  Even though I felt like I was going to die, my mind kept on racing. As I drove home from the hospital, coughing and wheezing and completely miserable, I caught a glimpse of the tiny blue harbor lights on my left.
I sped down the freeway, rolling down the window to take in the sea air. I breathed in, as deep as possible in my current condition, the smell and the texture of the air made it’s way to my center. I settled back in the car, turned the radio up, let the wind blow through my hair and took it all in. I felt damn good for someone who is “6-inches away from having pneumonia.” The money, or substantial lack thereof, is of course a problem.
As soon as I’m a few more steps away from death warmed over, it’s solvable. True, I have no furniture still. Such is the case with many long distance moves. True, I am living my ever challenging life on my own. But that’s the bonus. Knowing that I am doing it on my own…that I can do it on my own. In spite of the numerous and considerable challenges I’ve faced in the last four years, I did it.
I made it. I left Denver. I’m back in San Diego and starting over. In spite of the fact that my family is toxic and ridiculous and unsupportive. In spite of my ability to attract toxic energy-sucking people into my life who don’t know the concept of give and take.
In spite of my family’s ability to beat me down and get me to forget all the things I’ve accomplished or overcome in my life….college, moving across country at 18 alone, serious illness, permanent injury, rape, working since I was 13, graduating high school early, a devastating earthquake, moving across country again alone, death of many friends and family. How is it that we are so eager to believe the bad things people say about us? My dear sweet friend, Danny, said something profound to me recently. (Love to you CL) He said, if there were 50 cable channels all devoted to you, 48 positive and 2 negative, which ones would you watch?
Sad to say, I knew I watch them all but I would focus on the 2 negative ones. Why IS that? We convince ourselves that these people who rarely, if ever, take risks know better than we do. That their word is gospel. They don’t know me. They don’t know the way I live my life every day. They don’t know that I’m the person in the grocery store that puts something back on the shelf after 50 people walked by.
They don’t know that I have rescued more animals than I can remember and placed them in good homes. They don’t know that I write letters and lobby congress for better animal rights legislation. They don’t know that even with a blinding migraine I talk to my best friend about whether or not she wants to get a divorce.
They don’t know that after thinking an offhand comment I made to a store clerk hurt a stranger’s feelings that I chased him down an outside mall in the snow to apologize. They don’t know 100 other things I do that are good. It’s not that they don’t ever see me or talk to me, but they don’t SEE. They don’t pay attention. They never have. Yet they have the audacity to criticize me and I let it hurt me. When someone does comment on my integrity or intellect or good character, I can always find a way to not let it count….not let it in.
They don’t know me well enough or they haven’t seen the other side of me. How asinine is that? The thing is, that maybe because I can be my true self with them…because they have no preconceived notion of me….that just maybe they DO see me. The real me. I wonder how many times I will have to have this conversation with myself for it to stick?
So my family thinks I’ve flipped my gidget. They don’t know that that’s where the beauty is. I’m a vegetarian Buddhist with a law degree and Irish catholic roots (even writing that makes me laugh). They are fundamentalist Christians, good ole’ fashion Christians, Catholics and one Jew. Having 6 parents does at least provide for variety. They all took the “should” road. You know…you “should” go to college and get married. I have no issue with that if it’s a choice, but they all fell into what was expected of them. Except for my Mom. She fucked everybody up and got pregnant out of wedlock. The “good” girl.
But then immediately proceeded along the “should” road again. I have no problems with the way they live their lives except when it comes to judging how I live mine. I want to LIVE it and stumble through and figure it out. I may have a lawyer’s mind, but I have an artist’s heart. The ever pounding, bleeding, bruised heart that feels, thinks, and emotes too much. Or should I say “too” much. Part of the juicy part of life is the hard part. The pain feeds my soul and heart and life experience, thereby feeding my words, as much (or even unfortunately sometimes more) than the happy parts.
I’m sure I’m some kind of anomaly to them. And you know, that’s okay. I’m perfectly happy being unpredictable, that way people have to take the time to get to know me to figure me out. True, it’s not perfect. The uncertainty makes me sick. Keeps me up at night. Maybe that’s what drives me. What a sick fucking conundrum is this? The very thing that rips me up is also my passion. At this point, I realized I have reasoned myself in circles. I just need to focus on the energy pounding inside me. The energy and vibe of this city just surrounds me.
The sound of the ocean. The smell of the water. That tiny center in me that stays still and certain inside the storm. The sound of my fingers on the keyboard. It’s all my grounding force. I can sleep on that. 
