street tarot: my changing world
Today was a productive day and, I think, kind of a good one. I also found my next card. It wasn't a playing card. Not all of them are; the prize in my weird little collection was the Clue card I found face-down on a wet Boston sidewalk. *g* There's nothing quite like seeing "CLUE" to give you the feeling that, yeah, the universe is watching and, no, it doesn't think you're playing with a full deck and therefore require less-than-subtle hints.
Okay. Please do bear with me on the long-ass prelude you're going to get, yo.
My day started with running late to the trauma specialist and having my damned cough kick back in. I took two hydrocone in the cab I had to grab, but did so quite stupidly on an empty stomach. I had just enough time for the meds to fully kick in and leave me most of the way to stoned when Kathy finally saw me. That was probably for the best. I mean, I spoke a little more slowly and occasionally struggled for a word or two, but as wet-eyed as I got toward the end, I kept my emotions in check and didn't so much as drip a tear.
I talked to her a little about the way Chicago has changed me. That sense of being disposable has become so embedded now, I've become hardened against getting too close to anyone. At the same time, I've softened toward the other people who've been disposed of by life. I've learned how much a single act of kindness or a supportive word can brighten my day and thus make a point to pass that along, particularly when I recognize Self (and here's where that reference comes from) in them.
Mostly, I talked about how much I've hurt over losing what I'd prematurely considered my RL support network out here. I hold myself entirely responsible for that, mind. It's just that this loss only reinforced this sense of being disposable. (Doesn't help that I have major trust and betrayal issues so epic you'd expect them to be scored by Wagner.) I couldn't really answer her question about whether I have a hard time making friends out here, now that everything's played out as it has. I suspect I'll be mulling that over for a little while yet.
Anyway. Next stop was to grab a coffee then head back to the clinic, wherein I was promptly put in a small storage room while I waited to pick up the CTA disability to form. I Twittered and texted a bit and refrained from pilfering medical supplies. Eventually, the nurse brought me the form and let me know the X-rays of my extra-bum knee still hadn't arrived yet. From there, I went to one of the RTA Key Centers. I walked there and felt quite proud for being mobile enough to do so.
...And then I had to take the stairs there. Oh, holy crap. They had been constructed with the shallowest rise and most painful run of any stairs I've used, and they went on forever and spiraled. Had they had a normal rise, I would have been fine because I could have kept more of my weight shifted on my heel (and therefore to my quads and hamstrings.) When I found out this office wasn't one where I could have the necessary photo made for the ID, I had to work my way back down those stairs again.
It was while I was walking back down Broadway to the closest photo-taking Key Center that I saw a smallish card printed on shiny, thick stock. It had to have been a tag from a piece of luggage or something, although it didn't have a hole punched through it. It simply stated "Beautiful" in a sweeping cursive font and, beneath that, "Durable" in a more, well, durable-looking font.
For an instant, I considered picking it up but I just snorted and kept moving. Those aren't my keywords, even if they might be my inward challenges to attain. Not five minutes later, though, I saw an over-sized card -- a flash card -- with "11 x 4" printed in a huge, clear font. Flash cards are awesome. I went from "forty-four" to "that's my card" to "reduces to eight" (that's right, busting out the woo-woo numerology now) to "is the Chariot or Strength number eight?" in the time I needed to pick it up without breaking my hobbling stride.
I looked at it some more, thought about that first card I didn't pick up, and knew that eight had to be Strength. I almost went back for the first card but figured I'd already gotten the hint. Also, I decided I was glad I had gotten the hint, lest the universe feel it necessary to wing a gianormous piece of poster board with a snarling lion on it at me as soon as I rounded the corner of Lawrence so as to get my goddamned attention.
I had a hard time at the Department of Dehumanizing Services, although I did find out I've been assigned a caseworker (no more Gary the Asshole! w00t!) and, from the sound of it, I think I've qualified for Medicaid. I have to wait for the packet to confirm all of this, though. Here's hoping it arrives very soon.
Once I left, I kept walking although both knees hurt sharply (although thankfully not because I'd had to drop to them and just fucking beg to get shit taken care of), now up Lawrence to north on Clark, and thought about Strength.
Traditionally, you see a fair woman opening the mouth of the lion. There's a chain of flowers around his neck which (I think) I read a long time back was supposed to represent the lion's need for awareness of surrounding souls. I think the chain of flowers is linked to those the woman wears, but I'm too tired to look it up. Anyway. My understanding of the card's traditional meaning is to find the courage to look within in order to conquer the natural world. Basically, it's mind over matter attained through Self.
This hit me on a couple of levels. The most obvious made itself known with every step I took along Clark. I've never had chronic pain before and I don't know what's changed. What I do know is that I will by god get my damned knees back up to par because I will be damned before I give up my fabulous heels. Damned, I say, and I have every faith Eddie Izzard would empathize completely. *sniff*
As difficult and frustrating and downright miserable as dealing with the DHS has been (and be afraid, Gary the Asshole, because I'm mailing some very detailed letters tomorrow), the fact that I've likely qualified for Medicaid means that with a referral from the fabulous Linda, I can get physical therapy and possibly access to a facility with gym equipment. \o/ That would be so wonderful. I'll also know what the hell exactly has happened to my knees soon. Just having that answer will make it easier for me to do the right kind of work for my joints.
The need for strength goes well beyond the physical for me, though. There are a couple of people I've very much wanted to write to say, hey, I know we have to work around an awkward Rift, but I miss you. I've been too chickenshit to do it; too scared to have my fears of confirmed and find myself dealing with another emotional blow. I'm so fragile right now, my PTSD-skewed defenses are the only things holding me together. However, even if I can't reestablish contact, I can continue to stay open to interaction, much the way I have with Amina and the Lovely Ladies of Lawrence.
More than anything else, I need to get a handle on the fears which are hardening me into a different, more cynical person regarding matters of trust and emotional intimacy. I'm not afraid of failure when it comes to making another move because shit happens, the job stuff has sucked, but I continue to do everything in my power to address that. But believing someone would want to be my friend and stay my friend after they've met me? Man. I can't do it. Not yet. Not now.
Then there's all the stuff going on with my family. I called the one cousin I've always been close to, Kriket (and with a given name like "Shelby Janice," you'd probably've picked the nickname "Kriket" for yourself as a tiny child, too) and found that our connection is as strong as ever. She was born about a month after I was and is the one person in the family to whom I look remotely related, except she's about an inch or two shorter and so much cuter. Krik filled me in on more of the facts surrounding the death of the Evil Grandmother. It left me sad for the old bat in an abstracted way -- the way I'd feel for any elderly person who suffered non-stop before dying. I'm still glad the miserable old bitch is gone, but I wouldn't have wished what she went through on her for all that she deserved it.
Talking to Kriket also gave me a fresh perspective on what's going on back in Texas with the rest of the family, my parents included. Kriket wants me to come back, as much for my parents and myself as for her. Her mom was my father's older sister, Jan, and Krik went through the ultra-fast version of losing a parent to brain cancer. She's still not over her mom's death and she still feels so lost. I'm the only one in any position to empathize with her to the extent I can, much as she is with me. She understands I need time to gather myself; to be held together by more than a few pills a day to keep the screams just beneath my skin at bay.
I'm hip-deep into the rambling, so I'll wrap this up. No matter what and no matter when, I'll be leaving Chicago a very changed woman. I want the majority of the changes, even if they've left soul-deep scars, to be for the better. I don't know if that's possible. I don't even know if I believe that's possible, but that's not the point.
The point is to simply find the strength to try.
Okay. Please do bear with me on the long-ass prelude you're going to get, yo.
My day started with running late to the trauma specialist and having my damned cough kick back in. I took two hydrocone in the cab I had to grab, but did so quite stupidly on an empty stomach. I had just enough time for the meds to fully kick in and leave me most of the way to stoned when Kathy finally saw me. That was probably for the best. I mean, I spoke a little more slowly and occasionally struggled for a word or two, but as wet-eyed as I got toward the end, I kept my emotions in check and didn't so much as drip a tear.
I talked to her a little about the way Chicago has changed me. That sense of being disposable has become so embedded now, I've become hardened against getting too close to anyone. At the same time, I've softened toward the other people who've been disposed of by life. I've learned how much a single act of kindness or a supportive word can brighten my day and thus make a point to pass that along, particularly when I recognize Self (and here's where that reference comes from) in them.
Mostly, I talked about how much I've hurt over losing what I'd prematurely considered my RL support network out here. I hold myself entirely responsible for that, mind. It's just that this loss only reinforced this sense of being disposable. (Doesn't help that I have major trust and betrayal issues so epic you'd expect them to be scored by Wagner.) I couldn't really answer her question about whether I have a hard time making friends out here, now that everything's played out as it has. I suspect I'll be mulling that over for a little while yet.
Anyway. Next stop was to grab a coffee then head back to the clinic, wherein I was promptly put in a small storage room while I waited to pick up the CTA disability to form. I Twittered and texted a bit and refrained from pilfering medical supplies. Eventually, the nurse brought me the form and let me know the X-rays of my extra-bum knee still hadn't arrived yet. From there, I went to one of the RTA Key Centers. I walked there and felt quite proud for being mobile enough to do so.
...And then I had to take the stairs there. Oh, holy crap. They had been constructed with the shallowest rise and most painful run of any stairs I've used, and they went on forever and spiraled. Had they had a normal rise, I would have been fine because I could have kept more of my weight shifted on my heel (and therefore to my quads and hamstrings.) When I found out this office wasn't one where I could have the necessary photo made for the ID, I had to work my way back down those stairs again.
It was while I was walking back down Broadway to the closest photo-taking Key Center that I saw a smallish card printed on shiny, thick stock. It had to have been a tag from a piece of luggage or something, although it didn't have a hole punched through it. It simply stated "Beautiful" in a sweeping cursive font and, beneath that, "Durable" in a more, well, durable-looking font.
For an instant, I considered picking it up but I just snorted and kept moving. Those aren't my keywords, even if they might be my inward challenges to attain. Not five minutes later, though, I saw an over-sized card -- a flash card -- with "11 x 4" printed in a huge, clear font. Flash cards are awesome. I went from "forty-four" to "that's my card" to "reduces to eight" (that's right, busting out the woo-woo numerology now) to "is the Chariot or Strength number eight?" in the time I needed to pick it up without breaking my hobbling stride.
I looked at it some more, thought about that first card I didn't pick up, and knew that eight had to be Strength. I almost went back for the first card but figured I'd already gotten the hint. Also, I decided I was glad I had gotten the hint, lest the universe feel it necessary to wing a gianormous piece of poster board with a snarling lion on it at me as soon as I rounded the corner of Lawrence so as to get my goddamned attention.
I had a hard time at the Department of Dehumanizing Services, although I did find out I've been assigned a caseworker (no more Gary the Asshole! w00t!) and, from the sound of it, I think I've qualified for Medicaid. I have to wait for the packet to confirm all of this, though. Here's hoping it arrives very soon.
Once I left, I kept walking although both knees hurt sharply (although thankfully not because I'd had to drop to them and just fucking beg to get shit taken care of), now up Lawrence to north on Clark, and thought about Strength.
Traditionally, you see a fair woman opening the mouth of the lion. There's a chain of flowers around his neck which (I think) I read a long time back was supposed to represent the lion's need for awareness of surrounding souls. I think the chain of flowers is linked to those the woman wears, but I'm too tired to look it up. Anyway. My understanding of the card's traditional meaning is to find the courage to look within in order to conquer the natural world. Basically, it's mind over matter attained through Self.
This hit me on a couple of levels. The most obvious made itself known with every step I took along Clark. I've never had chronic pain before and I don't know what's changed. What I do know is that I will by god get my damned knees back up to par because I will be damned before I give up my fabulous heels. Damned, I say, and I have every faith Eddie Izzard would empathize completely. *sniff*
As difficult and frustrating and downright miserable as dealing with the DHS has been (and be afraid, Gary the Asshole, because I'm mailing some very detailed letters tomorrow), the fact that I've likely qualified for Medicaid means that with a referral from the fabulous Linda, I can get physical therapy and possibly access to a facility with gym equipment. \o/ That would be so wonderful. I'll also know what the hell exactly has happened to my knees soon. Just having that answer will make it easier for me to do the right kind of work for my joints.
The need for strength goes well beyond the physical for me, though. There are a couple of people I've very much wanted to write to say, hey, I know we have to work around an awkward Rift, but I miss you. I've been too chickenshit to do it; too scared to have my fears of confirmed and find myself dealing with another emotional blow. I'm so fragile right now, my PTSD-skewed defenses are the only things holding me together. However, even if I can't reestablish contact, I can continue to stay open to interaction, much the way I have with Amina and the Lovely Ladies of Lawrence.
More than anything else, I need to get a handle on the fears which are hardening me into a different, more cynical person regarding matters of trust and emotional intimacy. I'm not afraid of failure when it comes to making another move because shit happens, the job stuff has sucked, but I continue to do everything in my power to address that. But believing someone would want to be my friend and stay my friend after they've met me? Man. I can't do it. Not yet. Not now.
Then there's all the stuff going on with my family. I called the one cousin I've always been close to, Kriket (and with a given name like "Shelby Janice," you'd probably've picked the nickname "Kriket" for yourself as a tiny child, too) and found that our connection is as strong as ever. She was born about a month after I was and is the one person in the family to whom I look remotely related, except she's about an inch or two shorter and so much cuter. Krik filled me in on more of the facts surrounding the death of the Evil Grandmother. It left me sad for the old bat in an abstracted way -- the way I'd feel for any elderly person who suffered non-stop before dying. I'm still glad the miserable old bitch is gone, but I wouldn't have wished what she went through on her for all that she deserved it.
Talking to Kriket also gave me a fresh perspective on what's going on back in Texas with the rest of the family, my parents included. Kriket wants me to come back, as much for my parents and myself as for her. Her mom was my father's older sister, Jan, and Krik went through the ultra-fast version of losing a parent to brain cancer. She's still not over her mom's death and she still feels so lost. I'm the only one in any position to empathize with her to the extent I can, much as she is with me. She understands I need time to gather myself; to be held together by more than a few pills a day to keep the screams just beneath my skin at bay.
I'm hip-deep into the rambling, so I'll wrap this up. No matter what and no matter when, I'll be leaving Chicago a very changed woman. I want the majority of the changes, even if they've left soul-deep scars, to be for the better. I don't know if that's possible. I don't even know if I believe that's possible, but that's not the point.
The point is to simply find the strength to try.