Haunted

It's been several months now, and it's not that I haven't had much to say. Quite the opposite. I just haven't been able to talk about it. Not in an "I-just-don't-want-to-deal-with-it" sort of way, but because there are legal reasons that now prevent me from being able to do so.

It's funny how when things start going well in one area of your life, other pieces just fall apart. That was the case for me back in the late fall, shortly after my recovery anniversary (Nov. 7). My work situation took a ridiculous turn and at the start of the new year, just as I was hoping for a better start, well - I lost my job. It's a convoluted story, but not one that really matters anymore. It took its toll on my psyche, that's true - but it seems that my friends and family were right. It WAS a blessing in disguise – the stress and anxiety I experienced has dissipated. My outlook is far brighter, and I am a happier me. 

But there's one thing that keeps bothering me. It's far more personal. You see, during late fall in 2010, my grandfather died. An old man with the beginning stages of Parkinson's, Alzheimer's and a myriad of other issues. But it was none of those things that took his life. 

Instead, on the morning of November 4, as he crossed his country road in the rain to get his morning newspaper, he was struck by a car and killed. According to the reports, it was nearly instantaneous. I'll spare you the details, but I've heard them all, against my better judgment. 

His death haunts me and I'm not sure why. I'm trying to work it out, but it eludes me. But sometimes at night when I'm out and about, otherwise having a wonderful time, I see the headlights of oncoming cars in the city streets and I freeze. It's not at all the same situation; it's not morning, not raining, not a country road – yet I'm frozen, staring into the headlights. 

And in that moment, I think about the trauma of it all. What he must have experienced at the moment he was struck. How that must have felt. What it would be like to die that way and on a dime, change the lives of everyone who loves you. 

Did he know it was coming? The report indicates that he must not have seen the vehicle, but who's to know for sure? Did he feel the shock? The impact? The pain? Did he know it was the end? Were those last moments an eternity? 

And the poor woman who was driving the car. She wasn't speeding. She wasn't asleep. She wasn't under the influence of anything. She swerved to avoid him, but couldn't. And thus, unintentionally (and of no fault of her own) snuffed out the life of the patriarch of my family. I ache for her, too. For the anguish she felt and the traumatic effect it had on her. 

It was my sister who called me that morning to tell me the news. In fact, she called one of my dearest friends, who was also my supervisor at the time. He sat me down in his office to take the call; she had already told him the news. 

My very first thought when I heard my sister on the phone, hysterically in tears, was that our father was dead. My mouth went dry and I was weak, but ready to run as far away from that office as possible. But as I waited for the devastating news, I heard her say "grandpap was hit by a car this morning...." and my world came back into focus. I was in shock and couldn't think of much to say. She told me what she knew at that point and somehow we ended the conversation, though I don't remember how. 

It was days before I cried. The tears wouldn't come. I was restless and couldn't sleep. And even the executive team at my company sent me home. What they didn't understand is that inaction is not good for me in that kind of situation. Probably just an avoidance tactic or a state of denial; that if I go about my work as usual, I can delay the inevitable. 

So I went home. Sat there for about 18 hours before I decided to drive 700 miles to pick up my sister in her southern state. I needed her. Needed to be with her - and couldn't remain idle. Even while driving though, I fended off thoughts of my current reality with all genres of music. I talked to people on the phone, but when the conversation got too serious I made up excuses to end the calls. I wanted to talk, but couldn't. Just like writing, not being able to talk is not only rare, but debilitating for me.

My sister was worried that the tears hadn't yet come, but I knew they were welling up inside me like a tsunami. And it wasn't until the first viewing at the funeral home that the tears finally came. 

For the first time in days, the numbness went away and my body was racked with pain and grief. The next few days, surrounded by my extended family was a welcome change. I do not enjoy the numbness, but it's my body's temporary response - one that's quite common, I'm sure. As I've already told you, for me, pain is a reminder that I am alive. One that is at least a pleasant reminder that my body continues to function even when my heart doesn't feel like it can. 

Those were dark days, marked by the haunting strains of Taps replaying in my head. I can still hear the wailing drowning out parts of that song of honor. It took me quite some time to realize the wailing was coming from me.

So why is it that nearly a year and a half later I find myself paralyzed by headlights in a city street, taken back to an event for which I wasn't even present? I don't know that I'm going to find an answer today, but I think I'm getting close.

Perhaps my absolution is on its way. 

On Borrowed Time: 15 Years of Recovery - November 7, 2011

Fifteen years ago today, I stood in my dorm room facing my own reflection in the mirror; face red and swollen from crying, throat swollen and bleeding from vomiting, and terrified of losing the battle against bulimia, and myself.

I made a conscious decision that day to live. Not only to live, I suppose, but to recover. By that time, the anorexia had morphed into bulimia and I was very, very ill. There were few people who knew at the time, which I suppose makes sense. Bulimia certainly isn't something to be proud of. But at the time, I was ashamed of and disgusted with myself.

That's the wonderful thing about recovery. It's quite liberating. And recovery is nothing to be ashamed of - nor is the struggle I, and many others, endured.

Every year at this time I get quite introspective. I cry a little, but no longer out of fear or pain. I cry tears of happiness, and God forgive me, pride.

I sincerely believe that these last 15 years have been borrowed time. For what I put my own body through, I should not be alive. I am blessed that God saved me from myself. And I am thankful for so many things. So it's quite fitting that my recovery anniversary and my favorite holiday - Thanksgiving - fall in the same month. Because above all else, I am most thankful for November 7th. Without it, I would never have known the joys (and sorrows) of the last many years.

And now in just a few minutes, it will be November 7th, and I'd like to share an excerpt from an essay I wrote years ago, just before my first anniversary. Entitled "Power to Survive," it was later published in a women's literary magazine at Carolina:

I was stronger, wiser and more self-reliant. I had untwisted the thoughts in my brain. I boycotted the use of the scale and changed the mirror. It no longer told the story of a girl who was unacceptable, rather, it told the story of recovery. I am a changed woman. I am no longer willing to die to become what this American society expects. I am no longer a victim. I AM A SURVIVOR.

As I once read in a women's studies book, in an essay called "The Body Politic" by Abra Fortune Chernik, "We must challenge ourselves to eat and digest, and allow society to call us too big. We will understand their message to mean too powerful...."

Every day i look around and I see these horrible diseases spreading, and I have to fight with myself to remain immune to it.... It's been a long battle for me. But it's finally over. I believe my story is complete.

It is with much pride that I write this, for my one year anniversary has long since passed. November 7th is a day I will remember for the rest of my life. It will remain in my heart a symbol. An eternal symbol of strength, courage, pride and power. It is representative of the power I have gained, that has enabled me to take back my life.

I would disagree with one point, however. The battle is over, yes. But my story continues.... On borrowed time.

My motivation

In my heart, I'm a writer. When I think about what makes me happy, when I feel my best, that's totally disconnected from other people in my life, it's when I write. Or even when I just think about writing. I think about all of the things I would say just to get it all out of my head.

When I put it all out there, outside of myself, it makes more sense. It helps me understand myself. And it either multiplies the joy, or it takes away the pain, confusion and discord.

The biggest challenge in this, though, is that I've always had a hard time writing things that I want or need to share when I'm intrinsically happy. When I feel balanced, grounded and connected to the world around me, it's harder to force myself to sit down and write. Because when I'm in that place, I'd much rather be living life and sharing experiences than writing about them.

When I write, it's for catharsis. That pure, unadulterated feeling of freedom I get from putting it all out there. It's similar to the way I felt when I went sky-diving, or cliff-jumping, or being out on the water.

And right now I find myself torn between the two.

I'm in the middle at the moment. I find myself wanting to explain it but I'm at a loss. So instead, for now, I will leave you with this simple explanation of what exactly my writing does for me. So when you see future posts, you'll know where I stand. 

And for now, that will just have to be enough for me.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Remember remaining bloke number one? He's made appearances in every one of my previous posts, whether you were aware of that or not.  Well.... it's time to catch you up on that part of the story.

This one is a story of a lovely lady named Elizabeth, who recently set out to restore her self-respect (and, as it was pointed out by a very dear friend, her self-restraint).

It begins with a road trip.

Yes, yes, I took another road trip. But this time I went for a different reason. This one involved a family member and some old friends. It just so happened to be a road trip to the same place where former Mr. Number One lives. I no longer feel he deserves the title of 'number one.' So let's call him, for the purposes of this story, Charles.

When we last saw Charles, he left my hotel room after less than four hours and didn't return. I left town the next morning and, as you can see from my post in January, was quite irritated with myself. I was fully aware at that time that Charles and I wouldn't be pursuing a relationship (this is a key point), but I traveled there with the intention of seeking some comfort and uhm, other things. What I also got, but wasn't expecting, was another dent in my armor and a little less self-respect.

Alas, in typical Cavendish fashion, I persevered.

About two weeks ago, a dear family member invited me to meet her in that lovely city for a charity event and to spend some time together. After about three or four days of careful introspection, I decided I was indeed strong enough to be in the same city as Charles for the first time in two months, so I made arrangements and off I went.

With the firm knowledge that 'it is what it is, no more, no less,' I did tell Charles that I'd be making an appearance in his hometown. I expected to at least see him to say hello; we are, after all, friends, right? And for any one of my friends who might be passing through my town, I'd definitively make an effort to see them at least briefly - but maybe that's just me.

On the one night that this would have been possible, there was little more than the sound of crickets from Charles. A few SMS messages, a couple of work-related answers and a lame excuse for why he didn't stop in that one evening.

That is, of course, until I got a phone call in the wee hours the night before my return home. And in that one conversation, he not only changed my perception of him (and what I THOUGHT he thought of me), but he gave me the chance that I had so been looking for but wasn't even aware was coming.

I regret that I cannot tell you the details of that conversation as the details are too private that I have told no one - but suffice it to say that it was appalling. I'll admit it wasn't what he wanted that offended me. I think we've established that that piece of our past was amazing - and who can really blame him for wanting that? I certainly don't - and if he hadn't said such awful things to me on the phone (while inebriated, no less), I might have considered it.

With that one conversation, he made a mockery of the feelings I had for him. Used the knowledge of how I felt in a hurtful, joking way. Made me feel like an idiot - and made it clear that he thought all of this was funny. And at the end of that conversation, when I was sure he had safely arrived home and I told him that he didn't need to see me, that what he needed was sleep - he said it was a wasted conversation.

A wasted conversation? Really?! Did I mention that after that comment he hung up on me?

And why is that? Because I said no? Because I exercised self-restraint? Because I chose to honor myself and prove to myself that I am dignified?

He didn't answer when I called back. Twice. I assumed that the drink had gotten the better of him by that point, so i sent a series of SMS messages to make my point. And make my point they did.

I silenced my mobile and went to sleep. By the time I awoke, there were multiple missed calls on my mobile. When we finally spoke that morning, he remembered nothing. Barely remembered even being on the phone, much less talking to me. But the SMS messages spoke loud and clear; I deserve respect and I will not stand for anything less. Because the people in our lives whom we count as friends certainly deserve that much.

Yet it seems that because he put me on hold, I hung up, and we never finished that conversation, he's a bit confused. A message he left a day later gives me the impression that he believes I'm upset or hurt because I wanted a relationship and he didn't. On the contrary, that was never the issue. For his honesty long before this weekend, I cannot fault him.

It was the blatant disrespect, meanness and mockery that infuriated me. His message said that he respects and appreciates my friendship. I don't know about you, but my friends don't treat me this way. They never have. Our relationships are built on mutual love, support and respect. And I would never tolerate this nonsense from any 'friend.' Any person who demonstrates this type of behavior toward me will quickly find themselves with one less friend.

So to you, Charles, I would like to say I am disappointed. I was not afforded the opportunity to tell you exactly what you said or what you did that night. Didn't have a chance to make you understand - and thus didn't get a true apology. I never expected any of that from you. For a man who was once an anchor tethering me to life through my stormy seas, I find it a major disappointment that it became a train wreck. But thanks, for giving me the opportunity to stand up for myself.

After all, in the end, I am left with a healthy opinion of myself and an abundance of self-respect. And for that, I will always be thankful.

A Dose of Truth

I started writing this one well over a month ago. It was mid-January to be exact. And I was on a mission to correct the mistakes I was making with people in my life. There were people in my life whom I wanted to remain there, but the path I was previously on was sure to drive them away in relatively short order.

So I decided to be truthful and start making better choices for myself and my own sanity. And as a result, these lovely people are still in my life - at least the ones I wanted to stay are still there. One of them has actually become an even better friend since then. And I have to say, I'm proud of myself for putting myself in the line of fire in order to save my sanity in the longer term.

It's not enough for me to tell you the shell of the story. It doesn't work for me if I don't do this the right way. So here it is.... The bare honest truth.

It was months ago now that I found myself traveling up and down the coast, reconnecting with people from my past and making new friends along the way. In this process I had a bad habit of either snogging these blokes without reason or desire, or finding myself attached to them in ways that probably weren't healthy for me. It was at the point when a couple of my girlfriends asked me about my gentlemen friends and I had to answer, 'Which one?' that I realized perhaps, this may become problematic.

After all, there were two with whom I was actually interested in pursuing some sort of romantic future, and it occurred to me that involvement with anyone else would only complicate matters for me. And that it did. And so it goes.... Shortly after my winter holiday, I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror and asked myself what I was doing. What was it I actually wanted? What about the feelings of these other people? What exactly did I expect to come from all of this?

And thus, I forced myself to suck the poison out of my life, as it were, and be entirely honest. Those I was afraid of hurting, I told them so. I explained my current position, that I didn't want anything romantic to come of our friendship and in coming to this realization, felt it my duty to be honest with them.

Those I was merely entertaining thoughts of, I let go. There was no real interest on my part (and to be honest, probably on theirs as well). To me now, they are cute smiles and handsome faces. They were merely a passing fancy to occupy my time and keep my mind off of the ones I thought I wanted. I am sure I knew even then that neither of the two I wanted reciprocated the feelings, but it was still the right thing to do.

And then it came to the last two. To the one I spent more time with - and the one with whom I have been the most forthright, I confronted him. I wanted to know what on earth we were doing spending time with each other in that way. We were at a critical point, in my opinion, at which we could either continue on our current path, or change direction and remain nothing more than friends.

Both afraid we'd cock it up, we chose the friends route. And to date he is one of my dearest friends. I'm quite proud of our maturity, and our ability to be brutally honest with each other. Now there's nothing we can't share with each other - he can talk to me about the women he sees and I've told him all about remaining bloke number one (and pretty much everything else, too).

It's actually a lovely situation. For the most part, I haven't had to leave behind anyone who is significant to me. As such, I'm able to keep these folks close to me in a different way. What I recently discovered that I really need, after all that happened last year, is quality friends. Friends who are loving, kind and genuine. Friends who are honest - and aren't afraid of my directness, honesty and love. Fortunately for me, that's exactly what I've found.

Self-destruction

My oh my was I right that I was going to pay for that. Got myself a little happy - and by happy, I mean the comfort and intimacy of a man. A very specific man to whom I am incredibly attracted and could have fallen for.

Amazing. Beautiful. Sexy. Incredible.Tender. Poetic. Passionate. Addictive. Raw. Magnetic. 

But I digress.

I have decided to accept these escapades for what they were - though once upon a time, it seemed that by the time we got to this point it would be much, much more. But what they were was a beautiful, comforting and glorious journey through a difficult time in my life. He provided strength, comfort, confidence and sweetness in a way that I never expected. And then took it all away.

It's not that simple or cut and dried, I suppose. I'm sure I've been no walk in the park. But until this last episode - at least to my knowledge - there had been no lies. And that ridiculousness? That's where I draw the line. You don't get to play with my heart, my emotions or my body.

Though I definitively would love to actually have a relationship with this man, it's clear that isn't going to happen. And I've come to terms with that. I would have even been content to continue an intense and intimate friendship with this man had it not been for the apparent lies regarding his whereabouts upon his departure from my hotel room.

Should I be angry with him about this? That I drove more than 500 miles (at his request) to spend an evening with him? That he spent less than four hours with me before he left and went to hang out with his friends (or so it appears). Should I be upset that he didn't have the decency to spend the night with me or return to me in the morning? I suppose I was hurt. It's not as if he doesn't know the depth of my feelings for him. Thus, I was also offended. And I was angry. But not angry in the way that you probably think.

I was angry at myself. For being foolish enough to put myself in that situation. Weak, I tell you. Weak because I adore this man. Weak because I wanted to feel - and wasn't ready to give up - the intense and passionate physical connection that we shared. And then simply angry with myself for being willing to settle for physical pleasure when what I really wanted and deserve is the emotional and personal connection - an actual relationship. Angry for allowing this man to have all of the benefits of being my boyfriend, but none of the expectations and responsibility.

But the anger was all directed inwardly. He didn't let that happen, I did. And it is only my actions over which I have any control. We teach people how to treat us - and I allowed this all to happen. I let him get away with it. Am I letting him off the hook entirely? No, I'm not. There is fault there as well. However, it is true that the only change I can effect is over my own behavior.

But damn it, guess what? I am pretty amazing. Don't believe me? I'll be happy to tell you all about it. I'm a beautiful, brilliant, strong and funny lady with a big and generous heart. And though I keep letting myself get hurt, I firmly believe that God put me on this planet to improve the lives of others and to do good work. Shutting myself off to people and experiences will not allow me to do either. So I'm not angry with me anymore. I'm learning and moving on from this one, too.

I will let the music heal me.
I will protect myself better.
I will demonstrate self-respect.
And I will not settle.

Effective immediately, this exercise in self-destruction doth endeth.

Work to do

I've got lots of work to do. I've regressed a bit; preferring to lie in bed and watch my favorite show on DVD. It's day 17 and I'm on season six. Kind of sad, I suppose, but it's working wonders.

And at the same time, I'm not quite in the mood for the holiday spirit. Or at least, I wasn't, until I made a plan to get myself a little happy. Probably not the healthiest thing I've ever done, but alas, it works for me.

But for this? I'm sure I'm going to pay.