though she knows she is unable; atrophied and frail arms no longer able to aid in moving her fragile weight. She gasps at the sudden unbearable pain that overtakes and tries to control her breathing. A tear escapes the corner of her eye.

The young woman enters the room and quickly places the cup of coffee on top of the bedside table, "Mom, please, let me help you." The young woman knows that this loving and thoughtful act of assistance only serves to sadden this once strong and vibrant woman even more. A daughter that precariously walks a line between helping or allowing a mother some room for independence. It is a fine line that causes both of them much pain. She notices her Mother’s labored breathing and paler-than-usual look. She is clammy to the touch.

"I'm going to call the doctor. You don’t look well."

"Please don’t." She could barely speak. "There’s nothing else he can do....no more hospitals...please, no more hospitals." She looks up at her daughter and beseeches, "I don’t want to die there."

The young woman's eyes begin to water, "Mom, please..." She doesn't know how much more she could take watching this incredible woman deteriorate who, not too long ago, was healthy with life. She feels ashamed for her lack of emotional strength.

But the Mother has stopped listening. Death no longer waits. He is impatient and hungry and his rapacious appetite needs to be fed. The pestilent vigil has come to an end.

She closes her eyes, "Please, baby, I'm just a little tired. Just let me rest a bit."

The young woman covers her Mother with a blanket and kisses her cold, clammy forehead, "Let me go make you some breakfast. I’ll be back in a few, ok?" But the Mother knows exactly what she is going to do. It no longer matters, however; by the time they arrive, it would already be too late.

"Ok." The Mother looks lovingly at her daughter's eyes one last time; eyes that resembled hers in spirit and kindness, eyes that have cried much these past few months and for which she was to blame. She grabs her daughter’s hand and squeezes it with all her might. This was their final goodbye. She knows when she returns, she will most likely be gone. She lets go of her daughter's hand and the young woman leaves the room.

She closes her eyes in final submission to Death that stands near. He acknowledges his victory and, at last, approaches to enshroud his due, finally claiming what he is owed.

POD Webisode 3: Said The Spider to the Fly

Compliments of Deviant Art

Day Three.

I arrive a half hour early and I'm happy to see the room is not in use. This gives me a chance to review for the quiz on terms and usage that were still clear as mud. I take out my books and notebook that's filled with paperwork, notes, suggestions and ideas of classes gone by. I take out my black fine-point pen and red fine-point pen and yellow highlighter, each of which has a specific purpose. Yes, sometimes my mental illness does come in handy and this closet OCD that I claim not to have proves valuable. I settle in, begin to read and review. I then wonder if I have the beginnings of dementia because I can't seem to retain a thing. What was it that I just read?

No sooner had I read one page when Young Miss Maiden enters. She smiles, I smile. She sits down and immediately begins to speak, "I'm finding this subject very hard." She looks horror stricken. Phew! Glad to see I wasn't the only one that felt that way! I tell her I feel the same and was so glad to hear her voice it because it then means I'm not the only dummy in class. Oh, my...did I just call her a dummy? Yikes! Will have to repair that little unintended faux-pas next time around. That wasn't I meant. See? It's all about the usage.

Dr. Phil is the next one to come in; he with the big smile. Nothing bothers this kid. A big hearty "Hello" follows. We greet in turn. He takes a seat next to me. I'm feeling a little generous so I begin to do what I do best: I begin to play reporter and ask one question after another to find out more about him and his passion. He loves it. And, what do I learn? That the kid is not so bad once he lets his arrogance down. He's handsome, has a lot of ambition and mucho brain power, so I'm thinking he'd be a good catch for any girl. Er...I think. She'd have to be formidable enough to be able to handle his ego; and, he would have to be careful enough not to talk her to death. Goodness the kid can talk! I was dizzy from the onslaught of words.

Then The ShyOne enters the room. She's a very sweet young woman who's always smiling. I find myself always smiling back. Can't help it. I feel if I don't, I'd be rude, which of course, I would be. She doesn't talk much outside of The POD asking her questions but she decided today she would join in our little pre-class conversation. I was so happy about that. But, of course, me being me, when I get into questioning mode it's a little hard for anyone else to interject. *sigh* yeah, call it a little personality glitch in an otherwise perfect program. It's just that I don't want to share the floor with others, it's just that I get into a zone I forget others exist. Hm? Narcissism. Excellent. Will have to work on that and tweak it to perfection. So, The ShyOne quietly goes back to her book and now we've lost her. Well, too late now, will have to remedy that next week. At this rate, next week is going to be very busy for me.

Moving on.

Guess who walks in? No, it's not The POD. It's Big Dude. With his benevolent face. Oh, I'm sorry, did I say benevolent? I meant MALevolent. This guy is a walking Black Hole. He sucks all the energy out of everything he comes into contact with. My newfound BFF Dr. Phil who was still animatedly talking all of a sudden forgets how to form a sentence and quiets down. The ShyOne and Young Miss Maiden take one look and their eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. Yeah, they obviously felt the same as everyone else - we had hoped the dude had dropped the course. He takes a seat in the corner of the room and doesn't join us at the table. Loving it, thank you. The farther you sit Big Dude, the happier we will be. Besides, I don't want you sitting next to Dr. Phil because he'll pee for sure and I really don't feel like moving to another seat.

We're all quiet and looking at each other. Are we afraid to talk? Oooo, big man is in the room and now we're all scared? Come on! What the heck is going on here guys? I was just about to start a conversation when MKIA walks in. Oh, MKIA. What. Are. You. Webbing? And wearing?!!

Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy"

MKIA was all glammed up. Gee, I wonder why? Methinks she's looking for a lover.

In walks her dinner, The POD. MKIA turns her chair around so The POD can see her bare legs, high heels, and itty-bitty skirt...

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly"

The POD does not notice MKIA but notices Big Dude right away. Yeah, MKIA you got competition,but it's not what you think. "Why don't you join us at the table," says The POD to the Big Dude.

"No, thank you," is the answer.

Yet, The POD continues, "No, please, I want you to join us at the table." Really, POD? I thought you smarter than that. Big Dude's not budging.

Dr. Phil scoots on over closer to me so he can make room for Big Dude. "Here, pull up your chair," he says to him. Easy there, Dr. Phil, that sounded a bit too forceful and I think Big Dude is not going to like it. He expects submission and words said to him in broken fear.

Big Dude looks at them both and says, "I said I'm fine." All quiet and menacing and very friendly-like.

*sigh* yes, always in your gentle ways, lest we forget. Listen, dude, why don't you get up from that chair and go drop the course and make us all happy, will ya?

The POD gives up. Dr. Phil decides he will keep his chair very cozily next to mine because now I see he's a little afraid of Big Dude. If he pees, I'll belt him.

Moving on.

The class is interesting. Very animating, very informative. The fog starts to lift and I actually begin to understand all this complicated stuff. Hm? Go figure. I'm not that dumb after all. I notice the remainder of the students feel the same because, apparently, they were stuck in that mire of confusion themselves. I felt good and happy when I got certain answers that others didn't. Hehe! So friggin' mature Rebecca. So high school. But, yeah, that's how I roll....na, na, na, na, na!

During the break, The POD decides to give the floor to MKIA who blushes and giggles at the attention she's suddenly getting from him. Hm? That little skirt is working after all. Oh, PODdy, I thought you a more evolved human male, what a disappointment you've turned out to be. MKIA somehow manages to put the brakes on that fast train to Embarrassment and manages (I was very impressed how she did this) to switch to Intelligent mode and inform us of a paper she was writing on the miseducation of U.S. children. Her argument was that we overpraise our children in an effort for them to do well in school when, in fact, what we are doing is just the opposite. We are setting them up to fail because they believe their mediocre efforts are outstanding and then they really don't push themselves to their full potential. I must say it's an argument I've been having for decades with others. And MKIA adds that she finds college here in the U.S. to be too easy. In the U.S. five courses is considered to be full-time course load when in her country, 14 courses is the required amount of classes they have to take each semester for them to achieve full-time status. We all did a double take and thought maybe there was a glitch in the translation and we had misunderstood. I asked, "You mean fourteen credits?"

"No! Fourteen courses! And we don't get to choose what we want either!"

You could've heard a pin drop. Wow. "Yes!" she screams. Her complexion turns ruddy and now she's all hot and bothered and I wonder if it has anything to do with what she's talking about or the fact that The POD is all eyes....on her. Hm? Is he salivating? He better not be salivating.

Class ends. The POD senses our delight in finally understanding this week's work and decides to drop a bombshell, "I've been easy on you. Starting next week it's going to be harder. Much, much harder. This was just a little taste. Next week, the real work begins."

What!!!????

You should've seen all of our faces. I knew it. I knew the evil, little bastard was still alive and kicking and lurking inside that suave 007 costume somewhere.

So, it appears I will have to read and reread the ridiculous amount of pages he wants us to cover each week (and actually absorb and understand the information? HA! that's laughable) and, unless we can all borrow MKIA's brain for the semester, we're all doomed.

Class ends, everyone begins to walk out and I see MKIA stay behind to speak with The POD, swinging in her chair, playing with her hair, giggling....

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."