Get Busy Livin’ or Get Busy Dyin’

I am becoming have become a recluse.

Not quite sure when or how it happened. Slowly, over time, but yeah.

I have become a recluse.

I’m sick. I’m exhausted. I’m sad and depressed. This is so honest my heart hurts writing it.

My life has become a mundane routine of waking up, dropping my girl off at school and then off to various doctor appointments or other wretched obligations. I have a hair appointment tomorrow afternoon and I don’t want to go. I’m dreading it.

I’m dreading a hair appointment!

I crawl underneath my covers in a benzo haze and pray for sweet dreams. I wake up to a silent phone.

Where did my friends go? Where is my family? I’ve reached out. I have. They’re gettin’ busy livin’. And I’m getting busy dyin’.

Except for him. I love him. More than any man I’ve ever known. He wants to see me and I push him away. “I’m too sick” I say. I am sick. Physically. Emotionally. I don’t want him to see me like this.

He makes me feel ALIVE. Maybe that’s why I’ve been pulling away. I miss him so much my body aches. His voice. His scent. His laugh. His…

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I fought so hard. I got busy livin’…not knowing if I would actually make it.

I made it.

When the divorce started, sick in my bones, I fought like a boxer. I won. I made it.

This winter was brutal, but I got up everyday, put on my face and got busy livin’. Spring is life. Life. Spring has arrived and I’m too busy dyin’ to LIVE.

I’ve never felt this way before. If it wasn’t for my girl, Oh My God, I’d spend my life in bed. Throw away this phone that I’m writing this from and wither away.

I want to say these feelings will pass, but they’re not feelings. They’ve become a way of life.

I don’t want to lay down and die. That’s not me! I’m a fighter! I’m fun! I’m happy. I used to be.

I gotta get busy livin’, man, because dying, dying is way too easy.

The Trouble With My Tattoos

(This is not my arm.)

The trouble with my tattoos is that I never know if it’s ok to show them or not. What I mean is, I never know what to wear–especially in the summertime. I personally don’t give a shit about showing my tattoos to the world, but there are times when I have been “told” it’s better to wear something with sleeves, to cover them up for a couple of reasons. The first reason is usually not to “offend” anyone and this warning usually comes before a fancy event like a wedding or high end party or one of my daughter’s school event. The second reason I’ve been advised to cover my tattoos on certain occasions is to not draw any unwanted attention to myself. The third reason is, that my tattoos are colorful, beautiful and unique, which makes me quite recognizable. In other words, by covering my beautiful tattoos, I can “disguise” myself.

During the cooler seasons, (New York actually gets to experience the four seasons; I love New York!) it’s usually not a problem because long sleeve sweaters, jeans and even mini dresses with tights hide my tattoos–not that I care if they didn’t, but in the summertime, and New York summers can be brutally hot, I never know what to wear. Today, for instance, I’m going to meet someone for the first time. Someone I don’t want to meet, but I have to because of The Scandal. I don’t know if I should just throw on a sundress and say “fuck you, I have tattoos” through my attire, or play the masochist and wear something that covers them up. Just being outside at 10 AM, I can already tell it’s going to be one of those hot, humid, sticky, uncomfortable days here in Brooklyn and I’m really thinking “sundress”. This is who I am. If you are an incredibly ugly person whose face is offensive to some people, do you cover it with a paper bag? No, because in the tattoo judger’s eyes, God gave you that face and there’s nothing you can do about it. But tattoos, tattoos, you see, are a choice. I chose to do this to my body. And my tattoos aren’t ugly or perverted or offensive in any way. I get lots of compliments on them, actually, so I don’t get the whole judgement issue. It’s my body. I can do whatever I want to it. Right? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to walk into this place wearing a tube top and hot pants. Just a simple shirt dress or a pretty maxi dress with nice shoes, my hair and makeup done and looking otherwise lovely. Except for the tattoos.

I don’t judge people who don’t have tattoos, so why do I have to worry about people who judge me by mine?