Reflecting on Life and Appreciating Each Day

Oftentimes, I forget how good I have it.  It's easy to become jealous, bitter and simply angry about the hand I've been dealt.  Dwelling on my pain and disability and trying to blame someone or reverse it is a waste of time and energy.  This weekend I had a wake-up call that led me to realize how precious it is to be able to feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, a cool evening breeze, or enjoy looking up at the sky during an evening sunset.

Thursday afternoon, traffic was crazy.  I assumed it was because President Obama had been in Buffalo and that perhaps the traffic was still slow.  I had a 45 minute drive home that would normally only take 20 minutes.  I started dinner a bit later, timing it so it would be ready for my husband when he got home from work.  I got a phone call around twenty after six.  It was my husband.  "I had to get off the thruway.  There was an alert up and I saw traffic ahead at a complete standstill.  Fortunately, I got off in time, but it's going to take me a bit longer to get home.  I guess Obama wanted to go to Mighty Taco," he joked.

On Saturday, as we walked to get coffee together, Nate said to me, "Oh, by the way, I found out what that traffic was all about on Thursday."  "What was it?" I asked.  "A 12-year-old was riding his bike to football practice.  He rode out into the street as the turn signal went on.  A car driving into the intersection ran him over.  I mean, it was his fault... no drugs, alcohol, or cell phone use... and about 10 people helped roll the car off of him, but... it was too late.  It was just a terrible accident."  

I don't know what happened inside, but I just felt this overwhelming sadness.  Here I was, walking with my husband, breathing air, and enjoying the sunshine... and a child who had not yet even begun to live was killed.  Life was going on, and I knew parents, schoolmates and friends were grieving.  Who was I to ever complain about life when it's so fragile?  I later found out that my uncle had this young boy as a student at Hoover Middle School.  My uncle elaborated, "He was conscious and calling for help.  His leg was badly broken at the knee.  He was able to tell the police his name and address.  I'm guessing he just died from internal injuries.  He was a good kid... popular.  The start of this school year is going to be rough."         

I then thought about a 13-year-old girl named Erin who lived down the street from my parents.  A couple of years ago, she and two friends were playing on a school playground.  They had all just celebrated their 8th grade graduation the evening before.  Erin had a lead part in a dance recital the next day.  On their way home from the playground, the girls ran into the median of a busy street.  A car stopped to wave them on.  A woman driving a jeep didn't know why this car had suddenly stopped and quickly drove into the outside lane to avoid slamming into it.  Two of the girls were hit by the jeep.  Erin would not dance in that recital... she was killed.  The roadside memorial is still on the corner of my parent's street.  Again, just a terrible accident.

When I was 8 years old, there was a boy named Benjamin. He was a year younger than me and a student in the classroom next to mine.  He needed to have open heart surgery.  My mom explained to me, "Before the doctors put him to sleep, he told his mom and dad 'don't worry!'  But he was much sicker than the doctors thought.  He died while in surgery."  I remembered who he was back then, and can still picture his face today.  Even as an 8-year-old, I cried for him and I cried for his parents.  He was a little kid, consoling his parents before his passing.  It was just so sad.

In bringing this all together, I am 30-years-old.  I am sitting in my living room, typing on my laptop.  My husband is sitting across the room typing away on his.  It is a beautiful Sunday evening. Peeking through the window blinds, I can see the sun setting through a tree in our yard.  Beautiful.  I am alive.  I don't understand the big picture and why I am alive while innocent children have to die.  But what I do know is that I have control over what I do with whatever time I have left here, by how I treat people, by my actions and by trying to live each moment as if it were my last.       

Roaming through the night to find my place in this world...

Okay, the subject of this entry is utter cheese, unless you're a girl (and a Christian music aficionado).  When I was in high school, I heard this song on the radio, and I had to find it on (then legal) Napster.  I remember listening to the lyrics and thinking "this is me."  I knew so deeply that I needed to hear this song, and find a reason to keep searching for my place in this word...



Somehow I ended up being office coordinator for the United Way Day of Caring in Buffalo, NY a few years back.  I kind of felt "special" when my former supervisor asked me to take the reigns of a guy who retired.  I was reluctant, and even mentioned someone else in the office who I thought would do a better job with this event.  My supervisor pushed me a bit, and I reluctantly accepted her proposition.  I can honestly say at this point in my life, I'm glad she asked me to do this.

This year was my 4th year in charge of our office's volunteer activity -- my 7th Day of Caring in total.  We spent the day at Cradle Beach Camp in Angola, NY, painting a maintenance shed and staining a couple of decks.  I hadn't gotten much sleep last night, due to my sleep patterns being way out of whack and my lower back killing me.  I couldn't sleep for one real reason: depression.

As we painted the shed, a guy from my office and I began reminiscing about our on-campus interviews with Federal Recruiters with the Workforce Recruitment Program for Students with Disabilities.  I told my co-worker how I'd left my interview holding back tears.  Seven years ago, while opening my transcript, a Federal recruiter smiled and said, "Wow!  Look at all these A's."  He proceeded to ask me what my career interests were as he glanced through my resume.  I told him that I was interested in safety and security.  His demeanor changed and he went on to say, "I don't understand how your interests have anything to do with what you went to school for."  He then went on to criticize my resume (which a career counselor helped me put together.)  "Well, we only place about 10% of all applicants.  I'll circulate your resume, but I don't think anything will come of it."  I recall being in a trance as a walked out of the Student Union at UB.  I was stunned and offended.

Here I am, over 6 years later. The recruiter was wrong, but I'm still not happy.  I feel as though my life is slipping away as time passes me by while I sit in front of a computer.  I never wanted a desk job.  I hate sitting in front of a computer.  I knew what I wanted to do with my life and this is not it.  Don't get me wrong, I am extremely grateful for the job I have and I always try my best, but I feel it's not what I was meant to do with my life.  Jobs tend to define people... and I do not want this job to define me because it's not who I am.  I wanted to be a patrolman in the Amherst Police Department.  I wanted to work with kids.  I wanted to coach.  Dystonia robbed me of all of those dreams.  Forgive me for being bitter.

Who am I, then?  I think I'm supposed to be the person I am when I'm my happiest, doing my best, and being the best version of myself.  When I'm working on a project where I can see the impact is has on people, I know that's where I'm supposed to be.  When I'm out for a long run, meditating, dreaming and brainstorming... I'm me.  When a bunch of 10-year-old girls eagerly raise their hands to participate in a GOTR activity, share a story, or run up to me and give me a hug while participating in Girls on the Run... I know that's when I'm at my best.  These activities that make me feel so alive are in stark contrast to what I do day in and day out.  I need to somehow get out of this funk.  I need more of these positive "projects" and activities in my life.  But how?

My job isn't that difficult and honestly, I am grateful.  But my heart is not in it.  My heart is in being a Girls on the Run coach, spending extra hours at home planning activities, watching the girls grow as people and athletes.  It's in coordinating activities like Day of Caring.  I enjoy volunteering in atmospheres where I get to meet a wide variety of people.  I love both spectating and volunteering at road races.  I always, always, always like to help people who are trying to do something good.

Right now, I just have my job.  I do not have running.  I do not have coaching.  I just have my job and a house to come home to.  I know all of that is more than so many people have, but I am not where I am supposed to be in this world...

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

I've recently been thinking much about the possibility of psychogenic dystonia/conversion disorder.  I have been tested for every gene possible.  My dystonia is worsening and I would like some peace of mind.   I am going to write an entry a bit haphazardly, and much of it may seem like whining.  In reality, I am simply writing about things that happened to me growing up.  One person can only take so much stress before reaching a breaking point.  We're taught to bottle up our emotions, to stay strong and not cry, even if we're screaming inside.  Did the emotional center of my brain overload and manifest itself as dystonia?  I'm not really sure, and I may never know...

I've known my husband (casually acquainted)  for over over 15 years now.  Actually, our first real date was only five years ago. When Nate walked through the door of Starbucks, the evening sunset seemed to radiate in behind him.  I recall thinking, "I am going to marry him someday."  I wasn't actually quite sure if this was even a date.  Was it two people with common interests and some fond memories of our high school getting together to reminisce, or more?  I had no clue.

Nate is awesome with faces -- too good, almost.  Since he recognizes people and remembers names so well, he used to feel offended when people could not remember him.  Some time after we had been together, he admitted he never would have recognized me that evening if he had not known that we were meeting.  I looked so different. I looked different because I was sickly, shaking, and barely 90 lbs.

Nate remembered a few things about who I was: I played saxophone, I wore Beatles t-shirts, and I was a cross country runner.  He also said he remembered I was nice (debatable now, I'm sure).  I remembered he was really skinny, played trumpet, and he wore tie-dyed t-shirts.  Nothing else.

Nate and I had very different high school experiences.  In fact, our experiences growing up in general were very different, despite how much we have in common.  Both of us were actually kind of bewildered after talking for a bit, "How is it that I didn't know you back then?"  We had so much in common.  The only practical and perhaps spiritual answer I could offer to both of us was, "It just wasn't the right time."  From my point of view, I had to add one thing on, tears filling my eyes, "I really needed a good friend back then... but God doesn't put us through anything we can't handle in life"

Growing up, I completely lacked self-confidence.  I could not look people in the eye while conversing.  I was soft-spoken.  I never stood up for myself.  I let people copy my homework as they giggled behind my back, gossiping about what an ugly dork I was.  I imploded.  I had no dignity.

I recall in 7th grade, a huge pool party being thrown, and invitations being passed around.  The invitations came with specific instructions - "Nicole is weird.  Don't tell her."  Never mind the fact that the party was being hosted by a girl who lived just two doors down from me.  I've since forgiven her, but I don't think anyone there could possibly understand how much all of this hurt me.  It's like I wasn't human.

Gossiping sucks, especially when things get back to the person, regardless of what is being said is true.  There was an entire school bus my freshman year of high school that talked about me, and it got back to me.  "Nicole sucks at the saxophone.  Why doesn't she just quit?"  Now, that was a milder rumor that went around in the late 90's.  "Nicole is ugly, how could anyone date her?"  Really, it only gets worse.  Things I simply cannot post here.  By the end of my sophomore year, I begged my parents to let me switch high schools.  The mean, subtle pranks became too much.  I didn't know who to trust.

I realized by my junior year that I wasn't just a cross country runner... I was a damn good one.  I was ranked 6th fastest in Erie County Division II Women's XC.  No one cold take that away from me.  I knew the harder I worked, the faster I'd get.  So, I ran and I enjoyed.  I tried to ignore the "Run Forrest, run" comments.  If people wanted to pull that, then they needed to race me.  Running was my escape from EVERYTHING bad.  If someone hurt me, I ran.  More people were using instant messenger, so that meant online pranks and bullying.  On one occasion, I had to file a police report.  I hated my life.  I could only run to escape.  If I didn't do well on a test, I ran.  I just ran.  I ran to combat my problems and momentarily escape from them.  

By my senior year, I continued to run competitively.  I played two instruments in three different bands and was running on empty.  One evening I was waiting for my mom to pick me up.  With a backpack, a bassoon, a saxophone, and an Adidas duffel bag, I had my hands full - literally.  I heard someone offer to hold the front doors of the school open.  As I stepped out the door saying "Thanks", the door slammed in my face and I dropped everything.  I looked to see who it was. He just laughed.  I got my things together and bottled it all up inside.  All the anger.  Soon it would be over and I'd be out of that hell hole and away at college.

Really, my escape to SUNY Albany was just okay.  I was afraid to socialize.  I studied all the time and never missed Sunday evening Mass.  If I had time I ran. Drunken floormates would pass me walking back from the library at 1 in the morning, "Nicole, are you coming from church?"  The stress bottled up.  My neck felt unusually stiff.  Stress?  One evening I was gagging.  Some concerned floormates called 911.  At the hospital, I was diagnosed with a "headache".  Not that I could blame them.  I got to the E.R. and whatever was causing the gagging disappeared.  I believe it was dystonia.

One year away at college, I decided dorming wasn't for me.  I enrolled at UB.  Seven months later, I couldn't walk.  The rest is history.

On that first date at Starbucks, I told Nate much about all of this.  I don't know why.  I guess I needed to get it all out to someone.  Some of the people who he was associated with back then, well, the way they treated me was... well, it sucked.  He just shook his head and said "fools."  I still had my one true passion - running.  Nate loved reading.  He recommended a book to me,  The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.  I pulled a notepad out of my purse and wrote it down.  To this day, he reminds me of how impressed he was that I did that.  I never read the book, and I even own the movie!  Maybe one of these days I should watch it... or buy the book... and read it.

Still, I wonder... is my dystonia psychogenic?  After over ten years of suffering, I just wish I knew why this happened to me.  I was supposed to be victorious and leave my shitty past behind.  I was confident I'd have a successful law enforcement career and I'd never let anyone push anyone else around if I could help it.  That would never happen.