Chocolate Stitchz

I found it true that “time flies when you’re having fun.” In recalling how painful 2007 was for me and a few people in my immediate network I realize how long it seemed to take to get to December 31st. I saw very quickly why “7” is seen as the number of completion (spiritual perfection) because so much seemed to be coming to an end for me that year. I never wanted to get to another year so badly in my life, but last year was certainly one that kept my journal full and my heart heavy. Now, here I am at the door of 2009 wondering why all the good times of 2008 had to fly by so quickly. I was told that the number “8” symbolizes new beginnings—a fresh start. Well I certainly feel that I was given a new beginning this year. I seemed to enter this year with a different kind of determination; a new perspective. The “stuff” I saw as valuable in 2007 were no longer important to me and I found myself more than willing to let go of the things (and people) I clung to in an effort to formulate my plans for how I thought my life should look. I gave up trying to be an over impressive people pleasing “princess” (as I’ve been called), accepted my reality as it stood and took responsibility for my role in getting me to here. There are moments in life designed to show you what you’re really made of and that force you to examine who you are, what you believe and why you’re running so feverishly in the opposite direction of your destiny. I found a lot of things in 2008 that I never thought I’d see, but most importantly I found myself. Not in the sense that “grown-ups” say to young silly teenagers to frustrate them and insult their intelligence, but in a deeper more meaningful way. I found that so much of who I knew myself to be was really what other people had convinced me of who I was. [Take a moment and let that process]… I respect the fact that perception is reality in so many ways, but one should always know how powerful it is to be able to know your real reality and have the ability to change “shapes” and manipulate what others perceive about you—especially when it is to your advantage. It has also become clear to me that not everyone is willing or ready to accept who you really are and would rather be able to shove your personality in a neat little mental box that is more convenient for their minds to process and, unfortunately, those people are more than likely family members that will always be around than acquaintances that can be purged from your social system. However, I have also learned that so much emotional growth can come from accepting people for who they present themselves as being and not wasting time and energy hoping for a different response than what you know you’re going to get from these people. That being said, I do believe in the power of prayer, but I also know that people change when they want to change—no sooner, no later—and in those cases sometimes the best suited prayer is for your own patience. Yes, I have certainly experienced the beginning of several new thought processes—a conception of sorts—and I can’t wait to see what 2009 has to say about what I'm ready to bring forth.

For as long as I can remember, my biological father (being technical is necessary here) has sent me Kmart’s Christmas bear of the year EVERY CHRISTMAS! Okay, so now I’m 26 and the excitement that I once had as a big brown-eyed little girl receiving my Christmas bear has turned into resentment—they have now become a symbol that my father doesn’t know who I am at all. Now understand that I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have seen my father in the last 20 years and in the meantime he has made little effort to get to know me. And while I understand the argument that he could just not send me anything at all—I would probably appreciate that a little more because it would be more true to the nature of him that he has forced me to grow accustomed. Every once in a while I’ll receive some sort of empty promise from him that is always preempted with some sort of statement meant to express how broke he is currently but “…when I get a steady job…” and I’m supposed to smile and get all giddy because “my daddy said…” like when I was a little girl. Please! Now, a handful of visits, 23 bears and several broken promises later I am hardened. Promises mean nothing to me and my trust is hard to come by. I realize that everyone is broken in their own way and this just happens to be the source of mine. I am in no way offering it as a crutch or an excuse, but merely a confession of my cross—the part of me that I am constantly working to fix…to heal. This is also the reason why gifts as an expression of love don’t communicate love to me at all—that is not my “love language.” I have grown to realize that time is probably the most precious and valuable gift that anyone on this earth can give. Love is a verb. And while it did take some effort to drive all the way to Kmart to make that oh so important purchase with me in mind, after 26 years of the same purchase the effort seems to be canceled out and turned into something mechanical—requiring little or no thought whatsoever. Love is a verb…and the truest emotional manifestation only comes through the action [verb] that is required to get there. Shared experiences, putting the needs of another before your own, selflessness (and not completely neglecting oneself), and a willingness to understand how to best communicate love so that the other person gets it—so that they feel the “fruits of your labor,” so to speak. The feeling is the fruit. 26 years…and a bear—I’m not feeling that.

This morning, like every morning, was started in much the same way—I hit “snooze” three times before I finally gave into the voices of NPR coming through my radio, roll over, say good morning to my autistic dog before deciding in my head what to dig out of the pile of laundry huddled in the corner of my room and reluctantly I pull myself out of bed. Taking three steps to my door, I reach to turn the knob and…it won’t turn. I try again. Nothing. The lock won’t catch, the doorknob won’t turn and I am…locked in! Oh my God! I start to panic slightly—most of my thoughts centered on my full bladder and…well that’s about it. This is crazy! Who locks themselves in their own bedroom…alone? Anyway, I call the boyfriend who has an emergency key to my house, hoping he will hear the phone over his own radio blasting NPR. He answers, whew! “What?!” Exactly the response I was expecting. Then my man, the fixer, was in full affect—describing to me the makings of the doors innards and explaining how I should attempt to free myself. Well, that didn’t work entirely so the only other alternative was for him to come over and perform a not-so-graceful storybook rescue complete with door bashing and power tools. (Good morning neighbors, nice to meet you; oh, and happy holidays from the woman who’s locked herself in her own apartment.) In the meantime I got back to figuring out a more gentle approach to freeing myself. All I had at my disposal was a pair of scissors and wire hangers. Let the demolition begin! I hack and pry and shove all kinds of crap in between the door and the frame; breaking my scissors in two and mangling the coat hanger beyond recognition. I pull with everything I’ve got, both feet flat on the wall straddling the door. Tugging. Grunting. Panting. One hour later…there goes my bus! And then…FREEDOM. Welcome to Thursday, Kisha.