The stairs attacked me

I fell on the stairs tonight.  More specifically, I fell up the stairs.

You see, I was carrying up my laundry, for which I had no basket.  There were bunches of socks in the pile, and I had strategically hugged myself to the pile, in order to keep the many socks from falling to the ground.  Unfortunately, as I was stepping up to the top of the stairwell, I found myself suddenly stemmed to the ground with a loud s-smack!

I knew that I was on the ground and that I had somehow tripped, but had almost no brain capacity beyond knowing that.  I realized that I was about to cry terribly, and wanted my mom got help, in case I were injured.  I managed to call my mom with a very calm voice before I broke into an almost hysterical blurriness of tears.

For some reason, I was filled with a warm feeling of something truly special and loving at my mom’s response.  She was on the phone with family, and I heard her say, “Let me call you back in just a few minutes,” immediately after I called her.  There was little panic in my voice, but she had heard the splat.

When she arrived, I was crying on the cat-pee-infused floor, – she ripped up the carpet a while back, but still hasn’t gotten the particle board part replaced – on top of my laundry, half-sprawled on my forearms and knee, with my left leg lifted slightly in the air.  She asked me what had happened, but I couldn’t speak at first, and couldn’t move almost at all for the pain.  She said that she didn’t know how to help me until I could at least show her where I was hurt.  After a good set of seconds, I finally forced myself to sit in my right side, and pull my left leg around for her to see in the narrow landing of the top of the stairs.

She instantly could tell that my knee was swelling already.  I finally could speak a little, and pointed out that my toe was bleeding.  It was slow to begin, but then blood just seemed to be pouring out of it.  By the time I was able to stand myself up, and attempt walking, – it hurt – my sandal was getting covered in bright red.

Half an hour later, I am lying here on my bed, occasionally shivering/shuddering in pain as another throb goes through my toe.  The ice is helpful, but the weight of it seems to make things hurt more (as is so often the case with an ice pack).  I’ve already felt around, and, though it was painful, it seemed like my toe is all in one piece.  But that is not so much the point of my sharing this – that I had a big fall, but I am okay.

You see, it reminded me of this other occasion, when I had a similarly odd experience, and it was here, too, at my mom’s house.

Several years ago, – I think it was in high school – my mom had made some soup for dinner.  The soup was ready in a pot on the stovetop, and she had told me to go serve myself.  I grabbed one of the black ceramic bowls we use, and ladled some soup into it.  The next instant, there was soup and shattered ceramic all over the place around me.  It covered the floor.  I was still holding the ladle, I think, even, but the bowl was gone, in pieces on the floor.
I was paralyzed with shock and fright.  I couldn’t immediately comprehend how things had happened, but I knew that the bowl I had been holding was now all over the floor, and that it was dangerous to move.  I likely was barefoot or in sandals, making it that much more dangerous to move.  I couldn’t comprehend the full situation, and that was an additional scary factor to the shattered ceramic around me.

I began to cry.  My mom was already walking over to me from the living room.  She told me that it was okay, and she held me while I cried and said that I didn’t know what had happened.

She cleaned up everything, and then brought me soup on the sofa, where I had settled physically to help me settle emotionally.  And she wasn’t even the slightest bit upset or annoyed at any of it.  She was just there for me, and she took care of me.  She loved and cared for me, with no contingencies.  I felt like a five-year-old in what I had done and how I had responded, and was initially almost ashamed that I was actually around 17.  But my mom didn’t seem even to consider that.  Age wasn’t on her mind, even.  I needed help, and she gave it.  I needed love and care, and she provided.  And without hesitation.

Tonight was the same.  Usually, her phone calls are not cut short, but she tells the person to ‘hang on just a second’ or just whispers a, ‘What?(!)’ to me as she holds the receiver away from her face a bit.  In tonight’s situation, even though it turned out to be my grandma on the phone, my mom instantly responded to my need, ending the phone call immediately – she didn’t even wait for my grandma to finish what she was in the middle of saying at the time -, and coming to help me.  Again, I had made what felt like a childish error, and again did she seem not to care less about that fact.  I was in need, and she took care of me, without hesitation.  

That experience of love is one of the most beautiful ones I have ever known.  Talk about being ashamed or at one’s worst, and being loved anyway…

Post-a-day 2017

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Why you gotta be so…?

Why are we ever mean to others?  Really, truly… why?  

Can we go Taylor Swift on the situation, and have the cycle end right now?

I see potential in this, but are we brave enough?  Is bravery even what it is that we need?  Perhaps love is all we need.  And not even in the cheesy way, but truly.  Beatles it all the way, because all we need is love.

Post-a-day 2017

While everything is perfect

In this book I’m currently reading – okay, it’s an audiobook, and I’m listening to it, but you get the point – was a comment by the narrating character that rather struck me the other day.  She was talking about some date she’d had (or something like a date, anyway), and, though it seemed there was potential for another activity of some sort next, she had decided to leave.  She said, “I wanted to leave while everything was perfect.”

At first, I felt as though she was simply setting herself up for missing out by not going and for delusion by thinking that dates (or more of whatever it was) needed to be always perfect.  And then I considered my immediate responses, and discovered that I disagreed with both of them.

When I really began to consider her comment, it gave way to what felt like brilliance.  Yesterday, I was at a goodbye beach party.  There had been an option to rsvp for an overnight stay after the official party, and I had initially declined this option.  I wanted to sleep in my own bed, and several other factors helped me pick that easily.  However, once at the party, I found that I didn’t want to leave so soon.  I began exploring the logistics of staying the night, and found that there was possibility of enough space for my joining the party.

As I recalled my book’s character’s words, however, I began to think in a different manner.  Yes, I am loving spending time with everyone right now.  If I left now, I would be leaving while everything is perfect.  If I stay the night, what will happen?  And I instantly saw the probable, almost certain future of the situation.  I would stay, thinking I’d have enough energy to manage the night, and then eventually would hit a wall, want to sleep, not be able to get to sleep because of the partying people, get annoyed at the overly drunk partiers, and have a miserable end to the party.  Whom was I kidding here?  I would rather leave while everything is perfect, than stay until I’m furiously agitated and starting to hate the people I was currently loving.

And so I left a short while later, had a wonderful time riding home-ish (same train, different stops) with the group of girls who were leaving at that time, chatting and joking and having an overall wonderful time together (as I already mentioned).

And the party as a whole ended perfectly for me.  It was just plain cool to have had the party go so well.
Tonight, after another beach day with a different friend, we had planned to go to this awesome salsa party, with this Grammy-winning DJ and various salsa performances and live music for social dancing – it’s a big deal party celebrating the anniversary of some club, essentially.  And it was only like 20 bucks to attend, which is way cheap for such a thing here in Tokyo.

When we arrived back to my friend’s place, and I had showered from the beach, I began to consider that line again.  Could I “leave” while everything is perfect?  Could I just go to bed now and not go, and be happy with that?  The answer was a resounding “Yes.”  I had been exhausted all day already, and am far behind on sleep for this past week – I want sleep.  I love dancing, and I love cool opportunities like this, especially to attend with friends.  And the risk was incredibly high that I would grow to exhausted, smoking would be too intense for me in the club, music would be too loud for my already existent headache, and I would be crying (possibly literally) to go home and drink a bunch of cool water and just go to sleep.

So, I stayed home, and it was perfect.  Now, I am off to some much-needed and much-wanted sleep.  Goodnight, World.  I’ll see you when my head feels great again in the late AM.

Long story-ish short: I think it is a very valuable phrase, “I wanted to leave while everything was perfect.”

Post-a-day 2017

The Body Talks

Let’s talk about sex, baby.

Well, sort of… That’s what my body kept saying to me today.

Today was a day in which my body felt like it was in a state of panic.  In a way, it was in a state of panic (or bordering on panic, anyway).  To my body, this panic was expressed as a painful desire, né need to procreate.  

“Hannah, I need to reproduce – it is what I am designed so well to do, and I’ve waited so long already… let me go!!”  

Sigh.

Such was the sort of conversation my body and I had today.  It complained and begged and reasoned, and I sighed and just accepted the complaints.

Now, the kicker to all of this is that I am almost entirely comfortable and at ease now (despite being quite sleepy).  Why is that?  The same reason (-ish) that my body has been panicky lately – I need physical contact in my life.  Good, real, physical contact, corporal contact, person-to-person skin-to-skin touch is an absolute necessity for me.

And living in Japan has given me almost none of that.  It has quite truly driven my body into a state of panic, in fact.  

How did I go from freak-out to calm?  I hung out with friends and went dancing with them.  In this time, I leaned on them, they leaned on me, we rubbed backs, hugged (the real kind), held hands, stood with our arms draped on one another’s shoulders or around the waist or hips, touched this or that spot on someone to get his/her attention.  In short, we had a nice amount of physical contact with one another.  No, it was not anything compared to what I am accustomed to having back in the US, – we are So touchy-touchy in Texas, and especially at dance there – however it was tremendous when compared to my average day and week of zero physical contact here in Japan.

I went to a dance event in Korea just a couple weekends ago.  I danced like crazy there, and I hugged people and had lots of physical contact with people who love me and whom I love.  I think that going from a weekend jammed full of corporal contact and love, back to the solitude and non-touching life I have here right now, my body had a sort of shock.  After having gone so many months with only a bit of physical contact here and there in a month, I was accustomed to it.  But, after spending a weekend filled with physical contact, it has been difficult to go back to the zero-touching lifestyle.

And so my body cried for a while, until it at last had some loving physical contact this afternoon and tonight, at which point it is ready to take on this next week (until I head to the beach next weekend, at which point the physical contact occasions will resume). 

So, instead of listening to the crybaby body make excuses about its evolution and its original design for existence, I just get myself some physical contact, some hugs and snuggles and such, and things work out beautifully.

Cheers to loving physical contact! ❤

Post-a-day 2017

Our Stories

“Share your story here…”. Share your story here.  Share your story here?  What is my story?

Tonight, my story is that I am like Rapunzel, locked on my own in a tower, merely dreaming of what life could be if only I weren’t stuck in this tower.  I want to cuddle up and cry with my despair and loneliness.  The earth just shook long and low beneath me, deepening my unease for a handful of seconds.  I don’t want to turn off the light – there seems to be a certain power in its being illuminated (and I do not mean the electricity), a power to keep me safe and okay and able to handle things.

Tonight, my story is that I am lonely and alone, and, though I am so close to being in a place I could and do call home, I feel as though I am in the point A to point B race where you constantly only go half the distance, thereby making progress toward the desired destination, but never actually arriving there.

Also, that just reminded me of how much I love Patrick Swayze.  I wish I could have been in the film “Dirty Dancing”.

Anyway… I want to cry tonight, and to let it all go, leaving me to wake up refreshed and excited and capable in the morning.
Post-a-day 2017

The power of words

Today, I was told that something I had done was “really scummy”.  The truly unfortunate parts of this statement were the actions it was describing and the fact that they were falsely linked to me.  Put another way, I did not do what the person claimed that I had done (the action that was then, by that same person, declared to be “really scummy”).

As I absorbed the words, I felt a sort of shock and denial.  No, this person couldn’t be thinking straight – this must be coming from a state of panic of some sort.  It makes no sense otherwise.

And yet, here I am, hours and hours later, still with an underlying desire to cry desperately.  I did not do it.  I did not do it.  And I even took extra efforts ahead of time for the situation to go across as the exact opposite – I asked for help from all over to make sure what I would do would be fair and reasonable in every way possible.  I did not behave in a “scummy” fashion, and I did not do what I was declared to have done.

That person’s words affect me nonetheless.  To my dearest insides am I filled with a sense of desperation, sadness, shock, smallness.  I was helping freely, voluntarily in a situation that desperately could use some help from me in particular, and the one being helped spat on me.

I do not know if I will remove the help from the table.  Perhaps.  I merely know that those words hurt and were inaccurate, making them hurt even more, making their effect last.

I already cried on the phone to my mom, which was a somewhat unexpected occurrence.  While that cry was helpful, I still have an uneasy tightness within me, welling up, and dripping on my pillow in the form of salty water droplets.
***Oddly enough, this was in my bedtime reading tonight.  How coincidental, right? 😛
Post-a-day 2017

Tears for Art

Today, I cried a decent number of times.  I was exhausted, and still am (Therefore, I will keep this short.).  However, I only want to reference one of the cryings right now.

A student gave me her small piece of art today, after I complimented it to her.  As I was gazing at my newly acquired work of art, looking into the face of the person in it, I noticed that tears were starting to brim, and there was nothing to be done about it.  It was beautiful, and I was responding in a way I usually do not respond to beauty, though understand and accept fully.

Now, I want that student to do a portrait of me, color and all.
Post-a-day 2017