|Posted by Tammy L Boehm on February 24, 2014 at 5:10 PM||comments (0)|
So I was sitting in my shower this morning, scraping off my glittery nail polish (note to self. Your toenails are terrifying. Seek professional help. Really) and ruminating over a dream I had in the predawn hours. You see, since an onset of severe sleep apnea I rarely remember my dreams and when I do, they’re stupid. Last one I had I was having a conversation with a blue dog.
You see, I am about as spiritual as mac and cheese – and not the ooey gooey Velveeta joy in an orange box, but more the generic Kraft knock off with that dayglo powder that sticks in in a defiant pasty curdle on the edge of your spatula. That stuff. Last night however, I dreamed of Colleen. I saw her dressed in cobalt, the air around her alive with light. She was singing a song I’ve never heard before and she was surrounded – not by angels but by some of the Worship Team, the choir and her family. It was so real I could have reached out and touched the shoulders of the people worshiping with her…
Chalk it up to that cold Carl’s Jr. bacon western burger I munched on the way home from her Life Celebration or the staccato firings of dendrites attempting to soothe my overwhelmed heart, but I believe it was a little kiss from God. And I’m tasked to hold it lightly on my fingertips for a moment then send it off gently to someone else in the hope that it lifts a soul, just a little. Only God can infuse my dark words with light for someone else. I don’t have that power.
To those of you commented on my Facebook page yesterday, you have no idea how humbling that was. Truth is I write because I’m not an adept musician (bagpipes on a worship team….uh no.) and the first time I heard myself recorded while singing, I was shocked to know that I sounded more like Kermit the frog than Stevie Nicks (I’m also twirl impeded. Sigh) I write because I’m so much better on paper than in person. Take away the me in the mirror, the imperfections, and there is no filter to dilute the depth of emotion I want to convey. I have no desire to fill up journals with morose, self-absorbed ramblings. I have enough of those rotting on my bookshelves to paper the cages of Petland for the next millennium. I write for you. Because I love you. Because you matter. Because I see that light within you and I am drawn to it. Maybe my words will be the mirror that lets you see that light…you’re alive with it and it shimmers around you – effervescent and beautiful.
|Posted by Tammy L Boehm on February 13, 2014 at 5:05 PM||comments (0)|
The middle of the week is winding down and I find myself on autopilot. In of my first official returns to blogging early last month I told 2014 to bring it. In retrospect, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.
Truth is 2014 is gearing up to be a continuation of 2013 which was simply an extension of its wearisome predecessor 2012. Honestly, I can’t remember the last “good” year I had. Work is still a blur. I’m still fat. I still don’t have that book keeping business, or that publishing business or a clean kitchen floor and now I find myself dealing with the most aching grief I’ve felt since my dad passed away in 2009. All this in the face of everything I’ve been reading and hearing in my heart when moments are quiet and I look up, praying under my breath for that flood of indescribable joy I know is but a blink away….
Last Friday, one of the most beautiful souls I’ve ever had the blessing to experience, if even on a surface level won her four year fight with the monster that is Lyme Disease. The first time I saw Colleen and her husband was in 2005. It was a summer Sunday morning and I and my family attended a local church called Believers Center for the first time. We were looking for a new home after making a wrenching decision to leave our Lutheran church. I remember we talked about how we didn’t want to go “Pentacostal”, or “large”. We just wanted a quiet small place to disappear maybe on the back row on Sunday morning. I can’t tell you what song was being sung but I do remember that the music was totally amazing and I and my whole family wept through all the songs. We’ve been going to BCA ever since. Along the way, we grew to love Colleen and Jaris and the rest of the worship team like family. It took me about three years to gather the courage to join choir (because I was scared Colleen would actually hear me sing and toss me out) and I still remember one of my first practices when she turned around and said, “I can hear you. It sounds good.” I think I forgot all the words to the songs for the rest of practice. I never lost that sense of awe and respect for Colleen. I keep it in my heart even now as I consider her grace, her tenacity and her impact on others as she battled a monster that just kept coming….
I’ve been so blessed to know other people in her extended family. One of her nephews was the first friend my younger son met at BCA. My older son is close to another nephew and a niece. Her husband Jaris was instrumental (no pun intended) in helping our younger child play bass guitar and Colleen herself mentored our older son in choir and on the Worship Team. We learned to worship watching Colleen and the rest of the worship team and now with her passing, we are learning how deep love and grace can go in the face of loss.
I know so many people would look at Colleen’s passing as failure on multiple levels. Why would a loving God take a beautiful, strong, gifted woman away from her husband, her children, her church family and her circle of influence. Why would He let her suffer? And the worst – where was her faith for healing? Honestly, before 2005 I would have been asking those questions myself. But Colleen and others at BCA have taught me that none of those questions are even worth contemplation. The enduring part of Colleen’s legacy is so evident in those who love her, who have responded with that mix of joy and sorrow knowing she isn’t here, but she WON and is where she always wanted to be, at the feet of her King and Father. Whole and singing and dancing and laughing that huge laugh she had. That love has been on display in the responses of so many, and it is proof that love, not death, is the most powerful force on the planet. We cry because we miss her. And that’s ok. But torment and tears and suffering are all temporary. We are destined for a time and a place where there will be no sorrow, and no suffering. Colleen lived her life like that. I want to live mine like that too. I hold on to the very real hope that the aching grief will indeed pass and that flood of indescribable joy is only a moment away.
|Posted by Tammy L Boehm on January 12, 2014 at 5:05 PM||comments (0)|
And so here I am at the end of the first official week of 2014 or perhaps starting the second, depending how one approaches the concept of a calendar and I must admit the new year has entered with the ferocity of a Kansas worthy tornado. (polar vortex notwithstanding) I am quite convinced that those external human driven powers in control of various parts of my life must have spent massive hours on January 1 determining that I am in fact capable of facilitating all of their New Year's goals with in the first two weeks of 2014, which should I be stupid enough to pick up the thrown glove would it merit me a blissful hiatus for the rest of the year? Excuse me, my unicorn needs her rainbow tail plaited. One moment...
You see I am by trade an accountant in a small company owned by a complex, brilliant entrepreneur who often does Rain Man math in his head whilst hurtling down the freeway and conversing on the phone with us office types. I'm sure he's texting others as well. Since tag I'm it for the year end process for his multiple companies (including the main corporation which employs almost forty people) I am always a busy chick in January. So let's amp up a sparkly new HR process for our beloved work force right smack in the soft midsection of Oh My God I'm Trying to Close the Books and cap it with a nice frosting of multiple hours of "Why Won't My Software Back up Tech Support Hell" If you've ever called your utility company during a power outage or the IRS on April 14th, you may comprehend my pain, just a little. Thus compileth my first official foray into the milieu that is 2014.
Of course the minions could not possibly have realized that I, having compiled my own personal goals started them that same week. Woman cannot survive on white bread, chocolate and cheese indefinitely and I picked this year to excommunicate them from my kitchen after a December of indulgence befitting Caesar. And then there's that little exercise DVD set I bought in June. Let's not forget that bit of daily torment, shall we?
Suffice it to say, I slid into my weekend with my brain wrung out and my body lamenting the extra layer of seal fat I've acquired over the past two decades of living the Murkin Dream. That's when the bell rang for round two of the onslaught against the reigning champion of Casa De Boehm. He's tall, he's grizzled, he said yes in 1990 and death hath not yet parted us. Bring on them honey do's. (he gets stuff to work without burning down the castle and fixes the chariot, I dole out the pittances to various soul sucking entities, make pretty words form sentences and run all manner of administrative affairs. We both run the scullery and kill vermin. Its how we roll.)
I haul out Saturday morning and brace myself for my "I just need your help with this and this and this purgatory when my dear HOH (head of household) tells me "Sasha is missing." And there it is. Karma is a feline and she hath just scatted mightily and with great scent upon my breakfast gruel. The resident feline and I have raised hating on each other to a high art - so complete is my loathing that upon her absence the Spare's eyes were upon me expecting me to break out in spontaneous song and dance. (Like Princess Di I have an Heir and a Spare) He unfortunately was devastated as he had been the bearer of the short "you have to put Karma outside tonight" stick and had neglected to bring her back in and all on the cusp of bathing her 17 year old, graying feline parts earlier in the day. As the morning progressed into afternoon we could feel the Karmic squeeze around our hearts in the knowledge that our feline was no longer capable of weathering below freezing temperatures another night. Suffice it to say, when we came home from a scout around the block to find her Feline Badness munching kibble and growling into her bowl as we mauled her and cried (well I cried) there is a sense of peace once again in the castle. I'm even less sure about her personal safety outside after discovering that one set of adjacent neighbors has at least eleven cats....all staring us down as we walked by as though we had catnip tied around our necks.
The thing about Karma though is this. Grace can counter any bad JuJu you may accidentally spill in your lap as you're blasting at the speed of light through this thing called life. Some lessons like "you left the old cat out all night because you were distracted and tired and she died" aren't worth learning. Sometimes it's so much better to know you have a Creator who listens when you cry out "I'm sorry. I made a mistake with something I'm tasked to steward. Please help me make this right." or perhaps "Please God. Help my kid. There are other consequences bristling in his future. He already understands how hard life can get. He's already had a pet die in his arms. Spare him this."
I don't believe I had to convince God by begging for the life of a small, irritating, aged feline who exists merely to make my life difficult. I didn't tear my hair and storm the gates of Heaven. I just asked for help for my kid because I'm the mom and my children are under my specific spiritual authority and I am equipped to ask for things on their behalf. I know God is the Author of life and will agree with a life running its course to its completion. And I don't believe that God invented Karma. We humans did. What we do can and does come back to us - good or bad - but its not God batting the unholy ball back in the direction of our soft underparts. We chose to throw it. In this case, I think God gently intervened and let us walk on this one. Take your base, Boehms. I love you.
Tomorrow is another day and even though I've lobbed enough karmic goo out there into the stratosphere to keep me dodging the rebounds and aftershocks for the rest of my life I know I'm gonna be ok as is everything under my jurisdiction. With God batting for me I can get the books done, the year's closed, all the mighty new year projects ticked off, the kid helped and yup even the cat protected against a world of feral felines, roaming coyotes and whatever else lurks in the darkness under the neighbor's trailer. Life is good. Bring it on 2014. I'm ready for you.
|Posted by Tammy L Boehm on January 1, 2014 at 5:05 PM||comments (0)|
Goodbye and Good Riddance 2013
Posted 8 Months Ago
Somewhere amidst the flurry of wrapping up another nasty audit at work, drafting yet another novel to waste hard drive on the PC, adding a few K more of dead people to my family tree and gaining back all the weight I lost in 2011 there floats the wreckage of the rest of my life. I'm clinging to the mast, chipping off splinters to stab the soft noses of circling sharks and sticking my toes down frequently for the sweet feel of sand in the shallows. I know it's only a matter of time and once in awhile over the past 12 months of storms and doldrums I've hauled out to hang ten over the edge of my precarious perch. I'll do it again. Just let me get that second or fortieth wind.
There's a whole lotta flotsam and jetsam floating in my personal ocean, storm surges and ripple effects carried me and mine through water we never thought we'd cross and some of it - I'm not sure it was worth the tear induced migraines. I watched my dear son let go of the beautiful girl we thought he'd marry - a lesson in transience I never wanted him to learn and I am not sure if any of us are better for it. I'm always a proponent of "Happy Ever After" because that whole "Loved and Lost" bit is for those much less possessive and addictive than me. But the decision was his and hers and I have to respect their free will. I had to let him go a little in the process and my inner toddler is still face down on the floor screaming over that. When the man child informed me he was moving out in June - I burst into tears. It's better now. We moved the younger spawn into his room, painted, and I count hours between the weekly visits. I turned younger spawn's room into an office. I burn scented candles in my little space and draped some surfaces with girly scarves (the feminine human equivalent to peeing on the hydrant I suppose) Its no replacement for that blue eyed child who never refused to hug me and that ever present smile - but change is change and I'm attempting to do it gracefully (pfuh!)
A couple of months ago I finally got a diagnosis on why my feral heart behaves like a nerd at a dance party. Apparently I suffer from severe sleep apnea which means I stop breathing upwards of 47 times an hour on average. I've been on a CPAP machine for almost three months now and while I loathe the thing - I am noticing that my palpitations are less severe and I don't dread hauling out of bed in the morning. Whodathunkit? I wasn't falling asleep during the day. I was dog tired but I thought it was just my own inability to prioritize all the daily drudge - and I truly blamed hormones for the palpitations. I'm 48. Seemed like a no brainer. I still wake up a couple of times per night - mostly because the mask is something akin to a farting jellyfish on my face, it blows in my eyes and it's not conducive to any form of romance but the little monitor says I'm staying below 2 episodes per hour so I try to be tolerant.
I did start frequenting my old haunt at Writers Cafe this year and have returned to writing poetry. I participated in NANOWRIMO - hitting that 50k word mark well before the end of the day on November 30. Not sure what I'll do with the mess that is a first rough draft but at least its something.
And so this new year - I've determined to continue writing and that includes a return to blogging. I know I'll never be "interesting" again on the scale of Y360 but I find release in blabbering to a screen about my dismal day and sometimes when some one stops by and enjoys a good belly laugh - well that's better than marshmallows in my cocoa. I figure this and a diet and exercise regimen to try to get some of this regained flab will keep me busy over the new year - and there won't be much time for moody introspection and disappointment. Unless perhaps the younger spawn falls in love and moves out. Could happen. He's become an accomplished bass guitarist over the past year and graduated from High School. He has beautiful blue eyes and dark curly hair...Perhaps I need to shop today. For a large lock....for his bedroom door.
|Posted by Tammy L Boehm on September 16, 2013 at 6:00 PM||comments (0)|
Will it go round in circles..do do 09/16/13
If the earworm is planted - I know how old you are...
It's late Monday evening and I have exactly twenty four minutes before the obligatory family TV time wherein the male progeny and bipedal hominid also known as my spouse will convene in our living slash eating slash jockeying for rulership of the known world room and watch sinewy types fling themselves at obstacles in an effort to conquer something called "Mount Midoriyama" If I were to hurl myself at an insurmountable object suspended over liquid t'would more than likely be some candied fruit perched on the lip of a frosted glass with a dollop of fattening confectious goo. If there's no chocolate involved, why exert the effort?
Today was a noxious mess of punitive audit type finger shakings and last minute financial napalm. My feral innards began sounding off at 9:00 and are still pummeling their soft selves against that barrier to freedom known as my breastbone. You see, for those of you who do not know, I am battling with incessant heart palpitations. Like so many toxic things in my life they were cyclical from 2007 until Thanksgiving Day 2012. Since that day - they are daily in blocks of 30 minutes to four hours to all day - every single day. Some days I power through and other days I simply crumble. It is why I am prone to cryptic Facebook updates and bouts of waffling on goals. The palpitations become so strong that I cannot concentrate fully on even the eminent issues which leaves nothing for things like goals, dreams, and making a healthy smoothie for breakfast instead of gulping down leftovers in a styro box.
I've been tested and retested and have been told that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my heart, my hormone levels or even my cholesterol. I've been offered a tiny pill which I bristle at the thought of taking. It's much like cavities. I never had one until about ten years ago. Then I got one and now I have six I think. So why cross the line, you know? There is one more option and that is a test for sleep apnea. I do snore but so does every one else in my casa so I don't see the point but I will dutifully trundle myself off with my stuffed unicorn and stripey jams tomorrow evening after another difficult day and attempt to sleep with sticky pads all over my person - knowing someone is watching....what if I scratch myself in my sleep? Sigh.
And so I've been trying to divert my attention to more productive things. In April I returned to writing a lot more poetry which I've only subjected my buddies on Writers Cafe to reading. I harangued my poor husband into making the tiny front room into an office, moving the progeny back into the Heir's old room and trying to stay out of the Heir's business. (I text him every day. He never answers. What's a nosey mom to do.) Tonight in an effort to siphon off some of that angst I thought I would attack the last bastion of pure chaos and streamline my "internet presence." Truth is I love blogging and blogger is a blog site so I think I will combine my multiple blogs here and inundate my Facebook Buds with inane posts. Why not glut the bandwidth with Tamjunk. It's a repeating loop and here we go round again. Maybe this time I'll stick to it.
Peace. I have to go get my spot on the couch - you know, the one that is form fitted to my..form.
|Posted by Tammy L Boehm on May 1, 2013 at 8:00 PM||comments (0)|
The “C” word
This weekend, whilst ambling about the ample fare at the Café and that black hole known as Facebook, I found myself in the unenviable position of “taking offense.” Note the difference between “taking offense” and “being offended” as I am in control of my reactions to anything I may encounter. I can only “be offended” to the extent of which I allow the free will of another soul to impinge upon my own free will. Passionate creature that I am, angsty and stubborn crone, saturated with berserker DNA I still cannot defer to my baser nature while my frontal lobe is still intact and my command center has had decades to solidify the difference between right and wrong: Speaking life = right. All other options, no matter how desirable in the moment of battle = wrong.
You see, as my fingers skittered nervously over my keyboard, burning with the righteous fire of indignation (or perhaps errant hormonal surges. I am in fact 48 – and since I mentioned both hormones and surges will that now merit a pink bar above this post? I digress) I realized that my standard bearing, high and mighty self was about to nullify the very thing I consider a tenant of my specific brand of faith: I was going to speak from the position of offense, and not love. Good thing my Creator as I know him extends sufficient grace to ornery, peri-menopausal chicks like me because had I stormed forward and not used my brain and my backspace key the Almighty mighta been within His Holy rights to open up an Old Testament can o consequences upon myself righteous and completely erring self. (Did God’s kids have cans back in the day? Ok perhaps a poured out bowl of old school wrath complete with insects and the blood of livestock. Yeah. Something like that) Anyway. I refrained from showing my virtual hind parts and ruminated over the sitch as I see it. (Bee Tee Dub – this conundrum of mine was cumulative – it wasn’t one post or one writer or even a contact of mine who gave me the opportunity – it was several different posts and comments across multiple entries on multiple sites)
And thus t’was she wot well-ed up in me: Meet Tammy, Village Idiot. Perhaps you are unaware and if you are that may not speak well of me, but I am in fact a Bible readin’, church goin’, prayin’ Christian and have been for many years. (There’s your C word. I hope you’re not offended) and because I am considered “seasoned” lumber (ok petrified wood, go there. It’s fine. I may have gray hairs older than some who might stumble upon this post) I am fully aware of the concept of free will and of consequences. Don’t check out. This is not a conversion post. I have no agenda. But I do owe you the reader full disclosure. (google: transparency – apply it to your writing liberally) and so this is my truth. Engaging a person of a significantly different faith or belief system in verbal warfare is equivalent to thumping a wasp nest with a baseball bat. In the virtual world it translates to unread posts and I can post a dancing plethora of pitiful poetry without playing my God card to deter the unwashed masses.
Truth is the God I know would never impinge on your free will. It is the very tenant of the Christian faith. Religion makes choices for you based on human interpretations of Appropriate, correct, good, and meritorious – God doesn’t. He loves everyone equally. No exceptions. Therefore if I choose to love Him back – I can’t damn his kids now can I? Faith is the thing that enables me to believe that God loves me and all the rest of the peeps I’d like to plow under with my car but can’t because if I love God – I gotta love his kids, right? The minute you step into God loves me/you/ the dude that runs nekkid through his back yard sprinkler with love beads and a smile on whilst shouting “oreos for everyone!” IF I do this and this but don’t do this – you’re into religion which has been putting a flat foot in the hindermost orifices of Christians since the serpent said “Are you sure?” (Yup it’s a Biblical reference. I can do that. I’ve read to the end) If I love God and I believe He loves me no matter how much I would like to bean my next door neighbor with a dollop of prechewed feline food – my response – the only appropriate response under the circumstances is to respond in love. Do I stumble? Yup. Does my neighbor sometimes come out and find a Friskies kibble tidbit on his porch? Possibly. But God still loves me and him too and if he shoves that morsel down my throat – hey, I chose to leave it on his step and he chose to forcibly return it. FREE WILL BABY.
So just because I run across another person exercising his or her free will on the bandwidth doesn’t give me foundation to exercise mine, knowing what I know and believing what I believe. God loves me, but I can’t use the excuse that I don’t know how He wants me to represent Him whilst in this meatsack.
All that being said, if you are a like- minded Christian and you’re behaving like a dorkasaurus 24/7 one corrective JERK may just deserve another and I have every right to open up a can of old school “God said in His Word” correction on you. (and that’s Biblical too. If your Brother is being a braying donkey - go talk to him. If he won’t listen – get a couple more brothers and a muzzle and a flamethrower and a big pot…wait)
So I’m pulling a corrective jerk on my own jerk self because I am the biggest jerk I know, and twisting the rope, just a little to make a point. You have free will to say anything you want here on the café as long as you stay within the parameters set forth by Charlie and his electronic crawling minions. I have every right to respond because I have free will BUT – if I do – there can and will be consequences – not from God – but from you who I seek to understand. I choose to take offense, or I just to seek common ground. The latter is so much more pleasant.
Yes, I am a Christian. Yes, I have strong POV’s on more than I could articulate on this page. Yes, I will discuss them but not at the expense of innocent bystanders or your friendship. PM me if you’re really curious about who I is and what I does. Beyond that I will now do what my kid always tells me to do and that is:
SETTLE DOWN, CRAZY PANTS!
It’s all good.
|Posted by Tammy L Boehm on April 25, 2013 at 5:55 PM||comments (0)|
An Open Note to my WC friends
Posted 1 Year Ago
Don't freak out. I'm not starting a flame war or a crusade. I just want to speak my heart.
Recently I "celebrated" my 48th birthday and it registered with chilling resonance that my life is on the downward spin. We are all mortal here with perhaps a few exceptions who would tell you he or she is in fact an archangel or a space alien, but the rest of us - our physical tenure is finite. And so, with my finances in shambles, my career in stasis and my stuttering heart eclipsing everything else in a day I find myself nothing more than a horrific warning to those who step on to the track ahead of me - arms flung behind grasping for that baton...its covered in scorpions and vipers dear one. If you don't drop it outright - you may not survive the poison that will surely course through your veins.
My simple truth is this. I am damned unhappy and the only option I have now to stop the bleed out is to be honest. All I really have to give another soul is the story of life as I have experienced it in the hope that my own glaring mistakes will be lessons you will not have to repeat. I consider myself a veritable set of cliff notes on how NOT to fail miserably at this thing we call life.
I've spent over thirty years as a wannabe. When I started down my path as a writer it was only to impress those who were not already enamored with me. I was never coddled by my family or teachers. I was never told - you should become a writer. In fact, after on particularly gummy, glitter crusted construction paper nightmare my mom flat out told me: do not make me a card. I want you to buy me a real card. I should have listened to my mother. When I started my foray into "rockstar wannabe" I wrote like a mofo because I couldn't sing or play an instrument and I wanted my besties to keep me in the band. They didn't. When I fell in love I wrote for my husband. He asked me finally to stop because he found my poems embarrassing. My children have never read most of my work. I had to pay to publish my first novel - and a compilation of poetry. In 29 years and hundreds of pieces of work only four projects have been published without me paying for them to be in print. Only four. You'd think I would stop, but the truth is, I'm an addict. It isn't about hope anymore. Its just part of who I am.
So here is the takeaway. Its not about groveling for sympathy. Its not about wanting you to sprinkle fairy dust on a dream that died back in 1986 or even about you helping me kill all the zombies I've created since then. I just hope that you glean something from me, that I serve some purpose while I remain on this planet. So here is my advice to you. Write for yourself. Write because it is who you are and what you do. Write because you love, you hate, you envy, you feel with every fiber of your being. Write because you are a writer first and foremost. Then hold that writing up to the light and get honest with yourself about who you are as a writer. Dreams are wonderful - but unless you can dream up the skin of an alligator and the heart of a gladiator - your little Tinkerbell heart is in for a trouncing. Once you start "sharing your brilliance" with the world, or even with your intended audience - you may be in for a kick to the stones. You may be in for 30 years of putting your poems in a box because no one wants to read them. You may need to understand that you suck. So if you can handle that hard truth, or If you're like me, on the downside of things, haggard, bruised and sorry you're still breathing most days - if you still want to write - just do it and come to terms with the fact that you are never going to be the you you wanted to be when you thought you were something else. At this point, its not hurting anyone. Right?
I am a writer. I am not a good writer but I am a writer. My grandfather was a writer, photographer, artist, musician and he went to the dark side I think, because he never found success doing what he loved to do. In the end, he died alone. He was divorced from the wife he abused and estranged from the children he molested. My father was also creative but went technical, career minded - driven. He too spent several years flirting with the dark side and in the end it harmed his career, ended a marriage and shortened his life. As for me? I know the dark side well but the bigger ache is facing the truth that I am simply not good enough - and that life isn't about me. It is about my family, my kids, my friends and tiny circle of influence I have.
And so? My sons are brilliant. One is an artist. The other a singer and a writer. Both have been constantly encouraged since they first showed ability to take those abilities as far as they can. It is my hope that they will refrain from that dark side that sucks in so many people of brilliance.
As for you. I'm not here to hurt anyone. I'll give you honest feedback on your writing. I'll socialize with you. I'll never rip your throat out in a thread or a PM. And I hope I cast more light than darkness. I just hope that if you read me, you'll take time to understand from where it is I come and why I stay...where I am.
Peace. Go write something.
|Posted by Tammy L Boehm on April 24, 2013 at 5:40 PM||comments (0)|
So here I am again, staring down the barrel of another "Birthday" just a couple of days from now and I find myself in the usual mindset somewhere between angsty, desperate, weary and almost unable to bear the little girl in the back of my head who curls fetal around my spine and begs me to look up...because it can always get better, right? I don't have the heart to kick her while she's down but my fist....its doubled and my jaws are set.
I don't know if I've just gotten used to them or if the latest endeavor - juicing - has helped the palpitations but they seem to be a tad better. Of course what's the difference between an 8.9 and a 9.0 on the richter scale of life? Shaking is shaking. Since Thanksgiving Day 2012 I have not experienced a day without a spate of palpitations. They've settled to a routine - sometimes a few in the morning - and then calm until sometime between 11 and 1 - if I've been careful - I may only have a few. If not - its a three hour marathon. And then I may be at peace until sometime between 4 and 5:30 before they amp up and pound on my rib cage like a large dog thumping its tail against the door until I go to sleep. Red bell pepper in quantity is off the menu as is green chile. Subway sandwiches are off the menu. More than one beer is unacceptable. They are still triggered by stress, and certain loud noises. Overeating in any fashion makes me miserable. I keep hoping and searchingbut it seems as though it is what it is.
And so the juicing. I've always been the ornery type that growled and snarled and said "if God had meant for me to slurp my food through a staw I'd been born a fly - but my dear spouse has done some research and it does seem to make a small difference. At this point I'll take what I can get. Unfortunately his concoction based on the exhaustive research of a good friend (who is vey healthy) is disgusting and in no way equivalent to bacon on the palette. But I'm giving it the old Viking try.
And as if changing my diet wasn't enough of a shock to my system I finally succumbed to Iphoneitis and downloaded an app called couch to 5k. Suffice it to say, I hate the app. I hate my children who went with me as a means of encouragement and threatened to tase my feet. I hate the flabnami effect when I run (that awful way your fat draws back under your skin and then slams down against your bones with enough ferocity that you are certain you've broken something.) Yes. I hate it all. But I can either complain - or I can do everything I can until I come to the end of myself where I can do no more.
I've also taken up the writing in earnest. We are only afforded so much time, and besides, this month is national poetry month so I dove in and have written perhaps a dozen poems. I'm revisiting a novel as well. Of course more days than not I go home and flop on the couch and try not to bawl like a baby over the fact that my heart pounds in my throat - but perhaps - slowly - I'll get used to the new normal - and I'll be productive again.
Peace. Birthdays suck though. Just sayin.
|Posted by Tammy L Boehm on March 23, 2013 at 5:35 PM||comments (0)|
So I'm just going to throw this out there. I've never been one to filter my ish. I have attempted the whole cloaking device thing and I suppose I've gotten a little better about certain things like disparaging my coworkers and family members on the bandwidth, but where I am concerned. It just doesn't matter. Read me, don't read me. get me, don't get me. I don't want to cause harm or offend but I've gotten over myself enough to know that the contents of my head spilled out onto the blog page isn't going to make a difference...to anyone. Really.
So here is my deal. Since 2007 I have been dealing with intermittent heart palpitations. In november (thanksgiving day) they amped up to DAILY palpitations lasting in blocks of four to six hours. Every single EFFING day. I went back to a cardiologist in January and was told what they were -its actually from the bottom chamber and it is a strong beat....in other words my little ticker ticks along regularly and then has a little wimpy beat and the next one is stronger to make up for it. So it feels like many smally rabbits pounding on my chest. From the inside. I was told it was "normal" and that I was just "feeling" them more than the average Bear. This was the second visit to a reputable cardiologist. So.
They piss me off to no end. They start when I get up in the morning as intermittent little mofos. By noon they are constant...pounding arses. They may or may not diminish between oh two and five - and when I get home by six they are ridiculous and my jaw hurts from CLENCHING IT. This is not anxiety. I am not anxious. I am WEARY. I am TIRED. I am FRUSTRATED. ITS EVERY DAMN DAY.
I've tried breathing techniques. Ive prayed. I've cried. I've drank liquour. I've abstained. Ive cut the cheese (sorry had to say it) I've cut all peppers from my diet. I've cut dairy. I've cut fat. I've cut junk, carbs and caffeine. NOTHING RELIEVES THE SH*T I am feeling in my chest DAILY.
I've tried hawthorne, magnesium, Yao Xiang, Colloidal Silver, Emergen C, Eating small meals NOTHING WORKS. They continue to get worse. By the afternoon - I am unable to think coherently. I was told by the cardiologist that the drugs used to treat the palpitations were worse than the palpitations. I call bovine excrement.
I went to my obgyn. I asked again for blood work to see if it is a hormone thing or a thyroid thing. Two years ago - it wasn't but two years ago - they cycled. Now they are ALL DAMN DAY.
So. Tam's got a burr in her saddle. Any ideas? This was part of the reason I crashed and burned at hte new job. I couldn't think with my heart rattling out of my chest.
Peace. If anyone has any ideas, let them fly. Remember though I'm not having one prolonged anxiety attack. If I were, it would respond to something. These are just worsening.
|Posted by Tammy L Boehm on March 18, 2013 at 5:40 PM||comments (0)|
Well. Its been three months since I was here and so much has happened. I had the opportunity to transition to a new position with a different company. I jumped ship. I about drowned, so I scrabbled like a wet rat back to my old job. I'm not proud of myself but I'm breathing.
I've been meaning to come back here and post for several weeks and specifically I've been thinking of a dear friend of mine that I followed here. I hadn't heard from her in a few weeks so I went looking for her on Facebook. I was stunned to find out that she "Seanymph" had passed away. I knew she was struggling with something chronic, but I didn't know it was terminal. I started reading posts with words like "hospice" and then the beautiful pictures of roses on her page, and words like "I miss you. You would like this." and my heart just fell.
I am probably the last to know. And that in itself is disturbing. Pat was a good friend and so many times, even though we were only connected by internet - I valued her influence in my life. She was always a voice of compassion and reason. She always uplifted me. And now I ache.
Its the horrible warning I suppose. Stay in contact. Make the effort. You never know when someone will simply disappear from your life.
Peace. I have so much to say but right now....it kinda doesn't matter. Perhaps tomorrow.