Mary Gelpi

Camp Quiet.

Published on March 8, 2012 by Mary Gelpi9 Comments

There is so much noise in the world. There are a million distractions. Even our human conversations are half the time interrupted by a person who isn’t there– by the noise of a cell phone. So many times, hanging out with friends turns into a group of people in a room, glued to their phones, playing a game called “Hanging With Friends.” Oh, the virtual irony of it all! Sometimes I look across a dinner table and see all the tops to peoples heads, faces down, and no physical engagement. The restaurant I used to waitress at had four year-olds on ipads or iphones while the adults would eat and talk. It wasn’t so much that the children were well behaved, they were simply well distracted. And half the time the adults were just as pre-occupied. I watched couples sit in silence, one or both engaging with a gadget, missing out on each other.

It’s easy to see how this has come to pass. There are more reasons than ever to be looking down at something, than actually at someone. There’s email and texting and facebook and twitter and gaming and music and foursquare and youtube and pinterest and stumble and the blogosphere! Woo hoo! All of these things make a lot of noise and take up a lot of space, but there isn’t necessarily much substance there. You can’t stay engaged in a virtual world forever. We are warmblooded, social animals afterall, we require the warmth of another body and the sound of anothers voice. We simply do.

We’ve taken what started out as means to enhance communication, and almost gone the other direction. We’ve replaced calls with texts and jokes with smiley faces and flirting with poking. And no I don’t mean physical poking. I mean on facebook, you ‘poke’ someone, (meaning someone get’s a notification which reads intimately ‘You’ve been poked’) and if they like you, they ‘virtually’ poke you back. I can just see my grandparents trying to learn the nuances of social networking– simply turning around and saying, What the fuck? Don’t people talk anymore?

And we do. Of course we do. But I’d argue we’re digressing a little bit. So many times, we’re talking about facebook, or what we saw on Twitter. We’re fighting with our significant others about their profile picture or what some girl commented about on their wall. This is not what we should be arguing about. Couples need to fight. It’s a necessity, but not about this. This just feels…wasteful. There’s no winning the argument. And the other half of the time I call someone, I’m crossing my fingers that I get their voicemail! What’s that about? Well it’s no secret, I’m socially lazy and have never been the proactive friend. But I see these trends among everyone I know, including yours truly. Just a few weeks ago I yelled at Gabe for his profile picture, only to realize in silence later, I was acting like a complete douche. But these kinds of networking seem to encourage childish behavior like this, because the activity on it is almost childlike itself, and most of it is so unauthentic. Do you ever notice how cool most people seem on facebook? Like everyone has this awesome life and is beautiful and happy and living the dream? Knock knock knock…if you’re living the dream, you’re not busy uploading photos about it. You’re just living it!

I know it sounds like I’m spitting a lot of hatoraide on social networking when in truth I should praise it. Facebook, afterall, is the reason my blog went viral and I actively participate in most of the networks I’ve mentioned. There is an inherent need in all of us to share our experiences with one another. It’s how we bond and form closeness and facebook enables us to do that. Helllllo, I’m the girl that texts photos of my dog to people and devoted an entire page of my blog to him. Imagine how I’ll be with children! But the point is this; moderation. Everything in moderation, even moderation in moderation. And that is not where we are. We are in excess. It’s why we list our meaningless errands on facebook, ‘check in’ at a grocery store and boast 3,000 friends and only know about 20 of them. It’s also why we plan our entire weddings on pinterest (significant other or not) and why Justin Bieber has more than 18 million followers on Twitter. There are perks, of course, and these things are meant to be fun, which they are. But let’s just call it exactly what it is. Facebook is a bunch of faces, circulating in the web abyss, just attracting onlookers. Doesn’t seem like we should take it at face value. Notice the format has changed from having your profile as the main page, (the part that attempts to describe who you are) to having a wall and photos be the main page–Much quicker and easier to gauge someone this way. And we like things quick and easy, don’t we?

I often wonder what the effect of all these distractions are on everyone. Certainly our social habits have changed, and our conversations have changed. More than anything, I think we’ve cancelled the quiet. We are very rarely without our phones. Have you ever watched someone who’s phone battery has died? It’s like a natural disaster has struck. “Do you have a phone charger? I’m freaking out.” Most of us feel naked or vulnerable when we aren’t connected, when we’re off the grid. But what we should feel is alive. We should love those moments when no one can reach us, when the only voice we can hear is our inner voice, something we probably don’t listen to enough. I think my generation is missing something very basic that every generation before us has had: silence. We are always on. Always reachable. Always plugged in. Rarely do we listen to what silence or stillness has to say to us. And both these things have vital things to say, we’re just not accustomed to listening that way.

My time in Florida has had a lot of quiet, which I needed. I’ve done a lot of reading here and just listened outside to the sounds that the things which reside here make. (Side note, the tropical birds here make some freaky deaky sounds, fo real.) Timothy Leary told his generation in 1966 to Turn on, Tune in, and Drop Out. Even though his slogan was widely misinterpreted to mean ‘Get stoned and abandon all constructive activity’ what he really tried to convey was a life of examination, involvement, and autonomy. I’d argue his slogan is just as applicable today. (Or maybe the opposite, maybe we all just need to get stoned and abandon our work, man.) Mostly, I recommend we look each other in the eye and enjoy each others human-ness. When you ask someone how they are, mean it, and listen to what they have to say. At dinner, eat dinner, and talk to who you’re sharing it with! And if your phone dies, let it die. Just try staying shut off for a few minutes. I promise you, the voicemails, texts, and emails will all be waiting for you when you get back. Maybe even that cute boy you like will have poked you.

Health, Happiness, and Shhhh, Quiet.

Sounds.

Published on March 3, 2012 by Mary Gelpi7 Comments

If there’s one thing I love listening to, it’s the idle conversations between couples. That casually themed chatter is sometimes the most revealing and genuine to witness between a couple and I love hearing it. I spent so much time in our office last year. It being attached to the kitchen and me being attached to the couch put me in prime eavesdropping territory. My eyes were often closed and for a little while each day, I experienced life purely through sounds and every once in a while, through smells. That became some kind of fun for me. The game changes when you’re couch bound. You come up with new ways to pass the time. And your attention pays itself to things you never noticed before.

My step-dad is usually whistling when he enters the kitchen, and the last note always has a strong bravado, which is impressive, because not everybody can do it. If it’s first thing in the morning he empties the ice maker into the sink that is inevitably clogged and frozen over from the night before. It’s been broken for a while now, but it will most likely be some ungodly amount to fix it, so we haven’t yet. If anyone is in the kitchen then you can bet on Monty being in the kitchen, too, his paws lightly stepping just behind whoever’s in there… Just waiting for something edible to drop. And no matter who it is out of all three of us, we all say “Hi buddy!” when we see him, in a usually very high pitched voice. I can almost hear his tail wag back.

My mom is a softer walker than my step-dad. Her feet “slide” on the hard wood floor and I notice mine do the same thing. Maybe it’s the fibro. Too weak to pick up our own stupid feet. Marc walks with purpose. My mom sortof glides; her feet swish between steps. Sometimes she walks in a room, looks around and then squints her eyes and says out loud “Now what did I come in here for?” From my lifeless position on the couch, sometimes I try to guess. “Reading glasses. Kool Aid. Drugs.” I hardly ever get it right.

My favorite sound from the kitchen is the sound of coffee being made, but that’s mostly because I love the sound that the cannisters which hold the coffee grounds make when you open and shut them. They’re those flip-up air tight stainless steel containters, and something about the sound eases me. Then the filling of water, the pouring of water, the spoon from the drawer, and the grunting burp the machine makes as the first few drops peep their way out. I like the sounds of the whole method. And the finale; the cup clinks on the marble counter, the pouring into the cup and the topping off with cream. It’s a nice process to listen to and I never get tired of it.

But back to these idle conversations. I’m not sure precisely when I started to become so fond of them, but I really do love to hear them. Usually it’s about groceries or about who called that day or talk of how his clients are doing and how one says to say hi, says to feel better. And its usually against a backdrop of dishes being loaded or soup being made or ice being dumped or something equally mundane, but there’s something reassuring about it. Something very real about it that makes me feel like everything is OK. Maybe it’s because there’s been enough heavy stuff in life so these moments where my mom is rearranging items in the fridge and we’re talking about whether we want homemade chicken noodle soup or vegetable beef soup is something to relish. Because those are simple and pleasurable decisions to make. Ones I will never get tired of making, or listening to.

I find that it’s a habit I’ve carried with me. Now I sit in one room and listen to all the sounds unfold in another. I still love listening to couples talk about nothing. I like hearing how they greet each other first thing in the morning. I especially like when I hear a couple laugh, just the two of them. I even like to hear them argue! But the harmless kindof arguing, not the arguments that stem from not loving well. I realize this makes me a bit of a creeper, but we’ve discussed this. I put it all out in the open about my creepy tendencies when I wrote about stalking girls wedding albums on facebook that I wasn’t even friends with. Creep. er.

Anyway, I’m not writing from the office these days, from my couch that I was essentially physically attached to for so long. I’m a bit more mobile now. But I still think about for how long I layed in that room, quiet, and listened to what life sounded like. It’s funny that sometimes even listening to idle talk about soup and groceries still somehow managed to make me feel like I was part of the conversation–that I wasn’t so far from life. I still lie in rooms listening to parties or whathaveyou in the next one over. Last night I was listening to friends playing Catch Phrase, and I knew one of the answers and couldn’t keep it to myself so I belted it out. I knew the next answer too, so I belted that one as well. I heard them cheer, so finally, I got up, and joined the game like a normal human being. You can only listen to the next room for so long. At some point, you gotta crawl out of the cave. It’s something I’m working on.

Health, Happiness, Noise!

Couch Crashing.

Published on February 28, 2012March 1, 2012 by Mary Gelpi19 Comments

There is something I’ve become pretty good at over the last year that I would’ve never really expected, being a sick kid and all, and that thing is adaptability. Since giving up my apartment last March, I haven’t had a real home that I consider all mine since. All mine: that’s a phrase we humans love. I have jumped from house to house, state to state, with a small bulky suitcase and a bag full of pills for a solid year now. I’ve turned into a professional couch crasher. I have found that I encounter home in many places. That studio apartment that was all mine was just one of them. I remember cramming the last of my remaining boxes into my corolla and turning in my key to the landlord last year. It was a terribly sad day. Currently I’m writing from Tampa, Florida, nearly a year since that day, and I am suddenly feeling the freedom of not owning anything anymore. For so long I was trying desperately to keep everything I had, like a squirrel stumbling around hanging on to too many acorns, because they were all small symbols to me that my life was together and I was together and I could do it on my own. But finally letting those attachments go (and accepting what was true) has opened up a new freedom. Basically everything I need I can fit into this green bag I bought a couple of years ago. Except Monty of course, he doesn’t fit. But he made the 10 hour drive to Tampa, and is an incredible teacher of what it means to be adaptable. See?

I don’t know how long I will be here or where I will go next. At some point I plan to go to Colorado and stay with my grandma for a while. And at another point I’ll make it to New York because my brother and sister-in-law will be having their baby in a few weeks. I don’t have a distinct plan. Which is very much my style because about 95% of the plans I make do I ever follow through with anyway. So in this new style of life, I just sort of go where the wind takes me, and on my own terms. I am lucky to have such loving and welcoming people in my life who have all said in their own way “Sure, I have a couch you can sleep on.” Of course they don’t mean permanently and I never intend to stay forever, but there is sort of an unspoken agreement between me and my hosts: Stay until it’s time to go. Last year I spent two months in New York at Nick and Estee’s. (The soon to be parents) Then I spent a month in California at my sister and brother-in-laws house. Then a little time in Miami for Nick and Estee’s wedding. Then it was back to my parents house, and floating around on couches in New Orleans, recovering, writing, and living a non-traditional nomadic life. I have finally grown accustomed to living unplanned, undecided, and out of a suitcase.

I still look forward to the day when things are settled down, when I finally have a home base, and when I can answer this question a little more easily: “And so what do you do, Mary?” I love that question. And by love I mean despise. How does someone like me begin to even remotely answer that question? Usually I say “Oh, I live with my parents and yell at the TV when they watch Bill O’Reilly. Sometimes I take showers. What do you do?” I think now I have a better answer. I’m a nomad. But instead of wondering in fields, I crash on couches. At this point, it actually does feel like my vocation. Like I’ve been called to wonder around the world for a while, and figure out how to live well even though I’m not. It’s certainly been a learning experience, but I know I still have a long way to go. Like my mom always says, Just do today. Today I’m in Tampa, it is sunny and warm and Monty is fetching sticks in the bay. Somehow after the journey here, I still haven’t crashed. I woke up with a pretty killer migraine this morning but the medicine took care of it and I don’t have that typical Feel-like-I’ve-Been-Hit-By-A-Truck-In-the-Face feeling. So I am grateful for that, and trying not to harp on it for long. Sometimes I fear if I think too much about it the good feeling will go. So I’m not questioning it, I am just grateful.

I think more than any physical place, my notebooks have been my home. Writing often reveals to me what is true and real before my own mind can recognize it in the world. I know that writing is a way for me to find truth and tell the truth. It might be why I get anxiety just before I sit down to write, but after I finish, I feel better. Lighter. And if I’ve written correctly, I always walk away with more clarity, more light in the room than before. So I won’t concern myself too much with what house I call mine for now. Maybe home is more an internal thing than anything else. For the time being, home is on paper, and deep within.

Health, Happiness and Nomadic Tendencies.

Trusting the Battle

Published on February 22, 2012 by Mary Gelpi23 Comments

I’ve received quite a number of emails over the months and read many responses from people who ask how I stay so positive, happy, and humorous among illness and all the things I’ve lost. It makes me smile to read emails like that because it’s sort of like “Oh, haha, these people think I’m happy and have my shit together.” The truth of the matter, is that happiness is something I work at, every day. I mean that. I’m not a naturally chipper person. Especially in the mornings. Most days I don’t feel incredibly alive until about 7 pm. I don’t have a ton of friends or a blooming social life. I am OK with that as I’ve always been someone who enjoys solitude. But I just don’t want to give the impression of “The grass is always greener” over here. I’ve gone through a lot of heartache and despair. I’ve just made it out on the other side. But I still struggle with optimism and simple joy. Writing here has enabled me to find the lessons that were hiding beneath the tears and sickness and loneliness. So sometimes it appears that I’ve got it all figured out and wake up whistling the tune to “Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day…” I don’t. I work to find the beauty and meaning of every day of my life. And many times, I fail.

I have been prone to periods of despair throughout my life, especially last year. One day in February, I cried almost the entire day. I kept thinking I would run out of tears, and I never did. As soon as I’d finish blowing my nose and wiping up my face, I’d sit down just to have the tears return and my heart go back to aching. That night, my mom brought in tomato soup to my room and made me eat even though I had no appetite. There I was at 26 years old, being spoon fed by my mom. It was humbling, but also a really beautiful moment to know that even in all of the isolation I felt, someone was still there to feed me, when I didn’t have the strength to feed myself. She talked me through the pain and the tears, many of which were falling in the orange liquid in the bowl and making little ripples like a rock in a pond. I remember how sad and hopeless I felt that night, distinctly. But, I made it through, with the help of my mom. It wouldn’t be the last day where I felt like I was drowning in the sadness of my own story. But each of those moments when I reflect on them now, were revealing something quieter, and not as easy to see. In my anger that I had to move back in with my parents, I missed the fact that I was lucky to have somewhere to go and have someone to take care of me. In the sadness of losing my job, I skimmed over the idea that staying there would’ve made me sicker, possibly to the point of no return. Last year revealed many moments that at times would suffocate me, if I looked only at those moments. But life isn’t isolated that way. In every moment of darkness, something else is revealing itself, if we choose to see the whole of it. A lot of times, I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and take an honest look at the way things were. This was not easy, and it still isn’t easy. It’s work. Like Nepo says “This is the trick to staying well isn’t it; to feel the sun, even in the dark.”

I still struggle today in finding the meaning of my life. But further than that, I struggle with general happiness. I sometimes slip and get stuck in a hole. At times it feels easier just to be depressed or angry. And momentarily I guess it’s OK to feel those things, I just know that the only times I’ve been able to move forward is when I choose to look honestly at my experience and try to see what it has to offer, not what it has taken away. Staying mad, staying sad, saying ‘It’s not fair’ just keeps me in the hole. And who wants to live in a hole? It’s dark down there!

Everyone is fighting their own battle, whether it shows on the outside or not. We often assume everyone else is happy, has an easy life, and could never understand our struggle. I often felt that way last year. But that thought is not only our ego trying to isolate us, it’s false. Peel back the layers of any person, and you’ll see the battles they’re undergoing and the scars they carry. I have mentioned this before, but it is something that has stuck with me for a while. Trust your battle. Trust that the life experience you were given is exactly what you need. The lessons you learn will become the whole worlds lessons. Wayne Dyer says to find the lesson, you have to actively ask each experience “What is this here to teach me?”

So that is what I’m working on; not only to seek the lessons of my experience, but to try and live each day happily and with ease. Again, it’s something I have to work at. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the questions and mysteries of life, that I miss the simple pleasures. I could spend all day wondering and fearing whether the sun will rise tomorrow, and wrapped up in that anxiety, I miss the sunset. I’m going to try and trust my experience and my battle. I’m going to stop wishing for a life that isn’t mine. And I’m going to try whistling that tune “Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day…” every morning. Because my grandma always whistles that tune, and I’ve yet to meet anyone happier.

Health, Happiness, and Battles.

Some Lessons of Love on Valentines Day

Published on February 14, 2012 by Mary Gelpi37 Comments

I’m told that you learn how to love from your parents. So on this International day of love and cheap Walgreens chocolates, I’m going to share the lessons of someone whose influence has been huge and far reaching- My mom. Here is a part of her story.

My mom and dad met on a blind date set up by their two best friends. It was only meant to be “friendly” and an innocent night of fun. Neither my mom or dad were fully on board with the idea of it, but they were told “It’s just dinner. What’s the harm in that?.” What was promised to be just dinner, ended up being the first night of a journey that would lead to marriage and four kids. Bam! In 1993 my dad was diagnosed with cancer. There was a lump underneath his belly button which had been there a while. It hadn’t really grown or changed but to be on the safe side they went in and removed it. Upon opening him up, they saw that not only did he have cancer, but that is was so widespread they couldn’t even locate the origin. So we were never told he had “lung cancer” or “stomach cancer.” He had whole body cancer! He was given six months.

We were also told the cancer was too far spread for chemo or radiation treatments to be effective. My dad wasn’t thrilled with this prognosis, so he devoted himself to getting well through a hollistic approach. He cut out white sugar, white flower, meat, artificial everything, and drank so much homemade carrot juice that his palms turned orange. He lived in great health for three and a half more years to the surprise of all his doctors. But ultimately he lost the battle. After he died, I remember my mom saying “I could never love someone the way I loved your dad.” And it was pretty well understood and accepted that she wouldn’t marry again.

But four years later, she was set up on another blind date which she again resisted strongly and almost bailed out on minutes before. This time it was a different set of friends who set her up, but the promise was the same. “It’s just dinner. And we’ll be there the whole time.” Well wouldn’t you know it, sparks flew that night too with Roger. (We liked to call him Roger Dodger) And six months later, they married. I remember my mom saying, “When you get to be my age, you just know these things. There’s no reason to wait!” He had two kids from a previous marriage, so now altogether there were three boys and three girls. We were literally the Brady Bunch, just far more dysfunctional. But it was a really incredible thing to see my mom so re-energized again. Roger was very different from my dad, but it didn’t seem to matter. He brought her back to life.

Five years later, I was a junior in college at LSU. I remember this Tuesday morning distinctly. I was brushing my teeth and going over a case in my mind for my Media Law class that I was running late for. My cell phone started ringing and I saw it was my house. When I answered, I heard the horror in my moms voice. She could hardly get the words out, but she does. “Roger died last night.” He was in Florida on business and died in his sleep at his hotel room the night before. He was never late, so when he didn’t show up to work the next day, they knew something was up. The autopsy revealed it was a heart attack. I kind of gasped for air when I heard my moms words. In a moment it felt unreal and disgustingly real simultaneously. I was trying to process what she had told me as I packed a bag when it hit me- the icing on the cake of this surprising and sudden tragedy–my sister was getting married in two weeks. And here’s the cherry on top– they were getting married in the very same Hall that my mom and Roger were married in. As my sister Amelie so eloquently put it, Are you fucking kidding me?! It was unbelievable. I hopped in the car and made the hour and a half drive home, in shock. It felt like a 10 second drive. Doug, Nick and Amelie were all in by that night as well. Roger’s kids were in the next day and we all put our heads together and began the “making arrangements” process. Sometimes I still look back at all that and think, did that really happen?

So we Gelpi’s do two things really well: Weddings and funerals. For one thing, we’ve had a lot of practice. We planned and executed the funeral, and then prepared for my sisters wedding a week later. Somehow, the funeral was beautiful and seemed just how Roger would’ve wanted it. A lot of people spoke, including his son who’s words were poised and beautiful. The service took place outside in the 3 acre garden he created. As depressing as it was, somehow it still felt right. The next weekend, it was time for my sisters wedding. And it was a blast. Still one of the best weddings I’ve been to! Everyone smiled, laughed, and danced, including my mom. Sometimes I think we should start a business where we plan both weddings and funerals. I must say, there’s not SUCH a difference. Each involve an absurd amount of flowers, a lot of drinking, and usually someone saying something inappropriate. There’s just more dancing at a wedding! Anyway, the next year involved a lot of cursing and yelling at God. A lot of questioning life and existence and the universe and a lot of crying and flipping off the sky. But in very quiet moments, in stillness, I felt reassurance. I could feel that this was not how the story would end. It wasn’t over; not yet.

Just over a year later, my mom was at a bar-b-que at some of our best friends house, the Pastoreks. Paul Pastorek was one of my dads best friends. They were the family we’d take ridiculous annual vacations with in the summers. We were extensions of each others families. Anyway, while at the bar-b-que, my mom met Paul’s brother, Marc. Somehow, in their more than 20 years of friendship, my mom had never once met Paul’s brother, until today. You can go ahead and guess where this is leading. Yep! They ended up falling in love, too. Just over a year later, they were married on a mountain in Colorado. We joked about who was crazier; my mom for taking another chance and marrying again. Or Marc, for taking a chance and marrying a woman with two dead husbands! The first song we danced to at the wedding was “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees. It was both irreverent and inappropriate, just like all of us. Once again, we danced all night. It was perfect.

254_621214614005_23409964_41430353_8346_n — Taking the plunge, part 3.

So now, the lesson. Only marry men with strong genes. Just kidding. I think the biggest lesson I have gathered from my moms story, is that choosing to love someone involves incredible risk. There are no guarantees in life and certainly none in love. I think it would have been very easy for my mom to clam up after the first loss. And then to disengage completely after the second loss. Excuse my Jewelry commercial sappiness, but I think by keeping her heart open to even the idea of loving again, she was able to both give and receive it in spite of the track record. At Roger’s funeral, she stood up to speak to everyone’s surprise, including her own. But she said something came over her, and the first thing she said was “To love is to be vulnerable to loss.” This is true for everyone. And that’s a scary thought if you harp on it too long. But the alternative, which is safety, bears no reward. And that doesn’t sound like much fun, at all. Most everyone I’ve talked to who has been in love, whether it worked out or not, says it was well worth it. A few nights after Roger died, a lot of people were over at our house. We were eating, drinking, and remembering, telling stories. At one point my mom was talking about their first date and how hesitant she was. At the end of the story she said “What can I say, given the chance, I’d do it all over again.” That’s what you call courage! I was in awe of her. And as I watched her marry a third time, change her name a third time, ‘do it all over again,’ take another plunge into the unknown, I knew I was bearing witness to a model for not only how to live, but how to love too. Get busy livin or get busy dyin! Am I right? So here’s to you mom, for doing it all over again, picking up the pieces and moving forward, and teaching everyone around you that love, while it is a gift, is not random. You have taught us well.

Health, Happiness and Love!

The Day My Dog Sh*t on Park Avenue and I Didn’t Have a Bag

Published on February 11, 2012February 11, 2012 by Mary Gelpi23 Comments

The following is a true story. For realsy.

It was August of 2008 in New York City and unbearably hot. And that’s coming from a Southerner. They were calling it the heat wave of the century. At least I was calling it that. People were basically stripped down to nothing and when you breathed you felt the heat expand in your lungs. The cement made the already hot air electric. It would burn you at times, only letting up for about an hour between 2 and 3 am. Walking outside was what I imagine the last two weeks of pregnancy must be like; simply uncomfortable. That being said, I was REALLY hungover.

There’s something about being hungover that makes heat…hotter. I basically just want air to be blowing at me when I’m under the weather that way. I used to stand in front of the freezer with the door wide open for far too long and just let the cold air rush past my face in some weird attempt at relief and to try and make the hangover go faster. Like it’s some guest I can get scoot out the door. But everybody knows…you just have to sweat it out. I still can’t believe we’re capable of growing seedless watermelons but we can’t figure out the cure for a hangover. That being said, Monty really had to pee.

Every dog owner knows that on the day after partying, the dog totally gets shafted. “Sorry buddy. Mommy blacked out last night and now my everything hurts and so we’re probably not going to play fetch or do anything remotely fun today.” I feel awful when it happens. I hardly drink anymore because, well, I feel dead all the time on my own. But there were those days. There WERE those days–When moving was all-too-painful and your pores smelled like candy and vodka and your hair was inexplicably sticky? It was one of those days. Monty needed to do his business. New York was exploding with heat. And I was deathly hungover.

I was staying at my brothers apartment. It was on the third floor, so I mentally prepared myself for the walk down the stairs I was about to take. I walked cautiously and told Monty “Go slow buddy. I could DIE at any second.” He seemed to notice I was out of sorts and behaved a little better on his leash. I pushed open the ridiculously heavy door at the end of the stairs and the sun and the heat and the smell of New York pour in and engulf me and I kindof throwup in my mouth. I swallow hard, blink my eyes forcefully a few times, and hold my head still while my eyes catch up with reality. I turn right, begin the walk down the sidewalk and Monty wastes no time. He spots the first tree, lifts his leg, and I contemplate letting the semi driving down the street run me over. He passes. And business number one is done. Great, keep going. There’s a spot that he loves to poop a few blocks down, but I’m wondering if I can make it that far. My life is in Monty’s hands. Or butt. I have to get this over with. “Just go anywhere buddy. Really, it’s fine to go on the cement.” But Monty is a Southern dog and is still getting used to shitting on cement. I can tell by the look in his eyes when he does it, it just doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s the human equivalent to driving on the left side of the road in England. Or putting ketchup on a filet. Something like that.

As we walk on, my stomach starts to turn. Ah, the viscous waves of nausea that accompany the hangover. Will I puke? Or will it pass? The mystery of it all is fantastic. I look away from the sun and think of lemons. I always think of lemons when I am nauseous. I’ve done this since I was little and it’s the only thing that helps if I concentrate on it. Lemons lemons lemons lemons lemons lem…aaaaaand now my mouth is watering. The turning gets faster, the saliva is circulating in my mouth and I know it’s go time. We stop at a tree, I get on my knees, and share my insides with the streets of New York. Awesomely, my throw up tastes like gatorade. I find that Gatorade is the best thing to vomit. It tastes the same coming out as it did going in! I like the red flavor but really any of them will do. As I’m crouched over, puking, Monty tries to start licking it. “NO!” I yell with as much energy as I can get behind that word. Then I ralph again. I hear high heels walking towards me. I know she’s classy. I can feel how pretty and put together she is. She smells good too. “Hey, are you OK?” she asks as she hands me a kleenex. Is this rock bottom? I think so, but I can’t be sure. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you.” I don’t make eye contact. I feel so ashamed. I wish I were wearing high heels and expensive perfume and walking somewhere important. Instead I am upchucking on a sidewalk and my dog is trying to eat it. WHEN WILL I GET IT TOGETHER. OK, so the best part about puking is how good you feel after you puke. I take a deep breath, continue our walk, and bear the heat a little more easily. On to number 2.

We’re approaching Monty’s favorite spot, and we’re both getting excited. I can tell, he’s been waiting for this for a while. My relief after vomiting is short lived and by the time I get to his special spot, all my symptoms are back. Awesome. Monty does his business and I pick it up with a torn grocery bag, and it strikes me that picking up dog shit off the sidewalk with a damaged bag is NOT the grossest thing I’ve done today, and that is concerning.

We turn and begin the treck home. I am going to make it. Monty and I are both going to live and I smile at the idea of getting back to the apartment and not moving again until tomorrow. But suddenly, something is happening. I can feel it. I sense something with Monty. Why is he wearing that excited look he gets when he’s about to poop? He already did that. He’s sniffing at another tree and won’t come when I pull the leash. It can’t be. No. No no no. Not a DOUBLE POOP DAY. SHIT. DOUBLE SHIT. It’s a strange phenomena that happens once in a blue moon. The double poop. You never know when it will happen. But almost always when it does, you’re not carrying the bag with the extra in-case-of-emergency poop bag. SHIT. I am on Park Avenue. I am the human version of a car accident, and my dog is pooping and I don’t have a bag. Thanks Monty, thanks a lot. He wags his tail. My stomach turns and the road dizzies.

I have no explanation for what happened next, but it really did happen. There is a sudden breeze, and I close my eyes and just let the somewhat refreshing movement of air run over my face. It had been static air in New York for so long it felt like. Suddenly, a breeze. I feel calm. I try to think if this is a poop and run moment or what my plan of action is. Just as I contemplate options, I feel something grace my ankle. I look down and see that a Duane Reede bag was blown right onto my foot. The wind carried it from who knows where, and basically delivered it to me and this train wreck of a situation. I can’t believe it. I look around and make sure I don’t see a dude in a glowing white suit say “You’re Welcome. By the way, I’m God.” I don’t harp on it too long because that breeze is dying down and of course, my stomach is turning. I disgard Monty’s second helping. We complete our walk and make it to the apartment, up the stairs, and onto the couch. I don’t move for the next 12 hours. I play that moment of the bag hitting my ankle over and over. And that was the day my dog shit on Park Avenue and I didn’t have a bag.

And then, suddenly, I did.

Health, Happiness, and Always Take a Second Bag.

Me + World

Published on February 9, 2012 by Mary Gelpi20 Comments

Night is my other best friend. The darkness allows you to be alone, eat alone, and there are no silly questions about it. You’re allowed to sit in a room with no tv and no music and no electricity and nobody asks why. I like to lay with Monty at the end of my bed and think of everything that is alive. I start with me and move across the room, the street, the neighborhood, city, state, and then I move up. Out. I pan out and watch it all from above, see where I fit. Spot the breathing electricity out of windows. I do this for hours at night. I try not to get blindsided by some faulty thought that I am alone. Because that isn’t true. When I look through the lens properly, it’s clear that all the little beams of light coming through all the little windows connect us. And in dissillusioned visions that imply you’re alone, you find in kind silence, you’re not. That little list you’ve made of everything separating you- turn it upside down. Make a funny doodle of it. It’s a delusion gaining momentum. To position yourself away from the world and claim you’re alone is uncreative; as if this is your only life! You’re not. It isn’t. And all the energy you’re expending effects every little window you think you aren’t connected to. It dims the lights.

If you’re alone, then why do you feel sad when you see a stranger cry? Because you’ve held her pain before. Why do you feel bad for the prisoner, the killer? Because you’re capable of hate, too. And you gave money to him on the street, when you know just what he’ll buy with it. But he showed his gold teeth to you and you smiled back and didn’t let anybody see–You’ve been desperate, too. And you felt loss when you killed an ant and sad when you watched an elephant. You’ve been looked over before. If there’s only you, why do you smile when you see a dad playing with his kid and a grandma teaching someone to cook and a dog making someone laugh and old people holding hands? Because you’ve felt unconditional love, too. How even the thought of lemon makes your mouth water, you know just what that kind of love tastes like. Why when you’re all alone in bed does your mind flood with all the people of the world, the ones you’ll never see, and the open parts, the good parts that haven’t happened yet, and a deep warmth rises in you, that though your body is weak your spirit is strong and for a moment it will occur to you just how big a dent you can make. Because you are not alone. Just as when the lights turn off, there is blackness and in the newness you think everything’s disappeared–Adjust. The chair is still there, where it always was. Now you see it when you look with right eyes. You couldn’t be the only one here. You’re important, but not that important. You’re not everything. But you contain the energy and carry the weight of everything that ever was.

You embody every war won and every battle lost. Every kid that died and everyone that survived. Your fingers touched the cotton of every cotton quilt and your arms grew heavy from the labor all day long. You’re jaded from all the gold in the world not being enough and blind from an excess of things that left you empty. Your tears are made of theirs. Your laugh makes the same sound. Your heart is made of all the holes of infedelity and the solidity that binds it is made of loyalty and kept promises. That’s why every heart is capable of breaking but can also be reassembled. Just as it can hurt, it can heal. Ask a child to love you and she’ll know what to do. That’s why when you cry, I cry too. And that’s why when you die, I’ll die too. When we see each other there, after having all this fun, we’ll laugh at the bad parts, rejoice at the good parts, and once again we’ll smile together.

Tell me again, how you think you’re alone? These aren’t bad things, friend, these are treasures we share.

Health, Happiness, Togetherness!

Sunday Funday

Published on February 6, 2012 by Mary Gelpi21 Comments

I wrote a thousand different things in the last few days. I don’t like any of it. So I tried my creativity in the medium of film. Enjoy…

Community College Dropout

Published on February 2, 2012February 2, 2012 by Mary Gelpi27 Comments

It’s a beautiful thing to wake up and believe that you’re exactly in the place that you need to be. Even if it’s not the place you plan on staying. For me, figuring out where to go or what to pursue next has always heavily involved where not to go and what not to do next. I’ve made some decisions in the recent two months that go in a very opposite direction from what I had planned. You know what they say: Man Plans, God Laughs. I suppose this is my official (and late) letter of resignation to Delgado Community College. Unless of course the writing doesn’t work out, in which case I’ll need Anatomy and Physiology II in the Fall and in the afternoon, please.

imgres — Bye Bye Delgado. It's Been Real.

I’m often surprised how hard it is for me to admit that I am sick. All my friends would tell you differently because they’ve all heard me say a million times “Sorry can’t make it. Feel like death again,” or something similar and I operate an entire blog centered around my stupid health! But it hasn’t always been this way. And in my instances of pain I have no hesitation in admitting that I feel awful and to just go ahead and count me out of whatever activity they’re planning. But for some reason, in a larger context, in the long term, I’ve never really considered myself sick or disabled or incapable. That’s why when my best friend Jess and I talked about nursing school this summer, I jumped on board immediately. I was feeling better, (as in, I could walk with ease now) and I wanted to be working towards something. This was in July so I had been away from my job since February and was really feeling the void of not doing anything. I was writing, true, but no one takes a jobless “writer” seriously. I didn’t even take myself seriously! Everyone is writing a book. Everyone has a brother in a band.

Anyway, I have always had a passion for nursing. My mom was a nurse, and since I was young I would dress up in her lab coat, wear the stethoscope around my neck, and walk around the house pretending to conduct my highly important work of tending to the sick. I’d also beg people to let me give them an exam, which usually ended up in me asking my Grandma questions like “And how often do you take fiber?” and listening to our dog Bacchus’s heartbeat. When it came to choosing a major in college, I chose Journalism for two reasons. 1. I’m an inherently curious person and 2. It came easy. My writing classes were easy A’s for me. Math and science meant a lot more work on my part. So I chose what came natural, and that was the right decision.

But now this nursing idea was popping up again, so I jumped on board. It was something I had interest in anyway, and I only needed a few pre-reqs in order to be admitted, so I went for it. I signed up for 3 classes, passed the entrance exam, and decided to start a silly blog to accompany me on my sickly journey to nursedom. Oh how the tides would turn. Funny that I didn’t really stop and consider that the whole reason I even had time to consider going back to school was because I was sick and physically unable to keep up with the pace of the rest of the world. Nope..never thought of that…

Even after the blog went viral and other opportunities began presenting themselves, I finally sat down one morning and really thought about nursing school. I started thinking about how I handled my three classes at Community College. Usually, I went, so that was a start and my grades were fine. But nursing school is very intensive. Sometimes the hours are very long and I don’t think it’s one of those jobs that would be very forgiving about me calling in once a week or letting me come in late when I had a migraine. I know a few people attending nursing school now, and when I would see them after a full day and how tired they were, I knew deep down I wouldn’t be able to do it physically. Didn’t I know that before? And yet something made me go after it in August. Unfortunately I think it was ego. Something in me wanted to prove I could do what other people could do. I could be normal. And if I couldn’t make it through, I’d just give up. And that’s not really a responsible or wise decision on my part, but since it only began with 3 classes, I think those near and dear to me wished me luck and quietly thought ‘What the hell is that girl doing? She can’t even prepare her own meals!’ It was also not a wise decision because it was this kind of thinking that kept me at a job so long that I was incapable of keeping up with. It was ruining any shot at me getting better, and this would have done the same.

Luckily, I didn’t get far enough into nursing school to have to quit or give up halfway through. Three days before my last final, the blog went viral and new, more feasible opportunities presented themselves under the same heading: Writing. Remember? The thing you’re decent at and enjoy doing that comes naturally and doesn’t require you to use your feeble little body? DUH. Like Nepo says “When we stop struggling, we float.” Once I stopped trying to prove what I could do, I stopped having to try so hard, and was left with the gift I had all along.

What I’ve been considering lately is that my motive for going into nursing in the first place was very basic: to help sick people. And somehow, now, I am inadvertently given that same opportunity, just through different means; my words. I’ve received quite a number of emails from people with many types of health issues who say this site helps them feel less alone and less crazy, and makes them laugh, too. It’s a beautiful gift to be able to reach people that way. The internet rocks. It’s like I’m an internet nurse!

So I’d like to say thank you to everyone who has written, commented, or laughed, and to everyone who has found comfort, hope, or joy here. One of the biggest realizations I’ve had in all of this is that it’s entirely possible to be sick and still laugh, love, dance, and have a happy life. So don’t ever start becoming comfortable with the perspective that you’re sick and being sick sucks and thus, you’re life is going to suck. Being sick does suck, but you’re life doesn’t have to. Mine isn’t completely where I’d like it to be, but it’s getting there, and I believe more than ever in the prospect of true happiness. This realization is of course coming after a year of a lot of mental and physical pain and breakdowns and loss and lessons. But hopefully it can offer some comfort to anyone out there without them having to go through a year of pain and breakdowns and loss. Tolle says this: “I am not what has happened to me, I am what I choose to become.” I think I know what I’m meant to do now.

Health, Happiness, and Mom I’ll Pay You Back for That Semester at Community College Soon I Promise.

15 Things We Should Consider Not Posting On Facebook Anymore

Published on January 29, 2012 by Mary Gelpi104 Comments

1. How many centimeters dilated you are. Although it’s been fun following every day of your pregnancy, this is something we never need to know. Ever. EVER. Hang on I just started my period I’ll be right back.

2. You’re moving out so you’re giving away free shit. It’s nice and everything, but most likely no one will want your shit stained area rug or couch, even if it is free.

111005g — We're giving this couch away for free yall!

3. Picture of your baby in front of raisins. Picture of your baby picking up the raisins. Picture of your baby putting the raisins in his mouth. Picture of your baby chewing the raisins. Picture of your baby in front of a plate that used to have all the raisins he ate on it.

4. How much studying you have to do and how busy you are. You sure? Cause you’ve been commenting on my albums from 3 years ago for like, a few hours now.

5. Extensive details about your workout and the 10K you’re prepping for. I can play that game too! Walked to the bathroom. Walked to the living room. Pressed power button on computer. Typed on keys quickly without taking any breaks. I’m up to 75 words per minute baby!

6. A picture of the flowers your boyfriend gave you. Why are you thanking us? We didn’t give you the flowers.

7. Checking in at a place and tagging all of the people you’re with. Why don’t you just…talk to the people you’re with? Or play an actual game of tag?

8.Telling everyone how drunk you are or are going to get tonight. Don’t worry, we’ll be able to tell by the pictures you post tomorrow.

9. Stop having public Facebook birthdays. It makes stalking you sooo much less interesting.

10. Your weird urban-infused engagement photos. Although I’m totally addicted to looking at them, I don’t know when or why it became trendy to dress really nice and take photos in gutters.

engagement_14 — "Love the background in this one! So artsy!!!"

11. A picture of yourself, taken by you, liked by you, and commented on by you. That’s so narcissistic. Facebook is supposed to be about…wait never mind that’s totally appropriate.

12. Another post shit-talking the Kardashians. You watch ’em? You love ’em.

13. Status updates about how sick you are. No one cares about your stupid chronic illness!

photo-29 — Ugh, my fibromyalgia is acting up.

14. Pictures of inanimate objects with your hipstamatic photo app. Yeah we get it, even a picture of a lamp will look cool under that filter. But it’s still just a lamp bro!

Congrats on getting stoned and deciding you're a photographer now.

15. Any variation of this phrase: “Today is the day that I marry my best friend.” Shouldn’t you be like, preparing to lose your V card?!

Health, Happiness, and Glorious Glorious Facebook.

Photocredits:

Weird Urban Engagement Photos: greenweddingshoes.com

Shit Stained Couch: uglyhousephotos.com

Benefits With Friends.

Published on January 26, 2012January 26, 2012 by Mary Gelpi14 Comments

Let me begin by saying that the title of this post has very little to do with the content of this post, but the name came to me last night before sleep and I thought ‘What an awesome title!’ What I will really use the name for, one day, is a benefit I will have in honor of sick people and underfunded, under-researched diseases that hopefully I will be capable of donating millions of dollars to. Then we’ll take those fancy photos that show up in the “Out and About” part of the newspaper with sparkly dresses and older men with younger women and really, really, white teeth. Maybe next year.

I am sitting in the office at my moms. Correction, laying. Sitting up is difficult at this point because I am in the middle of a full blown crash. Not sure if I overdid it in New York or what happened exactly but my body is angry at me. It’s like, giving me the silent treatment by not giving me strength to walk or shower and making all my muscles hurt; under my fingertips too. It’s a particular but non-specific pain when my body gets like this. Just a general “bone-aching” but I always know when it’s happening because underneath my fingertips hurt. Very weird. Anyway, I am lucky, because I am home and under the care of Doctor Mom and not having to worry about calling into work, fashioning an excuse that will translate to a boss who never took a sick day.

This morning I sludged from my room to the office, my wrists quivering at the weight of my computer and my eyes not quite in focus yet. I took my first set of pills and waited for the pain to ease and my brain to start functioning. Take pills and wait. If there were an instructional guide on How to be Mary Gelpi, those two steps would be peppered throughout. My mom is sharing with me the symbolism of boats and chocolate and pies because I told her about my dream last night, which involved the family and me getting in a boat accident, where no one died and the whole thing was surprisingly peaceful- and the night before where I dreamed that Nick, my mom and I were at a lake house and my mom and I were gathering golden apples to make pie and Nick was fishing, as usual. It was a nice departure from my typical high-anxiety dreams where either I’m dying or watching someone else, like Monty, die. These last few were calm, so she is helping me process them. One of the perks of living at home: Coffee ready when I wake up, and a personalized dream-interpreter on staff. Score.

I’ve had a to-do list for days now that I can’t wait to get started on, yet I’m just unable to begin. Yesterday I spent the entire day in bed. Every few hours I’d wake up drenched in sweat, in pain, re-dose the meds, and go back to sleep. It’s a funny way to spend your day like that. Because by the time I “woke up” it was dark outside and Monty came in from a day spent frolicking in our yard and playing soccer by himself. Poor thing. I owe him a few games when I perk up. But I barely saw the sun, which is depressing. But that’s how crash days go, and I remind myself that it won’t last. In a few days, after successfully doing nothing, I’ll start to feel better. The nice part is, the sun will be waiting for me when I’m ready. Monty and the sun– they hold nothing against me. For that I am lucky!

I think the biggest teacher of this illness has been learning how to exist in the “chaos.” I’m often eager to jump into things…even boring things, like laundry. But I’ve had to learn how to let my toenail polish stayed chipped until I have energy to fix it. Let my laundry pile up until I have energy to do it. Let my phone ring without me answering it until I have energy to talk. There is something uncomfortable about letting things “go” that you want to tackle head on. For instance right now, I’d love to unpack my suitcase and do laundry. I’d also love to call my sister and catch up, write a few thank you notes and send them, clean my car, and oh yeah, SHOWER, but all of that will have to wait. And truthfully, many of the things we think can’t wait, can. No-one ever died from going one more day without showering. Well not that I know of. It’s a lesson I continually learn and relearn, but it’s valuable to see that, while I’d love to dive into these things, I cannot. They will simply have to wait. And I need to learn how to maintain in the grey of things–life between the trapeze swings. Just as the sun will be waiting for me, so will everything on the to-do list. Anyway, the computer needs to re-charge and so do I. I’m tired and weak and am going back to the underworld. I’ll see you when I re-emerge.

Health, Happiness, and Undone To-Do Lists

It’s Snowing In New York.

Published on January 20, 2012January 20, 2012 by Mary Gelpi16 Comments

It’s quiet because of the snow

Clear because of the quiet

And it snows because it’s empty.

There is room for it here,

In the box with all the questions.

The window across the street

Is reflecting the window next to me,

So I can see the neighbor kids

On tip toes, checking

When I see movement,

I check too.

As of yet it’s still a black sky turned orange

We wait, we’re patient.

I didn’t have it enough as a child

Never had to shovel it before school

So there’s no headache about it getting dirty

No bitterness of what it turns to

No worry of what it ruins

It’s a novelty to me

It’s what airplanes used to be.

I sit at a window, waiting

Most the days of my life.

I hold a box, open

That carries every question

I’ll ever have.

Tonight while I wait,

I thumb through curiosities

Laugh at old questions

And try not to let future uncertainties

Weigh the box down too much.

It’s a soft pink, satin ribbon

That holds the thing shut,

And when the snow starts

To fall tonight

I’ll open it

At the neighbor kids looking

At the clarity of it falling

At the quiet of it sticking

The couple laughing

The street lights changing

The flag that’s snapping

At the snow that’s falling

And I’ll catch all the little truths

That come with snow

And watch God fall

And then I’ll know.

Let’s Talk About Dancing.

Published on January 18, 2012 by Mary Gelpi17 Comments

I arrived in Miami on Friday to spend a few days here. This is partially the reason I’ve been so crashed. I never do exceptionally well when I travel, and this time was no exception. But it’s nice to be sick in a beautiful place. I mean if you’re gonna be a human waste-land, might as well be a human waste-land on a beautiful beach. My brother and sister-in-law had a baby shower this Saturday (she’s due in March)and we decided to make a Gelpi Power Hour weekend out of it. I am staying at a hotel on South Beach and I dreamt all night of heavy base techno music. Wait, that was not a dream. I was actually up all night listening to heavy base techno music ricocheting off the walls. At around 2 am I kid you not, Club Mango played that song “What is love? Baby don’thurt me…” and it was like a real-life Night at the Roxbury!

Truthfully it wasn’t the music keeping me up, though it didn’t help. My legs were on fire, cramped up and emitting heat like they do. So I read more of my book as the base and noise of drunk people bounced around below. At first I was agitated but then I grew to like the sounds. It added to the authenticity of my Miami stay. It reminded me of what the noise of being alive is like. Also they played a lot of Rihanna so, you know. That was cool.

Every now and then they’d play a song I liked and out of the corner of my eye I’d find my foot tapping to the beat of the song without knowing I was doing it. The interesting part of it was that as I noticed this, I started reading a chapter in Marc Nepo’s book called Questions Put to the Sick: When was the last time you danced? I think this is what Carl Jung would refer to as Synchronicity. But that’s another story.

Allow me to say some things about dancing. 1. I love to do it. 2. I’m kind of terrible at it. 3. I don’t care. 4. OK I kind of care. 5. After a few beers I don’t care anymore. And I’ve been told my skills have improved. Anyway, I love dancing. I actually crave dancing. If there is a span of time where I don’t dance, I get the dancing itch, and the only cure is to rock out somewhere with loud music and move my body in any deformed way it feels that communicates physically the fun I’m having in my brain. It can be alone in my car, or at a bar, in the shower, or a wedding. Ooooh weddings. Those are the best. I think that’s why Dane Cook’s standup about girls saying “I just need to dance,” rings so hilariously true to so many people. Sometimes I’ll feel ansy and I know it’s because I need to just dance it out. I swear I’ll wake up the next morning after dancing and feel better, as though it was a bug I had to get out of my system. I’d argue it’s just as important as your dentist appointment or annual colonoscopy. You just have to do it. You’ll feel better once you do.

elaine_dancing_scene_seinfeld — I may or may not have been compared to Elaine in the past.

Or you’ll feel worse. Wah Wah. (Debbie Downer tone) Being sick and constantly walking a fine line between functioning and non-functioning, there’s always the possibility of over-doing it and paying a price. Like last year in March, I danced the Dougie way too hard one night and I was crashed the next day. All because of the Dougie. But I need to say this: it was worth it. Sometimes you pay a price, and sometimes it’s worth your while. “What happened to Mary?” “She Dougie’d too hard last night.” “Poor thing. I’ll make us some sandwiches.”

Here’s what Nepo writes about dancing:

The ongoing effort to dance, to give gesture to what we feel and experience, is ultimately healing because, as riverbeds are continually shaped by the water that moves through them, living beings are continually shaped by the feelings and experiences that move through them. If there is no water moving through, the riverbed dries up and crumbles. Likewise, if there is no feeling moving through the body, the being at the center of that body will crumble.

More often though, there is too much to give gesture to, and we fail to move these feelings through our bodies. In truth, much of our inner sickness comes from the buildup and pressure of all that is kept in. The ongoing act of releasing that inner buildup is what spiritual practices call embodiment. …Once unblocked, giving gesture to our inwardness not only frees us from becoming pressurized, but the gestures, once allowed out, teach us how to dance further into our own lives.”

Pretty cool right? I know some people think it’s just psycho-babel and the idea of someone shaking their ass in the club to Lil Wayne and calling it spiritual embodiment is just a joke. Understandable. But pay attention to the music you hear and the subconscious urge you feel to move. It’s not a calculated choice we make. Even babies and toddlers begin to dance (sometimes better than me) when music is played for them. Sometimes, we should be still, but sometimes we should MOVE BABY. And don’t let your thoughts get the best of you. Don’t try to analyze it or over think it. The best kind of dancing is unrestrained, uninhibited, belting at the top of your lungs-holding a pretend microphone-singing to a pretend audience, unrepressed, uncontrolled dancing. It doesn’t matter if you’re bad. If you’re having that much fun, you’re far from bad. You’re the best!

So the next time you’re out, or in, and you feel the hunger, satisfy it. It is actually good for you, for your body and your soul. If someone asks you why you’re dancing alone in the kitchen, tell them you’re moving your life experiences through your body so you can dance further into your existence. They’ll like that. Here’s one last anecdote about dancing. After my step-dad died in 2006 the house was oddly empty and the family was pretty down. My mom told me later she would turn on Ellen in the afternoons and dance along with her, by herself in the living room. Sometimes it was the only thing she achieved that day. But guess what? It made a difference. It changed the energy of the room. It changed her energy–Made her smile, even for 30 seconds. And in times like that, you’ll grab hold of anything to get you past the moment of pain. So I love that part of Ellen’s job is to get up every day and dance, and to get other people to dance along with her. I love that my mom got up and did it, even when she felt devastated and lost. These are small, small things that in the end can shape large parts of our lives. I haven’t danced in a while, so maybe I’ll give the Dougie another go tomorrow and just cut myself off a little earlier. For now, my legs are cramped and I’ll do some research on fatigue-friendly dance. Perhaps I’ll head down to the nursing home and see if there are any classes there. They’ll be more on my pace. Maybe I’ll even meet somebody special.

Health, Happiness, and DANCE!

An Experiment.

Published on January 11, 2012January 12, 2012 by Mary Gelpi44 Comments

*Contrary to feeling like death right now, I’m going to try an experiment. Here goes.

I woke up this morning and I felt great!! I had so much energy, I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I began by taking a six-mile run and watching the sun come up. It was beautiful! The birds were chirping and the sun coming up over the horizon allowed me to see the true beauty of nature in the world. By the sixth mile, even Monty could barely keep up with me! He’s so lazy sometimes. I need to get him into shape. I felt like I could’ve run forever.

When I got home I cooked up a great breakfast. Cage free scrambled eggs with soy milk, a fresh fruit salad, and a protein shake. It’s my favorite breakfast. I read the paper and shook my head at the state of the world. We really need to get our shit together. By the end of breakfast it was already 7:30! The day was really flying by. Monty took a nap and I told him he better shape up or ship out! No more doggie treats for him. He’s gained weight!

Next I organized three closets in my house. Boy did they need it! I color coded and alphabetized all the things I was giving to good will, and even sorted the things within the boxes into subcategories (kitchen appliances, tools, decorative things, shitty Christmas presents still in their packages, etc.) By the end of all that closet organizing, I found myself sneezing a lot. Ugh, so annoying. Allergies are the worst! But, I didn’t take ANY pills! You know what I did? Vacuumed my entire house. Then I went to the Sharper Image and bought one of those air purifiers. Since it was only 9 am the mall was virtually empty, so I did a little shopping for myself. A girl CAN’T have too many shoes, right? Girls out there, you know what I’m sayin’!

When I came home I took a wet rag and wiped down all the surfaces in my house, including furniture surfaces, baseboards, fan-tops, and counter tops. Then I made some herbal tea my best friend Sally gave me a while ago, which is supposed to help prevent cancer and is known to be good for allergies. By now it was 10:30.

Next I went outside and tended to my garden. I’m growing a bunch of root vegetables as well as tomatoes, squash, lettuce, and South African JuJu beans. I did some weed-eating and general maintenance. I even hand painted a sign out of some old wood in our shed that said “Mary’s Garden.” It looks great. Sometimes I think I should have been a painter. Next I went inside, hand-washed all the vegetables that were ripe from the garden, and made an incredible home-grown salad. But you know what’s even better than home-grown salads? Home-grown salads with friends!

Organic mixed salad greens in a white bowl. — DON'T worry. It's organic.

So I called up my besties, Sally, Cindy, SueSue and Peggy. Well, I know that’s only four, but I didn’t have enough veggies for ALL of my friends (too many to count) so I only invited those four. I love my friends. I have so many of them. And they all love home-grown salads! We talked about Chloe Kardashians new hair color (ew) and the crappy state of the world and how somebody really needs to do something about that. Sally and Cindy then had to go to their Jazzercise class but SueSue and Peggy were free so we all went to my favorite salon, got mani-pedis, and drank bubble tea! I’ve been feeling edgy lately so I painted my toenails dark purple. I’m so crazy sometimes!!!

By the afternoon I rode my bike to the farmers market to pick up fresh gluten-free bread and some other things that I can’t grow on my own. (One day!) I also bought some beautiful tulips that were being sold there. I decided they were too beautiful for any old vase, so I biked to a glass-blowing studio down the street to create my very own one-of-a-kind vase for them. Sorry, but none of the other vases would do! They’re sitting on my table now, and may I just say..DAMN. Pardon my french. Next it was time to make an appearance at an engagement party for one of my other besties and I wore my new 4 inch heels with my new dress. I also had the perfect set of hand-made earrings (made by yours truly) which couldn’t have matched any better. Not to toot my own horn, but, BEEP BEEP I was looking good! We drank wine, ate wonderful food, and it felt really good to stand around and talk to people about what they’re doing with their lives, tell them about mine, and then make tentative plans to get coffee and stay in better touch. It’s gonna be a busy social season guys, get ready!

Finally by 10:30 I was ready to leave. Call me a dork, but I love to get in my jammies and watch reruns of the West Wing before bed! (Rob Lowe, so hot. Don’t get me started.) Anyway I finally made it home, saw the tulips on the table, and remembered how precious life is. I have a great life. But boy am I sleepy! Tomorrow I have Hot Yoga at 4 am, so I better get some rest. Can’t wait to see what tomorrow has in store!!

HEALTH, ENERGY, AND BUBBLE TEA!

Mare

**Just to reiterate, this was all made up. I’ve been crashed the last few days. This was just an imaginative experiment in pretending. If I tried to go on an actual six-mile run I would vomit then die.

A Snails Pace

Published on January 10, 2012January 10, 2012 by Mary Gelpi20 Comments

I’ve been as productive as a sloth the last few days. Not sure why, but my pain has been worse than normal and energy has been low. Way low. Like non-existent low. Thus I’ve turned into a slow-moving snail, crawling from room to room wrapped in a blanket and moaning a lot. I’m sure I’m a real treat to be around. It may be recovery from the Holidays or the weather or the moon or it may just be that, hey, this illness doesn’t need a reason for you to feel bad. Even when you’re doing everything right, you’ll have poopy fart days. Luckily, I am jobless, so I let those days come and pass and rest until recovered. I still wonder what it would be like if I had my old job, and had to work an 8 hour day through feeling this way. I remember those days all too well. Then I get really nauseous at the thought and watch another episode of Frasier.

(For those of you out there still working with this illness, hang tough. I know what those days feel like. We’ll get there)

On days like yesterday, I have no desire to see or talk to anyone. My phone rings and I just can’t bring myself to answer. The feeling is rough because I am a social animal after all and love my friends and family a lot. But there are some things you just can’t fake. And when I’m feeling that way, there’s no faking enthusiasm. I’ve tried it and failed enough times that now I just don’t answer. The person on the other end would have a better conversation with Monty than me. Maybe I’ll pass the phone to him next time. I realize that this makes me, at times, a shitty friend, sister, grand-daughter, aunt. But I know how the conversation would go.

Hello? Hey Mary!! Hey. How are you!? Awesome. You don’t sound awesome. You got me. What’s wrong? Feel like death.What’s bothering you? Just really tired? Yeah, just really tired. Did you try those South African JuJu Beans I sent you? They’re supposed to be good for energy! No, too tired to stir the mixture. Bye.

green_coffeebeans_african400x3002_405 — South African JuJu Beans. P.S. I made this up.

See? Worthless conversation. And explaining my symptoms to people over the phone doesn’t help either, not to mention it makes me the Debbie Downer of the Century. I’d rather just hibernate until I don’t feel so lifeless. Whoever’s still around when I emerge from the cave are the people I call friends. Anyway yesterday was the National Championship and I was supposed to go to a party to watch it but since I was half dead I didn’t show up. Coincidentally the Tigers didn’t show up either. (BURN!) I watched it in PJ’s on the couch with Monty while icing my legs because they’ve been cramped for days. Then I scoured Facebook and laughed at the angriest statuses I’ve ever seen. “Completely Embarrassed.” “Time to FIRE LES MILES!” “Worst LSU game EVER!!!” “If we run the option again I’m going to MURDER MYSELF!!!” I don’t know why angry statuses humor me. They just do. Don’t hurt me.

Anyway, I’ve been receiving a lot of emails lately from people who are seeking help in getting diagnosed or who think they may be mis-diagnosed. I wish I were more an expert on CFIDS so I could offer real help but in the end I’m just a sick kid with two anatomy classes under my belt. (My mom on the other hand has a medical background and has suffered with the illness for over 20 years. I’ll get to that later) The most important thing I can tell you is there seems to be a key difference between Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and Fibromyalgia regarding exercise. It’s complicated since there is not one diagnostic test for either, but a main difference is that exercise seems to be helpful/relieve pain for many people with fibromyalgia. On the other hand, exercise can be extremely detrimental to those with CFS. An easy way to tell is just to pay attention to how you feel the day after you exercise. Having sore muscles is a normal reaction. If you are completely crashed, as in, feel like you’ve been hit by a truck and have trouble getting out of bed, you most likely have CFS, or the component which causes “Post-Exertional Malaise.” Trying to push through this ‘crash’ will only set you back and make you worse. It basically comes down to this. Do you feel like this the day after exercise?

Or do you feel like this after you exercise?

There is so much misinformation out there that I truly am surprised I was effectively diagnosed and treated. But this took years and didn’t happen until my mom found a specialist: Dr. Nancy Klimas. There’s also a lot of people trying to sell things that won’t help you. So be wise. Currently, there is no cure for CFIDS/Fibro. So be wary if someone offers you the cure-all. I’m going to attach some helpful links for those interested in reading further on the illnesses for now. BUT, I am ALSO going to collaborate with my mom on one of my next posts and try to clear the air about some things regarding ME/CFIDS/ and Fibro. I am also going to try to get my doctor in on the conversation because I know she holds a lot of vital information that is scarce and hard to find but would help a lot of people out. So stay tuned.

I’ve also received some emails that read “Hey, I’m tired all the time. Do you think I have CFS? How do I get diagnosed?” This question is kind of like the equivalent of asking “Hey, I gained some weight in my midsection. Do you think I’m pregnant?” For one thing, calling it ‘tired’ is like calling the atomic bomb a fire cracker. It’s hard to give it a word or name people can understand, but tired definitely falls short. Think more along the lines of bones-crushing fatigue. Anyway, while feeling like you could sleep for days and being extremely exhausted are key symptoms, they are far from the only symptoms. CFIDS is an autoimmune disorder, meaning every autonomic process in your body is basically haywire. Thus, you feel like death. And chances are you look like it too! Anyway, the links are below. But I promise to devote space in the future dedicated to debunking some myths and trying to spread accurate awareness about these illnesses. In the meantime, guess what? I’m tired.

Health, Happiness, and Hang In There.

http://phoenixrising.me/

http://www.cfids.org/about-cfids/do-i-have-cfids.asp

http://www.pandoranet.info/

AboutMECFS.org

Brothers and Sisters.

Published on January 4, 2012January 6, 2012 by Mary Gelpi153 Comments

I am the youngest of four siblings. Doug and Nick are barely a year apart, followed by Amelie, then me. Sometimes I watch the four of us around the dinner table and wonder how we were each born from the same two parents. And then in rarer times, quieter times, I see the subtle thread that ties us; the binding, intangible something in our hearts that seeks greatness and loves easy. On many nights, like tonight, I wonder who I’d be without my siblings. And if I’m feeling extra philosophical, I wonder what the world would be like without them. I find them that important! There’s a strong energy about the four of us. We do OK on our own, but there’s this tangible vibrancy when we’re together. And this unintended dynamic of reverse reciprocals has formed among us. Where one is slow the other is fast. Where one is hard the other is soft. Where one yells the other soothes. Where one forgets the other remembers.

What has occurred to me recently is that each one of us carries a different piece of our dad around. And this is why I think there is such powerful and positive energy when the four of us are together; we’re putting together four pieces to revive a beautiful whole. Since each of our relationships with our dad was different, and we were all different ages when he died, we all carry something different. My brother Doug carries his Peace and Patience. Nick carries his thoughtfulness and social graces. Amelie carries his joyful “Burst of Sunshine” characteristic. And I carry his attentiveness to the voiceless. We ALL carry his sense of humor, his fearlessness in being weird, his desire to play meaningless pranks, and his simple talent of just being fun. At least, we all try.

toddler-17 — Dad reading to the kids, Christmas '84 (click to enlarge)

Having the three of them in my life has been a true gift. And maybe while I’m prancing around in LaLa Land I should clear up that we are NOT The Brady Bunch over here. We have plenty of dysfunctional to pass around. We yell at each other, make fun of each other, grow insanely impatient with one another, and sometimes we even wrestle. It isn’t uncommon for my brother to call me a turd sandwich or my sister to call Nick an asshole at least once every few days. When it happens, usually I’m acting like a turd sandwich and Nick is in fact acting like an asshole. Sometimes he calls Amelie a pain in the ass, which she can be. And we all yell at Doug for being the slowest human being on the planet. BUT. But, but, but. Behind any name-calling, shouting, mental or physical abuse, there is a deep and unbreakable love. It’s always been there. Even in my loneliest of times, there has been a quiet assurance in the back of my mind that I am not actually alone. I know in the that before I’m out under a bridge somewhere, I have three doors to knock on first, and each I know would open.

Whether in the form of a helping hand, money, food, shelter, an ear, a reality check, a pat on the back, or a cheering-up, we’ve all lent to one another different things at different times. And it’s a real treasure that we’re able to do that. You’ll have to excuse my notalgic sulking, I’m a little down in the dumps now that the house is quiet and there isn’t a cacophony of sibling rivalry bouncing off our walls. I always get sad after we make the last trip to the airport to bid the last family member adieu. Today we said good-bye to Nick, and all is finally quiet here. I’ve always loved the chaos of having them home. Ever since I was in 7th grade and Doug was first to go off to college, I always became exceedingly anxious around late November, because it meant everyone was coming home again. We’d finally all be together. Now I’m 27, and still the anxious kid around November, and sulky in early January, after everybody leaves. Anyway, I need to stop boo-hooing. Just thought I’d let Doug, Nick, and Amelie know, I love you. A lot. Even though you’re all turd sandwiches. Can’t wait till next year.

Health, Happiness, And A Quiet House Again.

Guess What? It Get’s Better.

Published on December 31, 2011 by Mary Gelpi38 Comments

It was on this day one year ago that everything changed. And the change began with everything falling apart. One by one, the “solids” in my life unraveled like lazy yarn. It all started on New Years Eve, 2010.

My body was in what I like to call “Fail Mode” and I was at my parents house, feeling isolated and crappy. I was convincing myself that by that night I would feel well enough to leave, join the world in the celebration of a New Year and maybe even drink some champagne. Hah. Did. Not. Happen. By 5 pm I was sending out a very familiar text: “Sorry dude, I feel terrible. Won’t be able to make it…” If I had a nickel for every time I’ve said that phrase, well, you know.

That night I finally had a bit of a mental breakdown. My parents stayed up until midnight. At 12 they kissed and I looked down and saw Monty, so I kissed him. My new years kiss was with my dog. GREAT. I kept reminding myself that it was only a night, it wouldn’t last. By tomorrow, the party I was missing would be over, and so would all of this. For some reason, my mom couldn’t sleep that night and neither could I. I walked out into the living room around 2 am, saw her watching TV, and lost my shit. Through the tears I finally admitted to her how worried I was about my life. I hardly had a social life anymore. I was barely making it to work every day. Traveling was too hard on me so I had basically stopped. It felt like all I did was work and sleep. I had nothing left for anything else. Nothing left for the ‘good parts.’ Nights and weekends were often spent in bed, catching up. I felt out of control. The illness was in control, and that scared me. My mom counseled me through it the way she would continue to do for the next year. She reminded me I was young, that this moment wasn’t forever, and there was still a lot of possibility if I could only hang on. She was right. But hanging on is the hardest thing to do. At times this year it felt like I was sinking, and couldn’t see the bottom or the top.

elderly-fall-1306932535 — I felt like the "Help! I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up" lady

New Years Day I was no better. Everything hurt. I was heavy, dizzy, and nauseous. I would be stationary but feel carsick. Walking became hard. Too hard. I continued to get worse until Monday when I woke up and felt too fatigued to walk to the bathroom. That’s when I called the parents, they came to pick me up, and the gradual “move back in with the parents” began. Each day it became painfully more clear that I wouldn’t be able to live by myself anymore. It didn’t bother me so much at that point. I was too sick for pride.

I remember when my sister came to help out at the end of January and I told her I wished there was a fast forward button. “I just want it to be over.” She sat with me, said she wished for one too, but told me the truth. “It’s gonna be hard Mare, but we’ll get through it.” And now I look at the date and see, I made it. The crappiest year of my life, is about to be over. Hells yeah! Sometimes I wish I could bundle 2011 up in a big bowl of lint and burn it to nothing. The truth of the matter is it’s all theoretical anyway. January 1st is just the day after December 31st. It doesn’t mean anything, really. But our perspective changes. We make new plans, pledges, and goals in hopes for not a new life, but a better life. Even though it is just another year, and there’s a possibility it could be even worse than 2011, I am a romantic for the capability of change. And a new year holds great possibilities. It’s like buying a fresh new notebook. You don’t know what will fill the pages, but the prospect on the blankness excites you.

The truth is it’s about to be 2012 and my struggle is going to continue. I’m not all better. I am still jobless, still living with my parents, and struggling to maintain relationships. The challenges I faced in 2011 are still going to be there. My hope is though, that I’ve learned and suffered enough to manage what’s in front of me. Like my mom says, “Just do today.” I hope that I continue to grow, that I cherish what I have and not long for what I don’t. I’m looking at 2012 as the year of possibility. My only job is to stay open to it. And I think I can handle that. I think!

One of the best moments in 2011 occurred in a bathroom stall on my birthday. My friend Kaitlin and I walked to an ice cream shop on Magazine street. In the bathroom stall there were all kinds of scribblings and drawings on the wall, but my eyes went straight to a phrase written in green. Someone wrote this: “It gets better. I promise.” I immediately sensed my dad. Of course my dad didn’t write it. It was probably some stoner kid feeling wildly optimistic. But I think it was from him that I saw it. I felt it. And I felt better. I walked out holding on to the energy of the phrase. Because that’s what I felt from it; energy. It’s like the energy in saying “I’m going to die one day” or “I love you” for the first time. It’s wild. But it’s real.

Anyway, I wanted to share the dark times of this year but also the moments of relief. Because it wasn’t only grand gestures, it was also the very small things this year that carried me. Things as small as writing on a bathroom wall. In the moments where I was hanging on by a thread, I would grab hold of anything to get me out. Sometimes the only thing to concentrate on was my breath. So I’d start there. The most important thing to remember is that every moment passes. Today will be tomorrow soon. Tomorrow will be next month, and alas, the year will end. This year began with everything falling apart. The new year begins with everything reassembling itself. That’s the thing about things falling apart; they always get put back together, stronger than they once were.

Health, Happiness, and It Does Gets Better. I promise.

Happy New Year!

How to be Sick.

Published on December 28, 2011December 28, 2011 by Mary Gelpi25 Comments

Merry Sickmas!

I was going to write Mary Sickmas, but sometimes an abundance of puns can be off putting if you know what I’m saying. Anyway, Merry Christmas! I am a little late. It’s been a chaotic week, and as I sit here writing this the chaos ensues. My brothers and sister and their significant others are currently on a search for the best Sazerac in New Orleans. (The official Nola Drink) This means that when we all meet up for dinner later everyone should be good and loaded and the meal should go nicely. I wanted to go on the hunt with them but my legs were starting to give up after breakfast so I took the old lady bus home. OK it wasn’t a bus. It was just a car with my 82 year old grandma and my mom, who weren’t in the mood to walk down Bourbon Street in search of alcohol. Maybe by 2012 my mom and I will be well enough for those types of adventures. Maybe even Grandma, too.

This year we did something a little different. Since our humble home can’t house all the DAMN KIDS comfortably and their significant others and my grandma AND Monty, the siblings rented a house on St. Charles Avenue for us all to crash in. It’s a beautiful house, built in the 1800’s with all the modern renovations you find in those interior decorating magazines. It’s nice. The street car passes in front of the dining room window. And every time it does my brother Nick raises his arms in the air and yells “STREEET CARRR!!” Somehow he hasn’t grown tired of doing it yet.

It’s been a really great Christmas mainly because all four siblings are in Nola to celebrate it. But the icing on the cake is that my grandma was able to make the trip down South from Colorado. She’s kind of a hot commodity in the family being that she has six kids, 15 grandkids, and I don’t know how many great-grandkids. I lost count. Her name is Mary too, and she is someone I really look up to for a variety of reasons. Namely, her optimism–which is something increasingly hard to find and at the same time it’s totally contagious. You find yourself smiling more at simple things when you’re with her, or taking note of scenes that typically you’d never stop to consider. If I were going to give her an award, it would be “The Most Pleasant Person on the Planet Award” because that’s what she is. Undoubtedly. On the way to dinner on Christmas Eve I asked what she wanted for Christmas this year. She closed her eyes and thought a moment and then said “Ya know, I can’t think of a thing. I have a perfectly happy life!” And she wasn’t just being sentimental. She says outrageously kind and positive things like this all of the time. I don’t think it strikes her that that type of thinking is rare. She’s always been that way.

photo-1 — Grandma Bell. She's wearing a nightie made in the 50's. No joke.

I loved her response though. How many times I am asked what I would change about my life, what I want, what I don’t want, and ideas fly out of my mouth like a verbal bulleted list. As though I’d been rehearsing what other life I may want. When asked what people want, whether it be for Christmas or just in life, seldom do people say “I don’t want anything.” And if they do say it, it often means “I definitely want SOMETHING, but I’m going to say I want nothing. But if you get me nothing, there will be Hell to pay!” I’ve been thinking about what being content really means. For so long after getting sick and losing so many things, I’d play over and over what I had lost, what it had cost me, what I wasn’t doing, where I wasn’t going. Like a rolladex of veritable “If only’s” the cycle would start, and that type of thinking is bad news. It’s also really hard to stop. It sortof self-propels itself. More recently I’ve been realizing that the idea of happiness is so much more simple than I pretend. It doesn’t have to be some far off dream. There are plenty of sick people who are happy. Plenty of poor people, plenty of people working mediocre jobs, and plenty of people who have lost in some way who are happy. That says to me: happiness is already available. The question is, are you accessing it? I don’t think this is an easy process. And I think I had to experience the pain and grief of the things I have lost this year. But at some point, the focus has to change, my energy has to change, and inevitably, I will change. Only I can do this, nobody can do it for me.

Sometimes I think the way to handle a big tragedy is the way in which you handle a small tragedy. For instance, when my grandma spilled some of her drink on her shirt at dinner, she said “Oh Fiddle Faddle!” Then she wiped it up, asked for another drink, and continued the conversation. It’s funny that sometimes even small episodes like this can ruin a dinner or a night just as much as locking yourself outside or finding out you have cancer! Obviously the consequence of one is more detrimental than the consequence of the other, and yet the way humans react to things, it’s hard to know sometimes whether someone spilled their drink or someone has died.

Last night as I went to sleep my thoughts took a noticeable shift. For so long I go to sleep thinking how to get better how to get better how to get better because the thinking is that when I am better is when I will be happy. But last night these words occurred to me: How to be sick. If I learn to master being sick, I can find happiness now, I don’t have to wait for it. It doesn’t have to be conditional. Of course I will continue to try to get better, to keep up with everything the doctors say, and make healthy decisions. But I don’t need to rely so heavily on potential change in order for me to start rocking right now. I think my grandma has encouraged this type of thinking, so I am very grateful she was here to spread some of her magic on us and New Orleans this Christmas. That lesson made a great gift.

Health, Happiness, and Merry Sickmas!

**Excuse the Dr. Phil tone of this post. I’ve been watching a lot of Oprah.

For the Love of Dog.

Published on December 19, 2011 by Mary Gelpi45 Comments

There are few people so understanding, so unconditionally loving, so uncalculated, forgiving, accepting, and such masters of the moment as are dogs. This is why my best friend is not a human, it’s Monty.

The last week has been a rough one for me physically. After the thrill of that post going viral, the prospect of new possibilities, and two anatomy finals, my body finally caught up, and crashed. The night of my last final I crawled onto the couch feeling a little dizzy and a little shaky. I spent the next three days there. I’ve been sleeping 14 hours a night and still waking up exhausted, feeling easily that I could sleep 14 more. Through the roller coaster of emotional highs and physical lows, there has been one constant, and that has been Monty. The day the blog went viral, we danced in the kitchen in a circle. His paws on my hips, I was laughing with excitement, and he was just along for the ride. I remember thinking, ‘He has no idea why suddenly I am dancing and my parents are opening champagne’ and yet he danced anyway. We were happy, so he was happy. If that’s not a lesson for human beings I don’t know what is.

After a couple of days of dancing and laughing came the inevitable crash. Finishing my final on Monday evening, I fell asleep that night at 8 pm. I woke up on Tuesday around 11. I was dizzy, heavy, and weighed down. Monty woke up slowly with me and I took him on our morning walk. Half way around the block I was feeling that inescapable fatigue crawl over me, and I knew all I’d be able to do that day was lay down. I whistled to Monty and we started back home. We’d only walked maybe a block, but it was enough for him to do his business and mark his territory on four different plants. Once inside I ker-plopped onto the couch and he followed. He laid his head on my legs and we slept another few hours. It was like he knew that’d be the extent of our physical activity that day, and he was OK with that. A dogs intuition is nothing short of amazing.

The rest of the week including today, has been a lot of sleeping and not as much fetch and tug-of-war as he deserves. And yet he seems happy. It’s as though whatever the moment throws at us, he embraces. Tired? We sleep. Energized? We play. Hungry? We eat. Happy? We dance. And there is no remembering or holding onto anything, and there is no anxiety or worry about tomorrow. There is just, this. And he does this, so incredibly well.

Sometimes when I lay awake at night thinking about what the answer to life is, this is what pops into my mind: Pupppies! It makes me laugh. But have you ever played with a puppy and not smiled? It’s impossible. Continuing on, even as I write this, Monty is curled up next to me on the couch, quietly breathing. We woke up two hours ago. He isn’t mad that we aren’t going to the park today, even though that was the plan. Sometimes on sick days I just lay petting him, watching his belly go up and down, and I feel at ease. That is what he seems all the time–at ease–and isn’t that how our life should be? When we’re at ease, we are open to good things. Once we tense up, we close ourselves off.

Anyway, I dedicate this to Monty, and best friends everywhere. I often wonder what humans would be like if we were more like our canine counterparts. Not in the sense that we would sniff each others butts, but what life would be like if we became masters of the moment. If we lived without ego. All of us. That sounds like a nice place to be.

I’ll end this with some tribute pictures of Monty..aka The Monster!

Arph and Arph and Arph Arph Arph! (get it? that was monty doing the sign off…you get it..)

n23409964_42504345_9771 — kiss for monty.

27751_943488504545_23409964_52930037_4426402_n — throw the ball. throw it!

154838_10100172778512505_23409964_56597862_3987671_n — mm hmm.

Thanks, I’ll try that.

Published on December 14, 2011 by Mary Gelpi68 Comments

A story.

After working a couple of months full-time at the Art Gallery, I started calling in sick more and more frequently. I dreaded making the call. I dreaded hearing my bosses voice after I would have to, yet again, say I’d be late or not in at all. I was really lucky to have the boss I did because for all the times I was late and absent, he remained pretty understanding and encouraging. But he was only one guy. I worked in a gallery with 40 other people.

There are some inevitable things you’ll confront with this illness. And from the emails I’ve been reading recently, it isn’t just this illness. It’s all kinds of autoimmune diseases and beyond. The first inevitable thing you’ll confront: people who don’t believe you. I always wondered why that was. Why would I make up the stupidest sounding disease I have ever heard of? Chronic Fatigue Syndrome? Why don’t they just call it Tired-Lazy-Person-Disease. Anyway, I know people call-in sick when in actuality, they aren’t. That’s occurred since the 40 hour work week began, I imagine. The last 6 months of my job were more me faking healthy than sick. I was sick everyday. It was just a matter of, was I not too sick to be able to get through the 8 hours. Having a boss who believed me was a blessing. Unfortunately, the rest of the office…wasn’t so sure. If I really think about it, I can’t totally blame them for their skepticism. Some young newby walks in the office with optimism in her eyes and excitement about having her own office supplies..then slowly…surely…shows up less…and less…and less. I knew the things they’d say when I called in. I heard what they would call me when I wasn’t there. I walked into enough rooms with that sense hanging in the air…that tangible feeling that you were the topic of discussion, and it wasn’t about how great you are! Some of them just looked at me with plain anger, which was hard for me to swallow. But I knew what they thought at the root of it: that it wasn’t fair. I got to miss all this work while they got their asses to the gallery everyday and on time. Everyone is tired, that’s no excuse. If they only knew how unfair it really was. I would’ve gladly traded with any of them. I always said that, but no one believed me.

The next thing you’re going to confront: advice. Sweet, unsolicited, unknowledgeable advice. And here’s how it will go. Have you tried acupuncture? Have you tried rolfing? You need to try acupressure. You need to re-set your bodies internal clock. You should do yoga, at least 3 times a week. You should work out, hard, every day. You need to drink more water! Have you ever considered going gluten-free? Dude, it’s probably the mold. You should avoid dairy, that’s what my mom did and now she’s all better! You’re eating too much salt. You just need to push through it. Massage therapy! Chiropractor! Holistic medicine! You should stop taking every pill you’re taking, cold turkey. I’d bet you’d feel better. Go running! Go to a psychiatrist! Go to India! I heard this thing about acai berries… Have you tried talking to God about it? You may dabble in Buddhism..that did a lot for me. I’m sure it’s nothing a little exercise couldn’t cure! If you just spent 2 weeks with me, I’d have you fixed in no time. Stop drinking coffee! Stop eating meat! Stop eating and drinking! Don’t sleep so much! Have you ever gotten your cavities filled? Ah, it’s your fillings then, they’re leaking toxic chemicals into your blood. You should try taking magnesium, you’ll feel better! I have something called Tylenol, will that help?

And those are just a few..I could go on. Also, those are all real pieces of actual advice I’ve been given. And I’ve become pretty well-versed at receiving advice that I don’t want. And the response is this: Thanks, I’ll try that! The reason I say that is because, for me, I was tired of spending hours explaining to people that I had already tried pretty much everything, seen 10 doctors, and tried diet changes. People couldn’t understand that exercise made me worse and rest was actually good for me. By the end, you’re just tired. Tired of talking about it, tired of fighting people on it, tired of defending yourself, of convincing people you’re not crazy, you’re not lazy, and you’re not a basket case. By the end I didn’t care. Truthfully people just want to help you, and so they offer advice. And that’s fine. But, would you tell someone with aids to just drink more water? Or someone with cancer to just take more vitamins? Doubtful. Not unheard of, but doubtful. And that is why, it’s just so much easier and less exhausting to say: Thanks, I’ll try that. Smile and nod. Thank them for the advice, and keep moving. They’ll get it or they won’t. But whether they do or not is not what will get you better in the end. It sucks not to be believed. It sucks to be misunderstood. But when your energy level is already such a commodity, it becomes a matter of livelihood. I didn’t have it in me to fight the world anymore, so I let them say what they say and do what they do.

There’s a quote I’ve liked since I was a kid that I would play in my head when the “noise” of the world became too loud. It’s something like this:

No one knows what I am. Only I know what I am. If I were a giraffe, and someone called me a monkey, I’d think, No, actually, I’m a giraffe. “

So it’s not the deepest of quotes, but I enjoy the simplicity of it. And that’s how I started to have to see myself. I needed to stop proving what I was and what I wasn’t, and just be exactly what I was: a sarcastic sick kid trying to get through every day. And many times-failing! Everyone you meet has a story, has their own battle. And we’re all quick to think we know who everyone is, and put them in a box with a nice clean label on it. But inside we all know, it goes much further than that.

I’m sharing this story because I’ve received quite a few emails and responses about the loneliness in being sick, not being believed, and the difficulty in explaining their respective illnesses to people they care about. I am just one person and this is only one experience, but I think this is a big lesson. Allow yourself to be sick. Accept what is. Don’t run from it anymore. Don’t dwell on it either. Just acknowledge what is, and see where the clarity takes you. You’ll be surprised. My final thought is this. After a particularly hard day, a few days after I had lost my job and realized I would have to give up my apartment, I was angry. I was really sad but also really angry. I kept thinking about that word Fair, and how this Wasn’t! I don’t know where they came from, but when I laid down to sleep that night, these words came over me: You were trusted with this illness. And that, among all the health advice I’d ever received, made me feel better.

Health, Happiness, and Thanks! I’ll try that.

But chances are..I already have. :)

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