Cosmic Wedgies

When I was a young girl, my mother’s favorite method of discipline in public was to very slyly slip her hand around our waist and whisper in our ear quite gently that we’d better knock it off… as her index finger just as slyly caught the waistband of our undies, giving it a not-as-gentle tug upward.

Forget spankings, or yelling, or threatening.  A public wedgie was the most effective way to shut us up when we were harassing her for a bucket of ice cream or the latest big-label attire she couldn’t afford- and it was her way of diffusing her frustration too.

She’d start to chuckle as she watched us try to continue whining for what we wanted, with our delicates practically pulled up to our ears.  My mother was a domestic violence survivor, but she was gentle and lived to laugh.   She found humor in the smallest things when life was at its worst.   Sarcasm was her middle name, homemade parody ditties her hallmark.

Not surprisingly, being clever kids, one of us refused to wear underpants from thereon out.   I still laugh with the memory of seeing my mother’s jaw drop as my young sister sailed by us in a cartwheel – bare legs, wearing nothing under her short skirt, and nothing to be disciplined with.

I do believe my mother is my guardian angel, so when she hauls a big tug deeply inside of me (usually publicly, because that’s when wedgies have their best effect) I know there is something wrong in my life I need to address.

Today I visited an ill friend in one of the hospitals my mother was admitted into before her final ascent.  I held his hand and listened as I remembered being here for what felt like such a long time ago.

Honestly, I didn’t want to be here.  Memories were distracting.  The hall’s faint whiff of disinfected death was overwhelming.  And my heart hurt, missing her.  But I’ve been stronger lately and I held out for several hours, thinking to myself, “This is such a wedgie moment.”

I don’t know if guardian angels can be loaned out but I asked for it.  Hopefully my voice was heard, and my friend will be saved with her cosmic wedgie – and my underpants can take a break.

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Magic Man

My Soulmate on Aisle 7  laughs, plays, and smiles, and loves.  We talk and talk and talk.  I never tire of the softness of his words.  Lately I’ve nicknamed him the Magic Man.  We are nearing the ninth month of a relationship.  That in itself is magic at work.

He believes in Heaven, loves rainbows, sees triple digits, and gives generous amounts of care to the intricacy of growth flowering in his garden.  He is a gatherer, a gardener, and a lover of unparalleled comparisons.  He is absent of triggers.  That has blown my mind.

I’ve seen my little anxious child transform into a somewhat less fearful soul.  She takes small risks now, and does not mind if she gets a little dirty having fun.  He taught her to climb a tree and ride her bike.  A year ago, she would have an anxiety attack on her training wheels.   Magic Man waved his wand, and suddenly she is not afraid as much.  She is not as afraid to sleep on her own now.  Her counselor is so pleased.

My doctor chuckles when Magic Man accompanies me, for his funny bone pokes out into others ribs until they can’t help laughing a little.   I go to the doctor often now, much more than I used to have to do.  Stress is a killer.  I wrote recently about the mind-body connection  of PTSD and how it harms a person.  I’ll be in a nephrologist’s care in two weeks.

Magic Man wears his heart on his sleeve, even when it means it might get torn to shreds by those hurting.  He offers all he has, open-handed.  It’s the trait of one who’s done the Work and the Steps, being sober for nine years.  Empathy is a natural evolving process in sobriety.

Well, I just read what I wrote, and I’m shaking my head.  Clearly, I’m under a spell, a love potion, and in love with Magic.

 

Two years of Recovery Writing today

*blip*

Well, shucks!  Break out the Scooby snacks.  WordPress sent me a Congratulations on Two Years just now.

I laughed a little when I got the message.   I’ve not posted much lately, but have a ton of half-written drafts awaiting publish.

My voice inside has been unusually calm and not because I haven’t had anything useful to say.  Most of my energy lately has been consumed by precocious third-graders.  I’ve really enjoyed volunteering in a reading group, watching them grow in phases.   Helping children learn seemed to foster a sense of recovery my own methods of recovery fell short of.   Recovery writing can turn (me) into a hermit crab.  It was hard to get out of my PTSD shell, but I did it, and it felt great.

And now it’s over (until next year), but I truly enjoyed this year’s teacher, who was such an inspirational woman and glued me back together on my birthday with such care.  I haven’t posted about that, yet.

For anyone who noticed.. yes, my archives only go back to October of 2012, here.  I’ve been a WordPress member since June of 2012 and ran an anonymous blog about the daily life of me.  It was blunt, and raw,  a documentation journal, and probably the second most terrifying and liberating experience I’ve ever had.