No Heros or Villains

One of the biggest faults I've ever been known to have is trying to find blame within myself when I have none to burdeon. Sometimes this causes me to do things that will further mess things up and finally I will have a valid reason to blame myself for things going wrong. It's a viscious cycle and I'm ready for it to stop.

I'm ready for a lot of things to stop... I'm ready to stop going on like tomorrow won't come, like I won't be ok, like I'll be abandoned yet again in my life. Because that's not going to happen. There will always be another tomorrow. I'm a survivor and I will always be ok in the end. And I won't be abandoned. Not now or ever. People care about me and love me. When one door closes a window will open. When one bridge gives way, a swing will appear. There is always another way - as long as 'surviving' it all is the end result.

It's not the end of the world. For a while I thought maybe it was. I thought I was standing on the shores of Shymia and looking out into the ocean, thinking to myself what my childhood t-shirt said... "It's not the end of the world, but I can see it from here."

Well, it's not the end of the world. It's breathing space. It's room to move. It's the lack of pain, suffering and wondering, at least for me.

There are no villains or heros in this story. Nobody is at fault, nobody is to blame. Nobody is going to swoop down and carry away all of our problems. Superman doesn't exist this time around. There will be no miracles. There will be no divine intervention. This is what it is. That's all.

No point in crying over it or getting depressed and feeling like I can't get out of bed. No sense in laying still for hours on end because I lack the motivation or will power to get my head off of the pillow. No more sleeping in order to hide from the inevitable. I'm not to blame. I shouldn't feel like it's the end, because as it was so bluntly put by someone else yesterday, it's NOT.

There are no heros.
There are no villains.
This isn't a story from the past.
This isn't a fictional novel I'm reading.

This is real. This is now. This is me. This is LIFE.

It's not the first time I've found myself in this kind of situation. I know I will be just fine. I always am. I just need to get in gear to make sure that happens.


Yep.
The redhead in me has returned.

Kinko's Copy Queen

My ex-husband worked at FedEx Kinko's in 2004, so when he told me I wasn't allowed to work at the restaurant anymore because he thought my boss had a crush on me, naturally I applied to Kinko's. He was hired on at a full twenty cents an hour more than I was, but I didn't complain because I had a job. I would start out part time, completely open availability, and work my way into full time. I couldn't work in the same store as my husband, so they put me in another near by location run by the same manager. I never told my ex that he had been hired at a higher rate of pay than I had been. He had a temper. I never liked seeing that side of him.

Humberto was my first friend. We went through training at the same time and both worked really hard. He was a few years younger than I was and incredibly funny. People couldn't help but like Humberto.

Humberto and I both worked out in the "Self Serve" area, where our biggest challenge was trying to calm people down when they didn't understand that the paper was supposed to go face up on the copier. Their copies would pile up, hundreds of sheets of blank paper spitting out in a neat pile, nothing but the speck of dust on the glass screen copied onto their surfaces.

"Well why don't you have a sign that says that?" They would ask in a snotty, pretentious, snide, sarcastic and down right rude manner.

"We do," I would say at first, while pointing to the little picture. "I guess it's not as clear as it could be, but this shows that all the writing is one the front side, meaning to put the paper face up."

"It's not clear. I'm not paying for these." I got so tired of that. Eventually I just retorted with a simple line.

"It's there for people who look." I always said it as sweet as sugar though. Humberto would laugh at me every time.

Gavin was another of my favorite people, though he worked with my ex-husband rather than me. He was sweet and kind. He was highly religious, but he never pushed his religion on others. I always respected that about him. Nearly 100% Irish, he was a devout Catholic kid, extremely handsome and loved by all who met him. He never got tired of explaining the copier to the customers. He would gladly help them print their photos out on glossy paper if the customer didn't know how. He would practically bend over backwards to do whatever someone asked of him - and he wasn't on the self-serve side. He was on what we called the "production" side, where the Kinko's employees did the entire project for the customer behind the counter. Often that's what the "Self Serve" side started to feel like.

"I can't"
"I don't know how."
"I don't get it."

It's like teaching algebra to a bunch of first graders. Once in a great blue moon, one might actually pick up on some part of it, but don't hold your breath. Gavin never lost his temper with anyone, and he was always helping out even when he didn't need to.

Robert worked in the Shipping Department. He was funny, genuine and constantly chasing the skirts. He never had a girlfriend when I knew him, but he really was a charming guy. I just adored him, as he reminded me of my older brother. I imagine the two of them would have gotten along famously. The shipping department was rather close to the Self Serve department, and when Humberto was promoted to the "Production" side of the store, I started to talk to Robert a lot more. He became a pretty good friend to me that I could talk to about almost anything in the world. I would hug him before leaving at the end of the day if I left first, and he did the same with me. If we left at the same time, often we would stand in the parking lot and talk for an hour.

Courtney came to work with me out in the Self Serve area after Humberto switched sides. She was amazing. She was just like Gavin, she never lost her temper with the customers. Sure, we would laugh behind their backs about some of the stupid things they would say or do, but we never did it in front of them. That would just be rude.

Finally we found another manager for our store, and my ex husband's boss was no longer our boss too. Her name was Kathy and everyone liked her right off the bat. She was full of dreams and goals. Unfortunately it wasn't the only thing she was full of. I learned that one first hand.

She was nice, sure. Her biggest problem was that she didn't follow through. She would tell me about some promotion opportunity that was going to open up and she wanted me to apply for. She was going to make sure I got it, and then she would sit down and explain to me later why the MAN that was hired was far more qualified for the job than I was. That happened a total of three times in as many months. I became disenchanted with her and lost interest.

Courtney had announced she found another job. Humberto no longer talked with me because he wasn't allowed to. Kathy had rules against people on the production side talking with people on the self-service side. Robert and I had such a wedge built between us because of Kathy that work was no longer a fun place to be. Gavin; poor Gavin. Without warning one day we were all invited to his funeral. None of us could understand what had happened. There were rumors going around about him being found with a gun shot wound to the head. We were all completely distraught. We couldn't figure out who in the world would have broken into Gavin's home and shot him. He was such a kind person. Everyone loved Gavin. He was always in church if he wasn't at work or in school. He had friends everywhere. Quite literally thousands of people showed up to his funeral. With Celtic roots, none of us were surprised when Amazing Grace was played on the bagpipes. Most of us in attendance wept. By the end of the song, there wasn't a dry eye among those thousands.

Gavin wasn't murdered. It wasn't a robbery gone wrong. It wasn't even a gun cleaning accident. Poor Gavin; sweet, gentle and kind Gavin - he saw no way out of the stress, anger and depression. Gavin had killed himself. We didn't know for weeks after the funeral. It started to sink in when we realized there was nothing in the newspaper about a murder or robbery gone wrong. There was no autopsy. There was no investigation. There was only a funeral - a sad, quiet, lonely and crowded funeral.



Towards the end of my time at Kinko's, I started to loose complete interest in my job. The people got onto my nerves more. I was tired of explaining the difference between face up and face down. Life was too short, Gavin had succeeded in showing us all that simple fact. Finally, one day I snapped.

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Valley of Death

Sometimes the only thing that pulls me through a rough patch is my writing. I have so many stories to tell and so much to say to the world. My life on this planet can't be over with until I've managed to share my stories. It keeps me going and focused. If I ever run out of stories to share, perhaps then I would be ok with no longer being on this Earth. Until then, I have a lot of work to do.

It sounds a little light hearted, and maybe even a bit determined - but it needs to sound that way for my own sake.

I've had a long, hard road over the past 15 years of my life. I've had struggles since the begining, far longer than the past 15 years, but the past 10 years in particular have seemed like I'm loosing the battle on an uphill climb. Each time I think I may come to the crest of the mountain and finally accomplish something worth while, some stone under my foot that I was depending on to keep me up comes tumbling down the mountain and I along with it.

I've thought a few times about just tossing myself off the mountainside when my footing gave way near a rather trecherous cliff. Sometimes I would reach for a tuft of grass and regained my footing stronger than before, making the climb with a new feeling of determination and drive. A few times people have wandered by and pulled me up a few feet before sending me on my own once more. A few cruel souls have offered a hand and when I reached for it, withdrew.

Other times I've stood there on the brink of the cliff, looking down the slopes at what could easily have been my fate. I stand there and wonder why I didn't continue to slide, right over the edge and to the valley of death below.

Tonight I stand on the cliff side, looking down into the great chasm that could claim my life if I allowed it to. I know there is a reason I am still standing here on my feet, but for the life of me at times I don't know what that reason is. Now is one of those times.

Why am I here? What have I accomplished in my life? What is there left for me to do that is so important that I must endure so much pain along the way? They say that which does not kill us only serves to make us stronger. God, I can't be much stronger than I have been in the past, and I'm loosing strength now. I have friends that are offering me a hand to step away from the brink of disaster, but this time is different. I'm numb. I can't feel their hands reaching for me. I hurt. My legs don't want to continue standing on their own. I'm blinded by tears that have been just under the surface for so long.

As I stand here looking down, I wonder to myself how I would ever explain the thoughts going through my head, the pain I'm feeling, the hopelessness I've fought against time and time again only to be faced with it again. I'm standing between a cliff and a brick wall - and for once I can't break through it.


I long to feel loved. No, it's more than that - I NEED to feel loved. I need to feel arms around me that care and love me no matter what it is I've done or what I'm going through. I can't break down this brick wall in front of me on my own anymore, I don't have the strength for it this time. I need help. I need someone to tell me it's all going to be ok while I cry on their shoulder.

In a conversation just yesterday someone told me that they worried about me because I am the kind of person to take care of everyone else first. It's as if I'm always last in my own book because I don't need it as much as everyone else does. Here I have a sick friend who needs me and I am AFRAID of going to them because I'm AFRAID I couldn't handle any more bad news. One more piece of bad news could be the rock under my foot holding me to my ground at the moment. If that gave way, there would be nowhere to go but down - and it's a long way to the bottom.

I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of straining and struggling. I'm tired of taking care of everyone I love and care about, only to be forgotten.

I'm still here! I'm on the other side of this brick wall! I can't get through - it's separating me from the rest of the world. I fear the bottomless pit beside me, but what if that's all there is left for me?

So I cry.
So I scream out in agony and pain.

Where are you? Scotland, I'm so sorry...

Please, just someone, anyone, REMEMBER ME.
Please ... just, don't forget about me ... when I'm gone.

Comfort Food

Wikipedia defines comfort food as a "simple, familiar food that is usually home-cooked or eaten at informal restaurants." Wikipedia goes on to say that "more generally, comfort food can be defined as food that brings some form or measure of comfort, sense of well-being, or easy satisfaction... [It] may also involve foods that have a nostalgic element either to an individual or a specific culture."

Well, tonight I went in search of some "nostalgic element" food and ended up with a full plate of spaghetti that I devoured within minutes.

It's been one of the hardest weeks I can recal in a very long time. Communication is lacking in several areas of my life right now and I'm growing more and more recluse by the day. These days the only people I get a chance to interact with are the people who work for me. It's hard to socialize and vent to those people you would be venting about. I can't very well take one Officer asside and tell them what the other guys have done to piss me off, only to chose another Officer to complain to about the one I had just spoken with. Things don't work that way in the business world.

I love (or loved) my job when I first got my title on December 21st. It was a momentus day for me - the day I finally got recognized for the dedication and pride I took in my work. There was nobody more qualified than I was to get the job done, but more than that I took such pride in what I was doing and knew exactly what I wanted to accomplish. Was I too ambitious?

I still have high hopes for my crew and want to make sure we get high praise for a job well done. With the way things have been going, this hasn't been happening and it's not likely to happen on the path we seem to be treading.

I'm a perfectionist in many respects. I beat myself up if I feel I've not done a good job. I can't help but feel like I could be doing better than I am at the moment, but I don't know what more I can do. Already I work 10 to 12 hours a day, and I'm about to go from 6 days to 7 days a week. I can't do it all myself, and these guys just don't realize that.

I've tried hard to make them understand that I will never ask them to do something that I myself wouldn't do. I bring treats (like the basket of varied chocolates for Easter I brought in today or the cupcakes I brought in to the meeting on March 27th) that I pay for out of my own pocket. It's no wonder I can't afford to buy dinner for myself - if I get a little extra, I give it back to my crew.

I think that's going to have to stop. I like being able to share with them - and Lord knows they're the only people I see these days, so who else can I share with? My life has grown to revolve around this post the past few months. I guess I'm maybe taking it a little too personally when someone decides to transfer away, and I shouldn't. Unlike me, they all have families and friends they like to spend time with. These guys are all I know of life here in California at the moment. It's sad, but it's true. I'm kind of like the "Mom" it's been said several times. Some people love their mothers and would do anything for them. Others take their mothers for granted and do whatever they can to get away with murder.

I've been taken advantage of here at work. I give them ALMOST anything they ask for, like days off, vacations, schedule changes, shift swaps - the like. Well, as much as I hate to do it, that's about to change. I'm going to have to be rather strict. That's not a side of me I like to see, and I'm certain they won't like it either.

It's sad when my life revolves around work. I spend about 70 hours a week at work, and hour going to work and an hour going home from work. If I added up the hours, that would be about 82 hours a week spent revolving around work. That's not including the phone calls at all hours of the day and night (and I always answer. I make sure the guys know I'm ALWAYS available when they need me) and the number jumps up closer to about 85 hours a week. When there are only 168 hours in a week, that leaves me about 83 hours a week to myself. If we break that down, it works out to
about 11 hours each day to sleep, eat, bathe, feed the cat, go grocery shopping, get my laundry, iron my work uniforms, clean the house, BLOG, and spend time with my friends. If that 11 hours is factored down and sleep time is taken out that leaves me about 3-4 hours a day to get ALL of that done. No probem, you say? HA! Somehow I still don't manage to go to bed until midnight and have to wake up at 6am. That way I give myself more time to get things done.

Life exists only for work these days - except Saturdays. Saturdays are mine. That is a full 24 hours that nobody can take away from me. That day is far too important to me. I might not even leave the house on a Saturday, but that's my choice and one I'm more than happy to make. Now, if we go back and take that 24 hours out of the 83 hours a week I can spend on myself durring the rest of the week, that leaves me only 59 hours a week before and after work to get my tasks finished. That's about 8.5 hours a day, and now it makes sense why I go to bed so late still feeling like I didn't get anything done.

I'm making myself sick. I haven't had a decent nights sleep in months. The bags under my eyes are growing every day. I use blush to hide the fact I'm as pale as an Easter rabbit. I'm not eating properly and have dropped about 10 lbs in an unhealthy way. I used to look forward to going to work.

I need a vacation and I know exactly where I'm going when I get one. I'm going to be about 5,000 miles away from work, away from home, away from bills and phone calls and these problems that are causing me to develop an ulcer.

So - I decided to do something nice for myself. I really couldn't afford it, and I'll be paying off this spaghetti for months since I put it on my credit card, but I was hungry and needed some comfort food rather badly. It was comforting, I'll admit. I'm feeling better already - but often my venting on a blog helps that immensely.

I'll be ok. I just have to wrap my head around it and take strong control. I need to "suck it up" and get the job done. And I will, no doubt in my mind, I will. I'm just not sure how yet.



So - what's YOUR comfort food?

Death of a Chieftan

On April 1st of 2004 I recieved a phone call from my Mother. Since we rarely talked, I assumed that she had revived her ambition to pull a great practical joke, as she did about every 5 years or so. I didn't pay much attention to the tone in her voice, thinking she was going to do something to pull my proverbial chain.

"Amanda" she said, sounding rather morose, "Your Grandfather just died." Thinking back to when my Grandmother died just 6 weeks before, I didn't think this was a very funny April Fools Joke, but I laughed anyway.

In the year 2007 my grandfather had been given 2 weeks to live. He had been diagnosed with conjestive heart failure, emphazema, lung cancer, skin cancer, and numerous other ailments. At my Grandmothers funeral in February of 2004, I learned something about those two weeks I may not have ever known.

"Bob," my Grandfather said, speaking to my father, "don't expect me to stick around." I could tell even from the other room that my father didn't know how to respond. He had been standing beside my Grandfathers wheelchair in the living room at the time. I turned and watched from the dining room, worried. My father knelt down beside his father and took his hand.

"I know, Dad. I know."

Had my Grandfather been a little younger or my Dad been a little older, they could havve passed for brothers. My Dad just looked like a younger version of Grandpa. Even the sadness in their eyes mirrored one another at that moment. I'd never seen my father cry in my life, but as I stood there watching from a distance, I watched him wipe his face. My Grandfather put his free hand on my Dad's head and I saw his shoulders heave in a heavy, silent sob. My heart broke watching that powerful man I knew as "Dad" begin to cry.

"Bobby," my Grandfather began, "all those years ago when the doctors said I wouldn't survive, the only reason I did was because of her." He took a breath here. He was easily winded and relied on an oxygen machine, as he had done since 1997. "While I was sitting there in the damned hospital, she came in to visit me." Another breath. "I thought I was going to die at any second." He coughed, out of breath.

"Dad," my father said, "take it easy. We can talk later."

"I know - but I need to tell you." He managed to curl the corners of his mouth up a little. It was the most of a smile I had seen on him in a long time. "I was happy to see her. I always loved Irene, Bobby."

"I know you did, Dad."

"Well, she yelled at me that day and it broke my heart," he said. My father looked appauled. Before he could ask why she would have done something like that to him, my Grandfather continued. "She told me right then and there, 'Sherm, don't you die on me. I can't live without you, so don't you die.' I figured I had something worth living for."

My father choked back a sob. I knew why. That was exactly how he and my mother felt about one another.

"Well, Bobby," my Grandfather continued, "my reason is gone now." He must have seen the look in my fathers' face, or noticed that he had started crying harder, because he continued after a minute. "Son, it doesn't mean I don't love you any less. It's just," he paused, "Well," he took a breath, "you don't need me. Not like she did." He smiled, patted my Dad's arm, and said finally, "I don't want to live without her."

I sat at the table for many hours that night, hoping and praying to someday find a love like that. As they prepared his suit for the funeral on the following day, they pulled out several items from the pockets; old tissues, an embroidered handkerchief, a brass colored pill box. The last of these items somehow found it's way into my hands as I sat there.

I ran my fingers over and over the wooden four-leaf clover hand carved on its surface. I thought about that conversation between my father and my grandfather for hours. Without paying any attention, I absent mindedly felt one of my tears trickle down my cheek and drop from my chin, landing squarely in the center of that four leaf clover. I wiped it off and set the tiny box back on the table. I sat looking at it for a long time that night, remembering childhood Christmases with my Grandmother and Grandfather. I remembered random visits, though there weren't as many as I would have liked. Somehow I remembered this box from my childhood. He once held it in his hand when I was just a kid. It was a distant memory, and try as I might I couldn't recal the details, but I knew he had held it in his hand. I reached to take his hand as we walked and my hand had touched the wooden and metal surfaces of the object. I remember thinking it was pretty, and then he tucked it away in his pocket. Until that night, I never saw it again.

"Manda?" My mother asked from the other end of the phone. "Are you still there?" Tears had begun streaming down my face. I realized that it wasn't a joke. I sat down hard.

"Yeah, Mom, I'm still here."

"Manda, I'm at the house now and people are going to start dividing things up tomorrow to begin cleaning stuff up. Was there anything of your Grandfathers that you wanted?" Disgusted, I couldn't answer. How could they start dividing his things up so soon, wanting to each have their own piece? No, there wasn't anything of his I wanted but the memories he had given to me as a child. I paused. I thought.

"Mom?"

"Yeah, Honey?"

"There was a pill box with a four-leaf clover. If you can find it, that's all I want."

My mother found that pill box, and through a stroke of luck it ended up in my hotel room the night my uhaul was stolen in July of 2009 and I still have it. It's kept with my most precious posessions and the only thing to be found inside is a diamond necklace pendant - the only diamonds I own. Somehow it reminds me of him - a diamond on the inside.





April 1st, 2004


April fools day, only this isn't quite a day for jokes.

I've made several attempts to write everything I remember in my live that have stuck with me, be it exciting, interesting or funny. This attempt, though still to early to tell if it's a success, was prompted by a family tragedy.

Six weeks ago, my grandmother passed away and I flew from Los Angeles to New York for the funeral immediately. As much of a tragedy as that was, the true tragedy was in the passing of my grandfather this morning. Both of them were fascinating people with many wonderful stories of their pasts who never got a chance to tell them to the world, or more importantly, to their two great grandchildren. It struck me that these two would never hear the stories of Grandpa's trips around the world during the Korean War, stories of the cabinet making he did all over the state of New York, or the embarrassing stories of my fathers childhood.

I don't want the stories I have to tell to die with me. I have too much to say not to write this journal. My only son deserves to at least know that I tried. I have a lot to tell him. Honestly, I have a lot to tell anyone who will listen to what I have to say.

I've made a lot of mistakes, told a lot of lies, and done some very stupid things. In writing this, I hope that perhaps my son can learn from my own mistakes. This isn't a told-you-so storybook. There's nothing fictional I will ever write into it's pages. It's not something I'm writing to try and clear my own conscience. This is the truth; the untold stories I once swore to myself that no one else would ever know. I wasn't always a good person, and I'm far from being proud of it, but I'm not so proud as to hide my past from those I love any longer.

I suppose my grandfather was a huge inspiration to me, as well as my son. Still, along with the two of them, my inspiration has come from my mother and father, my grandmother, and everyone in my life I've ever loved and adored.

Or hated.


.

Maybe a Better Tomorrow?

"You're the light in the dark days,

and you're the hope

that fills my heart with the dreams of a better tomorrow."

That is never more true than it is at this moment.

I've had a hard day. I'm going to leave it at that.