Let it all out, sort it all out, express it all out. The sorting is the hard part. The brain goes into an obsessive problem
solving mode that has to make sense of the pain. Did I cause this? Did they?
And why? If I had made different
decisions would the outcome have been different? Better?
Worse? Believe it or not creative
people can be very scientific. It’s
unfortunate that it’s sometimes a dead end journey but the incessant questions
and theories and ground breaking revelations are part of the process that has
to happen. The broken-record syndrome,
asking the same questions over and over, replaying the scenario over and over
trying to figure out what went wrong and why.
To some it might seem like a sort of insanity, but in reality it’s a
healing process for anyone who has had their heart broken. Answers will give you clarity and closure and
that is what you need so you seek it in the most desperate ways possible, like finding water in the desert, food in the wilderness. What is their backstory? Why did they behave this way? Was it intentional? Seek empathy.
Seek compassion. Seek
understanding. There HAS to be a good
reason they hurt you. There has to be a
logical reason you are going through this.
There has to be reason.
I’ve been sorting for months. I’ve been pursuing hope. I’ve been devastated by the end of it. I have been trying to move forward with acceptance. “There’s no answers, Jess. Accept and get better.” But that’s like telling the flu to just go
away. It has to live its cycle. And that is when you have to medicate. Stage three, express it all out.
I know no other way than to express my feelings. It has made me dangerously vulnerable, but I
know no other way. Look at what I’m
doing now? Telling the public my
personal journey. The set up for
rejection is how I cope with rejection?
It’s not quite like that. I have
to throw my stories out there to seek validation, to discover that there are
others like me, that my pain is not unique and that others understand. Because connection, companionship and
relatability are everything. Love and
loss is life and we all live it.
After the ordeal with the weight bench, and after Nyki
consoled my soul, I had to gear myself up for an outing. A monumental outing.
I’ve written about my younger friend, Brianna many times in
this blog. I want to take this moment to
talk about the current hatred toward “millennials” for a second here, and
express my own hatred toward that hatred.
Brianna is nearly sixteen years younger than me and she is one of the
most brilliant, talented, driven, ambitious young people I know. And so are her circle of millennial
friends. In my exposure to the generation
below me, which constitutes more than half of my friend circle, I see nothing
but promise and strength and solution.
The next generation is less racists, less sexist, less dehumanizing and
more out-spoken against authority, in the good way. The next generation has to work harder to
survive because of the mistakes of my generation and the generation before me. The cost of living is astronomically
different than when I was twenty one. I
could’ve rented a one bedroom apartment for $250 a month in 2001. I now live in a studio for $675 a month. So, the reason for my goings-on about this is
to throw out to those crotchety, uptight “elders” for dismissing the millennial
generation as spoiled, horrible human beings I say this: some of the most brilliant, ambitious and
kind people I have in my life are of that generation. And one of them, is Brianna.
Brianna had sent me a link about a charity gala that was
coming to Minneapolis, one in which Jane Goodall was going to be a
speaker. Jane Goodall (and Dian Fossey,
primatologist who is portrayed by Sigourney Weaver in the movie “Gorillas in
the Mist”) was one of my heroes as a little girl. I wanted to live in the jungle and study
animals and write about them too. I had
the same love for Africa that she did. She was the face of National Geographic for a
very long time, and I loved National Geographic. I was that weirdo kid that when I got to stay
home from school for being sick I wanted to watch National Geographic instead
of cartoons. And if I got to see Jane
and her chimpanzees, all the better.
Jane Goodall was my star celebrity that I never dreamed in a million
years I’d get a chance to not only hear her speak in person, but get to stand
next to her and tell her how much she meant to me.
Brianna had looked up the prices for the tickets. She wanted to go too for I had gushed about
Jane Goodall to her over the years, about her pioneering and her conservation
efforts and all the wonderful things she’s done for the planet, and Brianna is
very into nature and the earth just as much as I am. The prices seemed awfully steep, though, and
it dashed both of our spirits. But then
Brianna surprised me with, “Hey I found some of the cheaper tickets and got us
both tickets…” I’m not going to lie to
you, Reader. I cried. Happy cried.
You know the stupid wah-wah-wah, giddy-giggle giddy-giggle, wah, wah,
wah. She has been going through her own
hard time, so this was an amazing thing for both of us.
I read through the night’s events online and saw there was
going to be a book signing. I thought,
“Oh my god… I might actually get to talk to her… AND have her autograph!” I could not have had this opportunity if it wasn't for Bri.
The gala was amazing.
Bri and I were not dressed to the nines like some people, but we fit in
none the less. We enjoyed taking a flute
of Champaign off the waiter’s trays and holding a cheers to our good
fortune. Because the charity was for
rescue dogs and cats we met a lot of rescue dogs that were brought to the
event. There is one that will forever be
in my heart. His name was Raha, who
looked like a shepherd, husky mix, almost wolf-like. His mouth was disfigured, parts of his jaw
diminished. His left eye was gone and he
looked as if he had been mauled by a bear.
He was the sweetest soul and I could not stop petting him and letting his
lolling tongue slobber my affectionate hands. Oh I was jealous of his owner! I
learned later, when I read the pamphlet left at our dining table, that the
reason for his disfiguration was because some sadistic, psychopathic men
thought it entertaining to put firecrackers in his mouth. I was so sick to my stomach over this. I thought: I may never have a relationship
again. I will never have children of my
own. I may never live in the jungle and
study animals like my hero, Jane. But if
there’s anything that can heal my soul as well as another’s, I want to someday
have a haven for the abused and battered.
Children and animals alike.
Eventually we had our dinner, and the charity auction took
place and ended, and then Ms. Goodall came out to speak. As I have proclaimed, I’m very expressive
with my emotions. It’s hard for me not
to get overwhelmed. As I listened to her
speak I did everything I could to not sob in front of strangers. But it was such a magical moment for me, a
surreal event that I never dreamed could happen. I thought to myself, if I could go back in
time and tell little Jessie that she would meet Jane Goodall someday she would
never believe it. I felt like,
Jessie. There was something about this
experience that brought me back to my older self, no wait, younger self. Little Jessie girl who wanted to go to Africa
and live in the jungle and write about animals.
Become friends with animals. I
used to bring snakes and all sorts of things home to my mother. I once brought a wounded goose home, gaining
its trust not to peck me to pieces. I
had called wildlife services in the area and they all gave me another phone
number and I went around in circles trying to help this goose. Nobody would help. I had to return it to where I found it. Days later it was attacked and killed by some
predator. I pulled out one of its wing feathers and turned it into a pen. I still have it to this day. Point? Seeing Jane made me remember who I am. And who I am, is a passionate caretaker.
The time came. It was
time to stand in line and wait for the book signing. We had bought our books post dinner and stood
in line holding them waiting for the ultimate moment. In her generosity, Jane was awaiting to sign
books sitting on a stool willing to have pictures taken with her. I was beside myself. I was terrified I’d be a goon and cry. But I stood fast. She signed Bri’s book then mine and then we
stood next to her for a picture. You can
see in the picture that I look like I’m about to lose my mind. After the picture was taken I touched her arm
(which I’m not sure if I should be embarrassed by or not…) and I said, “You
were my hero as a little girl. It’s a
huge deal that I met you.” She smiled so
kindly at me and nodded her head humbly, and then I rushed off in embarrassment
with Brianna.
When I got home I tried to process my weekend. And the common denominator in all of it was,
love. Every day, it’s love. I have loved ones who reach out and check in
on me. I have friends who would be there
for me in the middle of the night if I needed them. I have friends who will invest in my future,
who believe in me, who will set aside their own stress and give me time. I have love in my life. Real love.
Not the pretend crap, or the manipulative selfish crap, but the real
deal. The infinite kind.
Heart break they say is the most tragic emotional wound a
human can deal with. This is not to
placate other tragedies, but I have heard that nothing breaks the human soul
more than heart break. But the remedy is
having love in other forms and in other relationships like friendship that keep
you from losing your mind entirely.
Validation that you are a worthy human being is vital. I’ve been waiting my whole adult life to feel
the love from a man, which is important, but it is also important to have friends
who love you enough to validate your existence.
Waiting on this bench of uncertainty and tragedy has been alleviated with the love
of friends who will love me for life indefinitely.
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