Tell me where it hurts

The other day I had physiotherapy on my shoulder. If you will remember waaaaaaaaaaaay back to last year I hurt my shoulder.
It happened when I was on the lazy river at Disney World, floating along on my inner tube. Sammy and I were holding hands. He proceeded to float one way and I floated the other. We didn't let go of each other and it is my belief that my baby ripped my arm from the socket.
Well, actually, the doctor tells me its bursitis. That sounds like something that old people get akin to "the rheumatism" and "the gout". So, I prefer to think of it as an extreme sports injury!
Back to my story, I was at physio on Thursday - again for my shoulder but my elbow was KILLING me. THROBBING elbow pain. So, he electrocuted it.
When I went back to physio on Saturday, my elbow was fine but my bicep felt bruised and almost hot to the touch.
NEITHER of these painful places were my shoulder where the actual, medically proven, injury actually is. It is my shoulder that is damaged - not my arm.
When I said - "wow that's weird" - my physio guy (who, by the way, is also a massage therapist, acupuncturist and chiropractor if you need a good physio guy - he rocks) said something that occurred to me later, when I wasn't in massive pain, that was very profound.
"Sometimes where things hurt isn't where you're injured"
My head said - well ya, my body is compensating. Its protecting itself. Its flinching when I go to poke it in the eyeball. Smart body!
But, what I thought later was that my life is sometimes doing that as well - and so do we all.
Christmas - Every year I protest when Wayne puts up the craptacular display of Christmas puke all over every surface of our house. Its not that I hate Christmas or even that I hate the fact that he tarts up the house like a Christmas whore, I just am acting to protect myself.
The hate of Christmas is compensation because my Mom isn't here to decorate her place with tinsel and the ceramic tree. My push away from all the cookies and gifts and over-kill is so that I don't have to try to be her every year. I'm the anti- her. I flinch when Santa pokes me in the rosy cheeks.
I do that a lot actually.
I pretend not to like things because my Mom loved them.
I use my grief as a cushion.
I use my Mom and stop myself from enjoying things that I could.
But I feel pain all over that doesn't just relate to being an orphan.
I rarely let myself get angry over the real things that piss me off.
I have a friend that I think lies to me. Why do I think that? Because he lies to every other person in his whole entire life.
When I call him on this, he says that I am the only person he doesn't lie to.
But, because I am me, I can't help but think that is a lie too.
And now, I've gotten to the point where I think that EVERYTHING he says is a lie. Even stupid stuff.
Really, even if it is a lie, does it matter?
What does it matter if he lies to me? Everybody lies.
But his lies make me mad. Not that they are even about me - but they make me mad AT him. But instead of letting myself be mad, I get upset. Sad. Depressed. Blame myself that he thinks he has to lie about things.......to me!
I feel hurt feelings.
The source of my pain is??????
What?
Oh - right - the source of my pain is lying. Not his. Likely mine. I lie to people all the time. It has nothing to do with them - everything to do with me. The lies cause me pain. Not mine. His.
Are you following me?
What I'm trying to say is that everything in this life is cause and effect. But sometimes its harder than you think to trace the cause. Not everything is a straight line. Not everything is easy to explain.
My shoulder still hurts - and my elbow - and my bicep - and my wrist.
The body protects itself the best way it knows how - or so says my physio guy.
The psyche does too.
With curved lines and double lines and lines with dashes.

Singing the Blues

My friend is going to a concert tonight - to see Elton John and Billy Joel. While I've never been a fan of Billy Joel, I have always loved Elton John. Billy always seemed too.....hmmm........American for my tastes. Too working class hero. Too - well - just too American.
Elton, on the other hand, he was a mystery to me and I loved him.
Back in the 1970s I was alive and well but a kid - not really aware of what was going on around me but watching it nonetheless.
I watched "One day at a time". I saw Valerie Bertinelli and I identified with her because she was the FAT one - at least in my head she was. Of course she probably weighed fully half of what I did - but I digress... And I saw that Val LOVED Elton John. So of course, I too loved Elton John.
I heard Elton on the radio. And I loved him there too. He was fun and crazy looking. Flamboyant before that was a bad thing.
He was my generation's Liberace - before we knew why. Or well - I think we all deep down knew why - but before - when we were supposed to pretend NOT to know why!
And the pop music of Elton John followed me through my high school before it was eaten alive by the 80's new wave monster.
I can remember going to buy the "Live in Australia" double album set when that came out. It was the greatest album ever - and I think it still might be.
But where Elton sticks in my life in particular is in 1983.
When a boy....well I bet you can tell what comes next....a boy broke my heart. Sitting here I would love to tell you the story. I would love to but I'm not sure I can.
You see, at the time, it felt as if my heart was broken in half and laying bloody on the carpet in front of me. At the time I was sure that it would be better to be dead of heartbreak than to live through that pain. How could he? How could he not love me?
Elton said to me, "I guess that's why they call it the blues/Time on my hands could be time spent with you".
He knew.
I can remember crying through the tears.
I have a clear - crystal clear - memory of sitting on my carpet in my bedroom - near the window and singing along at the top of my lungs "don't wish it away/don't look at it like it's forever..."
I was eating a sandwich - white bread and cheese - don't know why I remember that. And I was crying so hard that the bread was salty from tears and I was kind of choking on its soggy salty stickiness while I sang and ate and cried.
But do you know, for the life of me I can't remember who I was crying about.
Was it Steve or Steve? Yes, both named Steve. Both broke my heart. Both in 1983.
Kinda sucked twice.
But who made me hurt like I wanted to die?
Who gave me that memory etched into my brain so that every time for the rest of my life when I even THINK about Elton John I think about choking on a tear stained cheese sandwich?
I can't say for sure.
But I think that's an important thing eh?
Sad thing is, I still have BOTH Steve's in my life and neither of them were worth the tears.

The Crickets

Yes, that's the sound of crickets. I haven't been writing here lately and I'm about to give you the home spun psychoanalysis that I've managed to dig up out of my psyche.
People were reading my blog. People were reading my articles in the magazines that I wrote. People in general were reading what I had written.
Some people read it and asked me questions.
Some people read it and said I was oh so clever to have written these things.
Someone even said she showed other people an article and said "I know her" - like knowing me MEANT something. Like knowing who wrote those things was something to be proud of.
And all of the sudden I got shy.
Me.
I got shy.
Now, if you've met me, I am a huge fan of attention. Negative attention. Positive Attention. Being the centre of attention.
I call attention to myself at every bloody opportunity that I have.
I speak out in group settings.
I'm loud.
I'm opinionated and I'm not afraid to express them. On more than one occasion I have said - If you don't want to know what I think then you should never have a conversation with me - cause I will tell you.
I don't ever want to shrink into the background. You can tell that by the way I dress, the way I act, the shoes I wear....everything about me is bigger than life. I crave it.
That's right, I said I crave attention. I love attention. I can't even understand how people could NOT want to be noticed.
I've never ever shied away from attention either. I seek leadership roles in every job or committee or group I've ever been in. Its natural to me to want to be in charge, get up on a stage and talk about something. It doesn't even matter to me what I'm talking about! Big crowd, small group - I'm all in!
I am a natural story teller. Half of the time when I'm doing something, I'm likely trying to figure out how later I will tell the story.
"..when I tell the story about this day (and I will), you were naked!"
I think the stories, for me, are socially acceptable stand up comedy. You know, never one to seek out the stage (ahem) I have to have a creative outlet for my affectations.
I've always know I've had them - my Mother used to bellow at me when she was mad,
"You're so AFFECTED!" Like that or any type of drama was a BAD thing! I thought that I had turned my need to be in the spotlight into a "thing".
My "thing" if you will is being VISIBLE. You'd never be somewhere with me: a meeting or an event or a party and NOT know that I was there. I'm always visible.
That is, in part, what I love about my blog. Its a place where I express those affectations and the need to be seen and heard. Its where I am visible.
But something CLICKED recently. Something made me want to not be seen.
Part of it I guess is fear of success. Accolades made me shy. An odd reaction for an attention whore, but a human reaction at that.
I'm not THAT successful. I didn't get that much praise.
Is it the fear of being noticed? Maybe. Maybe if I am good at something then people will expect more from me. Maybe I will expect more from myself. Maybe I will want more from myself.
Someone asked me if it was my fear of the medium.
"You're fearless in person but naked in print"
It could very well be that I can't take back what I've said once its written. That my inhibitions that are stripped in conversation, surface when its cast in print. It makes permanent something that I think - and makes me accountable for my opinions.
I can honestly say I don't know.
I am not sure which of these things or which combination of these things it is but I am resolved to overcome it. I am resolved to pull the proverbial stick out of my ass and start letting out what has been trapped inside for the last 4+ months. I'm sure there is a floodgate just ready and willing to be burst open!