Broken

I've had my heart broken before, but never like this. I had cried out my eyes until only dust remained so many times in the previous months, but still I fought to keep it alive. Then the day came that I knew I couldn't do it any longer. It was over.

Had it been a romance, I doubt the sorrow would be so acute. Instead, it was the death of a dream come to life. I'd fought—hard—every waking moment, and more than enough sleeping, to keep it going, to make it last another day. No matter what I did, it just wasn't enough.

When I got sick, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. For months. Then a flash of brilliance: open a bookstore. A pipe dream from over the years become a nearly feasible reality.

The thing about getting sick—this time, at least—was that I finally learned that only I could control when happened in my life. I stopped letting fear stop me from pursuing something crazy and absolutely insane.

And so I quit my job and opened a bookstore for kids and teens. It's much more complicated than that, but for now I'll say that passion can lead a person through so many incredible hardships so long as possibility remains. It stayed a good time, but eventually possibility became harsh reality. No matter what I had or hadn't done, it wouldn't last.

Tears didn't fall the day I made the soul-splitting decision to close the store. We just hadn't gotten enough people in who would buy books. Another time, another town . . . but it didn't matter. What-ifs bring pain, not resolution, and I already hurt more than I could realize. I didn't question but moved forward with what-must-be-done.

But eventually the must-be-dones were done, and time to think returned. With thinking came remorse, sorrow, loss, and anguish. I've loved men before, and subsequently had my heart stomped on, but not like this. Never like this.

A man is a human. A person. Fallible and real. A dream, though . . . A dream is the purest desire of the heart, mind, soul.

When people pass through breakups that seem more excruciating than is possible, I imagine it's the death of a dream more than the death of the relationship that makes the heart shudder, slow, and stop beating altogether. The dream of the little house with its white picket fence. The idea of a lifelong companion and lover.

I'd given up dreams of the adorable little family a few years before I lost this dream in the form of a beautiful little bookstore. Each in its own way has changed and shaped me to what I am now.

Instead of turning away from the hope of a successful love or career, these disappointment have proved to me that even more is possible. I got so close. Next time it'll be closer.

I'm the only one who can truly stop myself from dreaming and succeeding. I've never liked disappointment; even more, I hate not knowing what could have been, if I'd only been strong enough to try.

And that's why I'm packing my bags and preparing to move across the world in search of my next crazy adventure. What I find in that small cottage in the French countryside doesn't matter. What's important is that I'll find something there and know for sure, without regret.

Vomit

Nausea and vomiting have been my constant companions. I loathe their excessive diligence. Years ago I would never have imagined getting to the point where vomiting became second nature. More, a relief.

I'm not anorexic or bulimic, nor have I ever been. Instead, I got sick with something no doctor could give a name, let alone a definition or explanation. Treatment wasn't even a consideration. How can you treat what you don't know? Symptoms were alleviated as well as possible but nothing brought answers.

If you've never experienced intense, prolonged nausea and vomiting, there's no way to help you understand that horror. In pregnancy, many women have to deal with something similar, but in the end they are rewarded with a joyful child. I got more vomiting.

Day in, night out there was nausea so severe I couldn’t even sleep, let alone eat or read or work—even after taking anti-nausea medication. I drank water or Gatorade whenever I could, just to stay hydrated, but that didn’t stop the vomiting. Often, I wouldn’t have anything in my stomach other than water, and so that was all that would come up. When the water was gone, it would be dry heaves. Days and weeks and months of it.

We ruled out everything imaginable in every way possible. I was pricked and poked and prodded and pinched till I was ready to scream for the lack of answers.

After three months of vomiting everyday, several times a day, and being prostrate with spirit-crushing nausea, the vomiting ceased. For two months it seemed as though this anomaly had been just that—something bizarre and unexplainable, but soon gone. Hah.

We didn’t have an answer for those past months, but I felt fine, so I didn't complain. I went back to work after months of on-again-off-again medical leave.

Two months went by. The vomiting started again.

I knew how it felt then, and how horrible it was to be hunched over a bowl or bucket or toilet for hours a day. I feared it would be just as awful as the first time, so I started back to the doctor’s office, draining my health, my strength, my will, and my bank account.

Then one night, in tears of frustration and anger, I scoured the internet to find something, anything, to explain what was wrong with me. A random Google search of “weird vomiting disease” linked to a page discussing Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome. I'd found it.

Some people go through cycles of vomiting. Most frequently it affects children, who are more prone to frequent bouts of short duration (2–3 days, about a dozen or more times a year). For a time doctors didn’t think adults could have it, but now they’re realizing that some go through episodes of longer duration but less frequency (up to three weeks, three or four times a year).

No one knows why. There is no cure. There isn’t even a common therapy or medication or treatment. Some doctors don’t even know it exists.

Even more strange, it is sometimes linked to abdominal migraines, which is how my doctor began treating it. Prevent the migraines, prevent the vomiting. After another month, the vomiting stopped. The intense nausea stopped shortly after, and even minor nausea lost its potency.

After six months with sometimes mild nausea but without any vomiting, I decided to quit taking the migraine medication. If I could live without the interminable need for medication, I'd gladly take it. And so commenced a week from heck. Not hell, not this time. Migraines and nausea, but not nearly anything severe enough to equate to the purgatory I'd already passed through.

Why do I tell this story? Because I gained strength and courage from vomit. I lost so many things in the months I couldn't work or eat or sleep. (Except weight. A cruel twist of fate put my body into starvation mode so I couldn't lose some of the excess pounds I carried.) Those losses showed that I could live with so little in the way of money and expensive food and clothes, and objects in general. I didn't need them.

Nor did I need the things Americans generally consider indispensable: big house, fancy car, high-paying 9–5 job, 401(k). Not having those things didn't make my life miserable. Illness did that. If I could survive and be relatively happy in a situation like that . . . well, I could survive anything. Taking risks and the possibility of failure didn't seem nearly as daunting as they had before.

Nausea spared me a lifetime of unexpressed longing. If the illness weren't quite so horrible, I might say I was grateful for it. But let's not get carried away.

Reckless

There are times when anything is better than sanity. Times like now.

For years I did as conventional wisdom said:

1. Be a good girl.
2. Be coy but inviting to the opposite sex.
3. Don't get married too young.
4. Go to college.
5. Get a respectable degree.
6. Get a good job with a steady paycheck and benefits.
7. Buy a reliable car.
8. Save for the future.

That has gotten me:

1. A rather boring life.
2. No idea how to flirt or date.
3. Lifelong spinsterhood.
4. Educated without much partying.
5. A paper touting my now-obsolete journalism degree.
6. A traditional, boring job that fell apart the moment I got sick.
7. A decent car that I'd much rather sell.
8. In debt.

No, my life isn't bad, horrible, or utterly devastating. But neither am I complete. A whole, fulfilled individual without residual questions or what-ifs floating through the air taunting me as I try to sleep.

And so, my friends, I propose this: I will embezzle imprudence from all of the lively, fun, adventurous, and slightly crazy people I've always wanted to become. I'll take a bit of reckless courage from the rock climber. Some bravada from the loungers on nude beaches. Small helpings of willful disregard for rules from schemers. More than a touch of zen from pot-smoking liberals. All of these little pieces, I'll add to my burgeoning courage to be the person I've always longed to be.

You may worry that with such examples, I'll be dancing too close to danger. Don't worry. I'm old enough to not be stupid and completely reckless. I'm also old enough to know that a life half lived is no life at all.

Many things have aggregated my growing discontent with the status quo, the way it's "supposed to be." I'll share some of those, as well as document my irresponsible actions as I throw a comfortable, convenient, and safe life away. Safety is another way of saying you've given into fear. I'm tired of being safe.

Down with boring stuff!

I'm reorganizing my life. Literally. That includes my blogging. So be prepared for all kinds of who knows what. I don't know what, either.

Also, I probably shouldn't redo a website or post to the blog when I'm sleep deprived. Me = slaphappy