Sleeping with the Enemy.

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There aren’t many worse ways to be woken up then to be cold-clocked in the eye from a dead sleep.

Except for this: cold-clocking yourself in the eye.

I can’t recount in detail the events leading up to this catastrophic event (since I was sleeping), but I do know the aftermath. Like a bad Stephen King storyline, my hands are apparently out to kill me. Jolted awake by a fist of fury, I was stunned to find I was the culprit.

I immediately checked my eye to assess the damage, only to notice the mark of the beast – a thumbnail gash. I managed to not only punch myself, but slice myself open as well (slice is an exaggeration, but hey, it’s my blog). Stumbling back to bed, I quickly ransacked my slumber ridden brain for ideas on how to avoid repeating this debacle. The hands must be stopped.

Over-estimating my ability to think with only half my synapses firing, I had the brilliant idea to sleep on my hands (yes, I graduated college).

I probably don’t need to tell you this was a bad idea. Not to mention uncomfortable. Hell bent on not letting my hands get the best of me, I sacrificed a good amount of sleep focusing on their demise.

The most painful part of this story¬† didn’t have anything to do with the swollen eye, punctured skin or numb hands, but everything to do with my dignity. Concealer can cover up a lot of things, but it can’t cover up whatthehelliswrongwithyoutrish?

Long, unnecessary story short – no, I didn’t walk into a door.

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Down for the Count

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It’s a rare instance when I feel sorry for myself. Typically, I relish a challenge and love feeling vindicated when I overcome any and all hurdles. But this year…this, crap storm of insanity, nearly did me in. 2009 is a year that deserves no place in my home or memory, but promises to haunt me with it’s legacy of heartbreak, grief and frustration.

2009 took my Aunt Eileen. The one person whom you would first turn to when your problems needed solving. She offered the best advice, tips and Eileen-isms when you needed it most. She was elegant, loving, funny and a great problem solver (and could whoop you a good one in Scrabble). After battling breast cancer for several years, it suddenly took a turn for the worst last May. She fought bravely and showed incredible amounts of courage when others would have faltered. We thought we all had time to say one last goodbye. We were wrong.

And the heartbreak was just starting.

Sunday mornings can begin with the best of intentions. Sleep in, eat a little breakfast, meet-up with Dad at the new dog park. When suddenly, Sunday’s intentions burst into flames and you’re brought to your knees distraught over a little tidbit of information the Sheriff divulges over the phone.

“Your father has passed away.”

These words echo.
Needless to say, the bottom dropped out and I was nearly catatonic for several weeks. If I didn’t have such a supportive, thoughtful group of friends and family, I’d probably still be surviving on saltines and vitamin water to this day. My “Momma” Holl flew out to keep me going, and Graeme stayed by me, propping me up and wiping away the copious amounts of mucous that seemed to accrue (really…someone should study this).

I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing this because it needs to be said. In the same breath, however, I’ll never be able to successfully articulate every thought, feeling and emotion I’ve encountered. All I know is that I feel completely and utterly defeated.

But not down for the count.

This is when the best stories are created. I will rise from these ashes gallantly and swiftly, because that’s what I learned to do from two of the best people I’ve ever had the fortune of knowing: Eileen Adorno and John Winter.

Thanks for everyone’s patience during my absence from the Blogosphere. Grieving is hard, life is rough, and blogging is inconvenient. I plan to stick to it though (whether that’s good or bad remains to be seen).