Don’t Eat the Slug.

Had a great massage today with Dave, my gifted therapist.  I love that man.  Unless I’m in extreme pain, I am usually pretty chatty while he’s working on me.  We catch up on each other’s lives, solve the problems of the world, and even manage to work some jokes in.  (That’s David’s arena — I can’t remember jokes to save my soul.  He tells them, I promise to pass them on to Mr. Stuck, and then normally I forget.  So there’s that.)

One of the things we talked about today was my last post and the whole topic of self-esteem.  Since he hadn’t had the chance to read it yet, I related the details to him and told him that the mental component of this change is probably the toughest part of the whole shebang.  The WLS Fairy does not swoop down and grant you confidence and self-esteem with a wave of her bariatric wand.  No, you’re still fighting the same demons you did before: fear, self-loathing, and doubt.

Everyone has something about themselves they don’t like.  That’s universal.  But some folks dwell on it so much that they allow it to paralyze them, or they decide that they are worthless because of it.  I mentioned in my previous post that it was easy for me to refer to myself with negativity because that’s how I felt.  I didn’t look in the mirror and see a woman with a quirky personality, compassion and sense of humor;  I didn’t see someone who has a successful career; I didn’t see the person my friends and family see.  I saw something entirely different, something that seemed to negate any good things that were also there.  I let the negative outweigh the positive, and that just fed on itself.

They say you have to love yourself.  Yeah.  Hard to love someone who’s calling you names.  The things we tell ourselves — some of them we wouldn’t say to our worst enemy.  Dave told me that for most of his life, when he would mess something up or make a mistake, he would chide himself.  “That was stupid.”  “You dummy, why weren’t you more careful?”  “I’m such an idiot!”  He realized that this self-talk was not making him do a better job or be more careful; it was confirming to him that he was stupid, incompetent, and foolish.  He said, “If I had messed something up, I would yell at myself; but if I fixed it, I never gave myself credit; after all, it was my fault to begin with.”

So he decided that he needed to stop that habit.  Each time he’d berate himself, he’d stop and apologize.  Out loud.  He was amazed at how often he said those things without even realizing it; the awareness was a lesson in itself.  After he had curbed that negative talk, he began to compliment himself.  Out loud, like his rebukes had been.  He’d finish something and sit back and say, “Good job.  Nice work.”

He said after a while of doing this, he realized he was feeling better and more confident.  Instead of reinforcing the negative, he reinforced the positive.  (“Ac-Cen-Tchu-Ate the positive/E-lim-inate the negative/and latch on to the affirmative/don’t mess with Mr. In-between” as the song goes.)  What a great piece of advice!

I told him about my friend Jon, who put it to me another way.  One day, we were talking about his work day, which had been horribly stressful.  His boss was in a bad mood and seemed determined to make everyone around him as miserable as he was.  Jon, however, had an irrepressible good mood; he lived life with a smile and a laugh.  I asked him how he managed to stay so upbeat when his boss was so negative, and he said, “When someone insults you or shows disrespect, that’s their problem.”  He said, “Imagine if they handed you a nasty, slimy slug and told you to eat it.  Would you?  Of course not!  It’s the same thing — someone trying to bring you down is handing you a slug to eat.  Don’t eat the slug.”

He’s right, you know.  The great Eleanor Roosevelt famously said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”  Over the years, we give ourselves permission to say the awful, hurtful things about ourselves that we do.  We allow the erosion of our spirit and degradation of self.  We do it to ourselves — maybe because we really believe it, or maybe because we tell ourselves it’s easier to hear from our own lips than from others’.  Maybe we do it because we don’t know any better.

David, who still catches himself mid-scold sometimes, challenged me to do what he did and stop the trash talk.  And I accept.  I would never talk that way to a friend or family member, nor would I allow anyone else to talk that way to someone I cared about.  So why would I allow myself to be so cruel to the one person who is always there, no matter what?  Why would I weaken and diminish my strengths and demean the good person I am?  It needs to stop.

Don’t eat the slug.

 

 

photo credit: wwarby

On Love and Loss and Runaway Dogs.

Prince is such a good guy.

Had a moment last weekend that both surprised and shook me.

Our dear friends are on vacation right now, and they got word on Sunday that their dog, a handsome boxer named Prince, had run off.  The gate had been left ajar, and the noise and fireworks from a neighboring party had frightened him.  He is an old dog, half blind and half deaf, who is on regular medication.  We love that dog, so we went to help look for him.  Other friends and family members were already in the area, canvassing in a radius of a few miles from his home.

Mr. Stuck and I touched base with other searchers and then drove slowly around, up and down driveways and in and out of neighborhoods, calling for Prince.  We had dog treats and water and flyers with his photo and some contact numbers.  We spoke to several people, but nobody had seen him.  There had been a sighting earlier that morning, but he was skittish and wouldn’t come when called.  He was within mere feet of the caller, and he knew her — but he was scared and ran off.

As we drove around, our route doubled back upon itself, took us down unmarked roads, and would have gotten me lost had I been alone.  Fortunately, though, Mr. Stuck has uncanny skills when it comes to navigation, and he knew precisely where we were at all times.  In fact, as we drove down yet another dirt road, he pointed out a driveway and said, “That’s where Jon lived.”

“Jon?”  I said.  “Jon who?”
“Jon! You know, your friend, Jon?”

I was puzzled at first, and then I realized what he was saying to me; I realized where I was.  ‘Jon’ was my late friend Jon, who died in 1994 at the tender age of 32.  We had just passed the driveway where my friend Jon’s parents had lived, the house I had visited so often, in happy times and sad.  It was a big house for a big family; like me, Jon was the youngest of seven children.  The house sat up on a bluff and looked down over the water; it was a very lovely home, and I enjoyed visiting whenever I could.

I had Mr. Stuck drive past again, because it looked so different.  I couldn’t see the house from the end of the driveway, but I knew he was right.  He said, “It’s all overgrown now — it’s been 20 years since you’ve been there, I’m sure.”  He was right, but the address was there on the sign, and I knew that address — I had written so many letters to Jon when I was in college, how could I have forgotten?

The search for Prince was pushed out of my mind for a moment while I digested what I had seen and tried to steady myself amidst the onrush of memories.  How could I have forgotten, indeed.  I had driven past the main road from which the driveway branched numerous times on my way to our friends’ home, only a mile or two beyond, and yet I had never ventured down the old road to the old house.  Maybe it was a subconscious effort to protect myself, to save my heart from remembering that painful loss.  I decided it was an unforgivable travesty of our friendship that I did not even remember where he had lived, and I have been beating myself up ever since.

Recently, I had begun allowing some of those memories back out of cold storage after reading a post in Boles Blogs about Kaposi’s Sarcoma.  It brought back so much of the times in the 80’s and early 90’s where many of my friends and acquaintances became infected with HIV (called HTLV at the beginning) and subsequently succumbed to full-blown AIDS.  I don’t like remembering that time; it was harsh and ugly and heartbreaking.  Whispers mentioned friends from college and from my social circle who were ill or who had died.  There was a lot of fear and a lot of unknowns back then.

I remember the phone call.  It was a gorgeous, sunny day, and my apartment looked out over the water.  I was happy to hear from Jon, but immediately noticed something different in his voice.  “What’s wrong?”  I asked.  Jon told me that he and his partner, Carl, had recently been tested, and they both came up positive for the HTLV antibody.  “That only means we’ve been exposed to the virus, not that we’re sick,” Jon hastened to explain.  “We have no symptoms, and we’re fine.  Don’t worry about us.”  My heart was leaden with the news.  Nobody really knew about this ‘gay cancer’ that had recently been making the news.  All anybody knew was that it was taking gay men down with frightening speed, and it was not a nice way to die.  It was a disease associated with suppression of the immune system, which meant that any and all opportunistic infections could swoop in on someone who couldn’t fight them, and that person would die.

I was scared for my friends.  I read as much as I could about AIDS and its treatments, its victims, its politics.  People were (rightly) terrified to get this disease — a death sentence — which was thought to be passed along on dirty needles or via exchange of bodily fluids, but nobody knew for certain.  Families turned their sons away, friends no longer hugged, and a deep suspicion fell on gay men.  Blood banks clamped down and denied donations from anyone suspected to have been exposed.  Dentists and health workers began donning masks and gloves to deal with people for fear of exposure.

It wasn’t long after the phone call that Jon’s partner, Carl, became sick.  He could no longer lift his arms; he lost a lot of weight; he became very weak; and developed lesions.  He also developed thrush in his mouth.  It was horrible to see him wasting away, frail, miserable, and terrified of dying.  He had constant diarrhea and pneumonia, and seemed to contract any infection that came around.  His parents came from Ohio to Washington State to bring their son home to die.  They put a few of his things in a bag (just a few — they didn’t want to touch anything for fear they’d get sick, too), carried him to the car, and drove away.  They didn’t even let Jon and Carl say goodbye.

All letters were returned, unopened.  At some point, one came back stamped, “DECEASED.”

Jon eventually developed AIDS, although that is not what ended his life.  He lived a very long time in final stage AIDS, which was pretty rare back then.  It is difficult for me to reconcile my memories of my lively, wickedly smart and funny friend with his sad, final years.

Mr. Stuck and I spent about four hours looking for Prince, calling for him down many dirt roads.  On one of those roads, I found something I hadn’t been looking for — a hard little knot of memories buried deep inside.  Prince was found several hours after we drove home, safe but tired and hungry.

I will write more about Jon, because his friendship was a stalwart place in my life, and because he deserves to be remembered better.  He taught me many lessons through his living and his dying, and I am forever grateful to him.

Zasu and You, Too.

This is one kick-ass band.

Back in the olden days (the 1980’s), I loved to go dancing with my friends.  One of my favorite dance partners was my friend Jon, because he was tireless.  That man would dance until the perspiration flew from his hair and just laugh, laugh, laugh.  He and his partner, Carl, were good friends of mine; actually, Jon was my best friend.

Jon was tremendously smart and funny; he could be very crafty, too, and he was always scheming about something.  I had to be on my guard when he came up with new ideas, because you just never knew what he might do.  But he always showed me a good time when I’d visit, taking me to new restaurants, popular shows and hot clubs, and introducing me to his friends.

One day, Jon called me with a dilemma: he and Carl had planned to go to a show that was playing for a few nights at a favorite venue.  At the last minute, Carl was called in to work and couldn’t go.  Would I be interested in going in Carl’s place?  Jon explained to me that this was a band called the “Zasu Pitts Memorial Orchestra” (ZPMO) and they were THE dance band, out of San Francisco.  Sounded good to me, so I agreed.  Jon would pick me up at 7 p.m.

Jon drove up in his olive green ’72 Mustang with the vinyl top, windows down and music loud, as usual.  We car-danced all the way to the place; the name escapes me now.  I was pretty excited for the show; he had really talked it up on the way there.  Once inside, he said, “stay right there – I’ll be back in a second.”  I stood in the lobby, off to one side, to wait.  Suddenly, I heard Jon’s voice behind me, and when I turned around, there stood Carl, too!  They had pulled a prank to get me there, and I was glad they did.

Pretty soon we were seated with the first of many overpriced drinks in front of us, and we watched the stage hands putting the finishing touches on the band’s setup.  Looked like it was a big group — lots of mikes and music stands.  Sure enough, when the lights came up and the band came out, there were over a dozen of them; more like fifteen!  Zowie!

There was a horn section (I love horn sections) and a keyboardist, percussion section, and sax.  There were lots of other instruments, too.  This was going to be fun.

And it was.  The vocalists were a few ladies up front.  They played R&B, soul, and funk, all danceable, with a tight, bright sound.  The solos rotated between the ladies and the instrumentalists behind them; everyone had a spotlight at one time or another.  The music was great, and the energy in that house, that night, was palpable.

There was one woman I enjoyed watching in particular, whose voice could melt butter one moment and cut diamonds the next; I think her name was Katie, and she was phenomenal.  They were all very talented people.  And their catalog was widely varied, but always engaging.  You could not sit still.  The dance floor was packed from the start and stayed that way.  Wow.  I had never seen anything like this before, and I loved every minute of it.

We danced all night, the three of us.  We laughed until our faces hurt and our sides ached.  We were soaked with sweat and a few spilled drinks courtesy of the dancers, my pantyhose was shredded, and we were absolutely spent.  I will always remember the fun we had that evening.

This was the start of a beautiful relationship with this band.  I saw them a couple more times.  Each time was the same, but different.  The band members were always changing, but the high-energy output was the same.  Other stories, another day.

Have you been to a ZPMO show?  Have you heard of the band?  I’m so glad Mr. Stuck mentioned them today!

Man, I wish I had bought the album when I had the chance…wait — I think I did!  Now I just have to find it! 

 

photo credit: Eddie Berman