it was over 365 days ago when i choose to keep my heart in one piece

It was over 365 something days I decided. I decided. To keep my heart in one piece. And I succeeded. I did it. My heart stayed inside this very chest. It did not fly on to the floor in a million something pieces. I did not need a bungee cord or super glue to put it back together. I did not lay on the ground kicked in the stomach saying why me again?  I did not need a therapist to hold my hand to walk outside. Alone. I did not lay in a puddle of my own despair. Not anymore.  What happened? It is not a disney story. For those only exist in the confines of tvs and screens and movie theaters not the reality of every day. Storybooks of childhood of happy endings made easy.  What happened? It was not sexy. It was boring. It grew tired. I grew tired from the lack of excitement without the crash and burn and the quick fire repetitions of love affairs. I grew lonely. Boredom. Now. It was not pretty this keeping together of this heart. Loneliness foreign.

What happened next was. Was I learned how to play hide and seek with boredom, I let loneliness become my friend and no longer an enemy sown together-it lost its power. I let the desire for the excitement bubble outside of me in other ways. I said out loud what I wanted while my heart was held together in all its entirety. I stopped looking. And somewhere along the line, I surrendered. My own rendition of a child's pose.  In this game of love. And turned a new page, created a new story.

A new story of my attempt at love. For the first time in the history of Kate. I kept my heart in one piece and allowed life to happen in a way I did not take every opportunity and make it happen now. Right now. Because what if it was our only chance?  But I let go. Because I could not stomach another heart wrenching demise. And I woke up into. A new story. Of a relationship. Possibility. Just because you get a new story, does not mean you get a new ending. It does not just work that way.

But could be breaking the curse of loser guys and dismantling not getting what I need and the storyline of falling for ideas of people-outlines of real men- being over. Be enough. Could my heart being in one piece. And me being okay. Even if this might be over. That in this ending. My heart staying in one piece. Might mean. It all is different. In a way I wanted. In a way I have always wanted. In a way I had never dreamt. That goodbye might not be the shatter of the pulse and core of me. But instead. Letting go. To see what might be next. For us. Or just me. But no matter what this pitter patter that stays with me enclosed in its home of protection. Hasn't left.

I said over 365 days ago I could not survive another heart break. And as I stand here. Thinking of what will be next. My heart is in one piece. And knowing there is more. More of this to come. Might be the greatest gift. Of all. By myself or with him. Or someone else. I know I am not broken. Anymore. So many times it took. For me to stand here. Really stand here. And my promise to myself unbroken. And this story engrained on my heart has changed and so have I.  

one of my first loves until me and running broke up

Blowing off steam. Blowing off steam has been my newest favorite pastime. I spent many good years of my life running and swimming and doing it for fun but mostly within the confines of team and invitations and flip turned into a baton hand off until I reached adulthood. I loved sports. I loved the ability to feel freedom in the pounding against my legs as I sped up at the end of every run. My father had taught me this trick that even after a jog you run fast and hard at the end. And believe you me it came in handy in the races of life both competitive or not. The wheels of myself going more quickly and feeling as if they might give out but on the brink of letting go- the freedom of speed- the freedom of myself. That I could get it anytime I needed it. And running. Running became a way to pound out the discomfort of adolescence and the way I spent my afternoons for many years of my life. And it helped that I was good at it. Not the best of the best but good enough to be choose for the relays and to place.

But somewhere in my relationship with running we became distant in our feelings towards one another. I dreaded doing it. And did it. Only for that scholarship. I didn't feel freedom anymore. When I put on those shoes to run- I felt dread. Dread for being awake so early. Dread for not being able sleep in. And dread for the practice I'd have to later that day. Running became a job. And the chore of it sucked the pleasure and flying from my bones and muscles and left was the feeling of contempt. Contempt I had for one of my first loves of my life. We had changed. We both had. So after my final season of my running career, I did what anyone would do or so I thought. I gave up exercise. I took up drinking and partying and smoking and being an undergraduate like everyone else. Reverse psychology on myself didn't work as I planned. Me and running broke up and she didn't come after me when she saw the back of my body sway back and forth surrounded by friends and the smoke of ways to forget her.

I didn't miss her. I didn't care about her. And I kept my relationships with my new and more exciting friends until one day I woke up and realized. Something was missing. The blowing off the steam. Could never be replaced in alcoholic binge drinking that left me more clueless than I began and apologetic and hurting the next day. Smoking could only be cool for so long and soon the honeymoon wore off and I was addicted. Me the athlete addicted to cigarettes. Blowing off the steam- I needed it.

I needed the release and freedom of the movement of my feet faster and harder and longer than I thought I could. I needed the pound of my chest in and out and rattling me to let go and learn again. I needed the sweat pouring down my face and head and limbs with my reddish face to remind me. That I am athlete and the blowing off the steam has always been my freedom. So I didn't call up running. I decided to try something new someone who would give me everything I had before because I was too scared to run. And that is how I found yoga. Yoga became my new love giving me what I needed in a new way. Until. One day I would find myself when I needed it most after a hard day of hearing others pains of life from the adolescents at school that I did the only thing I could and laced my shoes up and ran. Again.

alcoholic bones- by accident napping on a a black and white checkered kitchen floor

What she heard. Are you okay? She opened her eyes. And realized the ceiling was above her. A face was next to her talking to her. Are you okay? He says again. Around her black and white checkers evidence that she is on the floor of her kitchen. What am I doing on the kitchen floor? You passed out. Twice. This isn’t the first time this has happened. It had been awhile since she was awoken and jarred awake and found herself on a floor. Napping but not knowing how. How she had laid down for a shut eye. The last time it was a bathroom one. A public one. Gross she knew. But she was sober. And that was 5 plus years ago.

So as he is piecing it together for her. The lean on the corner of the cabinet and then the sliding down. Down to the ground. Gracefully passing out. She did. So she starts to rolodex through the reasons as to why she is sleeping on her kitchen floor and when she should get up. Probably soon. This isn’t the first time. Should she go to the doctor?

She felt lightheaded she remembered that. Something about closing her eyes and making out for the first time in months while intoxicated on a tolerance that would make her ancestors and relatives wince- not good enough for her irish alcoholic bones like hers. There was a half glass of wine served in plastic and beers not sure how many because the guy she just met and his friends bought them from her- the never empty glass of beer gets her every time. She has blacked out once before because she was drunk when she was still in the beginning of her tenure of drinking. She has passed out twice after making out with someone once sober, once intoxicated (this very time). She has passed out once because of stress. Should she get off this black and white floor? Should she die of embarrassment? Should she see a MD? Should she get herself to a meeting? Or just her bed?

She knows, knows something is going on but she isn’t sure what. The heart beats too hard too fast sometimes with or without the help of alcohol. The tingling reaching up higher to her head, felt upon her ever moving hands. Now lay still. As she got up taking his hand, she wasn’t sure what was going on inside of her. But she knew it was better to pass out on her kitchen floor than in a public bathroom in a bar while sober. What she heard. She heard. She heard she should wake up. Wake up and stand on this black and white floor. Stand on the black and white square smudged kitchen floor.

jumping trains- from the bullet to the slow

enjoy your weekend- i hope this amazing weather holds. and as always thanks for stopping by- all my gratitude. . .

Comfort. I left the comfort of the bullet train of endeavors of love recently. It was a conscious choice. Not like many I have made in the love department. But I was once comfortable in the quickness of the fall in love or lust or like and it was so fucking exhilarating that I just kept doing it. I didn’t care if the moments didn’t stretch out. I wanted more. Just another hit. Maybe I just was meant to have moments and brief love affairs and the happily ever after would just be reserved for me in mini infatuations or relationships and my I do would happen more than once.

But as I started thinking, as I do, I realized, the comfort of the bullet train of heartbreak was starting to wear on my soul. Wear me down thin. I started taking in the research and the facts for I was once a researcher. Lapsed maybe. I was once a sociologist- not sure if you can retire from that. But an analyzer of my own life as well as others might be my favorite pasttime. Sometime. So once I begun to realize that the movement was too quick I kept on falling and then forgetting to put out my hands. I started to review the scratches and scrapes and bruises. Not just the ones on the outside but the inside.Those are the hardest to look at it and understand.

So after 2 plus years in San Francisco after my east coast tenure: 1) I had survived-not used loosely-dating a married man- I didn’t know and just to make it extra creepy he was cop. So when I broke it off with him he actually had a gun on his person. Not the best scenario for safety emotional being the least of my worries. 2) I survived dating a man who most definitely had something going on in the mental department for he and I broke things off and not soon after he tried to swim to angel island. 3) I dated a man who I thought liked me enough to be pleased by me. He wasn’t. I found out I was one of many. And then he got back together with his x right after he made me met her. 4) I fell in love with someone, someone I thought I knew. Until his once in awhile habit of cocaine became a binge. And I tapped out. Well not right away I tapped back in and jumped back into the ring until I couldn’t anymore.

So needless to say the bullet train has stopped working for me. I decided to get on a slow train that makes all the stops and doesn’t leave on time and sometimes sits and idles for hours because someone tried to cross the tracks at the wrong time or it was too hot or the acela was slowing things down. There is time to walk around and write. And look around and see it all. I can even grab a beer or some bad food-overpriced of course. It’s nice.

Because the slow train for me meant that my heart couldn’t jump into something until I actually stopped and saw it. Because I just kept jumping on and off the train not paying attention to the stops or the signs. I just kept going. The slow train can be lonely and not as exciting of my love for the train of the bullet. I miss that train. Slowly I travel. Slowly I begin things. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. Still I miss the quickness of falling. Falling. But maybe I can fall more slowly. And pull the stop when I am ready to get off. Get off this train.

temporary lapse of feminist judgment- i was once a miller lite girl

Eating alone. I am eating my words of judgment, as I sit alone. By myself in this bar. See I was a feminist before I knew what feminism was. I choose to always study women who stood taller than they should. Susan B. Anthony. I ran to be the only girl in the mock elections in my 5th grade class in the Dukakis v. Bush (I) election. I wanted to be the first woman president.

I used to do things like play sports with the boys even when coaches or teachers said girls weren’t allowed to play. Play basketball in the gym with guys because girls never played when he wasn’t looking. So if he came in and I wasn’t playing I would fail this pe class. In my sophomore year. In my planned community. I took up the challenge. For no one told me no, not because I was a girl. Not now, not ever. I played my heart out as the only female on that court. Sweating and not caring just playing. And every time that teacher walked in his head turned down more quickly. I took the apology as easily as I took the challenge from him. He told me he was wrong, he was.

I got in fistfights with boys. I realized this helped out in my case because no bitches fucked with me. It was risky I realize this now. But two times I threw down over what I thought was justice. First a guy in freshman year started making fun of someone who was jewish. I got up and promptly slapped him across his face. In the middle of math class. We didn’t have a problem again until senior year and he yelled at me for not buying enough donuts for the senior picnic.

Later, I was donned with the nickname Tyson. After the ear biter/rapist/boxer/tattoo slurrer we call a boxer. Tyson was my name because I stood up against the injustice of a partial canning (when you literally put someone in a trash can) by a guy who was a year ahead of me in school. Canning was a type of flirtation of high school. I kicked my legs against the metal aluminum in the middle of the school quad of all the eyes on us. I got out of the trashcan. And saw all dots staring my way. I didn’t have any other choice. I swung my fist back and punched him square in the face. In front of the whole school. At lunch. Tyson they called me. I walked a little lighter.

See I was raised by my father so the limits of femininity were never mine. I never ate them. Consumed them. Threw them up as a bulimic. I didn’t starve myself beautiful. I didn’t squelch in fear that I couldn’t. A father raising a daughter is a sociological experiment and I am the researcher and the subject. See I had ideas about my mind v. my body and my looks. I always knew that my mind would always trump what was on the outside but it wasn’t until I left the black and whiteness of things. That I had to eat my words.

Poverty does that-makes your ideals and stances and soapboxes diminish. I didn’t strip, or pose or anything that would have been too much. But I was a miller lite girl once upon a time. For a few minutes of my life, for a few months. I don’t even drink such shitty beer even when I was poor. My snobbery of beer was mine even then. I ate my words every time I put on the whole black outfit. I put the real me-the qualities of wit and mind- somewhat on the shelf as to do my job. Everyone at each bar mostly guys were surprised I actually had a brain. Because miller lite models are idiots. Or so we thought. Women who use their bodies and faces to sell things are. I ate my words alone at the bar. I took the words in of claims for idiocy and stupidity and I swallowed my words when I ran into my former college classmate across the country where no one knew me. I wasn’t just a miller lite girl- I wanted to say. But I just ate my words. Alone. At. The. Bar.

alcoholic bones: playing the game of alcoholism

Playing the game. I was so very good at playing the game of an alcoholic. I once was. And it wasn’t until I recently tried a repeat offense-I realized I am a lapsed alcoholic as I am Catholic. There is no way of denying it. You can’t deny you used to be good it. But now one bottle of red puts me so far in the remission of a hangover-it’s depressing.

I used to play the game so well. So after I decided to have a liquid dinner of red wine-a full bottle and grabbing my emergency cigarettes-packed away randomly in the shared bathroom under the sink. I was trashed half way through. I used to drink a bottle of wine for breakfast and then go on to do the sobriety test of work. But not now.

I wake up to my computer that I fell asleep more like passed out to- it is on the ground. No big deal right until I look down and realize it’s on a broken plate. A broken plate that held my midnight snack-scratch that dinner of the poor woman’s quesadillas- find what you can in the fridge and voila white woman’s Mexican skills tested and served. Left over cheese from my roommate, abandoned corn tortillas and salsa that salsa is mine. No sour cream so I pretend by using plain yogurt to be healthy again. I am not. Then I find 4 jalapeños floating in mia jar in the back of the fridge. It filled me up and I forgot about it until. Until of course I woke up and found that I had passed out and pushed my computer to break my quesadilla plate into two. I am laughing. Maybe I am not as lapsed as I had thought.

I used to play the game of alcoholism so well. Finish work and the put it straight into my vein, whatever alcohol would do. Would do. No dinner. That would complicate things. Make me less drunk. And then the bumming of cigarettes from randoms. At that time I was a good drunk with the assistance of doses of anxiety meds I wasn’t supposed to drink on but I didn’t heed any attention to such warnings on labels too tiny to read, too tiny to care. I needed that iv drip to deal with me. To deal with my life. To keep going.

I was good at playing the game of an alcoholic by hooking up with randoms and not remembering exactly how and waking up to-oh shit how do I get out of this. I was good at hooking up with friends. I was good at stumbling and spilling and fighting when I needed to. Never physically just with my biting tongue. I was good at the apologies the next day. There always are. I was good at being a drunk. I never wanted to leave. Just keep drinking. Drinking and drinking so I could keep going. Going nowhere fast but not caring as I blew my high paid salary of miserableness on being miserable.

I was a drunk with the best of them. I used to have a tolerance. I used to slur but now now I try but fail. I used do the textbook things like miss work because of being hungover- actually I think those are the only times I called in. I would roll into work reeking of alcohol and I knew I smelt. I knew I might still be drunk.

What saved me other than my weak stomach? What saved me? Was a fight over chips I had one night. One night the fight over chips made me less of a social binge drinker and face the reality of being a drunk. A drunk. Playing the game of alcoholism- I was good at it- I miss it- I miss the simplicity of washing it all away.

the make believe of adultness: round 500- the hipster art show

have a great weekend and thanks so much for reading! i am in the fuzz of advil pm i took at 4 am because i couldn't sleep. note to self: sleep aids work so well i might still be asleep while posting this.

Make believe of adulthood has transformed into forgotten super heros costumes and play fights and lava around the bed into pretending, the faking it until you make it mantra. We all make believe but somehow the creativity of our younger wonder years can be lost in the this thing call adultness.

Being an adult is overrated. If I had only known what was to come I would have stayed in the tree house of childhood longer. I might not had rushed so hard to be an adult and make adult decisions. I might had taken longer to get through the connection from being the child to the adult of college. I might have done a lot of things. But one thing I do know is that I might have built to stay in the comfort of simplicity and lightness of being kate b. in school written upon my books. Because a whole month I was late exiting the womb. And still didn’t want to get out. They had induce my exit into the world through medication pleading me the little one to enter, enter the world of adults. Idealist I was from the beginning.

Adulthood is is the responsibility that weighs you down. The inability to give the task to someone else. So as I make believe in my own way, putting on the right dress, and making sure I look the way I should. I am making believe that I haven’t been couch and bed surfing this last week. I am pretending that stress didn’t stop me from eating and sleeping. For I am in an abyss of the solitude of fear and anger and uncertainty all occurring in my home. My landlord nightmare. Monday I was swimming in lake tahoe and by Tuesday I was calling the cops on him due to his threats. Bookmarked the week with an art gallery and a few beers.

Because I have to make believe that I am okay. That it will be okay. I got to fake it as I make it. And as I walk into the hipster flat turned into art gallery, I look in the faces most with unruly beards and eyes dilated, as I scan down to the tats art within itself, then the fanny packs, and tight jeans, and biker hats turned upward. I know we are all making believe. In the best way we can. I look around the room of art. Random photo of boobs and butts and beds and scenery and birds all lined up in neat rows. I make believe to look and really understand. Instead I am thinking what if that was my rack upon this wall? And I didn’t know until. Until right now.

We walk outside through the house that is part of the installation. We are out. The air feels good upon my face. PBR and Tecate cans in one hand and burrito in another is the uniform at this party. A dude actually pulled out his balls in the bathroom line to show his friends. Forgetting we are no longer in elementary school of privates comparison. My friend recognized him as her neighbor. And once she said something to him, he promptly replied as he put away his balls one and two, well you recognize me then. Making believe we are grown-ups, some of us are just better at it than others.

One man with a beard that needs a trim with a hoodie and burrito double fisted with both his hands interrupts my conversation and says as he sways, have you bought my book yet? No what is it about? I inquisitively respond. It’s about being fucked up on alcohol and drugs. How original- no one has done one that before-comes back up like bad milk spewed upon his face. I start laughing too loud. He laughs too. I am making believe. Believe I belong here. Here.

my own version of rehab

hope you all have a great weekend! i am heading to float down a river and drink some beers.

here is my posting from creative caffeine, my teacher's quick write website, http://creativecaffeine.blogspot.com/2010/07/cleaning-up-kate-bueler.html written from the prompt cleaning up. enjoy and thanks so much for stopping by and sharing in my words.

learning about my own glass jar

this is the first time i have written about my own journey with anxiety. i was challenged with the assignment to write about how it felt inside my body so the last paragraph i typed with my eyes closed. this blog is being blogged from Coffee Bar in SF.

great food, coffee, and they let you plug in your computer and work which is becoming a rarity in this city.

Out of oxygen. The first time I was out of oxygen I wasn’t on the bottom of the pool swimming scavenging around. It wasn’t from a race of the circular track or the windy dirt paths of cross-country. It wasn’t from the hike up the hills at summer camp. I was out of oxygen on my bed partially out of the bed sheets and comforters and it was early on a Saturday morning. I had just finished college. Late into Friday had sneaked into Saturday and I lie there out of oxygen. The knocking and running and perfectionism are now in my chest, shaking me from the inside out. I am out of oxygen. I am out of breath. I can’t breath. I feel as if I am dying. Dying. My friend had awoken me. Awoken me from a deep sleep and I can’t breathe-just shake. She clutches onto me as the glass jar of anxiety has found a resting spot on my head and my chest and the jar is moving down, toward my belly, but I am pushing it back up not with my hands but my mind. I am out of oxygen. I am out of time. I am out. I am out of the constant motion. Glass jar of panic it had always been there, I had carried with me in my purse but now it had grown too big to hold and it was sucking me down with it. It’s not like Sylvia’s jar- she couldn’t breathe for a different reason. But the not breathing all the same.

Out of oxygen. My friend is talking in a calm way and as I listen I feel like I am above watching in ER sitcom or flashback of someone’s life. Her words are slow and kind of like the peanuts characters. Kaaatttee, youuuu arrre havvvving a panicccc attttack. The rhythm of her voice reverberates against the jar. I hear her, but it’s muffled. I feel her, but it’s removed. I am out of oxygen. The jar is drowning her out. Drowning me out. I don’t want to drown. So I do what I can and cry, cry hard fast tears that had been buried inside of me and so foreign and such family that they must come out. The crying becomes hysterical harder, harder until the jar has lifted and I could breath again. I wasn’t out of oxygen. Anymore. The tears collected and grew stronger with each that fell until the tide had lifted it away. Away to the ground. But it was still with me. Still with me then. Still with me now.

The one thing I couldn’t say was how it felt. Felt inside. The rapidness of quick fire questions in a deep pool while trying to run. The quickness and slowness felt in succession. The ability to watch from above as I ran quickly on the hamster to wheel to nowhere. I am exhausted. Out of oxygen. Out of control. My mind ping pongs and quebert jumps to fear to panic to fear to I’m dying to breath to make this stop just make this stop. Make this stop. Making it all stop. I wanted to the tightness ball of rubber bands to stop bouncing in my chest and my stomach. I wanted to breathe. I wanted to know I wasn’t going to die. Die in that moment. I had dreamed of many thing. Many things I have been. But the quickness of the train, this train of panic not sure how I got on or where or where I was going or if I was packed or if I have someone with me. I felt alone. Alone. Out of oxygen. Out of the control. Panicking. Breathing. Breathe. The tears had already fallen. The breath. The breath beginning at the bottom of my belly my compass of my heart and moving up first too rapid and then slowly lifting through my ribs rising up to my throat, the water to the top of the drain. The safety of the rubber ducky of the bath bounces moves back and forth again floating again. I can breathe. I can breathe.