The Early Days of Being on My Own

 

29 September 2010

Since many people have asked me what is going on, I suspect that many more are wondering. Perhaps not, perhaps everyone knows that I am insane. Nonetheless, here it is.

Over six months ago, I left my husband of 21 years. I do not have a large income. Due to my disability, I get a disability retirement stipend that doesn’t go very far. I had no other place, and very few resources, my boyfriend offered to let me stay with him. He didn't want me homeless but we weren't ready for that type of a relationship, we didn't even get a chance to date each other.

He and his family have been generous with their love and their home, but we agreed a long time ago that we need to live as adults, by ourselves, before we can look towards a future together.  This doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. It means that we do.

This past week, I was getting set to move into a room I was to rent from a friend, when I began to feel a panicky feeling. Trapped. For no apparent reason.

I came to the realization that I am sitting here, doing nothing, with nothing ahead of me. This isn't helping me at all. I am hurting myself as well as others more every day I stay here.  Besides, there is  NO reason for me to stay through another long wet cold winter.

After hours of discussion, evaluation and prayer; I have decided to embark on the first "road trip" of my entire life. By myself. Time to move on and see the rest of the country. Perhaps the world.

I will be storing the few things that I won’t be giving to my children or charity. I didn’t get many of my things back from my ex as it was. I am trying to come to the realization that I have no use for material goods.

In the past decade I have lost the home I raised my children in, the storage units that contained every memory from their childhood, and now everything else I had save for a few photos and clothes that no longer fit. I am beginning to feel very free. Time to concentrate on my soul. On me.

My 44th birthday is in about 3 weeks, I don’t want to be here for it. In the past year, I lost part of my peripheral vision. When it progressed rapidly before the next test, I remember thinking and saying that I wanted to see more of this world before I couldn’t. That desire hasn’t waned.

I have spent the last 26, actually now, 27 years; raising a family. Upon the realization that my children survived family life at our home in spite of me; I am coming to the conclusion that wasn’t why I was put here on this earth.

Why am I here? What can I do to help others? (that is something I feel passionately) What does this world I have lived in the corner of for 44 years look like?

These questions and more are what I hope to answer. If you have any questions about this process of mine, or anything else about me, if I know the answer I will gladly discuss it with you.

Thank you and much love to all my family and friends for your unending patience with me. That’s me. Never could be mistaken for anyone else.

The working title of my autobiography : “ No One Can Handle Her”

It is time for me to live for me. To find my place. To see where I CAN give. That's me. I need to give. I don't know what I have to give yet... I need to find me before I can know what God put me on this earth to give to others.. .

This is my plan so far:

On 10-10-10, 10 October 2010, I will leave the state I was born and raised in, and head south… that is as far as I know right now. I have no further plans than that. At this point, I don’t even know if I will be in a car, on a bike, or on a train.

15 October 2010

WHO AM I?!?

That is the question I am attempting to answer for myself during a journey around the country and world.

During this journey, I am hoping to visit anyone who is open to it. This can include my relatives, both those I know well and those whom I have yet to meet.

It also will include my “Pot Farm” friends from facebook.

I am also looking forward to visiting many of my friends who have moved to distant locals.

I know this much about myself:

I have the sense of humor of a 14 year old boy, and no “filter” between my brain and my mouth.

I am the mother of 3 children. I became a mom at the age of 17 after being told at age 15 that I wouldn’t be able to have children. I was married for 21 years to the father of my daughter, who is now 20. My sons are 26 and 24.

I am the grandma of 3 (identical twin girls who are 2 & a grandson who was born 10 days before my 40^th birthday who is now 4).

I am a biker. I grabbed a hold of the throttle after riding bitch for over 30 years with anyone who would let me. I won’t bitch again if I have the opportunity to ride. However, if that isn’t an option, I would always rather bitch, than cage.

I am a writer and a survivor.

I am retired disabled with a “hidden” disability.

I am also a medical cannabis advocate. My only source of pain control at this time is cannabis. Just for reference, my pain level upon waking ranges from about a 5.8 (on GREAT days) to 8.5 on bad days. It averages 7.4 daily.

My disability: I experience chronic nerve pain in my pubic area, chronic pelvic pain & a bladder condition called “interstitial cystitis”. I was prescribed Fentanyl (100x stronger than morphine) for over 7 years. I was informed by my physicians that I would never be able to completely cease using that particular pain medication or one similar.

Then, on my own, I stopped it cold turkey in August of 2009.

In December of 2009, I was confronted by my own body failing me.. I began to loose my upper left peripheral vision. Then, it worsened in Spring of 2010, when my doctors informed me that I couldn’t have the tests that were my only hope of discovering the root of this illness taking my vision and the sensation on my left side, due to the implant that I have to control the interstitial cystitis.

When I learned that I was loosing my vision, I decided that I needed to see more than just Washington State, where I have spent most of my life, save for living 9 months in Las Vegas in 1992. I have never visited most of the states in my own country. I have visited very little of Canada (a few day visits to Vancouver and Victoria, BC) and I have been in Mexico once as a teen for a few hours.

Last spring, after 21 years of marriage, I left my husband with only the clothes on my back.

Both God as well as the universe, have been attempting to make me aware that material things shouldn’t matter to me.

In 2005, the house I raised my children in was foreclosed upon while I was awaiting Social Security’s decision on my disability.

Shortly thereafter, my husband failed to make the payment on our storage unit, and we lost all of our material memories save for a few photos we had been able to keep with us.

When I left my husband, he decided that I only deserved the possessions that he chose.

He even took possession of the pet house rabbit that I had purchased while I was separated from him in 2005.

A few weeks after I left, my ex had the Harley Low Rider that I had paid the majority of, and been the only person to ride for many months, repossessed.

He has the car, the house, the pet, the remaining bike, and all the items that he decided that he didn’t want.

I now have nothing to tie me down. Homeless by choice.

My children are grown, my grandchildren have excellent parents and are in great hands.

All I do is feel pain in my hometown. I have pretty much never seen anything except my home state save for a few short trips to neighboring areas.

Before I loose my vision; I want to see everything I can. I want to learn about other people in other areas, I want to see this beautiful world. I want to hear music from all around the world, beginning with different regions of the US.

I am doing this on the smallest of budgets. As I said, I have nothing. I do have a warm sleeping bag, some clothing and personal objects I require to live, and continue to document this journey around the world, as well as the journey into myself.

If I was to be honest about what this is, it is a journey to me, through exploring the world around me.

Perhaps “Herriot the Spy” grows up and looks at the world around here, not just the people. I will be writing my life story, as well as a book about the people that I meet through the game “Pot Farm” on FaceBook.

I will be logging my travels as I visit my “Pot Farm” friends around the country, then hopefully around the world.

I welcome any and all feedback. Even though I may go through days and perhaps weeks, without posting much; please be patient, I may not have internet access or limited access for extended periods of time. I will continue to write even if it may have to be transcribed when I am able to return.

I am very much a hippie and I am trusting God and my inner intuition to guide me. I am only following my “gut instincts” to lead me where I need to go.

The current tentative plans are as such:

• My birthday (October 19^th), will be spent in the LA, California area with friends I most literally haven’t seen in 30 years. I hope also to meet and visit any “Pot Farm” friends in the southern Cali area during that time frame.

 

• January: I hope to be in Florida visiting friends who have relocated to that area, as well as new friends I have acquired through “Pot Farm.”

ALL of these plans are completely fluid, tentative and conditional upon only my gut feelings.

At any point, I may be forced to return in order to assist my family.

For now, I am following God, my heart, my instincts… or just my crazy brain.

The Lakewood Four - For the Families

 For The Families

  For the Families of the Lakewood Four

 
It was a long, bitterly cold day. Our mournful spirits were tempered by our warm reminisces, as most of us had met before. New faces had traveled from as far away as Indiana to join our mission: about fifteen indicated this was their first time as members of the Patriot Guard Riders.

As I had prepared for today, various family members had politely asked where I was going to be, if there was a chance the flag lines we were standing would be caught by the media.
I had joked with them: “Sure, I’ll be the one in black leather, holding a flag.

That was yesterday; today jokes were few and far between.

The day had encompassed the widest diversity of emotional experiences. 
Now, we were all bordering on exhaustion and eager to get warmed up, thawed out, and on towards the places we call home.

I thought back to the morning’s procession: 

A stoic, respectful flag line that I had been proud to be included in. 

Seven layers of clothing topped by leathers, with chemical hand and foot warmers had been barely enough to keep the frigid teen temperatures at bay, as I stood beside my brother and sister patriots. 
We stood proud for the three brothers and sister we had lost. 

While standing at attention, watching the cold air I had just previously expelled; I steadied myself as the hearses and family cars came into my peripheral view.

Keeping my head forward, to my right I noticed that each car was being met by officers and walked in up to the Tacoma Dome.

Officer Tina Griswold’s hearse came to a stop for what seemed like an eternity directly in front of me.

My heavily gloved hands held tight to the metal flag pole assuring myself that I was holding the flag at the proper height, quick to busy my mind with anything else but the memory that was eating it’s way through my brain.

I wasn’t her friend. I was simply one member of the public she enthusiastically had served.

The final time my eyes had met her’s was just this past September 11th.

September 11, 2009. I was a member of an escort to accompany a group of Strykers as they deployed….again.

 When the bike that I was riding as a passenger gently took a left turn to follow our small procession, she was standing in front of her squad car blocking traffic for us. Our eyes met, I smiled and gave her a big “thumbs up”….

She had returned my smile and waved. That memory I treasure.

November 29, 2009 was the day the four of them lost their lives: assassinated, in a coffee shop while beginning their day. 

While standing at attention out of respect for all four of our fallen heroes; tears silently flowed down my cheeks.

My chin quivering the slightest bit; it was the hardest I have ever cried without moving a muscle. The tears I wanted to evaporate, instead froze as they fell onto my leathers for all to see.

The day had included moments of comic relief. 

Friends shared good time stories of riding and families, mishaps, as well as tales from the ride to "get coffee" only two days prior:

The ride to get coffee was actually an unofficial (not PGR) ride for the fallen four. 
We had each donned the electrical gear necessary to ride our various makes of motorcycles in the 9 degree December weather. I rode a 2002 Harley Low Rider, my electric vest and gloves, plugged in to the battery ponytail that stuck out from under the seat from Olympia.

Less than 20 bikes made that journey. 

Our ride stopped at the Lakewood Police Department to drop off the donations we had collected from each other that morning.

Even though the donations we were giving, were more than the box could have held; a rookie officer, not understanding the deep relationship between the Washington State PGR and Lakewood Police Department, had fearfully hid the donation box inside when we parked our bikes to pay our respects at the memorial.

It seems there is never a shortage of comical misunderstandings when bikers and law enforcement gather together.

We laughed about other peoples’ perceptions and mis-perceptions. 
We laughed at some of our own.

The sun receded behind the hills shortly after we had walked our flags up to the dome. 
We had set ourselves where instructed awaiting further commands, then moved the entire line when corrected. 
While awaiting our duty, we had watched, then joked quietly with, a sniper opposite our section of the flag line as he gave a “one finger salute” to a sheriff’s helicopter that was flying very close. Apparently too close for the sniper's comfort.

We were positioned around the ramp, outside the Tacoma Dome. Directly within our view were the enormous amount of vehicles from law enforcement and fire departments across this country as well as  Canada. The support from around the world, for these heroes, was incredible.

Once the fallen and their loved ones had departed the Tacoma Dome, we were given the orders to assemble as two lines for the several-block walk back to our staging area. 
Gathering orderly into the column, we unintentionally encompassed a small group of Canadian Mounted Police who had curiously wandered close to the flag line as they departed the services . 
I hung back slightly to allow them through the line in front of me.

Me, being me, couldn’t resist saying something. 
Very quietly I stated, “ you are now in the US and you are surrounded by our flags!” 
One “mounty” got my joking nature and answered, “ Just a sec, I think I have something.” 
He reached into his bright red uniform pocket and proceeded to place a beautiful red and gold CMP pin into my heavily gloved hand stating, “you are now Canadian.” 
I tried to answer him, “my grandma was born in Alberta,” but tears choked my words; then he was gone.

I couldn’t feel the pin through two layers of gloves and hand warmers. I kept glancing at it on the walk back down; carefully holding my treasure tight in my numb left hand, as I carefully carried my flag with my right.

We returned to our staging area and stowed our flags in their various proper containers, having been brought from areas around the state. The area was now an eerily quiet dark parking lot. 

The small hamburger joint who’s owner graciously donated his parking, restrooms, hot beverages as well as a warm escape to defrost in and monitor the memorial from his television, was closing.

Distant echoes of emergency vehicles filled the night. 
Only a small corner of the road we had lined with our flags earlier in the day was visible from where we gathered.

We huddled closer together, preparing to be debriefed. 

Our “ride captain” for this mission was someone we knew well, Jim “BikerVet” Dixon. He thanked us for sticking around. 

We still had the majority of our numbers. Only about 30 had to leave before we were finished. As he disseminated various facts and figures of the day, I heard a firm voice from a ride captain behind me: “FAMILY.”

It was immediate. Silence. Turn. Face the street. 
BikerVet hadn’t even had the opportunity to repeat the word "family" before most of us had already turned to face the small corner of light that was 26th, the street where the family cars were traveling.

It would have been disrespectful to face the opposite direction. 
Nearly a hundred of us that remained, turned and stood gently at attention as the procession receded. 
My eyes glanced without moving my head, towards my right where I had previously noticed hands raised signifying this was their first mission. They got it.

Standing in the frigid black night, such profound silence struck me:  So still. Where just moments before the thumping of heavy gloved hands clapping as well as hushed sounds of light laughter and conversation had prevailed.

The silence in that dark corner reminded me of the significance of our actions that day, and every day that we gather. 
The reason why we as a group "The Patriot Guard Riders" exist. 
Respect, decorum, honor, courtesy, reverence and propriety. 
These are the only things we can offer the families. We owe them so much more.

In retrospect, I know in my heart no one in the vehicles that passed us could have seen, or even noticed our group standing for them in that dark corner lot as they passed. However, for any member of this proud group of patriots to be accused of “turning their back on a grieving family,” literally or figuratively would have felt reprehensible.

The families, the loved ones, the “left behind” are why the Patriot Guard Riders exists.
The families are our obligation.
They have all sacrificed for us, as communities, as a nation, and as a planet.
They are why we ONLY serve when invited by the families. We are here for THEM.
We respect, honor and thank them all for their painful sacrifices. We are forever in their debt.

It was the LEAST we could do.

Love and Lighte.





Wikipededia article on Lakewood Four: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lakewood,_Washington_police_officer_shooting

To learn more about the Patriot Guard Riders:  http://www.patriotguard.org/

To donate to the families of the Lakewood Four: http://www.lakewoodofficercharity.com/our-funds/fallen-officers-fund/