I Can't Fight This Feeling Any Longer…..

I'm giving away my age by telling you I grew up smack-dab in the middle of the 80's, graduating from high school at 17 years old in 1985. I lived with my depression-era grandparents in a nice neighborhood in a small, comfortable town in central Iowa.

Although I wasn't an angel by any stretch of the imagination, believe it or not, I was painfully shy and secretly afraid of getting into any real trouble. My small social circle included cheerleaders, "preppies," the French Club kids, and lots of teens in Izod polos. You probably couldn't have been any more "whitebread" than I was, at least at that time. 

To say I wasn't a big fan of the heavy metal "Hairbands" mania that was sweeping away all the young people during that decade is an understatement, even if it's not that surprising.

But heavy-metal bands sporting their wild, long hair (hence the "hairbands") were at the pinnacle of their popularity during that time. Most had brutal, rough, and shocking names like Slaughter, Twisted Sister, Def Leppard, Guns'n'Roses, Poison, Motley Crue, Quiet Riot (and so on). Their dirty, trashy clothing and loud, harsh, screaming style of music simply did not appeal to me. 

I tended to lean more towards Top 40 music like Cyndi Lauper, Adam Ant, Culture Club, Flock of Seagulls, and of course, the soundtrack from "Footloose." Being raised by my grandparents also gave me a greater appreciation for older and different types of music, even though I was probably the only kid my age who actually enjoyed Johnny Cash, Elvis, Glenn Miller, Frank Sinatra, and Benny Goodman. 

Dear hubby on the other hand, who graduated just five years before me in 1980 (in southern Indiana), was enjoying his youthful heyday during that decade. He spent the better part of the 80's and into the 90's doing his best to become a connoisseur of all things "hairbands" and thoroughly enjoyed the experiences of a young man coming of age in that era. And after attending bartending school (yes, he graduated!), he happily spent a great deal of his youth mostly occupied with hell raisin' and girl-chasin', and quite possibly even a little chemical experimentation. 

Who in that wild and crazy decade didn't--besides me? 

 Naturally, the hairbands and their brutal songs, with their shrieking guitars, grinding bass riffs, and pounding drum solos, became a constant soundtrack to the most beloved memories of his wild and free youth. The problem, for me anyway, is that he never got over it. To this day he is still a HUGE fan of all things "hairbands." It's always his first choice when I ask "what shall I play on the Bose today?" 

But since I adore my dear hubby, as a gift about ten years ago, I bought him a CD called "Monster Ballads." It included some of the most popular, if softer, heavy-metal love songs from that era. I dreaded the thought of him actually playing it, but I figured maybe I could endure it once in a while in between some of my Top 40 tracks. Unfortunately, he played that disc over and over, from start to end, for the better part of our last decade together. Until some days I thought my ears would bleed. 

But what's funny is, somewhere along the way I fell in love with those "monster ballads" as well. 

I'm still not a fan of the entire repertoire or the even the genre so much, but after listening to the heavy-metal love songs of our era (over and over again, thanks to DH), I've had a shift in my perspective. After hours spent soaking in the words to the songs and their possible meanings, I've found some beautiful and wonderfully poignant memories. And on the days when I'm missing my friends and family and familiar surroundings that I left behind in Iowa, or I just need a little reminder of my own happily misspent youth, I can often find a bit of solace and comfort in their lyrics. 

Turns out, nearly 30 years after my time (& theirs), I've become a "Hairbands" groupie after all. I still don't want to like them. But I do. At least their ballads. And sometimes on days like today, I give in and listen. 

So today I will pull up my iTunes account and play me some heavy-metal monster ballads. Because as REO Speedwagon, another great (if not truly heavy-metal) 80's band would say, "Baby, I can't fight this feeling any more." 

I'm thinking of you, dear hubby. And all my 80's pals. Rock on, my friends! Rock on!


REO Speedwagon's "I Can't Fight This Feeling" (circa 1985). 

I can't fight this feeling any longer.
And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow.
What started out as friendship,
Has grown stronger.
I only wish I had the strength to let it show.

I tell myself that I can't hold out forever.
I said there is no reason for my fear.
Cause I feel so secure when we're together.
You give my life direction,
You make everything so clear.

And even as I wander,
I'm keeping you in sight.
You're a candle in the window,
On a cold, dark winter's night.
And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might.

And I can't fight this feeling anymore.
I've forgotten what I started fighting for.
It's time to bring this ship into the shore,
And throw away the oars, forever.

Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore.
I've forgotten what I started fighting for.
And if I have to crawl upon the floor,
Come crushing through your door,
Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymore.

Can My Village Help Me Slay My BIGGEST Fear?

The first thing I did last Friday was set out to slay my fear-monsters. I was determined to do so after vowing in my post on Thursday to hunt my fears down and finish them off once and for all.  I even went to the office and got right to work…..  Well, ok, not really the “office” but the beach bar where I do my best work. But later that day, lucky me--I got the stomach flu that’s been going around.

Instead of the dragon breathing fire, it was me, and what was coming out of my mouth for three days wasn’t fire, but something that closely resembled a scene from the Exorcist. And it was my other end that was breathing fire! After finally regaining upright mobility and a tiny appetite by Monday, I didn’t have much energy left for anything else. Finally, well-rested, head cleared, body fully cleansed, and back to as “normal” as I can be, I'm back in the saddle.

But the whole time I was sick, all I could think about was a plan that was forming to slay one of my really big fears. Because today I’m announcing something BIG! Something I'm terrified to share. I have a project I’ve been thinking about doing for a while, something I saw someone else have great success with, and I’ve decided to do it also. It's something REALLY BIG, something very personal to me, and then, I’m going do something that is even more…BIG. And completely insane.

First things first: The first Big Thing that I’m announcing is ME. Yes, you read that right, I’m the Big Thing. But when I say big, I don’t mean I’m BIG in a good way.

I mean I am BIG--in the “goddamn I'm a BIG, FAT, FUCKING COW” kind of way. And even though I lost almost 20 pounds (then gained back ten) since moving to Belize, I’m still at LEAST 40-50 pounds over what I feel is my acceptable weight range. Yep. It’s true. I’m a big, fat, fucking cow. A short, round, fat, fucking cow.

I haven’t always been a Big Girl. But while recovering from my brain surgery, my battle with my weight finally spiraled completely out of control. Though my brain quickly returned to its previous condition for the most part, the rest of my body did not and I have not been able to shed the 40-odd pounds that crept on after my recovery. It has become a BIG issue for me, both mentally and physically. Literally. Which leads me to the second, truly INSANE part of my announcement.

I’m going to share my journey to finding a healthier weight and lifestyle with you. All of it. I’m starting a new project called “New Day, New Life, New Dawn.” I promise it will take you no more than a few minutes at most to read each post. It’s going to be different from this blog, more visual, less verbal, and most importantly, BRUTALLY honest.  You can find it my first post here:  http://newdaynewlifenewdawn.blogspot.com/2014/03/in-search-of-new-dawn-brutal-honest.html

And it is there that I’m hoping to overcome my biggest fear, my fear that the world would realize how BIG I've really become. And then I'm hoping to find the courage to bare it all. And I do mean bare it ALL. Which is the truly insane part.

Well, ok ALMOST all--I won’t be exposing my naughty bits. But yes, I will be blunt and honest about my weight and what I choose to eat and how I choose to exercise. There will be pictures of my BIG, FAT, UGLY body. Maybe not the first day. Or the second. But as I learn to face my fears and overcome my struggle to return to a normal, healthy weight, you will see “before” and “after” pictures of me. In swimsuits. Because I live in the Caribbean and that’s just how I want to roll —in a swimsuit that I actually fit into and look good in.

But it’s not about being able to rock a sexy swimsuit, although that’d be cool too. It’s about me finding a way to be healthy and happy with my body again. What that process may involve, well, I’m not really sure yet but I do know I'll need help. I’m certainly not a diet or fitness expert, even though I’ve tried quite a few things over the years. And I’m hoping you, my wonderful friends, family, and online community will support me on my journey, and help me publicly slay my fear of revealing just how BIG I've really become, and conquer the dragon of BIGNESS that has resided in my body for far too much time.

There’s a saying that’s repeated by everyone who lives here in Placencia Village at some point or another, an old African proverb that states, “It Takes a Village.” I was reminded of how appropriate the old cliché still is when I sat down to write today, because that’s what I’m gonna need. A whole village of support. I hope you’ll check out my new page from time to time and help support me in my quest.

In the meantime, my dragon-slaying knife and I are off to battle the fear-monsters. Please check out my new project and let me know how insane I really am.

http://newdaynewlifenewdawn.blogspot.com/2014/03/in-search-of-new-dawn-brutal-honest.html

Have Trouble Letting Go? Not Me….Or Do I?

Recently, I have been seeing a lot of articles, blogs, and Facebook posts related to the topic of “letting go.” One of my writer friends just wrote a blog about letting go of a pair of snow skis that had become symbolic to her. Another wrote about breaking free of the dissatisfaction in his life and letting go of others’ expectations of him. And yet another friend is ending a long relationship and leaving her comfortable life behind. In addition, several of my newer friends have recently changed their plans and returned to the States, or moved to other exotic countries, and let go of their life in Belize. And every article or inspirational story I've been sent in the last week has been about letting go.

It seems everywhere I turn, someone is letting go of something—their past, their plans, their marriage, their job, their living situation, their dreams, their fears, their erroneous beliefs, their loved ones, and even objects that represent something else. Every day, somewhere, someone I know is letting go of something they don’t need, or something that isn’t serving them well, and starting anew.

Now I should tell you that I’m one of those complete weirdos who believes in signs and subtle messages sent from “The Universe.” I believe these messages can come through many sources such as physical objects, animals or nature, or even through what some call “ghosts” or apparitions. Sometimes, a sign can even be a number sequence, or just a strong intuition. But I believe that when The Universe is trying to get your attention, it will continue to boldly slap you in the face until you take notice of the message.

So, ok, I finally got it. The Universe was desperately trying to tell me that I, too, needed to let go of something. But I was racking my brain trying to figure out WHAT, because it seems to me I’ve already let go of so many people and so many things, and even so many hopes and dreams, in the last few decades. Many times, often at someone else’s choosing, I’ve let go of everything I’d known up until that point. I’ve changed schools, changed careers, changed husbands, changed towns, and even changed countries. And each time I’ve left more and more behind. Truthfully, I have restarted my life over from scratch so many times that it hurts just to think about it.

It would seem that I'm a pro at letting go! So what, then, did The Universe think I still need to let go of? Surely it couldn’t be possessions or material things. It was only a little less than two years ago that I let go of all of my beloved friends, family, and most of the familiar things in my life in order to move a few thousand miles away to Belize in search of a simpler and healthier life. And now The Universe is saying I have to let go AGAIN?? Let go of what, for God’s sake?!!

I thought about it from many different angles and finally got frustrated. To distract myself, I started skimming through some online articles I’d saved for a rainy day. Anything to get my mind off what the The Universe wanted me to give up this time. Spontaneously, I clicked on a link, and the headline of an article caught my eye, “The Real Reason Why You Can’t Write.” Intrigued, I read the first few paragraphs, and then--WHAM. The Universe smacked me again, right upside the head. But this time I finally got it.  

The sentence in bold print simply read, “Your limiting beliefs about you and your writing are what’s holding you back.” The article went on to outline how a writer's fears can stop you dead in your tracks, and how negativity and limiting beliefs hold writers back. Then it explained how to overcome them, and most importantly, how to let them go. For me, it was a lightbulb moment.

After reading the article, I can now see that I’ve continued to be sporadic about blogging, only writing and posting in fits and starts, because I still have some massive fears and lingering negative beliefs about my talent as a writer.  Even though I’ve had a few really nice responses on my blog, and received wonderful encouragement from some readers, I’m still holding back what I really want to write. My fear of how I might be perceived by my readers still weighs heavily on my shoulders each time I sit down to write.

Yes, I admit it. I STILL have that big, dark monster inside my head that shouts, “You’re not good enough! Nobody cares what you have to say! In the writing world, you are nothing! As a writer, you are just an insignificant, rambling fool in a world of geniuses!”

Now that all these signs of from The Universe have come together, it seems it's really quite simple. I need to let go of my fears. All of them. And I need to let go of them NOW.

Apparently, my silly but very real fears are the only thing still holding me back, and I need to stop talking about them and REALLY let go of them. It has become obvious that the Universe is once again telling me to release my fears about my skills as a writer, and let go of my worry about how I might be perceived. The Universe is instructing me to slay the beast of self-doubt, and write what I want to write, or just write for the love of writing.

And so I will do just that. Starting tomorrow, my fear-monster-cutting knife and I are going on a fear-monster-slaying quest, and we're going to track down that ugly bastard. It's going to be quite an adventure but I'm going to do it, even though I'm terrified. And even if I'm only doing it because The Universe says I must.




If you'd like to read the article I'm talking about, here’s the link: http://menwithpens.ca/why-you-cant-write/

If you'd like to read my writer friend's blog: http://denisejackson.blogspot.com/2014/03/letting-go-of-stuff.html

Don't Let Your "Nevers" Keep You From Your "Nexts"

After retiring to the Caribbean at a young age, and sunning myself on the beach for over a year with little to occupy my mind other than which cocktail to choose next, I created this blog in an attempt to "find my NEXT self" through the process of writing. 

When not reading and writing, which are my first creative choices, I have been doing quite a bit of work "behind the scenes," taking a variety of online training courses and reading every website ever created on how to not only find, but DO what you love. 

I've listened to what seems like 5000 videos and podcasts, and attended heaps of online webinars, all geared toward teaching me how to create a personal website, market a blog, create a product, generate traffic and, possibly eventually, generate some revenue as well. I've also signed up on a couple freelance worksites and done some testing through them to see if that could give me some direction on where I want to go next in my life. But I've learned I don't really want to "work" for someone else. I don't want to exchange my hours for dollars, especially not for someone else's benefit. 

What I want to do is create. 

I want to create something of value, and in exchange for that value, I want to use any revenue I might generate to travel even MORE of the world, and experience life even more fully. And then share those experiences with others. I want to not only see and experience what's here and now, but also what's next.

But I was still kinda stuck. I still hadn't found one thing that really made me feel excited. I'd been searching for months and months, and coming up empty handed. I began to wonder if I was ever going to find my "next thing." 

And then, I attended an online class on how to make videos with just your iPhone, an iPad, and a little music. It was eye-opening. I had never made a video or any kind of movie clip, but I had all the equipment. I love sharing both pictures and videos, and the idea was that you can use either or both to interact with your "tribe." (Did y'all know YOU are my tribe? Well you are, and I'm glad!) 

I had never done anything like this, but it was EASY. And the end result was AWESOME! I was finally EXCITED! I could do this! And so I did.   

Below, you will find my very first assignment from the class. My task was to include it all--video, background music, other sound, and pictures. It's a little over three minutes long, not what I would typically put on a website or blog post. But I created the video with the idea that it might convince our two best friends to come back and visit us again here in Placencia. (I hope it works!)

You will see many pictures we took during their last visit, and one of their favorite spots, the Barefoot Beach Bar, which also doubles as my office two or three afternoons a week. It was a windy day and the water was rough, and I should note that I intentionally included the wind noise so it would feel almost as if the viewer were right here with me. 

I had NEVER done anything like this before, but I think I'm going to make a NEXT video soon! And it might just be my NEXT big thing- I am that excited about it! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this it. Click the link below to view the video and please let me know what you think (and if you'd like to see more videos of Placencia)!

A Windy Day at the Office in Placencia, Belize

The Hummingbird Test

A few months ago, we adopted a young street dog, a mixed-breed of unknown origin, a mutt that here in Belize is called a “potlicka.” She was under a year old with a sleek reddish coat, white sox on her feet, a white tip on her tail, and desperately in need of good nutrition. She needed a name that would fit with the rest of our pack so we called her “Foxxi.” Gradually, our mini-doxies, Kitti and Bunni, accepted Foxxi as their new “sister” and she learned to trust us, even though she was at times mischievous and full of puppy antics. But she was also smart,  quickly settling into our routine, and responding well to her basic obedience training.

However, I knew something was not quite right this morning when I spied Foxxi slinking around the north side of our wrap around deck. Glancing at the house sideways, she quickly slipped past the multiple glass doors that frame our octagon-shaped rental house. Her head was lowered and her back hunched down. It was obvious to me, after working with dogs most of my adult life, that she was up to no good. It appeared she had something hidden in her jowls that she knew she shouldn’t. Of course, I sprinted outside to investigate immediately.

Sensing me directly behind her, Foxxi stopped and lowered her snout to the floor. There, ever so gently, she deposited her prize on the deck boards. Fearful of a possible reprimand, she backed away a few steps.

With golden-tipped wings on a tiny green body, the hummingbird lay perfectly still. Its wet feathers glittered in the sunlight. Covered in bubbly, still-warm saliva and barely breathing, the tiny creature remained on her back where she had been deposited. Her beautiful, miniature body was just big enough to keep her from falling through the small space between the weathered boards.

Though her body did not move, her jet black eyes quickly found mine. Our connection was intense, electric, and immediate. I felt my heart constrict as her obvious terror pierced my normally emotionless heart. Her silent but desperate wish for survival shot straight through to the deepest chambers of my soul. She was helpless, paralyzed by shock and fear, and facing certain annihilation, yet still pleading for her life with her inky black eyes. Not a sound was made, yet I had never felt anything so strongly. I knew I had to try to help her even though the chance of success was slim.

I worried that even a single, spoken word could send my tiny friend fluttering into a panic, which would result in swift and certain death in the jaws of Foxxi, who remained watching intently from a few feet away. Communicating only with my eyes, my mind, and my heart, I silently instructed my feathered friend that she must remain perfectly still for me to be able to help her.

Turning my attention to Foxxi, I prayed that the hand signals we had been practicing would be cemented in her brain. Giving a twist of my curled first for the command to sit, two fingers swiped downwards for a command to lie down, and a palm towards her face for the stay, Foxxi obediently complied from several yards away. Giving the stay signal once more, as firmly and confidently as I could, I calmly stepped away and hoped that Foxxi would remain in the down-stay we had practiced for months and rewarded with pieces of cheese and peanut butter treats.

Only a few feet away and just inside the door, I was able to grab a wash rag, which I quickly returned with and used to gently dislodge my new friend from between the boards. Foxxi remained watching, hoping with every bit of her quivering body to be released from her stay. My new friend’s soulful eyes remained fixed on mine, trusting me as I cradled her on the wash rag in the palm of my hand.  Giving one last, silent but forceful hand signal for Foxxi to remain in her stay, I rushed downstairs with the hummingbird.

Placing the makeshift hospital bed on a lounge chair cushion, I was amazed to find she appeared unbroken and unharmed in any way. Her gaze never left mine as she allowed me to gently dry the slimy wetness of her wings and back. Within what seemed like hours but was certainly not, she gradually began to relax and breathe normally. I was thankful I had also grabbed the camera, and took a few quick pictures. Within a few minutes, she rolled from her back to a sitting position, and then she stood, walked a few inches on her wobbly little legs, and flexed her wings a bit. Another minute later and she fluttered onto the arm of the chair where she rested for a bit.

After a few more moments of regaining her composure, it was obvious she was anxious to return to her natural habitat.  At long last, she spread her wings wide and looked back at me for what I knew was one last time. As I returned her soulful stare, I strongly felt the words I could not hear, and her final communication to me. “I am a symbol of Belize. As you have saved me from certain death, I shall do the same for you. Belize will harm you no more.” And then she took flight.

A single, solitary tear ran down my cheek. I had been given a test. And I had passed.

When I returned upstairs a few minutes later, Foxxi was waiting, still in her down-stay in the exact same spot I left her.  She had passed the most important test I had given her as well. We celebrated with pieces of cheese and homemade peanut butter treats.

I am very proud of both of us.

Is Belize Putting Arsenic In My Coffee?

I often think of Belize as a beautiful, exotic woman, one who I admired long before I got to know her well. Belize’s history is mysterious, her culture is fascinating and amazing, and her terrain is filled with a wide array of beauty and environmental riches. And she graciously welcomed us into her community and has allowed dear hubby and I to live a lifestyle we could only have hoped for prior to our move here.

She has been especially good to dear hubby, allowing the business he started here to grow by leaps and bounds, along with his favorable reputation in the village as a “plumbing angel.” She also helped him lose nearly 50 pounds easily, while I’ve continued to struggle losing 15 or 20, or even remain healthy at all.

But sometimes I get a nagging suspicion that Belize has been so kind and generous to dear hubby, and not so much to me, because she would like to force me out of the way and have him all to herself. Matter of fact, I think maybe she’s been quietly trying to get rid of me by sneaking arsenic in my coffee for the last 18 months.

 Okay, I know it’s weird to think of your newly adopted country as a beautiful but sinfully devious woman who’s slowly trying to kill you, or at least send you running back home, just to “steal” your dear hubby like a mistress might do to a wife. It’s awkward and ridiculous to even put into words, but nevertheless, it’s the way I’ve started to feel.

It was only a little more than a month after our move to Placencia that I got the first faint taste of her arsenic. I was awakened about 5 a.m. by a fast, sharp pain in my chest, and a distinct burning sensation. My tongue and face went numb, and my body ached. Oh DEAR GOD-I’d been stung by a scorpion. I was safe in bed, sleeping with dear hubby and two tiny, helpless dogs--but Belize’s pet scorpion chose me as its victim. I was only sick for a day or so, but the sting will haunt my nights forever. And I’m sure Belize was hiding under the bed, silently laughing with that scorpion for days.

Only a month or two later, Belize slipped her poison to me in a different manner through an unseen cohort. What originally appeared as a minor bug bite turned into a huge, oozing, decaying crater. Turns out it was a spider-bite of the poisonous variety, most likely of the brown-recluse family. Luckily there was a salve that stopped the necrotizing and saved my wrist after weeks of searing pain, but the scars are deep and ugly and I keep them covered in public to this day. I imagine Belize snickering in the shadows each day as I put on the decorative, finely woven bracelet I had crafted by a local artisan to cover the evidence of her wicked prank.

A few months after that, Belize injected her poison directly into my bloodstream via tiny insects, which attacked me so viciously I developed a serious infection and a major allergy to their bites. My face, arms, and legs began to look like I had leprosy. Turns out it was their poison and infection trying to fight it’s way out of my body. Of course, her delivery was so sly and sneaky, it took us months and several doctor visits to figure out what was going on. I often thought I tasted the poison in the back of my mouth during those months as I shifted lazily from bed to couch and bed again, I just didn’t recognize the flavor. I can only imagine Belize’s hidden delight as she watched those invisible insects gnaw at my tender flesh while I slept.

Her latest attempt to force me to run was delivered most recently via another malicious insect. This winged predator must be named after the person you’ll want to see when it bites you: a “Doctor” fly. Generous soul that she is, Belize sent three of them to me the first time. One bite is enough to send some people into allergic overload, as it did for me, but a fourth bite a few days later almost sent me to the hospital. After days in bed unable to move because every joint in my body was screaming with pain, and a round of the strongest antibiotics I’ve taken to date, the giant lumps of infection started to subside. My joints were released from their agony but in my drug-induced haze, I’m pretty sure I saw Belize hiding in the corner of my bedroom, chuckling at her ingenuity.

I didn’t taste the toxin in the beginning because it was disguised by her beautiful presentation and the sweetness of her brew. Over time, however, the tainted nature of her beverage has become more apparent. And sometimes when the house is dark and the night is silent, I fear that if I ever return to my motherland, it may only be to die a painful, poisoned death. Lady Liberty will only be able to hold me stiffly in her stony arms as I draw my last anguished breath, crying out, “Why did Belize try to kill me? I was the one who loved her first! He only loved her because of the simple and HEALTHY lifestyle we thought she would provide for ME!  But I loved her MOST!!!”

My suspicion of Belize’s intentions for me is growing. She is still beautiful, and I think I still love her, but I have caught glimpses of the ugliness underneath her veil. I once thought Belize and I were allies, finding common ground in our love for dear hubby and our wish for a simple, healthy life, but now I’m beginning to think she’s the worst kind of friend, a traitor and a backstabber. Don’t get me wrong, I still love Belize, and I know there is goodness in her soul somewhere. But right now, I still have the coppery taste of her poison in the back of my throat.

So although I’ll still be friendly, wave to her in the neighborhood, and even talk to her on the street, I think I’m going to stop inviting Belize over for coffee, at least for a while. I’ve found I don’t like the taste of arsenic.

Dealing With My "It"

I know some of you might not understand this, and that's okay. But I feel the need to share something that's happened recently.

I've lost my words. They are gone, slipped away like a thief in the night, deviously slinking off under cover of darkness. It's a writer’s worst fear.

Yes, I have no words.

For the last three weeks, the tools of my trade have chosen to remain locked up deep inside my head. This happens occasionally, but their absence frustrates me immensely. I’m angry with them for hiding from me, and I hope that by sharing this, it will help them return. Because no matter how much effort I expend, no matter how desperately I try to liberate them, I cannot convince them it is safe to come out. They choose to remain behind the cold, steel bars of my mind. Even though I have swung the gates to their prison wide open and the padlocks hang limply by their hasps, my frightened words refuse take advantage of their independence.

It makes me angry as hell that my words choose safety and confinement over freedom and adventure. They have been my own personal chain-gang for most of my life, even though I only recently started sharing them openly. But I treated them well. I guarded them lovingly and only used them wisely, like a good steward, even as I gently bound them to the core of my being. If I could just visit them in their jail cells and show them the ugliness of their apathy, I could convince them to break free of their self-imposed confinement. But today, as with yesterday and the day before, I am denied. No visitor's pass for me. They have rejected my presence and retreated to the farthest corners of my mind, burrowing deeper in the chambers of my subconscious.

It’s not the first time my words have hidden from me. I also know it won’t be the last. It’s a difficulty I have had to wrestle with since the day my brain aneurysm exploded. Luckily, this inability to liberate my words is usually short-lived. And it is the only deficit I was left with after the neurosurgeons repaired the raging tornado, a burst blood vessel, in my brain.

Only a few months after repairing the destruction, the surgical team excitedly released me from their care. They rejoiced, declaring me fully recovered and "functionally normal." They instructed me to live my life exactly as I did before, or exactly as I wished. To live as if “it” never happened. But for me and my words, “it” did happen, we have the scars to remind us of it, and we have never been exactly the same. And now, together, my words and I seem to suffer from some type of occasional, imaginary, if not neurological, post-traumatic stress disorder, and we retreat to safety when overwhelmed by the outside world.

When "it" happened, when that hateful aneurysm exploded, I fought hard for control of the epicenter where my words reside, the center of my brain. In the end, I won the battle. But "it" --that vile anarchist -- left behind a few hidden land mines filled with the poison of disorder and disarray. Occasionally I step on one and it causes my thought processes to stumble. Then fall. And that's when my vocabulary and my communication skills get scared and run for cover. I cannot describe how much I HATE that "it" still has negative effects on the clarity of my thinking. And I DESPISE that “it” still has the power to periodically imprison my words and disrupt my ability to fully express myself.

Luckily, each time I have lost my words, I have found my way back to them fairly quickly. As my words begin to peek out from hiding, I soothe them and gently caress their scars. Soon, they begin to recover, just as we did four years ago, bound together in the unimaginable pain. But even though my words will eventually reemerge, they will avoid venturing too far from their safe haven. These days, they clump together near the entrance, timid and awkward, eyeing each other nervously. They desperately yearn to escape and scamper about, joyously and unrestricted, as they did before "it" happened. But they are not quite daring enough. At least, not yet.


Even though the ability to make my words work for me has never been exactly the same, I have found ways to work around "it." I watch closely for the land mines and I force myself to explore the landscape anyway. I forge on, unwavering in the quest to find my words and force them back into the daylight to use them for self-expression. Although it is hard work, I remain determined to find my words each time, and once again bend them to my will.

So for now, I shall keep hunting for my beloved words until I succeed, and coax them outside again.  I know that with a little luck, my words and I will soon be reunited. And together, we will once again thrive. Freely. Joyously. Boldly.

I have vowed to myself, and to my words, that I will not let “it” change or define us. And I will not allow “it” to EVER rule the ability to use my words. I will not let "it" hurt us easily, and I will fight "it" forever. I will NEVER let "it" win.

There is no moral to my story today, no lesson to be learned from my lament. I have nothing to offer you in conclusion, because I have no more words--this essay includes every word I have been able to hijack. All I have to leave you with is this weak and wordy dissertation, the byproduct of my anger and frustration in the absence of my words. I hope it is enough.

As for me, I am going back to work. I have some word-hunting to do. Wish me luck.