Summer 2010 #9

“Indeed, man wishes to be happy even when he so lives as to make happiness impossible.” – St. Augustine

One step forward and twelve steps back. A year has passed since I started this discovery; this blog and I find myself not much further along on the yellow brick road. Baby steps are one thing, but I can’t even muster up that. What am I doing…. ant steps? I’m disgusted with myself, depressed and disillusioned. I ask myself for the millionth time…..if not now…..when??????

My question to the universe is can a 40-something-year-old- Betty return to the city of her youth where possibilities were boundless and the future seemed more than bright?

Can she pick up metaphorically where she left off and re-puzzle her life back together? Is it true that it is never to late to find substance, happiness, love and a career that one is passionate about or should she just continue along the lines of “What will be, will be.”?

What happens if you don’t reach out and grab your life by the cojones? Is it something you question or regret while your sitting on the rocker in the old folks home staring out into space wiping the droll with the sleeve of your synthetic robe? Once one hits the big 40, senility seems a wink away. You wonder who will come visit you in the “home” and will you even remember them if they do? You slap your hand dramatically on the side of your head as you think about who will change your diaper while you scream out loud with captions floating above your head mimicking “I FORGOT TO HAVE CHILDREN.”  As the evening hours approach you become crankier and nervous and no amount of chardonnay will prevent the fear of a wild case of sundowners, where old folks are afraid to go to bed because they fear they won’t wake up in the morning.

As a child I had a mild case of such an illness and I remember laying awake until what seemed like all hours of the morning staring at the Little Bo Peep framed picture on the wall across from my bed, that my mother made out of felt and the same material as my homemade bedspread and curtains, white with pink raised Pokka dots.  I remember being afraid to go to bed fearing that I would die in my sleep and the only thing I could think of doing was saying my prayers over and over in my head….

                       “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the lord my soul to keep.

                       If I dye before I wake. I pray the lord my soul to take.”

Who in the hell thought those were proper words for a child to say before hunkering down for a long winters nap? Die, Soul, Awake! No wonder I’m so tired now as I didn’t sleep much from the age of 5 on. I remember walking to elementary school in a brume do to lack of sleep and looking back now if there was a god forbidden Starbuck’s in the area, I’d be bellying up to the cash register for a double shot of espresso and steamed milk in my sippy cup.

Year’s later sleep is still stolen from me as if a band of bandits dynamite blast through my bedroom, jumped on my bed, threw back the covers and bitch slap me into consciousness, robbing me from drifting off deeply into a sweet state of slumber and perhaps a chance to dream.

Which explains my days were filled daydream believing and my concentration level has been null ever since.

Now I no longer stare into the pitch darkness of the eyes of Little Bo Peep, but instead into the deep dark black abyss that I have reciped for myself. I know it’s all of my own creating. I purchased the ingredients, I stirred and boiled the goods, but I still feel fear when I see my own eyes looking back at me through the blackness. I wonder how I got here…..things were not suppose to go this way, but then life happened or I stopped letting it happen. Somewhere alone the way I lost the battle and surrendered. The days and nights seem to roll into one huge swelling wave of nothingness and I wonder if indeed, I truly exist. My beloved companion, Knox licks my face as if to say

“SNAP THE HELL OUT OF IT LADY, I’M GETTING SICK AND TIRED OF THIS NORMA DESMOND ROUTINEE.”

“Me too pal,”  I say out loud as I scratch him behind his ears and think how nice it would be to have someone scratch me in those hard to reach on your own places.

I look at Knox and though he is the pure color of ebony, except for the occasional white hairs that display the passage of time (and on me as well) there is nothing lacking hue and

brightness about him, nothing gloomy, threatening or abysmal about this magical pup who has transformed my life, he is the polar opposite of my current character. He gets me to my feet and nudges me out the door. Summer is in full swing and the late morning light is blinding. I stand on the stoop of my suburban concrete condo and try to let my eyes adjust. Within seconds Knox is off and running, going door-to-door greeting his favorite neighbors hoping for treats, peeing on flowers and chasing squirrels.  It’s as if he’s saying hello world! Good morning! I’m here, I exist, deal with it!!!!!!! I want to take his cue, but I’m just not feeling very neighborly today or most days for that matter, perhaps tomorrow and I retreat back into my cave.