Mandi Bean's Blog, page 14
June 16, 2021
On trying to make a return.
Well, hello there, readers. It’s been some time.
Please forgive me if this blog post is rambling. I didn’t sleep well last night. It was a restless, fitful sleep punctuated by cracks of lightning and booming thunder. And I’d be a foolish liar if I didn’t admit that my anxiety and depression, exacerbated by the consequences of Maddie’s tragic accident, were culprits as well.
I’m trying really hard to return to life in New Jersey. I’m having more difficulty doing that than I imagined. Maddie’s still always on my mind. I try not to talk about her too much because it’s depressing and there are so many unknowns, so many fears, and I don’t want to become a Debbie Downer. I don’t want to be sad all the time.
But Maddie had an appointment with her neurologist recently, and those appointments are stark reminders of the severity and seriousness of her injury. I try to keep the updates hopeful on social media, but the truth is that Maddie could not get any better than she is now. Maddie could even die. There’s so much about the brain and brain injuries that is unknown and it is those unknowns that prevent those closest to Maddie from returning to full normalcy.
But my goal is for just a little bit of normalcy. To that extent, my friends and colleagues have been remarkably amazing. They’ve helped me become social again and are patient listeners. I’ve started taking care of myself again; I’m washing my face and wearing makeup. I’m not eating pounds of food and crying all the time.
And I’m making plans for the future. I accepted my accommodation offer for the University of Limerick and plan on moving in around August 29th. I try to imagine myself enjoying the sight of the Shannon River for the first time, having tea in my common room with new roommates, laughing with new friends, studying with new literature, and being happy. But I can’t help feeling selfish and guilty because Maddie is still recovering. I know her recovery will take years and will be a difficult, uphill battle and that there is only so much I can do, but balancing these conflicting emotions is a tall order.
I’m trying. I’m trying to make it back. And so is Maddie.
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April 21, 2021
On the opposite of permanence.
I was trying to come up with a title for this blog post that would hint at its content. I wanted to talk about the opposite of permanence, but it’s not an exact opposite. If I was to write that life is temporary, I imagine the response would be something like, “No shit, Sherlock.” And I’m not talking about mortality even though I’d be a bald-faced liar if I said Maddie’s accident didn’t bring it to the forefront of my mind. Life’s temporary because we all die, sure, but life’s temporary while you’re living it and not only because everything can change in literally a moment’s notice but because it does change.
My days used to be managed by school bells; now they’re managed by other alarms–the pulse oximeter’s beeping; the feeding pump beeping; the ventilator beeping. All these beeps are overwhelming and make it nearly impossible to relax.
I’m having trouble expressing myself. That could be for any number of reasons, but I think it mostly stems from the aftermath of Maddie’s traumatic and tragic accident. I’m selling my house; it’s under contract and we’re scheduled to close May 14th. I moved back in with my parents for about two weeks before traveling to stay with my sister in Florida to help care for Maddie, but now we’re in Harvey, Louisiana–which is just outside of New Orleans–to get Maddie care from a hyperbaric oxygen treatment specialist. I’ve been living out of duffle bags and garbage bags and laundry hampers since March. When the legal forms for the selling of my home needed to be filled out and signed, I had no idea what to put for an address, and that’s the first time that’s ever been an issue for me.
They posted my job online. I knew they would but it really felt weird seeing my replacement begin in real time.
Some days are harder than others, but that’s true with anything, I guess. Lately, the days have been very difficult. Missy’s feeling overwhelmed and I don’t know what to say or what to do. I believe Maddie will get better and I know I get a lump in my throat when I consider the possibility that she won’t. No one is giving up on her, but thinking about what raising a special needs child entails is overwhelming. Missy talked about what she misses, like playing with Maddie and just hanging out with her, and how unfair it was when she imagines all the things she will miss out on if Maddie doesn’t recover.
But no one knows the future. And if Maddie’s shown us anything this far, it’s exactly that. The doctors said she’d never breathe on her own–and she is. Today, when we were changing out her G Tube, she withdrew from pain. She feels things and I KNOW she’s still here.
It’s hard. It’s so hard. Just when I think I have a handle on the situation, I’m listening to my sister sob and wail in the bathroom. Nothing is permanent. Everything is temporary. That’s not a perspective I’ve ever explored before. I’ve always been more of a romantic, insisting that everything happens for a reason and that love is the only, only thing that matters. And I’m struggling to hold onto those ideas. This is the most difficult test of my faith I’ve ever faced.
I have to keep myself in a positive headspace. And to do that, I need to remind myself of a crucial fact: Maddie is getting better. Her tone and reflexes have improved from just two dives. My sister’s looking more and more into stem cells and she’s liking what the research has to say.
We just have to keep breathing and we just have to keep taking it one day at a time.
As for the writing, I haven’t done much outside of this blog post. I try to journal but it seems like everytime I sit down to write, an alarm goes off or we’re crying too hard. Before I came down to Louisiana, I did complete the first round of edits on my manuscript.
But, as Ingrid Michaelson sang, all that I know is I’m breathing.
The post On the opposite of permanence. appeared first on mandi bean: writer.
March 24, 2021
On changes beyond control.
Life really does change in a second. I say that all time, but the full weight of it didn’t strike me until Maddie’s accident. That’s a universal truth, I suppose, that you really never know how you’ll react or feel until it happens to you. If you had told me a tragic accident would have upended my life as I knew it, I would have scoffed and never truly considered all the aspects of my life that would be altered. I’ve been cranky and overwhelmed all week, but now that plans are coming to fruition, I feel more at ease.
My leave from work was approved. I have to get observed tomorrow, but that’s fine. I can’t expect the world to stop just because mine has. Tomorrow’s my last day for a while, and I will miss my students and my colleagues, especially those that are more like friends. I’ll be back for the last day of the school year, which is actually awesome timing the more that I think about it. I could have made my return date September 1st, but that would have negated Ireland as a possibility for next year and I really am trying to keep that option open. Life can change from one second to the next, as I said at the start of this post.
After my last day of work before my leave, my realtor scheduled a photography session so my listing could go live over the weekend or the beginning of the next week. I’m going to spend some time with friends, too.
I’m leaving for Florida Saturday morning. I’m driving down and I’m going to try and drive straight through. Then it’s day by day.
Because life can change in a second.
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March 17, 2021
On two weeks later.
I left Cape Coral, Florida in the morning on Friday, March 12th. Dad and I drove straight through and made it back to New Jersey after 5 AM on Saturday. I went back to work on Monday. But nothing feels right, and nothing feels real.
My colleagues were so loving and supportive, but every time someone asked me how I was doing or if I was okay, I’d be brought to tears. I can’t stop thinking about Maddie and I’m not sleeping well. I have no motivation to do anything work-related, and I know it’s my “regular” depression exacerbated by everything going on with my perfect, precious niece. But it’s like this constant fog. And my mind goes from being angry to being sad to being hopeful, and the whole cycle starts again.
I’m considering taking a leave from work. To be perfectly honest, I’m no good to anyone in the building right now. But I must say that my students have been completely wonderful. They did make Tuesday seem easier. They still make me laugh and I’m in awe of their ability to analyze what we’re currently studying. I’m hoping it will get easier as time goes on. I think it will.
I emailed my editor and she was really sweet and patient and kind. She told me to take my time. I think revising my manuscript would be a good distraction, but I’m having a really difficult time focusing. Even trying to finish this blog post is proving to be a challenge.
Maddie is going to have a tracheostomy. She may also need surgery for a feeding tube and both procedures could happen sooner than I assumed they would.
Full disclosure: I’m just trying to get back to Florida. Even my plans for Ireland are somewhat up in the air, but I would like to sell my house as soon as possible.
This post is sporadic, and not related to my writing career, but it’s an update nonetheless. Thanks for reading and being patient with me.
The post On two weeks later. appeared first on mandi bean: writer.
April 22, 2020
On not telling anybody anything.
Hey readers! What do you think of the updated site? I’ve included a homepage and designed myself a logo. I think it looks cleaner and more professional.
Episode Three: “Two can be undone by three / But it only takes one shot.”
In J.D. Salinger’s classic novel Catcher in the Rye, the main character Holden Caulfield offers a final piece of advice: “Don’t tell anybody anything.” There’s more to it than that, but it’s that first bit that applies to what I learned from this whole situation. I don’t tell anybody anything anymore (these vignettes aside, obviously) because when you let people in, they can tell you certain things that affect your judgment. And once you let people in, everything changes – for better or for worse. For the purposes of this episode, I need to give everyone fake names or else it gets too confusing:
Me = Hermione (obviously)The Worst Thing Who Ever Happened to Me = RonThe Woman Who Came Between Us = LavenderThe Guy Who Came Between Us = Cormac
Cormac was another guy who was interested in me while I was falling helplessly and hopelessly in love with the worst thing who ever happened to me, now referred to as Ron. Cormac was friends with Ron; he occasionally worked in the building and they seemed to hang out a lot, especially during the spring. Cormac asked Ron about me. Ron later told me that he didn’t know what to say at first. We were texting about it, and I saw him type, then stop…then type, then stop. Clearly, he drafted some responses, but decided against those for various and indiscernible reasons, but then he told me that Cormac needed to pass the “Big Brother Test.” Big Brother? Like I was his little sister? That killed me. Had I been relegated to the friend zone so easily, so quickly?
But then I thought about it. People don’t drunkenly try to kiss their little sisters. Or unbutton their shirts. Or text until 2 am about anything and everything. And then Ron sent: “Even though I’m way cooler.” Cooler than who? Than Cormac? What did he want from me? So I thought I’d use Cormac to make Ron jealous, to force him to admit he had feelings for me. I texted Cormac and hung out with them a couple of times. Then, emboldened by the alcohol flooding his system, Cormac asked me on a date over the phone. He was with Ron and some others at the time, so I felt pressured to say yes. I couldn’t turn him down when he was surrounded by older, male friends. And what was the harm in one date? But right after I accepted, the phone was passed to Ron, who demanded to know what I was doing. Like an idiot, I played it like I was too cool to care. I should have told him. I should have told him everything. But I was scared of rejection. I was scared of my own feelings. He called me drunk later that night and we talked until nearly three in the morning and still, I didn’t say anything.
Cormac and Ron were hanging out and they were both texting me. Cormac knew I was answering messages from Ron while ignoring his and still, nobody said anything real to anyone.
Simultaneously, Ron was fielding interest from another woman; we’ll call her Lavender. I can’t say much other than she has quite the dramatic and tragic tale of woe herself. But he told me he wasn’t interested in her. He even blew her off to come hang out with me. He talked to me about her. He promised me that if he was ever interested in anyone that I’d be the first to know. But Lavender’s father was close to Ron, and helped sort of fling the two of them together. She was older and more experienced, so I guess she was assertive and not as much of a chickenshit as I am. She let him know she was interested while I tried to act indifferent. So when he told me he was looking for his future wife, I didn’t say anything. If Ron wasn’t going to be honest, than neither was I. I thought I was following his lead.
At the end of it, Cormac and me and Ron and Lavender all ended up on a double date. I sat next to Cormac, who was obnoxiously drunk by the time arrived, and across from Ron. He wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t talk to me. I did my best to be my usual, happy-go-lucky, entertaining self. Back in the nearly empty parking lot, I sat and screamed in my car. I sobbed the whole way home. This wasn’t where I wanted to be. Why didn’t I say anything? Ron gave me an opportunity that night, when he texted me to ask if I got home safe. I should have unloaded, told him what a shit I thought he was because he swore they weren’t dating and there I was on their first date. I should have told him I made a mistake. I should have told him so many goddamn things. But it was more important, apparently, for me to be cool. I told him I got home safe and that was it. Using Cormac to try and make Ron jealous was stupid and narcissistic and in the end, I guess I got exactly what I deserved.
The second part of Holden Caulfield’s final statement from the novel Catcher in the Rye says, “If you do, you start missing everybody.” And that’s true. Because I miss him. But I miss him as he was, and we can’t go back.
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April 15, 2020
On “A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.”
So it’s like the fifth week of being quarantined and it’s only getting more difficult. I’m blessed to have a home and steady income, and I’m not sick and my family is happy and healthy, so it’s a shitty thing to complain about being bored and lonely; aren’t we all? To pass the time, I’ve been reading a lot and I’ve also started re-watching CBS’s 1994 miniseries “Stephen King’s The Stand.” I watched the second episode yesterday morning and had the sudden urge to tell everyone I know to watch it because it totally explains what we’re going through right now (not totally…that’s me being dramatic). This is NOT a new idea; King has apologized for us all feeling like we’re living in one of his novels. Still, I feel like Randy in the movie “Scream,” when he’s freaking out in the middle of Blockbuster and imploring everyone to watch horror movies so they could be better able to survive the slasher attacking Woodsboro. Only I’m alone, in my living room, urging everyone to read The Stand.
Another way to pass the time is writing and thinking. The latter, unfortunately leads to overthinking, which then leads to crying and mourning the past. But I think it’s mostly good. One day, I’ll be numb.
Episode Two: “A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.”
One of the best books I’ve ever read is Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk. And one of the best scenes from the novel is when the narrator comes upon Tyler Durden on the beach. Tyler has built a statue from driftwood. The narrator can’t tell what it is at first. He explains, “I asked if Tyler was an artist. Tyler shrugged…What Tyler had created was the shadow of a giant hand. . . he said how at exactly four-thirty the hand was perfect. The giant shadow hand was perfect for one minute, and for one perfect minute Tyler sat in the palm of a perfection he’d created himself. One minute was enough, Tyler said, a person had to work hard for it, but a minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.”
The beauty and tragedy of my moment of perfection is that it’s come and gone.
To be fair, we had two perfect moments. One was during an all-day drinking event on a sunny day in March. That day was the most attracted to him I’ve ever been. The place was crowded and being that we had been drinking for hours, I was mostly stumbling and having trouble keeping up. He told me he didn’t want to lose me. He was leading me through the crowd at the one bar, holding hands as he stretched out his arms behind him. Then he brought them around so that I hugged him from behind and it took all the self-control my drunk ass could muster not to bury my face in his hoodie and breathe deep.
We kept drinking. Day turned to night. We ended up at another bar. The thumping bass boomed incessantly, sounding more like war drums than anything else. Everything was vibrating, everything was shaking almost imperceptibly, and I used that as an excuse to hang onto his muscular forearm and steady myself. I put my ear close to his beautiful, smooth mouth to try and decipher the slurred nonsense that tumbled out. He sloppily smashed his lips against my cheek. It was over before I was even sure it had happened and both of us stood there looking at one another stupidly. Everything was bumping and booming and loud and hot and close and he drunkenly smiled at me. At that moment, I knew that if I were to push close against him and grab him and hold him and decimate his mouth with mine, he would yield and he would succumb. That is an unfamiliar and dangerous amount of power and I resisted. It would mean something cheap and tawdry. I wasn’t as drunk as he was, and I was worried that if it went as far as it possibly could, we’d have different feelings in the cold light of the next morning. It would have meant so much more to me than it would have to him. It wouldn’t be what I really wanted.
Instead, I touched his face and escaped to the ladies’ room. Later, when it was time to go pass out, I walked him home.
I’m an idiot, though. That wasn’t enough of a green light for me to tell him how wonderful I thought he was, how all I wanted was to be with him. Naturally, our next moment of perfection also passed me by. It was a few weeks later, and I was out with colleagues, staying overnight at a beautiful hotel for some weekend-long conference. The first night was pretty laid back, so we all went to bar just cross the street. I texted him, practically begging him to come down.
And he did.
The bar was closing and we needed to go somewhere else, and I invited him to my shared hotel room on the condition that he bring playing cards. He smiled but rolled his eyes, saying there was no way he’d find playing cards and that he was tired. Again, I begged him. He shook his head and said goodnight.
Back at the hotel room, I was commiserating with my roommates about the missed opportunity when there were three, loud knocks on the door. They were serious sounding knocks, reminiscent of the way a cop bangs against door. One roommate hurried to the bathroom. The other tried to hide in the mess of pillows and coverings on the bed. That left me to open the door. I tried to calm myself, rehearsing what to say to the authority figure who’d probably been summoned because we were being too loud. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and opened the door.
No one was there.
I stepped out and looked to the right. There was still no one there.
When I looked to the right, he was leaning against the wall, twirling a deck of playing cards in his hand, smiling slightly. All the blood rushed to my face and I laughed out loud; there was nowhere else for my joy to escape to. It was like something out of a movie. It was the personification of every romantic fantasy I’d ever had. He came in and we played Kings for a couple of hours until he had to go, quiet suddenly.
And then it was all over.
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April 8, 2020
On “poetry”-perfect beginnings.
Episode One: Poetry-Perfect Beginning
I know I’ve used this line before (and probably for a very similar reason; I really am a one-trick pony), but T.S. Eliot famously wrote that April is the cruelest month. I can’t be sure because I haven’t read his poem in forever, but I’m fairly certain that Eliot is referring to the false promise of Spring because not everything comes back from the dead the way nature does.
So what better time to pick at fresh scabs of lost love?
To be fair, I really should have known better. The first time I ever mentioned him in my journal was significant for three reasons:
Only people I really and truly care about get mentioned in my journal. And if a name appears more than once? Consider me obsessed.It was right after a personal tragedy that fell just short of cataclysmic … for him (and it could be a novel in its own right). So he was all wounded and vulnerable and brooding and NEEDED to be saved … NOT. Personally, I think that’s the worst rationalization women use for engaging in and/or tolerating selfish, manipulative behavior. And I am SO fucking guilty of it, I’ll never get these hands clean.I fucking told myself it was a bad idea. I KNEW I’d get hurt. On January 12, 2014, I wrote:
I know I’m a stupid fool. I know I’m building him up in my mind into something impossible to make him unattainable so I stay safe. He’s completely out of my league on SO many levels. I’m an idiot [...] I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s fun to have a crush, but this is going to hurt. I have a bad feeling ….
I vividly remember that moment I knew I was a goner. It was one of those nights that come out of nowhere, where pure, unadulterated happiness blindsides you so that by the time you realize you’ve been hit, it’s passed you by and all you are is bruised and sore.
Given the nature of my career, most of my colleagues are older women. And given the time in my life, all my colleagues were my friends. I’d gone to college away from home and all my childhood friends had gotten the hell out of dodge, so my social circle was a product of circumstance and I was only partially looking forward to spending a Friday night in the basement of an older, female coworker’s house. Lots of coworkers were going though, and what the hell else was I going to do? Armed with low expectations and a six-pack of some lite beer, I walked down the basement stairs, already planning my exit in my head.
The basement was fully finished. It was bright and cozy, everything seemingly washed in a warm, welcoming shade of yellow. It was carpeted. There was a bar, some exercise equipment, and a pool table. There were some couches, arranged around a low coffee table. And familiar, friendly faces of coworkers were scattered about the basement – sitting youthfully on the carpet and lounging on the couches, playing pool, perched on the exercise equipment, and leaning against the bar.
I decided to make my way to the bar, the most logical place to properly unload my six-pack.
And there he was behind the bar, wearing blue.
I had to do a double-take. I thought it was a girls only type of thing but there he was and he was so handsome. Granted I could have thought that because gentlemen were in short supply, but I still find him incredibly handsome, even after all he did to me (which is definitely a problem). I’d only hung out with him once or twice before this, and we hadn’t spent much time talking with each other or anything.
But that night, with him in blue behind the bar, was different. We were witty, we were flirty, and we were the warm center of the universe that everyone gathered around. Well, at least that’s what it felt like.
On the bar was a bowl of those awful, chalky hearts with corny messages that become popular around Valentine’s Day. Given that it was early January, either the candy hearts were nearly a year old and brought out as a last-minute snack, or the hostess had purchased them early. But that seemed unlikely. So as they were inedible, I spent the night filling the hood of his blue jacket with them whenever he was talking to someone else. He would sigh in frustration and tell me to stop, but he loved it.
Later, someone spilled something on the carpet behind the bar. I was on my hands and knees, trying to clean it up to be remembered as a good guest who would keep getting invited places. To someone in front of the bar, they saw him standing and smiling, and then they saw my legs poking out the side. I reveled in the innuendo.
He had somewhat of a reputation which coworkers with good intentions kept reminding me of. I didn’t care; he was attractive and he was fun to hang out with and it was all so harmless. He got my number from someone and the texting started. We were almost in constant contact with each other. It was addictive and wonderful. We’d stay at bars until the lights came on, still smiling though we were blinking and nearly blinded by the sudden brightness. He’d blow my hair to get my attention. He’d encourage me to unbutton a few more buttons on my blouse. He’d offer to dance with me when no one else would, but he didn’t really want to, so he’d talk me out of it by the time we got the dance floor, distracting me with shots. He’d let me wear his scarf when it was cold. He rescued me from the women’s restroom when I had too much to drink and was puking my brains out. He held my hair back. Unfazed, he threw me over his shoulder and got me to a car like some knight in shining armor. I thought that’d be the end of it, especially since I vomited on his expensive shirt and shoes, but he met me out the next night. He paid for drinks and an entire dinner with like six of us. He was charming and magnificent and I had never been happier.
But we worked together. And we hung out with coworkers. Suddenly, everyone had an opinion about us spending so much time together. People were actually calling me to warn me to stay away. I was told he was a user and abuser, that once he got what he wanted from me, that would be it. I was told the name of every woman he’d been with, real or rumored. I was told he was just being friendly with me to get a more beautiful coworker – and truth be told, that one fucked me up more than anything else. I let that idea sink its fangs into my psyche and suck it dry of self-confidence. It made me suspicious of him and I misinterpreted so many conversations. I’m ashamed, looking back.
He read my favorite novel and could talk to me about it for hours. The connection with him was unlike anything I’d ever had before. He told me the truth about himself (as much as a man can) and invited me to do the same. I didn’t, because I was scared and stupid and listened to some bad advice from jealous women.
We had one perfect night. And I’ll happily relive it next week. Xoxo 
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April 1, 2020
On discovering The Worst Thing Who Ever Happened To Me.
My last blog post was all about finding my passion for writing again and making writing more of a priority. Consider this post me diving head first into being a writer.
It’s been said that all good writers write what they know. And during this period quarantine during this coronavirus pandemic, I’ve been bingewatching “Sex and the City” to pass the time. Right now, there’s something really appealing about the simplicity and style of it all. I’ve slowed down the bingeing though, and very recently, I’ve decided to try to only watch one episode a day, to make it last through this indefinite period of social distancing. The episode I watched the other day had my favorite scene of the series (so far, I should add; I have between ten and fifteen episodes left).
Carrie Bradshaw, elegant and graceful heroine, goes to San Francisco as part of her book tour. Her book, it should be mentioned, is a collection of articles from her newspaper column, and those articles are just anecdotes and observations from her dating life. A lot of the anecdotes and observations revolve around Mr. Big, charming and complex leading man who hurt her terribly time and time again, but Carrie just can’t help herself when it comes to Big.
Do you see why I felt compelled to watch?
Anyway, the San Francisco stop on her book tour is not AT ALL what Carrie hoped for and at probably her lowest moment (pimple on her cheek and no one interested in what she had to say through her writing), Big shows up. He was at her reading the whole time and stood to ask a question: if the Mr. Big character was based on a real person. How fucking suave; it reminds me of particular moment with a particular man from my past (who irritatingly reappears in my present).
Later, they’re in Carrie’s hotel room and all she wants is sex, but all Big wants is to talk about what she wrote. He actually read her book cover to cover and realized how badly he’d hurt her.
So that’s my new fantasy: the man who ruined me for all other men to come reads my book and becomes determined to talk it out with me. And maybe it ends in sex, but whatever. I don’t think that’s the point – or the only point.
Does this mean I’m ready to write about him? Intentionally, I mean, because everything I write is really about him anyway. But even if I’m ready, does that mean I should? Would everybody know if I tried writing about him on this blog? And by “everybody,” I mean the seven fucking people who read it.
Shit – I think I’m actually getting excited about this. That has to be a good sign, right?
So stay tuned for my first installment next week: episode one of The Worst Thing Who Ever Happened to Me.
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March 26, 2020
On weathering uncertain times.
We’ve been quarantined for about two weeks. Just under 14 days. I think I handled the first week with aplomb, with grace, and with a resilient kind of optimism. I cut my hair, I ordered a wireless printer and other tools for my “home office;” To quote a very good friend, I was t h r i v i n g.
This week? Not so much.
I went to confession and it was bizarre. They had a portion in the far corner of the parking lot sectioned off by little orange cones. Father sat in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs that always seem to be painted a shade that hasn’t been popular since the 1970s. I pulled up, rolled down my window, and shouted my sins across the distance, loud enough so he could hear me over the wind. Even Father said he was unsure about how this could possibly continue. And he told me mass was cancelled indefinitely, but he would live stream mass.
Driving home, I passed the bank and the line of cars for the drive-thru wrapped around the building.
The park by me has yellow police tape around the entrances so no one can get in.
All of that was disconcerting, but I think this overwhelming sense of being disconnected and kind of lost started when I watched “Blinded by the Light,” which is NO WAY a comment on the film. I loved it! I cried from my heart being so full that all the excess love and hope and faith and goodness had to spill out through my eyes. I know I’m late to the party, but if you haven’t seen it yet, it’s all about this Pakistani boy growing up in Lutton, England (which is about 200 miles from Manchester, just for perspective). He becomes OBSESSED with the Boss, which in turns helps him follow his dream of becoming a writer.
The kind could have been me. Hell, the kid was me. It made me wonder, where did that passion, that desire go? Is it too lost to be recovered, rediscovered? The kid sat up in his room and wrote poem after poem. He wanted to become an English major. He wanted to work as a writer and even got the job at the local paper.
That was ALL me! What happened?! I mean, I’d write e v e r y s i n g l e d a y. I’d constantly be scribbling something. My notebooks were filled with scenes I just had to get onto paper and covered in inspiring lyrics. I used to be focused, driven. WHAT HAPPENED???!!!?!
Then again, the REAL question is: can I get it back?
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I tried to stay on this inspired kick, tried to desperately to start an irrepressible fire burning in my belly. I watched “Western Stars,” the Bruce Springsteen concert film. I loved it. He’s just so fucking smart and passionate. My favorite quote:
Are we moving forward? Mostly, we’re just moving.
Damn, Bruce. Just @ me.
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I did work on Moody Blue; I recently discovered there’s a whole chapter that needs to be re-written, so at least that’s something to focus on. I have really been busy trying to stay on top of remote learning as the longer we’re out of the building means the more instruction my students need. I will say that being more creative about explaining key concepts and skills is definitely helping me become more passionate about reading and writing.
But I haven’t seen anyone in real life in over a week (my parents being the exception). On sunny days, I walk the boardwalk and offer strangers a friendly nod, but that’s it. I feel so isolated, and I know that’s the point and it’s important to stop the spread of the coronavirus, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Not to be a total downer – I ordered some blue light glasses from Amazon, and I L O V E them. I’ve been spending SO MUCH time staring at screens, as we all have I’m sure, that my eyes were really starting to bug me. These glasses, while stylish, have also been a godsend.
I’m sharing an article about relieving eyestrain, just so we can take care of ourselves.
March 18, 2020
On adjusting to a new normal.
I absolutely love where I live. I just got back from walking the full length of the boardwalk, and it was obvious where maintenance had been done, where old boards had been ripped up and replaced by new boards. On the new boards, people had written encouraging messages for those walking the boards. There were messages like, “CONFIDENCE” and “MOVE IT!” and “Happy Day!” and “Have a BEER!” There were reminders that it takes “90 Days” to change a lifestyle and that “You can do it!” It made me smile and made me so glad I ventured outside today.
Not too many are venturing outside lately. Some of us can’t because it’s a serious risk to our health, and some of us are following recommendations and mandates about how to stop the spread of the Coronavirus. I’m not scared, and I’m not really worried about falling victim, but I have been creeped out by how fast my life has been knocked from its normal course. A week ago, there was an emergency faculty meeting at work. I leaned over to a colleague and whispered, “There’s no way we’re shutting down.” Within 48 hours, that’s exactly what we were preparing for.
On Sunday, I went to church with my parents like I always do. Usually, the church is packed from wall to wall and if you don’t arrive at least ten minutes before the scheduled start time, there’s no guarantee you’ll find a seat. I was running late and was worried I’d have to sit away from Mom, but when I arrived, the parking lot was empty. There were only about 100 people in the church, and during his homily, Father recommended we spread out even more. He assured us mass and confession would not be cancelled, but all other church functions basically were. Try as I might, I don’t ever remember a time when churches were closed or masses were cancelled. That really made me think of the post-apocalyptic novels I used to devour (shout out to my homeboy Stephen King) and for just a moment or two, I was scared.
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But in times like these, I think it’s really, really important to maintain a healthy amount of perspective. I’m not classified as “high risk,” so the odds of me contracting the Coronavirus are really in my favor. Remote teaching is a new and exciting challenge; I’m blessed to be employed as I am. And if I’m to be indoors for the majority of the upcoming days, that just means I have plenty of time to read and write.
So stay safe, readers. Let’s all be especially kind to each other as we adjust to a new normal. With that in mind, I thought I’d take this opportunity to share a great article (linked here) I read about how to stave off cabin fever while self-isolating – or “social distancing” – during this pandemic. To sum up, here are some ways to beat cabin fever, thanks to Eerie Insurance (the full article is linked here).
Break out a good book.May I recommend Her Beautiful Monster, which you can order here. Also, follow me on Goodreads! Currently, I’m TOTALLY ENJOYING Broken Harbor by Tana French. I also check out Belletrist on Instagram for great recommendations. I even signed up for their newsletter. Start a new hobby.I’m revising my novel and plotting a new one, but I’m also planning a garden, using The Garden Primer by Barbara Damrosch. As soon as the weather is more consistently conducive, I’m going to get out there and get my hands and knees dirty.Do a puzzle.I have an Elvis jigsaw puzzle I’ve had for years (there’s dust all over the plastic wrapping). I think my dad got it for me for Christmas, so it’s about time to dust it off and put it together. I have another Elvis puzzle that I put together and my dad actually framed for me. It’s hanging in my basement… pretty cool.Engage in some pre-spring cleaning.I could probably just say Spring cleaning because Spring officially arrives on Friday. This is actually at the top of my list. I want to rent out my house while I plan to study abroad in Ireland (a trip that’s been delayed a year). I want to paint and update appliances and purge whatever clutter is keeping my home from feeling cozy and bright.Have a movie and popcorn night.I’m doing this tonight A N D tomorrow night. Tonight, I’m sticking with a St. Patrick’s Day theme. I’ll be eating fish and chips and watching either “The Boondock Saints,” “Angela’s Ashes,” or “The Departed” (which seems like a s t r e t c h, but DAMN do I love Leonardo DiCaprio). Tomorrow will likely be a beloved romantic comedy and food terrible for my figure.Write a letter to touch base with an old friend or family member.I cannot stress enough how important this tip is. Loneliness can have serious, damaging effects on the psyche and the body. I’ve been texting with friends regularly and plan on catching up on emails tonight. I gave up social media for Lent (what timing, eh?), but that doesn’t mean I can’t reach out and keep those vital connections alive and well.Go for a walk.It’s fitting I’d end with this tip since I started this post talking about how I went for a walk. It was nearly 60 degrees by me today, so I made sure to walk along the shore. It helps stave off depression and cabin fever,
Stay healthy, be smart, and I’ll catch ya on the other side, friends.
