Cash Money

So, more and more, I've come to realize how fucking obsessive compulsive I am.
I was putting on socks just now and the little emblem was facing inward and I had to take them off and change them around.
I create these lists of plans in my head and I just turn them around over and over.
Writing them down, like in a planner or something, doesn’t help at all.
I’ll be walking on the beach and the sun’ll be setting and they’ll be fucking dolphins cresting their backs and fins out of the water, but I’ll be lost planning out what movie I’m gonna rent—where I’m gonna get dinner—what meeting I’m gonna go to—what I’m gonna say to whoever whenever I see them.
My mind fucking traps me inside it.
I struggle to stay present, but it’s almost impossible.
I guess the world is just so big and overwhelming and unpredictable and frightening that I need to find some area of control.
I hate to think of myself as a goddamn control freak, but that’s what I am.
Really I can’t fucking stand it.
I want so badly to just slow down, take things in—feel the miracle that is each moment.
So that’s my focus today—to be present in where I am—to take my fucking time and not miss my life going by.
But, as hopeless as it seems at times, there have been moments recently when I’ve been able to bring myself back into my life.
This morning like always I took my dog up to Griffith Park. Actually, I had my friend’s dog with me, too. She’s much smaller than Ramona and not used to exercise so I’m very careful not to let her overheat or overwork herself.
I almost killed a dog like that once.
It was totally my fault.
What happened was I took another friend of mine’s dog up to the top of Westridge on a hot still day in August. This was about three years ago when I was super compulsive about exercising. There was a feeling in me like if I didn’t work myself to the point of nearly incapacitating exhaustion everyday, somehow I had failed. Actually, the drive in me was so overwhelming that I literally couldn’t not exercise. Nothing was ever enough and every day I drove myself harder and harder.
It was as if pushing myself to the point of breaking would somehow take me away from all the terrifying feelings surging inside me.
It worked temporarily, but just like with drugs my tolerance increased and I had to keep going farther and farther.
I had my friend’s dog and my mom’s two dogs with me and I went running on the trail.
I couldn’t stop.
The sweat soaked through my clothes, but I kept running. If I didn’t complete the trail I wouldn’t be able to stand myself. It felt like my life depended on it.
I glanced back over my shoulder and O, my friend’s dog, had collapsed on the hot trail. He could do nothing but pant and lie and there was blood in his mouth and excrement coming out from behind.
For some reason my mom’s two dogs were totally fine. They just crowded together in the shade of a bare, tangled tree branch as O lay there.
I poured water on him—tried to get him to drink, to stand. The pads on his feet had torn off so there was blood all over.
I called the police but it took nearly four hours for them to reach us.
At the emergency room they told me O had suffered from massive heat stroke—his blood coagulating all at once, then literally losing the ability to clot on its own. He was bleeding to death internally. The possibility of him living, she said, was about 5%. She threatened to charge me with negligence and animal cruelty.
I fucking cried and prayed and visited O in the hospital ever day for hours and hours.
His owner, my friend, had to come back from his trip early to be with O.
Two weeks passed where O’s life was in critical condition.
By some fucking miracle, though, he survived.
Three years later, with my friend’s dog, Cash, I am very careful. I keep stopping, even when she probably doesn’t need it, to let her rest and drink water.
Ramona is a big meathead who can run for hours without stopping. She sprints circles around me, climbing up the canyon walls and chasing birds down through the brush in the valleys. But Cash is slow and not accustomed to a lot of exercise.
I’ve been building her strength up slowly—watching her closely—walking along at her pace so she doesn’t feel compelled to keep up.
And I’ve seen her progress.
Today she made it to one of the top peaks overlooking Glendale and the San Fernando Valley—something that would’ve been impossible a few weeks ago.
She’s even started running with Ramona a little—chasing her up the steep water carved trails through the thick, dry brush.
And me, well, I’ve been there with her—present for the excitement in her face as she’s begun to play more and more.
I didn’t rush her.
I let her take her time.
I couldn’t control it, but that was okay.
Man, to get comfortable giving up trying to control all aspects of my life would be such a fucking relief—to stop obsessing over every little thing.
Of course, perfectionism is another side to that same fucking o.c.d. shit.
So maybe I won’t try for all aspects of my life.
If I can just allow myself to let go little by little, well, that’ll be progress.
I guess the problem is I don’t even know how to begin.
But I guess walking along with Cash is a start.
At least, that’s how it feels.