Kumbaya, Bitches

When I was in my early 20s I took a job at a church. Not a church like you're thinking though - their teachings were rooted in metaphysics, the occult, and spiritualism. New Age stuff. I wasn't a member there; I was just young and open-minded and needed gainful employment. In fact, I was and still am very much a staunch atheist. One of my duties there was helping to answer the phone. This meant taking calls from psychics and witches who were seeking help and comfort with their struggles in both daily life and spirituality. My job was to listen. Give a safe space to someone to speak openly about what troubled them, even when their troubles included aliens, past lives, and astral projection. And I was good at it. My atheism never stopped me from feeling empathy. And I knew how to speak to them in their language, on their terms, so that no one ever noticed I didn't share in their beliefs. 

My experience working there taught me so much about people. How giving someone an ear, a safe ear, can move them like magic. It's a skill that I've carried with me to every job' I've had since. Today I had a client call who was distraught over a letter he received from the IRS. He calmly gave me some backstory, then went on to his current situation. As he was explaining I realized he didn't really have a question - he was looking for reassurance that he had his facts straight. Then he mentioned his wife. Every word was carefully crafted to not expose what he was actually thinking and feeling. After all, he's telling me, a woman, who may very well also be a wife. As I felt his nerves bunching up, I threw him a rope: Dude. I'm married. I totally get it. 

This man was preparing to have a necessary, important talk with his wife that was going to inevitably also be an "I told you so!" situation. He explained, "I have to tell her all this and she's going to explode! But she's the one that didn't think it was important and now we're in a legal and financial mess and..."

"When she blows up, give her my number. That's when you let her hear it from me. Then we'll talk about how to fix it. Because man, this is fixable."

As we're going back and forth discussing details, his anxiety and emotions are all over the place. He notices another letter from the IRS that hasn't been opened yet. Thinking it's a duplicate of the first letter, he rips it open hoping he'll have a clean copy he hasn't scribbled notes on to show me, but instead he starts screaming, "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!"

A long pause...

I stayed quiet and could hear his breathing change. He was crying. It was one of those emotionally exhausted cries. This man had been bracing himself for a new legal battle with the Federal government, a major financial setback of tens of thousands of dollars, a disruption to marital bliss (we'll just pretend that's a thing for the single kids,) and the fucking holidays.

"I got it wrong," he said. I told him to take a deep breath. Take a moment. It's ok. He, through tears tells me he misinterpreted the first letter. Turns out the whole thing ties into an issue that his attorney was already working on. The realization and relief that overcame him made him break down. This is a grown ass man. A successful business man. This is not a man who goes around crying let alone in front of people. He was embarrassed. I had been in this very position so many times before at that old job. I didn't rush him off the phone or make him feel like he was wasting my time. I gave him a safe space. I advised him to make sure his attorney gets those letters. And depending on the course of action he recommends, we're here if he needs us. 

Comforting and consoling people is not in my job description as an office manager. I'm not saying it should be in yours. What happened today wasn't about doing my job - I mean it was, but in that moment it was about just having some fucking compassion. I thought about all the times I was hanging by a damn thread. Hell, pretty sure I was in that headspace like two days ago. My head was going to implode. It took a friend telling me to take a deep breath to find my center. I'm not necessarily saying we need to kumbaya the shit out of every interaction. (Maybe just hum it a little.)  Recognize the freak out in them is like the freak outs you've had in you and acknowledge it. I'm getting a reputation around here for being good at what I do, being a fuckin' bulldog when necessary, but most importantly, just being authentic and taking a genuine interest in the people we deal with. That's the good stuff. 

Namaste, bitches.

Gellie's Hallmark Moment

 Anyone who lives with a disability will tell you that as a culture we still have a long way to go to understanding that not all physical disabilities are obvious. I still limp and use walking aids. If it’s a short walk from the car into the store, and I know I can hold on to a shopping cart when I get inside, then I’ll just walk. And I’m pretty good at faking it. Most people don’t notice that my right ankle is paralyzed or that I’m focused on whether my right leg is listening to what I tell it to do.

 And when I’m driving, ha! No one can tell shit. Now, that whole not walking with cane or anything means I’ve got to use my disabled placard or at least park close to the entrance. It’s crucial because I need to save my legs for when I get into the store. The other night I had to go to Walmart. The pharmacy was threatening to put my meds back if I didn’t get my ass down there and I needed a few things anyhow. It’s 5pm on a Friday – the WORST time to attempt a Walmart run. Everyone is getting off work, they need a couple things for dinner and whatever festivities they have going on for the weekend, they need their meds…you know, they’re in my exact situation.

 Funny thing about us all being in the exact same situation is that we think OUR thing is more important than THEIR thing. And sometimes that makes us not be so nice.

I’m in the crowded parking lot, and there’s no parking. Like ANYWHERE. I circle around again, and see someone right up front is leaving. YES! It wasn’t a disabled spot, but it was literally the next one over. Still perfect. This is L.A. county. You learn to drive aggressively or get the fuck off the road. The second they pulled out, I swooped in. No, no one else had dibs – I had been waiting first. It takes me a minute to get out of the car. In that time, the disabled spot next to me opened up, someone pulled in, and suddenly there’s a tapping on my window. It was a small, older woman probably in her late 50s/early 60s, bundled in a coat with her purse in hand. I rolled down my window just a little (this is Pomona, I trust no one.) And the conversation went like this:

 Woman: I was waiting and you just…WHOOSH! Came so fast and took it!

Me: Oh, you were waiting? Yeah well, I was too. You probably couldn’t see my car from that angle. It happens.

Woman (annoyed) YOU were waiting too??

Me: Yep. *shrugs shoulders*

Woman: Well, you’re lucky you’re not disabled!

Now, there’s two ways I could have responded to this. And if you know me in real life, you know I’ve got a fuckin’ mouth. But I was tired and nauseous (why I was at the pharmacy) but also, I know how she felt. I totally get it. So instead of saying, “Fuck you, you don’t know me!” it went down like this…

 Me (Holding up and waving my disabled placard): Actually, I am disabled. I had a stroke.

Woman (calming down): Oh?...You…you are disabled? A stroke? My husband too. He’s in the car. That’s why I needed the parking spot.

Me, smiling: Oh I understand. Finding the right spot can be so frustrating.

Woman, starting to giggle: Oh yes, it is! I worry about bringing him. And now…well now I understand you.

Me, also giggling: Yeah, me too. I’m glad you said something actually. Happy holidays! 

I got out of the car and finished what I set out to do. Instead of being fueled by rage and spite like my usual self, I walked around the store feeling all warm and fuzzy. (Don't get used to it.)

 It turns out when you talk to people, you understand them a little better. FUCKING WILD, FAM. 

Now listen, there is nothing Zen about me. I'm as bah humbug as they come so no, the holidays being upon us does not make me nicer. In fact, it stresses me the fuck out. I imagine a lot of you are already feeling it too. So maybe, just maybe when that stranger comes across like a fucking asshole, we can try taking a deep breath and consider maybe they're as frustrated as we are. I don't know. I'm going to try more of that anyhow. Peace.

This is My Toe, Officially in the Water

 Sorry, no feet pics. Those cost extra.

 Apparently, I’ve been saying, “I need to make time to write something and post to my blog” for *scrolls old posts* SEVEN YEARS. I couldn’t help but notice that my last entry was posted in December of 2016. While I don’t dive too far into politics here, I will say that the heartbreak and mental burnout that overcame me by the end of 2016 impacted my willingness to share much of anything outside of pure unadulterated rage. It was me, my soapbox, and Facebook for a while. Then that grew tiresome, and I turned to shitposting as many of you probably have.

 What the hell am I doing here now? Mentally, I didn’t abandon this project. It’s always been floating around in my brain. A dear friend came across my blog recently and shot me a message along the lines of “So…were you going tell me you have a whole ass blog?” I’m paraphrasing. I found myself embarrassed. I wasn’t embarrassed that they read it, or that it exists; I was embarrassed because I’d abandoned my outlet. This was my little thing that was for me, that helped me organize my brain, and that preserved the funny and scary little stories about my life. Why the fuck did I let go of that? Quite a few reasons actually, but each one of those reasons was rooted in fear. I confided those fears in my friend, in rapid-fire verbal vomit fashion, and they replied, “but yeah now you know you can type what you want to type.” Actual quote.

This is the first post of what I expect to be a revival of my little corner of the blogosphere. Consider it my warm up post. I have a lot to share: experiences travelling and going on little solo adventures while disabled, my fitness journey as a chubby crippled girl, SEX, pregnancy and abortion… OH WE ARE GOING THERE. And I hope you come with me.