Thursday, January 15, 2015

Grieving 101: The Emotional Marathon

“I can't be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.” 
― J.D. Salinger 

But I do.

It's exhausting, really.  It's something along the lines of an emotional marathon.  One that I find myself running every few years, against my will and against my wishes. 

Now, I've never run a real marathon before, however, this emotional marathoning isn't for the weak of heart either, that's for sure!  Each miserable stride burns more than the next breath.  You wonder how the hell you're going to get through this.  All those miles ahead, one thumping foot in front of the other.  Then, something happens along the way and everything quiets down for a moment when you realize... everything has gone numb.  You can't feel a damn thing!  Your reaction:  Hallelujah!  This respite allows you to coast for a spell.  Who cares if you can't feel anything.  Feeling, especially at times like these, is over-fucking-rated. This is your Menthol Mile, baby, and you better enjoy it.  Because slowly and then all at once the burn breaks through again and you'll be leaving a trail of smoke behind you for all the wrong reasons. In time, you'll stop screaming "holy hellfire" and simply accept the flames.  They are, some say, what make you or break you.

I don't know.  Sometimes I think "What the fuck?".  Sometimes I simply can't believe it all and I stand there wonderstruck, in the least magical way possible.  Every so often a wave of peace washes over me and I realize it's all ok, all of it, even the parts that aren't ok, if that makes any sense.

My thoughts ride a wicked pendulum.  They whip from side to side, up and down, from here to there, now to then and back again a million times in the blink of an eye.  Sounds fun, right? Yeah, just about as fun as that clown in Stephen King's "It" (insert shivers here please).  

It turns out my circumstances have demanded that I get good and clear on what I believe in….and I mean what I TRULY believe in.  As in...what is all of this heartbreaking, beautiful, chaotic, exotic, full blown insanity worth in the midst - and in the end - of it all?

My belief system, I've learned, is made up of the following:  Love, the amazing, true kind of love that makes all this shit worth while.  Heaven.  Family.  Life, this one beautiful life.  Friendship.  Forgiveness, regardless of what a battle it is to achieve it.  Impact, the kind you make and the kind that's made on you.  Karma, what you give, you get.  Peace, the sacred hunt for it.   And honesty.

It's my 3rd Emotional Marathon in 8 years.  

Although you'd think I'd be a frontrunner with all this "experience" the truth is, right now, I'm just pacing myself to get to the finish line without shitting my pants.






Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Curator for Bohemian LivingOwner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 
and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  
She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:
a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 
deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.



Saturday, January 3, 2015

This Old House

I remember my dad watching Bob Vila on Sunday mornings and didn't understand how he didn't die from boredom. I was a kid but now, with all the home makeover shows, I can see he was ahead of his time. So sometimes I look at my apartment, in a house that was built somewhere around 1900, and think WWBVD?

He would definitely rip up the kitchen floors with the foot prints of the workers who long ago did a half-assed job of installing it. Then the entire bathroom would be ripped down, especially the pink and forever stained porcelain tub in which no amount of cleaning will fix and he would make it bigger than the size of a closet. (Some of the big guys in my life have had some issues getting in and out of it.) And surely he would notice the crooked living room floor and do a bit of electrical work in my daughters room (which is actually on the agenda anyway.) But that's it. The damage from slamming the vacuum into the base boards is all me. The marks on the walls and damage to my what were once adorable kitchen chairs are from the cats and the toys everywhere are from my kid.

Then I think, I could really use that little lady from "Poltergeist" and have her work her magic on the one end of my house that is absolutely petrifying, Call me nuts, I've been called worse, but I swear, my apartment is haunted. I can't even explain to you the types of things we've heard, felt and seen in this place in the last ten years. It's part of the reason why my daughter still sleeps with me every night. (And because I know that there will come a day when she won't want to anymore.)

Then I think about all the trying times we've had in this place. Breakups, breakdowns, fear, sadness, years of physical pain from injuries and disease and more in the ten years we've lived here. I went through the hardest, to date, situations and problems in my life while living in this apartment.

Then I remember, my parents provided me with an amazing,  nice, cute place that is just the right size for my daughter and I. I walk into my big kitchen with the fabulous wall paper and tile from the 70's that I would not let Bob Vila go anywhere near. I look at my big living room, with it's tall windows that fill the room with sunlight. I look at my cozy bedroom big enough to fit a king sized bed and two huge bureaus. And I look at my daughter's sweet room, that despite desperately needing a paint job (we joke that she's been finger painting with dirt) is perfect for her. During the spring and summer, I open the windows, see the stunning garden my father has created and let the smell from the roses he planted waft into the rooms. There is nothing like having the smell of live roses in your home. It's just simply wonderful. Oh yeah, and central air. Be jealous, it's okay.

I remember that, along with the bad, some of the most amazing moments of my life have happened here. Just a week after moving in, we watched the Red Sox win the 2004 World Series here. This is where I brought my sweet little baby home from the hospital. This is where I've watched her grow from an infant to the incredibly sweet, kind and insightful kid she is today. This is where she will have most of her childhood memories. Birthdays, sleepovers, us cuddling on the couch and playing highly competitive rounds of air hockey. This is where I, myself, have changed and grown so much for the better that I no longer recognize the person I once was.

This is where we come to feel safe, warm, loved and comfortable. This is where we share meals and feelings. This is where we can dance and cry because no one is actually watching. This is where we live and work and play. So when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter what Bob Vila would do. It's what my daughter and I would do. And we will continue to grow up together and be grateful together because we have all we need in this old house.


Melissa Sue Vieira



Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.