Weird day.

Today was a weird day. It was full of pangs.

Main Entry: ¹pang

Pronunciation: \ˈpaŋ\

Function: noun

Etymology: origin unknown

Date: 15th century

1 : a brief piercing spasm of pain
2 : a sharp attack of mental anguish

Pang #1. It is dark, and I'm wrestling with Sleep in my mind. My nighttime ruminations create a fortress so tall--so impenetrable, that those zzZ's have a hard time pinning me down. I'm about to admit defeat when I am startled silly at 1:00am by the ring of my phone. I've received junk email from my old friend's Yahoo account. It must have been hacked. Nothing alarming right? Wrong. This friend took her own life four months ago. What's worse? The subject line:

Hello.

The hairs on my spine stand at attention. I pinch myself. I know there's no way she could have sent it, but I have to admit: for a fleeting moment, a tiny part of me felt hope, eagerness. I half-imagined the gibberish in the rest of the email rearrange into loving words of reassurance. This has got to be a sick joke, I think. It has become harder to sleep. Sigh.

Pang #2. I woke up to the worst bout of joint pain I've had since March. I curse my body and decide to spend the rest of the day trying to relieve the stiffness. I try an epsom salt bath, yoga, and Aleve. None work, so I finally drag my sister out to go on a light hike with me. We make a few stops first.

I've just paid the cashier at Stop #3. The little one and I head straight for the exit...and straight into Shitty Run-In With Heartless Lady And Her Elderly Mother. Basically, my sister made a run for the exit while the door was slightly ajar, brushing gently past Elderly Mother. Heartless Lady throws fit because my sister didn't hold the door open for her mother. Heartless Lady deliberately complains loudly for us to hear as we walk towards the parking lot. An unbearable minute passes...we are almost at our cars now. She does not stop complaining to her mother about what a manner-less child my sister is. So I confront her:

"Um. Excuse me. I'm sorry. but my sister is mentally challenged and doesn't understand the situation. Social cues like holding the door for others don't come easy for her because she is autistic. Do you think you could you stop talking about her like that?"
Heartless Lady is pissed. "Miss, I was talking to my mother. Not you. This is between me and my mother. Why are you butting into our conversation."

"I'm not. You were speaking loudly for us to hear, and it was very rude. Trust me, she didn't mean it. Please stop."
"That does not excuse your sister from holding the door for elders. Or you could have stopped her from running out like that. And you know that I can have a conversation about it with my mother if I want, right?"

"She didn't know better. And I can't control her. It's not that big of a d---"
Heartless Lady cuts me off coldly. "Then you shouldn't bring her out. If you can't control her, what are you doing out with her? If she has behavioral issues, she belongs at home." She shakes her head disapprovingly and walks away.

Speechless. I'm so offended, so outraged...that I don't even notice the tears falling. People are so backwards sometimes. Anyways, what a sight we must have been: Girl holding groceries, crying in between a nail salon and a candy store at 3pm in a suburban strip mall. Can't forget the aloof young girl beside her, patting her chest and making neighing noises. Sigh.

Pang #3. After collecting myself, Sis and I head to bluff top trails in PV, near the Terranea Resort. With neatly manicured lawns, gorgeous oceanfront cliffs, vacationing families, trails heading down to the beach...I figured it'd be a perfect way to get my mind off the negativity and grease my hinges. But as soon as we hit the main trail I see a freshly created memorial for a lady who jumped off the cliff, exactly one month ago.

Unbelievable. Of all the beautiful sights to see, I am led to this--visions of another stint on earth abandoned. Charles Hansen Towne's words from 1922 dance back to life again:

"When he went blundering back to God
His songs half written, his work half done,
Who knows what paths his bruised feet trod,
What hills of peace or pain he won?

I hope God smiled and took his hand,
And said, "Poor truant, passionate fool!
Life's book is hard to understand:
Why couldst thou not remain at school?"

Then, a visitor. A guy not much older than I was came to visit the memorial. He stared long and hard into the ocean ahead. I left to give him space, but for a second, I had this urge to approach him. We were strangers, but we must share a similar pain. We had to---I mean, after all, we shared real estate on Bereavement Blvd. But why didn't I? Could have been a moment of mutual comfort, however brief. Sigh.

Pang #4. I drove home feeling off-kilter. My mind was stuffed to the brim with thoughts. I cursed to myself realizing that my joints were in no better condition than they were in the morning. When I pulled in to my driveway, a group of girls from the eating disorder treatment home next door were piling into a van. Maybe an outing? Either way, more thoughts of her, and of a potential healing that didn't occur. Of my unfinished therapy. Another pang. Sigh.

Today was a weird day. You know, those feeling days. It reminded me of all the time I have spent clawing hard at my surroundings and deep within me to try to find a strength I don't have, but pretended to have. Along with the overall unreliability of positivity and hope. I don't like days like today.

There must be a reason why God tends to massage bruises like this. So I'm patiently tuning in to the airwaves. And tomorrow, I will reenter the normal world of California summer sun + weekend laziness. In other words, tomorrow will be better.