September 11th

9/11/2001.

What does that date bring to the surface when you read it, hear it, think about it? 9/11/2001 was an absolutely horrific day; the attack on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. Almost 3,000 people were killed in that act of terror. Everyone remembers what they were doing, or where they were, when the Twin Towers were attacked.

On 9/11/2001, I was in college, in Anatomy class, and I had just un-bagged my cat and had begun my dissection. There was a television in our classroom and, I think I can speak for many when I say it seemed like time stood when news stations began to cover the horror. An announcement was made over the loudspeaker, dismissing the entire school. I drove to my parents’ house and sat on their yellow couch as we watched the news in utter disbelief.

9/11/2001…. my 18th birthday. Now, every year, I’m torn between feeling completely elated and celebrating another turn around the sun for me vs. the solemn remembrance of those who lost their lives, their loved ones, the people who remember the life saving efforts they attempted, and the recovery missions they joined.

I was raised to celebrate every birthday, every year, as there are so many whose lives are cut all too short. And I do. I don’t dread the coming years. I embrace every birthday and I am incredibly thankful to get to experience each new season life has to offer me.

So, tomorrow, I’ll have my moments where I’m overwhelmed with grief for those who lost their lives while I am celebrating another year i’m blessed with.

Can’t sleep? Me either

Mannnnn why am I writing after 10pm?? I do all my shit “right”: take my meds that help me sleep, take my meds that help my pain, take my meds that help the nerve issues… I should be chilling on a cloud counting sheep as they jump over fences or something…wondering about twinkling little stars, cows jumping over the moon - but my dishes and spoons are in the dishwasher, y’all. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Sometimes I just can’t shut it down. I want to… I know I need to, but the thoughts just swirl around up there. Life in general is hard. Whether we want to believe it, or throw a filter on it, doesn’t change that fact. Married, single, parent, fur parent, whatever… we all have struggles. Commutes, work stress, bills, our own expectations and goals we’re setting and trying to achieve. All of that causes stress. If there’s anything I can get 1st prize for is knowing all about stress. Jilda Stress Cunningham at your service. 🫡 And I’m okay with it - now. I’ve put in the work in therapy over the years. I know how to look inside and see what’s up; get to the root. I welcome all of the shit because it’s an opportunity for me to shine - step the fuck up and handle business. Don’t get swallowed up by it. Why are my kids positive and compassionate, empathetic and supportive, helpful and polite? Because from as early on as I could, I’ve never kept feelings hidden. We own that shit. We talk. WE TALK. My kids know to tell me when they need to go take a minute if shit’s starting to get heavy… if Anthony’s having difficulty at bedtime, he’ll say “mama can I go sit on the couch, alone, for a minute to breathe?” Damn straight, kid. Take that time to gather yourself, think, decompress, and come back to me. I love that about us. I don’t tell them to hide their emotions. We recognize them, talk about them and then let them do their thing.

By letting life flow and not grasping at control, I’ve been able to get into what I want, and boyyyy when I tell you, trying to find a partner in your 40s is bananas. I don’t know if it’s because I still feel like I’m in my 20s, or if it’s because I have grown so damn much and know exactly what I want and don’t want; I know my worth so I won’t settle. The dudes who want a side piece, the ones who think they’re entitled to me because they’re lacking it in their own and they only want me, the men who take me out but have nothing to offer, mentally. I need to laugh, y’all. If you can’t make me laugh, there’s no chance. I’m tired of faking those laughs so I don’t hurt anyone’s feelings. I’m tired of this Groundhog Day nonsense I’ve experienced. My mom gets so annoyed with me sometimes because I don’t do small talk. I don’t like it… tell me a story, bet, I’m down. I’ll listen intently. But I can’t speak on nonsense- I like the real in conversations.

In the melting pot that is dating in your 40s, I prefer to jump right in, to start with the non-traditional questions and conversations early on. It allows us both to lean into the uncomfortable, and that’s when you really learn about someone. Are they able to lean in to that discomfort, that deep convo I’m looking for to see if they know who they are and what they want? Because no matter how much I LOVE love, no matter how much I enjoy giving my energy to people, I’ve realized I’m missing that reciprocal. I’m missing my person, my ME that I want to find. So rather than start with the superficial and cutesy things, let me see your dirty, your dark, your open, your truth. Because THAT will tell me where this can, and will, go. I don’t understand when people date for months or years and haven’t had difficult conversations - kids, goals, future plans, money, hard no’s, secrets…. Pull back that curtain. Dig deep. Otherwise, you’ll just get hurt at some point… when you’ve fallen for that person and THEN those conversations arise. A hard no is a hard no… How is that going to feel a year in, when you’ve become accustomed to each other’s families, are living together, have traveled, adopted a pet together, had a kid!!! Dude, that’s the #1 WORST REASON to stay together; for the kids. Kids deserve to see LOVE. If you’re in a marriage or relationship where there’s no true love shining through, if those feelings changed, or you got married because of pregnancy, or you got together young as fuck and you’ve both just grown - no one did anything wrong, but you’re both older and not the same people… it’s okay to discuss leaving. Be happy. Be in love. We only get this one life. That’s it. There’s no fucking do-over. You can’t hide and then years later the real you pops out looking for a reset button. Shit, there’s not one person on this earth who knows how long any of us have. Love hard. Live hard. Be honest. Demand honesty. Let your littles see how to love a partner, take care of a partner, lift a partner up and support them. Let your littles see you choose you! Teach them about self-respect and self-love by your example, not when they’re older and having relationships problems and you want to give them that advice. Let them grow up thinking “I want a partner to treat me like that. I want to be able to make my partner feel loved like that.”

Fuck me. This soap box has been one hell of a ride tonight. Welcome to my brain… rabbit hole after rabbit hole… guess I’m failing at my doctor’s order to “improve my sleep hygiene”.

Thanks for taking this trip and reading my nonsense. Be real. ✌️

Your results came back….

 Here’s another blog that’s straight verbal diarrhea because my brain and my heart haven’t stopped racing since 1359hrs….

I’ve always been the one who learned lessons the hard way. Not always by choice, but because that just seems to be how my life plays out. I’ve also never been one to wallow in that thought. Yes, I haven’t had an easy road, but mannnnn if I didn’t learn how fucking tough I am. So far, NOTHING has been able to stop me; not in adolescence, and certainly not as an adult. Did I develop unhealthy crutches at times? Of course. But I’ve also learned that I get my strength from helping others. So what does that mean when *I’m* the one in need of comfort, help, being uplifted? I don’t have a fucking clue.

I injured myself at work a little over a year ago. I’ve taken the necessary steps and have followed through with all of my appointments and therapies and restrictions. Unfortunately, my shoulder injury appears to be worsening, so I made the decision to opt for surgical repair. Rotator Cuff surgery is going to suck, especially when it’s your dominant arm… but I knew I could make it work, like every other obstacle I’ve crushed. What I didn’t expect was to be faced with, yet another, terrifying scenario.

My marriage was ending around 2018/2019 and I was working part-time, bringing my Littles with me everywhere I went. Towards the end of 2019 I got really sick. I was diagnosed with a chest infection that progressed into pneumonia, and it continued. Antibiotics and steroids didn’t fix me, and I continued to worsen into the following months, when Covid was announced. After several months, too many hospital visits, endless antibiotics, steroids, oxygen treatments, Respiratory Therapists, and stuffing down mountains of fear, I leveled out. Resting sats are 94. I know what it feels like when they dip to 92 or lower. I have a scarred lung and learned what it feels like when I’m having some type of flare and having difficulty getting air into that side of my lungs. I get bronchitis and pneumonia frequently. None of that has stopped me. Until now.

I had a chest xray this morning as part of my pre-op for my shoulder surgery. I was there yesterday for my other testing and the machine was down so I needed to go back today. I’m a charismatic person and the staff loved me. I left today on a high from making others smile and laugh. Two hours later the office called. The guy who was lighthearted and playful with me earlier, was no longer. At first he didn’t come right out and say anything, but when he just asked me to go more in depth about my lung history, I knew he had found something on my xray. I repeated to him what I told him yesterday - I was sick for 8 months before they concluded I had Covid before it was “a thing”. After several X-rays and CT scans they told me one of the lobes of my left lung was scarred. I have difficulty breathing more often than not, but I take the stairs at work, walk miles daily with my dogs and don’t have difficulty breathing upon exertion. There’s no rhyme or reason to my flare-ups, and when they occur, my sats can drop into the 80s and I end up in the hospital. I know when something is even a little bit off with my lungs or heart, because I can feel it, even if there’s no apparent symptom. He continues his questioning and confirms again if the scarring is on my left lung. I ask him what’s up, laughing, as I typically do, to chase away any shadow of doubt or fear. He proceeds to tell me there’s something on the right side of my lung and he wants to get a copy of my most recent xray from when I was in the ER a couple of months ago. That’s it. No further discussion. Nothing. “Let’s get a copy of your last chest xray and we’ll go from there”.

So, I’m now flip-flopping through emotions. What would *I* say to me??? “They saw something, we don’t know what it is, but he’s getting your last xray to compare”. “Don’t worry until we have something that needs to be worried about. And even then, worrying won’t fix anything, we’ll just make a plan on how to move forward”. But then there’s the smaller, darker side inside my head. The side that barely anyone knows about. The one that reminds me I started smoking cigarettes at 9 years old. I hid smoking from everyone because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I’ve smoked longer than most adults. I started smoking again when I was going through my divorce and found out I had an Atrial Septal Defect. My cardiologist told me to quit. And I knew I would… one day. I smoked when I had Covid the 2nd and 3rd time. I smoked when I had pneumonia. I smoked because no matter how much therapy can make you better, sometimes, there are some things that are the only way you can feel like your world isn’t spinning out of control. Moving my kids to another county and not being there every single day with them kills me. Trying to pack up my house (while being injured on my dominant arm) so I can get it ready to sell so I can go live with my babies again is beyond frustrating. The agonizing pain I hide because what good does bitching do is annoying. Being everything for every and anyone is exhausting. I’ve had more friends than I care to count diagnosed with and battle/are still battling cancer. I’ve had friends lose spouses, children, parents. Who am I to complain? I don’t complain, I fix. I help. I don’t burden. 

But fuck me if I’m not somewhat afraid. Not afraid of what might be found, necessarily…. But what if it IS a death sentence? My babies have gone through too much in their short lives to lose their mama. THAT’S where my brain goes. Fuckkkk me. Fuck pain or tests or being poked, prodded or God knows what else. That shit I’ll manage, if this does turn out to be something. But the THOUGHT that my kids could lose me? Unfathomable.

So - let’s pray their fucking xray machine is still on the fritz and what they’re seeing is a glitch and nothing for me to deal with. 

But outside of that, THIS is why I love so hard. This is why I hug you guys and tell you I love you. Because we just never know. I never know if the last time I hug someone is the last time. Car accidents, embolisms, heart attacks, stray bullets… shit happens. So just keep loving hard. That’s my plan… for now.

Today's musings

I had my weekly therapy appointment today, and one of the things I love about my therapist is how comfortable she makes me feel. I've been in and out of therapy for most of my life. I've always loved the idea of therapy. It makes sense to me. But I have never felt 100% safe or comfortable with any of my former therapists. I've always felt judged. But from my first appointment with my current therapist, it was different. And I can truly say that I have learned a lot about myself, have had a number of "a-ha!" moments, and I've grown. Now, don't read that and think I've fooled myself into thinking I've reached my full potential and I'm done - helllll no. Life is a continuous journey, and I have no plans to stop therapy. 

Today, while discussing my most recent "a-ha" moments, my therapist said something that brought me such peace. She said something along the line of "you're reaching that '40' moment. I've encountered so many people who have said 40 was a pivotal moment in their lives. They've realized that the paths they were on were no longer serving them fully, and they began to realize how important filling their own cup was. They started setting boundaries and keeping them." 

And she's right. I've been putting in work, and I've started setting boundaries. Last night, I was drained; not just from a long, busy day, but from also filling others' cups along the way. I felt tired from doing so much for everyone, making everyone feel peaceful, stress-free, happy, and not getting anything back. I'm tired of stretching myself thin and emotionally depleting myself because I know how to care for everyone around me. I'm tired of giving 110% to co-workers, inside and outside of my unit, I'm tired of giving affection, attention, understanding, love, and patience to people who don't bother to find out if *I* need any of that. 

Don't mistake what I'm saying to mean all of these people are maliciously and selfishly just taking from me - it's an unconscious draw, I'm sure. No one in my orbit is a "bad" person... but when their needs aren't met, they come to me because I am able to offer whatever it is they're lacking. Need a boost, I got you. Need to vent, I'm an excellent listener. Feeling weak, I know how to build you back up. Need encouragement, I'm your girl. Physical touch, I give the best hugs or cuddles. I'm there. I'm *always* there. But, who's there for me? Who's there when I have a long, hard day and need someone to listen to me, hold me, encourage me? Who, of these people that i take care of, ever think, "Let me reach out and see how she is." *My* needs are an afterthought, if a thought at all, to people. Does anyone reach out to me unless they have an unmet need... no. 

I'm not saying I'm going to stop being who I am - I'm a nurturer by nature. These people come to me, and it comes so easily to me; *because* I have this gift. But I'm certainly learning that I do need to fill my own cup because no one else will/is. I *am* finding that as 40 draws closer, I'm realizing that putting up some boundaries and saying "no", regardless of the outcome, is healthy for me; and in the long run, will allow me to continue to be there for others.

A new chapter

I have never been comfortable with all eyes on me. That is a fact that many disbelieve. I'm often told I am charismatic, kind, charming, infectious; a friend to all. That may be, but I am actually terrified of attention and have always sought to make myself small in school, at work, around crowds... I have very big opinions and ideas, but only feel comfortable being agreeable and quiet when in public or with groups. I worry constantly about saying or doing the "wrong" thing. I have often battled with why I do not believe myself to possess this "magnetic personality" I'm told I have, and often feel like a fraud in my own skin. 

In three short months, I'll be hitting a new decade - 40. I'm not afraid of aging, I don't even "feel" 40. What does age even feel like?? What a stupid notion, to "feel" an age. What I do feel, however, is that I need to embrace myself. I need to remove myself from last place and finally shower myself with true self love. I need to take time for me, to satisfy me, calm me, ensure my own happiness is intact. In order to continue filling the cups of all of those around me, I need to realize that task may be better done if I finally fill my own cup, first. 

Society has given us all such a fucked sense of what is "worthy". How men and women should look, in order to be found appealing. How to defy age or slow the affects of aging. I've always been lucky that, even when not feeling it's true, I'm able to shine like a fucking diamond. I'm human - I scrutinize my (many) imperfections. I see darker circles, more hollowed eyes, where I used to have a more youthful sparkling gaze. My cheek bones aren't as lifted. I dye my graying hairs. I worry about facial hair, wrinkles, lack of elasticity around my eyes. My physical "snap back" isn't as quick,  or as easy, as when I was 20 years younger. 

Most of all, I worry about not finally shedding this heavy suit of armor I've carried for almost four decades. Holy shit - four decades sounds a ton of a lot older than "40" 🤣🤣. I do not want to remain guarded all the time. I do not want to feel ill at ease when having to attend a party, a gathering, or an event. I do not want to feel too drained to do something for myself. I want to be able to embrace my full worth - honor my full worth. Whole-heartedly enjoy what is left of this time we get on Earth - because it is far too fleeting. 

40 isn't here yet.... but I'm getting ready for when it is...

T

She hated attention, so do I. I remember always thinking she was so cool. She had full, gorgeous, shiny, straight hair - I was a little girl who looked a mix between Shirley Temple and a Bad News Bear. Her nails were always long, and pointy, and when she was seated, having conversations, she'd always run her index finger down the center of her nose, tapping the tip occasionally. Her favorite perfume was Knowing, by Estee Lauder, and I remember that smell so vividly. She spanked me with a hair brush, on more than one occasion, when trying to brush out my knotted curls. She wore a big, sapphire and diamond ring. She bought me a smaller, matching one. She always wore beautiful, trendy clothes. She called me "Jilly" or "Jilliana". She had a beautiful voice, but never sang in public. She loved dogs. She wore a brown fur coat that was always cold when she hugged me. She held her lips a funny way when she laughed. She was left-handed and wrote so beautifully. She was a nervous, anxiety-riddled person. So am I. When i was older, we'd sit at her kitchen table, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. She shared her secrets with me. We laughed together. We cried together. We sat in silence together. We stopped talking. She was stubborn. So am I. It's "crazy" to say, but 2 days before I got the phone call saying she was gone, I had the strongest urge to call her. But I was putting the boys to bed, and I didn't. It doesn't feel possible. It doesn't feel real. I've told myself that my Nana Gilda was waiting for her, with open arms...that after 47 years, she finally got to hug her mom again. I imagine she's sitting at the table, with my grandmother, my great grandparents, and my aunts and uncles, having wine, eating feasts, and catching up. I imagine her heart is finally healed and at peace. But I can't say "so am I"...

Behind the curtain

We oftentimes hide our battles and/or scars because we associate them with shame. We somehow drifted away from the "tribe and village" mentality of needing and depending on others, and secluded ourselves onto a lonely island of falsehoods. We frequently see excessively overjoyed, and sometimes, boastful, depictions posted all over social media. It's rare to witness a raw, emotional, post or photo. I get it. It's scary to put all of yourself out there, all over the internet. These social media "stars" are popping up celebrating their true/authentic selves. Sharing their body positivity photos, be them over or under weight, embracing their identities, celebrating their sexuality, showing their physical scars, opening up about the skeletons and wickedness they've endured; but are they really affirmed and welcomed, or are we just blindly and emptily empowering these individuals because that's the "right thing to do"? Is the acceptance real? 

Maybe I'm just jaded. Maybe I've been beaten down one too many times to believe that sharing my own authentic self would be openly accepted, without judgements  without gossip, without side eye. Maybe I'm just scared to take that leap into true autonomous transparency. 

Either way, in the quiet nights I seldom get without my babies, those nights I sometimes yearn for, I feel empty. Being without my children is like being without my heart. In the chaotic moments of the days and nights when one proverbial shoe tends to drop after the other, when one child's request is met with the bellowing of the other and the arguments for my time and attention ensue, I want a moment of peace and quiet. Then I get it and I feel lost. Even when they're asleep, at least knowing they're in the bed in the other room, I'm at ease. But, without them under my roof, I aimlessly stalk the floors of this empty apartment. Cleaning is empty. Television is empty. A nice shower and a book are empty. All I'm left with are my thoughts... and those swirl around faster and more fierce than any tornado. 

Am I doing enough? Am I working too much? Are my screw ups too big? Is the damage I've done permanent? Will I ever find MY voice? Will I ever not give a flying fuck about what others perceive me to be? Will I always second guess myself? Will I ever shed this chameleon skin and stop trying to please those around me and just focus on myself? Will I, Can I, Am I? Could-a, should-a, would-a... 

Not tonight, I won't. But I am. Slowly but surely. Little by little. I'm peeking out from behind that heavy, dark curtain I've been hiding under for almost 40 years. I'm finding my way... I've been blazing my own path for a long time, and I'm almost ready to fully ride those flames.