I’ve been trying to get my act together enough to write a blog post for a week now, which is about how long it’s been since I entered another sick-and-tired cycle. I can barely put two thoughts together.
When I don’t feel well, it’s frequently because of something I’ve eaten or something else that has triggered inflammation, like stress or lack of sleep. The mystery is always, “What was it this time?”
I’ve always loved problem solving. I feel like Sherlock Holmes, hunting for patterns and clues.
But this mystery has overstayed its welcome. I’m sick and tired of it.
I had wanted to write a post about a recent camping trip Steve and I and the dynamic dog duo went on near Grand Marais. I have some beautiful photos…
But the words wouldn’t come. Not like the words are coming now, for all the wrong reasons.
I think I mentioned previously my little quest to get my original birth certificate (OBC). Four months ago I petitioned for a copy. I waited two months then contacted the County Juvenile Records to find out the status of my petition. They couldn’t find it. They said they never got it.
No longer trusting mail delivery, I filled out the petition again, had it notarized, included the paperwork from social services saying they had verified that my parents are deceased, and hand delivered the pages to Juvenile Records.
I waited another two months before calling to check on the status of my petition. Once again, they can’t find it.
As I relay this story to people, I laugh and make a joke out of it, but that’s just me trying to make it okay.
It’s not okay.
So many emotions have been triggered as I continue to be lost in the system. For once, can something that is important to me be seen as something that matters?
“Dear adoption system, please stop looking out for everyone but the adoptee. You’ve done enough to us. How about doing something for us?”
I want to pack a bag, throw it into my truck, and invite my dogs to go on an adventure with a crazy lady. I picture myself driving away. I’d listen to audio books. Maybe camp. Maybe sleep in my truck. Write. Sob. Hike. Scream. Pound my fists on the dashboard. And let all the shit out that I’ve held inside so tight that I feel like I’m packed with dynamite.
Can you hear the sizzle?
But I don’t want to end on that note…
I managed to pick up my sick and tired self and go running on Tuesday. I iced my knees, took ibuprofen, put on my knee supports. cut my running sequence from ten to five minutes, while increasing my repetitions from two to four, and I hit the trails.
Because I needed to do something. To let it not be perfect. To let it be enough. Knowing whatever I did, it was better than not doing anything.
I run where I do because usually no one is there. But school sports must have started up and I ran into the local high school track team.
I felt embarrassed with my slow, sloppy pace. Still dressed in the clothes I wore to work, I didn’t even look like a runner. But as I passed by a group of girls, one of them smiled and said, “Good job!”
Perhaps she hadn’t noticed I was an old lady and not part of their group. But perhaps she had. Either way, it was nice to hear.
Those off-hand words people say without thinking anything of it. The thumbs up. The head nod. They’re a big deal. That kind of thing can make the difference between someone feeling unseen or feeling like their efforts matter.
So I’m holding on to those two words, “Good job!”
And I fully support myself if I get into my truck and drive away for awhile. I bet Java would go with me. She likes my kind of crazy…