Thursday, May 23, 2013

Medicating Myself With Love

Little Cuter and I had the most marvelously mundane conversation this afternoon.  We talked about everything and nothing and mostly we just heard each other's voices.  It only served to amplify the good feeling I'd carried around all day.  Home from San Francisco, with love from my boy surrounding my heart, I awoke to find the irrigation system had sprung only one leak.  I admired the patches I'd applied last week, and went inside before 8am; it's summer in the desert and no one is doing anything (unpaid) outdoors after that.

I had the mail held until today's delivery, so there were no unpaid, unopened, annoying envelopes on the counter.  I connected an old friend with a new friend and felt renewed hope that things may really change for the better. I sent a contribution to Mayors Against Illegal Guns and laughed about me sending money to Michael Bloomberg.  Pilates was strengthening and the vibration machine at PT had me just-about-gliding across the gym floor.  

Life was good.

The phone rang. We didn't recognize the number on caller id, but it was local and I thought it might be a friend.  It wasn't.

It was a man who identified himself as an on-line reporter for a local television station.  He wondered if I'd seen the photos.  

Like a fool, I said, "What photos?"

"The new one's the sheriff's department has just released," led my brain to wonder why the Pima County Sheriff was releasing photos of the devastation in Oklahoma.  I began to prepare a statement of hope and love and encouragement for those whose houses and loved ones are no more.  I seem to get these calls after every tragedy; I usually decline to comment.  But this voice sounded young and I'm all about encouragement and I had a smile on my face right up until he finished his sentence with, "from January 8th."

"NO ! ! ! !"

No, I hadn't seen them.  No, I didn't want him to bring them up when he arrived to interview me.  No. No. No.  "I'm hanging up now."

My head is exploding.  He intruded upon my beautiful day and brought up images I have no wish to revisit.  I miss Christina-Taylor every day; I don't need a photograph to remind me of the most awful part of our relationship.  The actual memory is seared on my brain.  

And what in the world did he hope to gain from having me relive it again?  Why would he think that I would travel there with him, a total stranger, uninterested in me as anything but the next "big get"?  

I know.  He was just doing his job.  His job ruined my day.

I'm getting pretty good at recovering from these little PTSD moments.  I'll swim for a long time and get my heart pumping and feel the sun on my back and my body buoyed and able to lunge with impunity.  I'll see Shannon's magic fingers for a massage and come home to the dinner TBG will put in the oven after his massage.  I'm not going to let it win.  

Even after letting the venom seep out my fingertips and onto the keyboard, I'm still battling with unwanted thoughts. Before I do anything, I'm going to finish cropping the pictures which were going to be today's post... before the phone rang and I ended up here in the middle of Peeved Street.  Here's a teaser for you.
As I've said before, as I'll say again:
It is impossible to be sad when little ones are smiling at you.
I feel better already!


  1. Have you considered an unlisted phone number so you don't have to talk to these people? Clearly they have no shame. You blog has been an education in how relentless the media can be.

    1. At this point, that would be closing the barn door after the horse has fled, Allison. Our phone number is "out there."

      Sigh.... they are voracious...

  2. I'm all about caller-ID. Although, in March, we decided to forego our home phones and use our cell phones. It's been quite liberating. And when I have to give out my number to someone I just really don't want to give it to, I give them my old cell #. They are happy they have a number and I'm happy that they are not going to be bugging me.

    I'm not certain what good it does to release those photos--except to open wounds and hurt those who were affected by that day. The reporter may have just been doing his job, but he's a human being first and he should have considered that others have feelings. He showed a total lack of empathy.

    Love the term peeved street. I'm going to use that next time I'm pissed off.

    Sending hugs!

    Megan xxx

    1. Peeved is how I felt, Megan. He was doing his job, albeit doing it poorly and without consideration. I was derailed from my happy space. I wasn't all the way to pissed off... I was peeved :)


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