Memory Stones

Sometimes when we are bored and seeking a small adventure my best friend, or her daughter, and I will go to a cemetery and look around for interesting bits of sculpture, inscriptions, spirits and whatnot. It is normally in the fall that the Oak Park Cemetery is most vibrant and beautiful. In Summer the canopy is so thick and green that getting good shots with my amateur camera is almost impossible. Not only that, the bright fake flowers adorning the grave sites is always unnerving for me. Nothing screams insincerity like fake flowers. But rules are rules and most cemeteries these days don't let you plant real flowers.  So there is that. I've always liked Oak Park because of the variety of sculpture, mostly Victorian Era. Oak Park is also home to most of the Founding Fathers of Traverse City and was always the "Catholic Cemetery".

I grew up Catholic and went to a lot of funerals with my dad, though not very often to attend a graveside service. Death and I are not strangers, but we aren't buds either. Death is just another thing; like too many relatives in the house at Christmas, and ignored birthdays.  It comes at the end of Life, requires a shindig, public lamenting and then...

The "And then" always bothers me. And then often is a few years of dedicated visitation that tapers off as grief gives way to a life resumed. Following the lack of visitation there is, for some, a period of guilt that is oft overcome with the thought that "Well, he's dead. What does he care if I don't go?" The "And then" for the dead is a physical decay. But how many of those dead stay with the body, limited in spirit to the confines of the cemetery? And for how long?

I can not imagine a fate worse than to be trapped with a useless body and watching parade after parade of histrionics when grief is most poignantly felt then great swaths of time when no one comes to visit anymore. Then, when the traffic slows to the slightest tickle the gawkers and ghost hunters arrive to coax ghoulish cries. Of course, on occasion, one can watch the malicious destruction of property as grave stones are smashed by normally idle hands. I don't know what is worse. The immediate shock and grief or the "and then"... being ignored.

As one of the troupe of curiosity seekers, hoping to encounter and not encounter entities in the cemetery, drooling over the artistry in the markers, marveling at the age of my city and lost in the solitude the quietness of a cemetery in daylight engenders, I try to keep the murmur to a dull roar. I can neither see nor hear the dead. It is rare that I can feel the presence of those who have passed and got stuck here. And, I try not to disturb a site that is clearly visited by family and friends. I will right a potted plant that has toppled and been ignored by the grounds keeping staff. And I avoid freshly turned soil, giving it a wider berth than is likely necessary. Sometimes though, I can not help but get up close and personal.

Normally, I do not delve deep into this cemetery. Most of the truly interesting sculptural pieces are near the front on the 8th street side. I'd been told it is the oldest part of the cemetery. I had also been told it was the "Catholic" cemetery. So this time, with the younger friend, we went deeper. Much to my surprise, I found a Jewish section. Traverse City has always had a very small Jewish population. At one point large enough for it's own temple but which has waned in recent decades. The Jewish synagogue is now part of the courthouse complex. There are still Jewish families in town, worshiping alongside other faiths, and tending the graves of family members.

Most of the stones in the Hebrew section were covered in any number of small pebbly stones such as the picture above. It is uniquely Jewish. A good explanation is here. Depending on the traditions one grew up with it is either to keep golems at bay, to bind the soul to the earth or to mark a connection between visitor and the visited.  My gut tells me that this is a marker to mean, "I thought of you". Flowers die, stones are more permanent. And it seems like one of those long term things that Jewish a good at when it comes to zakor , which means "remember". Leaving the stone is like leaving a bit of yourself to stay with the decedent.  Somehow, being there helped me feel a bit better about Shayne, even though he is buried in Chicago. It also made me miss him so much more as we come upon the anniversary of his passing, and leaving the marker of his birthday last month.

They Die in Real Life

I think I will just spend the rest of 2015 in tears. Jonathan Crombie died. He was 48 and so full of life and humor and goodness that is seems so unfair and tragical that his brain just burst on him. No one is ever going to be a better Gilbert Blythe.

Anne of Green Gables was one of those formative experiences of early adolescence that shape relationships, builds expectations and brings a bit of structure to the scope of ones imagination. Anne Shirley was of so sympathetic a nature that those of us who share her internal dimensions could not help but feel the kindredness of her spirit swirl out in a cosmic mist to envelop us, her friends on the other side of the pages. Each of the characters caught up in her energy were more that archetypal re presentations of personality despite being just that, nosey neighbor, long suffering adopted mother and the patient doting adopted father, the bestie and the teasing boy next door each had a vibrancy of their own which is rather uncommon in supporting characters, and the true testament on Montgomery's work. Even the children who were not touched in the same way that Anne was could relate to her struggles to define herself beyond the limits of her birth and the crazy mishaps that ensued.

While Anne's story is a romanticized telling of a coming of age it does not shy away from the hard topics. It is the perfect book to become a movie; the perfect movie over which to bond with a sister and those who are kindred in spirit. My sister and I will always have Green Gables. The girls in my Christian campus group will always have that weekend when we made the WonderWorks™ presentation a marathon of cookies, milk and anticipation as Anne gets her man which mirrored a good many of each of their experiences. Those of us not destined to pursue married life each had a variety of examples to chose from. For me, in a group of women who would become mothers because they desired so, I found definition and support for being single in the examples of the school teachers who chose to adventure in academia rather than child rearing. Much like the American tale of Laura Ingalls Wilder, Anne of Green Gables fed the imagination while offering up reality.

No one is ever going to forget the days of tears they shed when Matthew died. I always found Richard Farnsworth a sympathetic creature and gravitated toward him in whatever role he played. Matthew came to life with Farnsworth in the role in such a way as to make him as real and kindred to my dad as any of the aunts and uncles that I had. His death devastated for days. In fact, he made a guest appearance in some forgettable tripe on Hallmark a decade later and I cried all through the thing because it made me miss Matthew. When He died in 2000 I cried buckets then too.

Montgomery wasn't afraid of life in her stories. They are not escapist, though there is a fantastic amount of escapism that occurs. One never really gets to feel as if the pleasant days and dramatic incidents on the page will remain cheery vignettes. Death takes Matthew and Mrs. Lynde's husband. It threatens livestock, the Barry baby and creeps insidiously at the edges of Aunt Josephine's crinolines. But you expect death to come to the older characters as you do in life. You expect youth and enthusiasm to delay the inevitable. We expect that Anne will always moon over her daydreams and scorch something in the kitchen. We expect Gilbert to fail in his resistance to smile when he is being serious or scornful. With the illusion of video, we expect Gilbert to live forever despite having once come perilously close to death from a fever.

When we think Gilbert we think


And all of those times in which he tried to repent for this one mistake. It took years and years for him to win enough forgiveness to be able to ask Anne to marry him. Rescuing her from nearly drowning in her own imagination (quite literally) was not enough. Talk about long suffering!

Jonathan Crombie's Gilbert Blythe did more to shape my idea of relationships and what it is I should be looking for as someone who "suffers" with the burden of imagination and the creative spirit... if I were to ever really truly change my mind and commit myself to the rigors of marriage. There just are not many Gilbert's out there. I thought there might have been a few. But they are Gilbert on the outside. Without a deep and innate sense of caring for all things that Gilbert possesses anything reflective of the immediate sense one has of Gilbert Blythe is only the mirror. Gilbert has a practical way of caring for the less fortunate, the small creatures, and in dealing with disappointment that not many men possess today. Some call it a weakness to care. But when you watch Gilbert, and especially when you get through the first 5 books in the series, you see it is not weakness at all. There is a great strength in sheparding people. You have to be strong so that the weakness of others doesn't tear you down. I've met many a man in recent years who would just wipe the weak from the planet and be done with it.

I find myself always looking for the Gilberts in the world. As I get older I find that task more difficult. The archetype seems to be fading.

Characters die in real life. Somehow, with Jonathan's passing Gilbert is gone too. It was so hard to read the last books knowing that this would be an inevitability. And now... the illusion of immortality which I achieve by conveniently forgetting the end of the story in favor of the first 6 books has come to pass.

Yes. I am going to spend a good deal of this year in tears.

In Full Swing: Good Depression v. Bad Depression

You should all know that I am not a trained mental health professional. The subject matter in this post is about mental health, specifically depression. This is a post to work out some thoughts, ideas, maybe spark a conversation. In no way should anything that I have written be construed as a diagnosis or prescription. That said, by all means, consider this a launch point for a conversation with your mental health provider or counselor. I do not have an answer, but I have a lot of questions and observations.

I can tell that I am depressed. I do not find much of anything that I enjoy to be enjoyable right now. I made plans to go walking with a friend and I would like very much to blow it off. Painting is not a great outlet because I am so frustrated with how much I have forgotten about the process. The real tell-tale signs that depression in indeed in full swing is that I don't feel like cooking. I am hungry but I can not make myself eat.

ALDI hosts German week this week and I was all excited about Butter cheese and the pastries filled with spinach and cheese and fruits and nuts (Not all together. Two separate kinds of pastries!) Also excited for authentic wurst. But today, as well as  yesterday after my pen pal and I finished our conversation, depression has come for a visit. There is no telling how long it will last. And the more I fight it the more it holds on.

And the funny thing about it, I just had a therapy session in which we talked about the break up. The whole expectation v. reality bull drizzle that happens in every encounter. Of course, the family had company yesterday. Said company brings a passel of melancholy with it when it visits. And the melancholy hangs around. So since I am an empath that could be part of the problem. It is just odd though that I can walk out of the therapist office and know that things will be ok, feel that they will be ok and then have this huge weight around my neck. I feel like I am drowning.

All of my go to things are not working: meditation, netflix is dull now, I screwed up the breakfast that I did make and my coffee tastes like crap. But it is the same coffee beans that I had two days ago that were wonderful. Facebook is usually a good place to practice the funny and work out those good deeds of cheering others. That didn't help. Wil Wheaton's dog died, which seems like it shouldn't matter because I don't know will personally. But I know Riley pretty well because she has guest starred on his blog for 13 years. Julian Lennon's mom died. And while I don't know him or her personally, I do follow his posts and developed enough of an attachment that I cry when I hear the sadness in his words.

So maybe Facebook is the wrong place for a depressed empath. Maybe when the empath is depressed she shouldn't be trying to help others. This might be a clue that I've been spread too thin and need to regroup. I mean, every day is like that so why should being depressed mean I have to throw myself into the world?

I have new followers thanks to Google+. Hello all! And while each new follower is a feather in a pretty scarcely decorated cap, this week the newness hasn't even begun to make a dent in the armor that depression locks me into.

Soooooooo...... [Totally just had an epiphany!!!]

Bear with me. I have an idea.

What if some depression is not illness but insulation?
What if some depression, like the one that happens when we grieve, is supposed to be the armor that protects us from doing drastic and potentially idiotic things?

I very much want to do nothing. Feel nothing. Be nothing right now. I am antsy to be sure. My body wants some kind of activity while it wants to sleep. It is a weird paradox and I do not know how to make a decision because the impulses to do and to not do change so fast that by the time I am doing something I do not have the energy to do it. Paradoxically, I have sustained a desire to write long enough to get this far.... weird. Possibly a bit wibbly wobbly in the psychology department. But let's keep going....

In the past week I have dealt with a lot of emotional people at work, personalities clashing and dealing with the idea of saying goodbye to one job while saying hello to another. It is all, understandably, a bit overwhelming. And the teenager has been in the house for two days. She is an emotional bundle of unprocessed psycho-kinetic energy with no ability (as she lacks desire to learn) to master or understand any of the emotions that she has. She is an example of why Betazoids do not have pets. I have also had to deal with my own grief. So.....for the weeks worth of emotional expenditures, one could logically say the depression is an armor. Or a stockade. Let's go with a stockade.
This stockade is keeping me homebound. Being home means that I am not going to be constantly dieting on other people's emotional bullshit. It means that I do not have to deal with the triggers of grief at work, which oddly enough include Sir Knight. (zip it, Shayne.) And right now home has no one in it but me and the cat. She is hiding in her mom's room because there is nothing of interest happening outside. It is grey and rainy and could be contributing to the icky depressed scene. Since I am locked in this emotional stockade and am doing nothing (except writing you all) I am not overstimulating the mental and emotional circuits that have been over stimulated already.

Perhaps their is a good depression and a bad depression like their is for cholesterol. I might be having an episode of good depression. Like having the flu forces you to stay home and not load up on more germs you're already fighting.

If we look at the happenings of the last month, which I feel we must because the strength of the stockade seem excessive for the week's worth of over load, we can see some more triggers:

• Being dumped, the exchange of hostilities that may not have been deserved, the loss and all the triggers around me that refer back to the fresh loss.
• Trying to reconcile issues with an old friend that has resurfaced
• financial concerns
• being sick with the bronchial weirdness
• reconciling the conflict between a positive career advance and inexplicable sadness over the change
• physical pain from my hip and thigh bones
• separation from the boyfriend due to conflicts of school

And we look further back over the last quarter and half year:

• heavy work schedule
• conflicts with personalities at work
• physical pain from the heavy work load
• time usurped by the demands of the boyfriend's mental illness
• trying to fit someone into my life who might not belong here
• regaining the things that were set aside for the boyfriend
• disappointment with the delay of personal goals due to financial issues

In short: I have been emotionally, mentally and intellectually overstimulated for the better part of a 12 month period. 

I have to say, I think that the only way to keep me from completely draining all of my mental resources is to be depressed. The more I think on this the more I think that there must be two kinds of depression. This is not the Depression that Lies™ as Wil calls it. 

The Depression that Lies™ tells you that you are crap, that everything about you is wrong. It tells you that no one likes you, your friends are not your friends, that you are never good enough. It tells you that every paranoid thing you think is true. It hates all the things that you used to love. And by hate I mean that when you think of doing the things that you like to do, you become enraged. Anger is the first response to an impulse to do something you enjoyed about two days before Depression that Lies™ showed up at your door. This is the depression that brings out suicidal thoughts. This is the Depression that hates everything. 

The Depression that Lies™ is not the depression that I feel right now. This is the kind of depression that says, "slow down you are moving to fast for your ability". It says "You will burn out if you don't sit this out." This is the depression that says "You need to be alone to get rid of everyone else's garbage." This is the Depression that is a Time Out. 

Neither kind of Depression is lessened with distractions. Neither kind will be sped along with platitudes. Both kinds require help, but the kind of help differs. The time out requires time. Good chunks of alone time. And it requires that you not be afraid to be a lone. So, for those of us who are not good at being alone, we need help learning to be alone. And we might need help with keeping things clean for a few days. The need to do nothing is paralyzing. But that doesn't stop the animals from needing fed or walked. And it doesn't keep the garbage from stinking. We might need help being fed. In this day and age of take out and delivery this might not be much of an issue for some. But for others, friends will have to make sure there is something to eat. The real challenge in a time out though is being left alone with yourself for too long. 

And you never know how long that is going to be. The Depression that Lies™ needs medication and regular therapy. Without treatment it is a short slide into anxiety. And the Depression that Lies™ is probably not a stand alone disorder. It comes with its own bag of garbage like PTSD, bipolar, dis-associative and personality disorders and probably is a part of every spectrum disorder in addition to being able to stand on its own. That kind of Depression is rather insidious because we might not always know where the root of it is. And, as in the case of PTSD, knowing the root cause does not guarantee we can find a fix.Time out Depression could probably use a boost with a temporary med, like taking an antibiotic to prevent pneumonia, but the real fix is time. I think. 

I don't know. I am not a professional. I have been afflicted with both kinds of Depression. And I can honestly say that Time Out Depression, is rough and painful and you think you are going mad. But it is short term. It has a root cause, its progression can be traced and it is not a life threatening mental disorder. In fact, I think the Time Out Depression is a defense mechanism that our minds need to calm down the chaos that caused us to feel weird in the first place. But this kind of depression can slide into the Depression that Lies™ if we don't use the Time Out efficiently.

I have always been able to be alone. And I have always preferred to be alone. I joke with the housemate that I was born wanting to be left alone. I am easily overwhelmed with people. Animals not so much. But people fatigue me. I am an introvert. That is the way I was built. And that is perfectly okay. I get lost when I try to fit into the extrovert world, try to force my Sherry shaped personality into a box designed for someone else's shape and that brings on the Depression that Lies™. I can handle being in the Time Out Depression because I like being alone. 

Oh... one thing about the Time Out Depression is that when you do not distract yourself there is a still place in your brain that can take over. Literally, nothing conscious is happening. It looks like you are sleeping, loafing, being generally unproductive. And it drives extroverts absolutely MAD to see you "doing nothing". It isn't like meditation because you are not actively trying to achieve the state of mental stillness. But you become still. Your brain spins on its hamster wheel for so long that it does eventually get tired of spinning and just stops. The only thing that is actively happening in your brain is the automatic functions that keep your body alive. The thoughts just stop. The feelings just stop. 

It is like taxing your brakes driving in the mountains. At some point the brake pads are so hot you have to stop and let them cool down. This is what happens in time out depression. You brain is cooling down. It's a little like being in a hyperbaric chamber. There is no stimulus internally because your brain just stops. It conserves energy by preventing you from doing things (distractions). There is no stimulus externally because you are usually hiding in your bed. 

Because everything just stops we freak out. In the freak out you get uncomfortable with the silence, the stillness, yourself and you undo all the good being in time out was doing. So the process has to start all over again. And I think that is where we get into trouble. The perpetual cycle of being sick and pale with grief. I am totally ok with being depressed today because I can see that it is a time out. I have been over stimulated by change, grief and a few other emotions that I don't want to share right now. I do not mind being alone. I relish it in fact.

I am only having trouble because of the conflict between want to do and need to do and feeling like I have to do the things that need to be done when, in truth, the world will not fall apart if it isn't done.

And I think that I can safely cancel my walk this afternoon.  

Annndddd....

Single again.

Emotionally Unavailable, the pot called the kettle.
So I guess the only thing to do is write, cook, photograph the results and keep with my German culinary flash cards.

I'll get a bike and ride from Sol to Pluto, find a new fishing buddy and go horseback riding.

And I guess in the long run this means that I don't have to give up my German music and "grow up". I won't have to listen to him plan on editing my body to be more perfect for him even though he kept telling me that I was beautiful. I won't have to curtail my writing habits because he is overly sensitive.

But I will have to deal with the flood of memories when I find his picture among the dozens that I took over the last year. I can't erase every album and collage that I put together after our adventures. Those times are a part of me. It's just that they are a part of him too. To erase one is to erase the other. I can't keep erasing myself just because a relationship didn't work.

After all, that is how they end up failing. He doesn't like something so I keep an opinion to myself. He doesn't like something else and there goes an activity. The next thing that he doesn't like keeps me vigilant to avoid a combative argument. I learn to steer away from provocative topics. Then I quickly learn every topic provokes an outrageous and outlandish outburst. It always starts out as little things. But once the criticisms begin the little things get bigger and bigger.

I don't know if I am normal or stupid to hold out hope that a little time will fix these things. Time never does fix anything like this. We had a fundamental difference in our make ups. The beginning of the end was the day he asked me to quit writing about our adventures. I've been asked to keep quiet before. I've swallowed all of my words and then had to keep them down with mouthfuls of decadent desserts so that I wouldn't barf them all over the place and ruin a relationship I should have been working to get out of. I am a communicator. They all know this going in.

And this one seemed quite proud of my skills. What better way is there to get to know someone who is shy face to face than to read a blog in which the relative isolation of writing from home gives the illusion of anonymity? But when he realized I chronicled our adventures, even though it was to inspire other stay at home geeks to get out and do something daring for themselves, I had to stop. No one ever saw his face. We didn't do anything that we should not have done. We simply explored the world around us. I talked about the things that I learned, the confidence that I gained, and how I felt. And he asked me to stop. I've been there before. I should have known not to stop. I should have known that being silenced would be the first step to total erasure.

I stayed silent as long as I could.
I put myself aside as long as I could.
Then he had some issues and needed to take some time.

And that is how it ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.

And an accusation of emotional unavailability.
I am not emotionally unavailable. I am emotionally involved with several fictional characters & the actors that portray them.

Good Day for Photos

So what do you do on a Winter's day when you weren't expecting to be home?

It is too cold to walk. I had a spell last night; leg wouldn't work at all and I almost fell on the floor. Apparently when the temps drop I'm going to have some problems. So despite the beautiful view down by the lake, I will be staying in until Spring.
And thinking Spring.
And decorating Spring.
The dollar store had a great selection of Spring berry sprigs so I snagged enough to make a full bouquet for my room.

One of the things that I almost forgot about myself was that I wanted to be an interior designer when I was in high school. I'd gotten a Crayola kit for Christmas while we were building the new house. I suppose it was to supplement to the myriad magazines I was collecting to figure out how to do my own room. I was slowly teaching myself about interior design to address all the things that I hated about my own room in town. Once I'd made the obvious room choices given the materials in the kit, I began looking into expanding my understanding of the technical drawings that I had just done.

And they were technical drawings. It's just that the math was already done for you and all you had to do was connect the dots. The best part was the colors and the accessories, especially the foliage. I don't know why the foliage was so important. Other than the fact that it represented something else I was never allowed to experience for myself. We never really had anything alive in the house. A cat for a while. But almost never any plants until we moved into the new place and dad got himself some African Violets.

So today I am home thinking interior design. And looking at the bouquet with thoughts of Spring, my favorite colors bursting out of the vase... I really am thinking new beginnings.

I spent the day thinking about Shayne yesterday. Down by the beach crusted over with tumbled ice and snow, I wrote some while I waited. In the writing there were tears. Obviously there were tears. But I couldn't think beyond the day. Only thinking about the day and many days before, I can't imagine what the days ahead will look like. People are reading the posts that Shayne commented on. Yesterday someone found what I wrote about Julie six years ago. And Shayne's was the only comment on the post. Almost ironic isn't it?

How maudlin am I? I think just maudlin enough to get the evil eye from the cat.
But then again, any cat that gets interrupted during a nap is going to give the evil eye.

This is Teenie. She isn't too fond of the Winter either. The house cat belongs to my house mate. She is the herder for the family and once you live here you are family. She is also a good subject for photography. Unlike most cats she doesn't shy away from the camera. She doesn't mug, but she doesn't hide.

Normally Teenie is off by herself on her mama's bed. Lately though, she has taken to hanging out on the couch with whomever is on the couch. For a change there is a cat in the house that doesn't insist on sitting on a laptop. And she doesn't have her paws in the food. I do miss Mokey though. He was a bit of a handful and I always worried about his paws getting under the knife when I was chopping veggies. But Teenie is nice and calm and just kinda comfy.

But chilling with a comfy cat doesn't really keep the thoughts at bay. I try to keep busy. Other than the book that my pen pal sent me, I am having a hard time sitting still long enough to finish a book. Actually, I can't sit still long enough to start a book. There has been nothing that I wanted to draw let alone paint.

Taking better pictures seems to be the only thing that is holding my interest. It helps, of course, that I've committed myself to the food blog to make up for the lack of posts in the later part of the year. Then once the photos are done there is the post production edits. And yes... to get from raw material to finished dish it is rather much a production.

There is a plan brewing in the back of my head which I hope will showcase those talents. It seems that my own artwork is too personal a thing to consider selling. But maybe, maybe developing some talent for artistic photography will get me somewhere. I don't know. It's something to consider. Even if only getting better to post things to my own blog, it is time well spent and something that I do enjoy.

It mostly takes my mind off of things. Well, most things. I can't quite leave off that uneasy feeling around my brother. Which then leads me back to Shayne. It was one of the last things that we texted about. And there are some things that I still wish I could talk to Shayne about. Nothing complicated, mind you. Just... well...

niggling.

There are things niggling at the back of my neck that make me feel a little uncomfortable.

Maybe I shall have to stick to photography and edits. That takes up a lot more brain power than the writing. The writing is a doorway to all those things that seem to be waiting for a calm moment to come spilling out.

We Met on J-date

We met on J-date.

It seems like forever ago. After my dad died and I realized that if I didn't do something about my single status, my life could quickly have regressed into an Italian Opera... the one where the brother sells his sister to a Duke to keep the family home afloat. I'd seen Richard Armitage's Robin Hood series in which Guy "sold" Isabella to some wealthy butt munch (as the kids like to call them). With a lot of trepidation and even more panic I hit the internet. I needed to meet people and I needed to not look in the same places I had been looking.

At the time I was studying Kabbalah (not the Madonna Hollywood mumbo jumbo.... the real stuff that got people killed in the middle ages) and about 2 years into the study, after my dad died, I found out I was Jewish. Inspired by both desperation and adventure I decided to check out the Jewish dating sites. I found myself on J-date. And I found that looking for a Jewish guy was going to entail a lot of driving or learning to fly on a plane because they were all a minimum of 6 hours away. You will recall those early adventures as I have written about them here on the blog. If not, I will throw links up to the old stories at the end of this post. You will also recall that I started the blog right about then. Since I was making the move to find my tribe on the internet, through the burgeoning social media scene and the blog-o-sphere where people seemed to be able to make money doing what they loved, I thought that I would troll the dating sites to see if I could find some writing buddies.

And there he was. Hanging out in Chicago and rebuilding life after a divorce and health issues, the profile said he was a writer. In fact he was a blogger, writing about surviving a heart transplant. His profile picture showed a kind and genial face, nothing threatening or Neanderthal looking. I sent him a message but without my own profile pic (no technology at the time) he didn't want to start something he couldn't be sure would amount to anything. Admittedly, I was a little offended. But with a few months more of experience under my belt all offense melted away. He did respond to my counter offer as I had said that I wrote him because he was a writer on the internet and I didn't think dating would be possible because I wasn't willing to drive to Chicago or demand anyone drive to Northern Michigan. He agreed to being writing buds. And a friendship was born.

For a while, as I was at the local Michigan works office trying to figure out how to rebuild my plans to start my own stamp business, we were in daily communication if not email then by phone. I only had a few short months to get it together if it was going to happen. It didn't. And he was there for that whole frustrating and depressing scenario. He was there when I found my job at the first hotel. And after a few weeks of talking he agreed to come up to see me. In the mean time, with his encouragement I started the blog. It took a few months to get into a writing pattern. And I am still learning what I can and can not write.

When we met, it became clear to him that we were not going to date. I told him that straight away because I knew I wasn't his type. But we have an undeniable empathy toward one another. We are kindred and at times so at odds with our birth families that we only had each other. And so we adopted each other as siblings. After a while I introduced him to you guys as ACG: A Chicago Guy. And he started commenting here to claim his right to be identified. You've seen his comments, Shayne. And Shayne has had a lot more to say that what he says on the blog.

For a while it was our only means to communicate because there was no phone. But there is always free wi-fi somewhere. It just isn't always convenient. I guess I didn't really realize how important Shayne was until I hit that spot with Sir Knight and the Other One. We kept each other company when there was a phone handy. When I was living in the hotel during the winters we talked every other day. He helped me to feel normal even in the middle of chaotic abnormalities. And he always encouraged me to keep hope that things would straighten out and I would be on my own again. But it was all the episodes with Sir Knight that Shayne proved to be a steadfast and diligent friend.

Shayne has had his own encounters with the weird and inexplicable things that happen in the realm of spirit. Being Jewish by faith and upbringing it was pretty easy to talk Kabbalah stuff even though he thought that I was crazy for studying it. I gott a clearer picture of the things that have bothered me since I was a kid about the way that the West studies the Old Testament. He had his own platform of experience, it wasn't hard to talk to him about the past life & out of body stuff. Even if he couldn't accept the commonly accepted explanations he didn't condemn them. We just had to accept there were things that could not be explained with his or my understanding. The singular experience of having Sir Knight in my life and all the crazy complications past lives have in the present were a mystery to us both. But Shayne at least was able to help me navigate it all, sometimes with a lot of eye-rolling and face palming. And where the going wasn't only tough but downright painful he was sympathetic. And when it was time to cut Sir Knight lose, he was the voice of empathic reason constantly reminding me of why it was healthy to let the relationship go. Shayne was on the other end of the phone listening to the quiet sobs when I was done with the wracking sobs. If there was one thing he understood it was heartbreak. We watched a couple of Turner Classics together over the phone to take our minds off of the romance troubles.

Tonight, more so than any other night in the last two years, Shayne is on my mind. In the last two years he has undergone some mighty physical pain and recovery. Surgeries and infections alternating between short stints of physical therapy and dialysis have been his life since the initial surgery to deal with some knee and back pain. Nothing in the last two years has lead me down an introspective path in regards to our relationship because I have always been assured that he would come out of the situation. Tonight I am no so assured.

I spent the day getting family stuff done with my new adopted family. After we had lunch things got weird quickly. I'd been my usual surly self when we got into the car. I felt social but not. It isn't every day that we get to do things, the four of us, so I just went with it. But a few miles down the road I was hit with the overwhelming desire to leave my body. Tee thought I looked car sick. I was just tired. And I didn't want to be in my body. We got to the restaurant and I said "I've got a really bad feeling."  I have new experience being stalked (tell ya that one later). And I had that feeling crawl over me that raises hackles and sends the Spidey senses tingling. I couldn't shake it. I started to feel sick half way through lunch. It's that kind of sick you have from being past full. But I wasn't. And I felt a pall crawling across my skin. We continued with the rest of the day. As we headed to the first errand on the list I told the girls that I felt weird again. "Something is going on.... I think we are going to run into someone I don't want to run into." Several more errands and the skeptic in our group was starting to get worried about me. We got home and settled in. Couldn't enjoy the movie for anything.

When Tee went to bed she said she felt like she should lock the door. We do not normally because we all feel relatively safe. But tonight something is about.... So I went to bed. By bed I mean to my room. And I still couldn't shake the bad feeling. So I did what I've been doing since I haven't been able to have a lot of contact with Shayne. I got on Facebook with the idea that I would hit Pintrest for some Spring inspiration. And there are people wishing Shayne well.

Some of the comments sounded like he was already gone. And I knew in an instant that the feeling I had was Shayne. When he had his transplant there were complications and he spent some time outside of his body. He told me more details than what he puts in his blog. So I know that this time it is a serious turn. He is out of his body right now, walking about visiting with people, trying to get attention. And I feel like absolute shit.

As I said, we both have had some health issues. And with the changes in my life just in this year alone it hasn't been easy to talk to Shayne. He got to hear about Sir Knight's last antics. Yeah, no sorry. Not writing about that here. I don't want to lend any spiritual energy to that door since I finally have it closed. He got the identity of the person I ranted about stalking me home last weekend. And he knows that I am dating, have turned the corner on financial stability even though I am a long way from being stable. And he knows that there have been some deep issues. He just hasn't had any details. While he has been in the middle of this long lasting health crisis he has suffered with depression. I don't want my bad days to make his worse. And I don't want my good fortunes to make him feel badly.

We agreed a while back that because we are both so precariously perched in this life that we wouldn't weigh each other down with the depressing stuff. Each health setback makes it harder and harder to talk because we made that promise. And it make it harder and harder, almost impossible to encourage him to hold on to this existence. Folks, it really is pretty shitty. He hasn't been in his own bed for more than a week this last year. He is cycling through hospitals, short term care, long term care and was facing assisted living just 5 days ago. His body just gives out. Each time they bring him back it gives out. And it is so hard to stay positive for him. He hangs on for his kids. He hangs on for the guilt. And I am a selfish person who measures what I have done against what I have received and if I were in his place I would say "I deserve some peace." And we talked seriously about it. When my body clearly has said "I am done with this world, grab your shit we are going home." I don't want anyone to keep me here. How can I tell him to keep hanging on when I know I wouldn't?

So gradually we've stopped sending emails. links to goofy cartoons, and the like. He isn't really in much of a position anyway. But that doesn't mean anything, does it. He is my friend and I've let him down. Of course he wouldn't say that. And if I were talking to anyone else I wouldn't say that. He knows that I think of him often as I know he thinks of me. And no matter how long in between conversations we are connected. I am just being a lazy Aquarius and depending on that connection... I'm also an overwhelmed Aquarius. But he's been here tonight. He's been hanging around all day. That is what he does when he's close to leaving or there is major work being done on his body. And who could blame him. I certainly wouldn't want my soul to stick around for that.

I've been thinking how selfish we all would be to want Shayne to stick around when his body is fighting so hard to go home. He is in pain. The only thing that is healthy for another decade of life on Earth is the heart that was  transplanted. Everything else is falling apart. He will never be strong enough to leave assisted living again. They told him that much last week. So he won't be able to be the dad he wants to be, or that his kids want him to be. He won't be able to write anymore because his brain function has been curtailed. A month ago when he sent me a really screwed up text he said that the doctors said it would go away when the meds wore off from a procedure. It hasn't stopped happening. He'd lost interest in everything that brought him relief from the health issues a while ago. Sports was the only thing he found interesting. He's talked about being too tired to hang on for almost a year now.

And maybe that is part of why we don't talk. I can't tell him to let go because he feels such a strong need to be there for his kids. And I can't tell him to stay because I can hear the pain and I know there is no relief for him this side of life. Maybe we've just been getting each other used to him not being here. I get that way when a relationship needs to end. I guess that is how I figured out I was over Sir Knight. Did you ever think that was possible? Shayne didn't. All I know is that if it were me in his body with that situation I would tell everyone to piss off and let me move onto the next phase of the soul's journey. I don't deal well with that kind of pain. God only knows how Shayne has managed for this long.

As I have been writing this the foreboding feeling has gone away. But not the feeling that I am not alone in my room. I feel someone here with me. And I am pretty sure it is Shayne. If he lets go I will be glad for him. But I am going to be upset for myself. He has a sweet, slightly neurotic soul and never really felt terribly understood. And I suspect that without Shayne here I will never get another comment on my blog. He seems to be the only one who reads it.

I will update this post as necessary. And I will add those links later... writing through tears has given me quite the headache.

UPDATE: 4 minutes after this post was published Monday night Shayne finally shook it all loose and went on to the next bit.