if a tree falls...

I come from a long line of jerks, and if anyone needs to drink when they get together, it's the members of my family. I also come from a long line of closet alcoholics who "quit drinking."

For us, that means no booze allowed. No beer before dinner, no cocktails for dessert. The closet alcoholics? Well, they're getting drunk in the bathroom.

They're the ones who need to quit drinking, but somehow they've managed to create and maintain a situation whereby they're the only ones drinking. I have to wonder why I haven't connected these dots any time during the past 16 years.

I was going to call this ironic, but actually I think we've surpassed irony and moved right on to stupidity. I should have said I come from a long line of stupid jerks.

Anyway, do you suppose it'd be rude to bring wine to dinner just this once?

why not ask?

I've spent a lot of time trying to get back to normal, whatever that is. I realize now that it's nearly impossible to return to a prior state of affairs, and I don't want to--mostly. We don't smoke in the house anymore, and it being winter, and me being thin with poor circulation, well, I'm down to about a half a pack a day, as opposed to my normal whole pack a day, and sometimes more if I'm drinking. It's O.K. The house smells better, my clean laundry stays cleaner, and I don't have to feel guilty that I'm exposing my cats to secondhand smoke.

I don't drink much anymore. If I do, I feel sick for two days, my ears fill with fluid again, and I have to sleep and drink seven bottles of water for the first day after. And this is after only two or three beers or a couple of glasses of wine. I won't lie and say I don't want to drink. Just can't, really. And I have to accept this as normal, at least for now. Still, I'm fine with it.

I don't "go out" like I used to. Even visiting old haunts once in a while proves that I'm not in the same place I once was, and often enough, proves that I'm better for it. I miss playing music, yes. Having an ear problem that sometimes impedes speech and muffles my hearing makes it difficult, but not impossible. But then there's this matter of going out, and then not drinking. I don't want to settle for a life without music. It's not permanent, but it's going to be different if I ever make it back. It will still be good, whenever it is that I get there.

What's happening mostly is that I'm getting older. I'm not saying I'm old, but I'm facing the fact that I've reached an age (37) whereby my poor posture is hurting me in ways I never imagined possible. After all of the years of being hounded by relatives and friends to "stand up straight," I've reached a point that musculoskeletally speaking, this is simply impossible without physical therapy and training. Even then, I'm not sure that my body will ever fully recover from the damage I've done. Damn you, elementary school, for having so many short kids and late-bloomers.

Another phase I've entered, is the high-risk pregnancy age-group. That's assuming that I haven't yet reached the perimenopausal stage of my life. And I'm still not feeling prepared to have babies (as if one could ever be prepared for such a thing)! What's difficult about this, is that most of my friends have gone ahead and done it without me. Their kids are beautiful, but also a number of other things. Cute, funny, ADHD, smart, ill-behaved, loving, tall for their age, small compared to me, and well-loved by their parents. And I think it's great--but I don't have any.

One thing this leads me to, is that I'm caught in the middle. I don't need or want to go out much, but on the other hand, my days, nights, and weekends are wide open.  I try to be productive. I read, I write, I watch documentaries, and sometimes movies. I cook, I clean, I do laundry. I eat, and sometimes I sleep, mostly poorly.

My question is, does this really create a gap between me and my friends with children? I try to be sensitive to my friends' needs as parents. It's just that I have no real knowledge or experience as to what their needs may be. I do have common sense, however, and probably some sort of motherly instinct that has thus far only led to the bad habit of mothering my boyfriends, past and present.

Via Facebook, my friends with children need to get out for a drink, or they need some adult conversation, or they need a babysitter to allow for some adult conversation and a drink, in which case I volunteer, but then I won't be there to participate in said activities, a service I also like to provide for my friends with children. Also via Facebook, my friends are entertained by their children, loved by them, and reminded every day why this part of their life is undeniably satisfying. I can't leave this out of the equation, and in consideration of this, I feel I should make it clear that their children are welcome to be a part of the things we do as friends. In fact, it may be necessary.

I try to be sensitive about this parting of ways. I try to plan things around your and your children's schedules. When I call to make plans, depending on the thing we might like to do, I think about what time your small counterparts get out of school, or what day their fathers pick them up, or whether I should just offer to come to your place for coffee so we can both be with your kids and have a semi-adult, little ears present conversation. Who knows, maybe I could even talk to them, too.

What I mean by this, is that a lot of times, my friends don't ask if I'd like to join them when they take their kids to the zoo, or when they're going out for lunch kids in tow, or when they take them rollerskating or laser tagging and the like. All things I enjoy, albeit I've often enjoyed them sans children. Not by choice, but by circumstance.

O.K., so I'll concede that I never, ever want to play laser tag. It just seems like a germy activity--like video games at Salisbury Beach.

This all boils down to what I began with. Nothing is ever going to go back to normal, if normal is what my life was two, six, or eight years ago. I've changed. You've changed. I still need you and I still need us. Both with your children present, and without them.  I only hope you all still need me despite my lack of genetic counterparts. I assure you that I know how it works, and knowing that, I know I may never have any. This might only be sad if I find myself without friends, too. If there is a gap, I'd like to find out what it's made of, and how to close it before it's too late.

An aside, how the hell did this creep up on me?

people like that.

I knew it would happen. I've been sick for almost a year, and it's kept me under the radar, for the most part. Now, I'm feeling better and getting out more, and what do people do when you're out? They judge. Not based on reality, no. They do it quietly, and don't ask many questions. And I'm totally fine with being judged for what I do, even by complete strangers. But being judged for what they think I did, it's another story altogether. As for anyone thinking I'm not sorry for any mistakes I've made over the years, they haven't been here.

Not for the times I've denied myself happiness over and over again, or not for every day that's gone by that I rehash any one instant during which I could have said or done things differently. To the one person who's seen me at my absolute worst, and knows sure enough how damaged I was by someone else's actions, as well as how hurt I was by my own inactions...well, I don't expect you to vouch for me. You're a coward. So I'll fall as gracefully as I can into the "people like that" category. I saw it coming. I probably have it coming.

Most days, I can get past all of this.  Most days, I can avoid writing about it on the internet, and in turn find that I can't really write about it anywhere. In fact, what's suffered the most for every snide remark, every sideways glance, and for any dig, intended or unintended, is my writing. I write about me, mostly, and how I feel about the day, my situation, my friends. That way there's no intrusion. And honestly, I'm tired of talking about myself here. To the point where I thought the other day that I should just end it now.

My blog, I mean. I looked it over and concluded that it was all just drivel, and that I lack focus and a theme. In retrospect, it was more like an alarm sounding. I think that it's ruining my writing, wasting my time, and feeding the elephant that only grows larger every time I happen to step out the door (which again makes it way to Facebook and becomes largely misunderstood).  On the other hand, I've been doing this for years. It introduced me to a very good, and hopefully lifelong friend, and it's kept me occupied at times during which I really needed to stay occupied. It's helped me sleep, and it's pulled me out of bed at 6 a.m.

I guess I'm just trying to determine how much good comes of it, and how much of this other crap (see above) is too difficult to avoid if I continue with it. Because I could be more specific, but I won't be more specific. I'm not the only person in the world who has occupied a space on the internet with vague statements about non-specific things. I'd sure like to change that, though. Here's what I know. 

Sometimes, I've hurt people. I'm not the only one. What makes me better than my worst actions, is that I try every day not to make it a regular occurrence. What I'm still learning? 

I need to be hard on myself. I don't need to punish myself. And I need to figure out sooner than later the difference between the two.

to shreds.

What if I suddenly changed course? And what if I don't have that choice right now? Those two questions have been haunting my thoughts more than they should be these past few weeks. Enough to give me a stomach ache, and enough to cause me difficulty sleeping. 

Also, I've been dreaming about riding a bus. Like, often.

Anyway. I know me and my fickle heart all too well, and I know that it sometimes steers me wrong, and in every which direction. But then, often enough it doesn't, and I know one thing for sure. I've never been able to ignore it.

I don't know how much of this happens on account of fate, and how much of it I impose upon myself. It doesn't really suit me to sit around counting my blessings. I'm not saying that I don't appreciate them. I do. I'm just terrified of contentment, at least for comfort's sake. I'm not even entirely opposed to comfort, if only it weren't so predictably conducive to making me cease all movement in any particular direction. Comfort seems so rigid in its rules. Even in the most serene water, if you throw even the tiniest of all pebbles, it's still going to make a ripple. And today, I happen to like ripples, or at least the idea of them. The problem is, I only have this rock.

Ripples are one thing, but a tidal wave? I know I'm not ready for that.

But I can't keep kidding myself. Something has to change. For starters, I need to exercise more. I've been down for so long with the strangest of unidentifiable illness that my strength is all but depleted. I'm still shocked that it's claimed almost an entire year of my life, and that not one of at least 12 doctors has been able to pin it down. 

The guesses so far; sinus infection, sarcoidosis, Eustachian tube dysfunction, TMJ, glue ear, vertigo, Multiple Sclerosis, Lyme disease, severe allergies, and non-allergic rhinitis (this seems to be correct, but the cause has remained elusive), and migraine. Not to mention the ever convenient diagnosis, anxiety. And perhaps if I take their happy pills, I won't notice anymore that they have no idea what the hell they're doing, and that they're robbing me blind. On the good side, I've had much better days since I was laid off in September. I'm almost convinced that soon enough, this, and even the ringing in my ears will be a distant and hopefully mostly suppressed memory. Except for the good parts, and there have been a few somehow, mostly in spite of it.

On top of more exercise, I've cut out most caffeine, and a whole lot of sugar. My meals include fresher fruits and vegetables. And a lot of greens. Teas are mostly herbal, and breads are whole grain.

But those are the easy ones. I still have to feed and exercise my mind, and I've been horribly neglectful of it more months. I've promised it that I'll read more, and hopefully watch a lot less television than I have been. But I'm still glad that I watched every episode of My Name Is Earl. No one's going to fault me for that, right?

Thankfully, I still cook often, which sometimes satisfies my creative urges, as well as provides my brain with at least a little bit of stimulation.

So where was I going with this again?

For the moment, I know exactly what I have to do: wait and see. I wish right now that I had patience on my side, but I can, at least, kill some time trying to find it.

two sugars.

It's the day after Thanksgiving, and I'm still thankful. I'm happy with my home, I'm happy with the people in it, and I'm thrilled to avoid shopping on Black Friday of all days. Instead I'm home, coffee in hand, with my all-time favorite sound coming from the laundry basket behind me: cat snores.

I'm pleased that everyone here, including the cats, is relaxing. Okay, so it's actually just me and the cats. But forget this shopping crap. My sister invited me, and I said no, mostly on the basis that I can and most likely would be arrested for assault, possibly with some sort of blunt object, like a television that someone wanted and pushed me out of the way to obtain. And I have no intentions of fighting over a Hello Kitty pillow pal (if there were such a thing) to save five bucks. I'd rather save myself the jail time and sit home reading a book over coffee, thanks.

I borrowed The Time Traveler's Wife from my mom yesterday and started reading it before dinner. Seems a little confusing at first, but I like the idea. Love transcending time and all that. I'm only a few chapters in, but so far, so good. Should hold my attention for the bulk of this morning until I finally decide to face the day, the traffic, and something I've been looking forward to for a long time.

Here's to making up for lost time, and for not letting time damage the very connections that make it possible. And for not letting time turn every piece of the past into nostalgia.

as charged.

Guilt. Both a lovely tool, and horrible curse, indeed. Mr. Fred Rogers spent a lifetime teaching us that we are important. That just being born makes us each a valuable person. He also tried to teach us to live morally, and with a consciousness for our neighbors. But still, here we are, ripping each other to shreds.

I've been observing many a negative response to the Occupy movement, and it would seem it's based on the assumption that every one of them is unemployed and in debt. I suppose that's possible, but I doubt it. 

I would venture to say, however, that every one of them believes that a lot of our problems could be solved, and it's time to let the people at the top of this mess know that we know that they know it can and should be fixed. Not by redistribution of wealth, but by recognizing that we as employees and consumers are still part of the equation that makes them wealthy in the first place. Instead of hiring us, paying us fair money for our good work, and manufacturing (possibly right here in America) superior products for us to purchase with our hard earned dough, they've chosen just to take what we have left, give it to some corporations and banks, then piss what's left into a war for oil. I mean what kind of freedom is it that I should feel guilty for having a few "things?"  And how the hell am I greedy for wanting to live on more than a shoestring budget? 

Is it so awful to finally take a stand and say that we are not all satisfied with our meager paychecks, which aren't even a third of what we need to pay for simple things like groceries, a cell phone, our electric and heating bills, and possibly a few things we don't need, like a new pair of pants, or the internet? And is it wrong for me to wish for my own benefit that it weren't true that someone in India is taking your phone call on behalf of American banks and corporations that operate here, but set up headquarters in other countries to avoid paying taxes here? And that I wish they wouldn't lobby that I pay more taxes than they do? And that instead of lobbying for lower taxes, they take that money and put it into jobs and a better product?

I did, just last week, receive a job opportunity via the internet I don't "need"...but then again I could have picked it up at the library for free, right? 

The library that's only open three and a half days a week now because the state cut it's funding after it raised taxes and a fair number of fees? Libraries do fall under the "public service" category last I checked. Public schools are in the same boat. When there's a budget problem, you cut things that aren't necessities. So who's telling us neither of those things are necessities? And while I sit here feeling guilty for collecting unemployment after working and paying into it for 23 years, and for not cutting out luxuries like phone and internet, should I feel guilty for attending public schools and using public libraries, or for calling the police when some sex offender used my mailbox illegally to receive his welfare check after he got out of prison?

What I'm saying is that we've been conditioned to think we don't need anything to be happy. I'm arguing that they want us to give them everything we have, and then think we're better people because we did. Because we don't need anything, but they do. Who is "they?" Damned if I know. But I know that my $750 paycheck was becoming a $550 paycheck before I even saw it. At the end of the year even that's reduced once I pay the rest of my taxes, and at the end of the day I sit at home trying to cut more expenses, particularly food, phone, internet, and cable. I'm sure somehow I'm to blame for my lack of ability to pay for these things, even though I've been working since I was 14, and have at least 10 years of experience in the industry that actually chose me, because lord knows I'm not doing what I want. 

We could argue that I'm not doing what I want because I didn't go to college, which for starters I couldn't afford...but hey, I don't have any debt, save $1,000 between two credit cards, and $10,000 for the bare bones car for which I took a loan for $12,500. Oh wait, it has air conditioning and a CD player.  

And I'm insisting that $550 a week doesn't go very far anymore, and I still somehow believe it's a decent paycheck. I know because I once could afford to live on a $300 paycheck and have money to spare. Ah, the 90s. That must have been the point at which I became spoiled rotten, like all of us ugly Americans that want things. Like good jobs that don't threaten our health, financial rewards for our hard work (the bank execs sure receive them), and some freedom to buy our own way to a better economy that keeps us safe, educated if we so choose, and not just fed, but nourished. So, if we're not supposed to want all of these things, why are we fighting under the guise that we want these things for other countries?

I'm confused, and guilty. But I do protest.

end to end.

It hit me the other day right after I saw, for the first time, a 3D ultrasound. I was reading through my "Top Stories," as I do every morning, and there it was. A little alien-looking creature with its face pressed up against its mothers uterus. The father is an friend of mine, and for a second I felt happy for him. After that, though, I realized I don't even know the girl and here I am looking at her genitalia on the freaking internet. That was three weeks ago. 

Yesterday, I saw someone's obituary in the very same feed, which brings me to today. Are our real lives really just a timeline on the internet from beginning to end? And will I ever have the urge to post my unborn baby's picture on the internet before they even have a chance to protest? 

Then again, will I ever actually have a baby? Probably not, and maybe in some small way because of this. Because while we're busy experiencing the most important times of our lives, we're distracted by the nagging urge to post it on the internet before, during, and after we experience it. And in the case of an unborn child, the very most important thing we could do  is shamelessly posted on the internet, most likely for good. No eraseys. 


I'm not saying it shouldn't be done, but I have to question the intent and the good sense of it. Sometimes it forces me to take a long hard look at my internet lifespan and whether or not there's enough content, and whether or not I'm a good enough person to be as happy as everyone looks. I wonder why I don't laugh more than I do, and I wonder when I'll start playing music again, and I wonder if I'll have time before I go to delete my profile completely so no one will turn it into a makeshift memorial for me. 


All of this makes me want to make my life and everything I make of it more tangible. I find myself wanting to mail birthday cards using the U.S. Postal Service (gasp), or wanting to write letters to friends and relatives at least once a week. I want to take a yoga class and not take pictures with my camera that doubles as a phone. I want to play my guitar more often, often when no one will hear it, but sometimes where they can, in which case they can feel free to take a picture and share it on the internet. As long as it's flattering. Because there's no real way to escape it. Even if I don't have a profile, someone else will, and that someone else may want to prove to the world we were really there together. Maybe.


All of this simply led me to one true reality that I decided to post on the internet. I want to live, not distractedly, but wholeheartedly, and the only friends I'd like to share pictures of my uterus with are the ones with whom I'm willing to share the better part of my life with, in person.

Halloween, or Things My Dad Hates, Part 1

I'm sick with a terrible cold today, but somehow, I'm up and able to do some rambling. If "somehow" means three ibuprofen, one glass of Airborne, a Mucinex, and a sinus rinse. Add a dash of stir crazy, and you get this.

I never liked Halloween very much. The main reason was, and probably still is, my father's reasoning that it was nothing but a shit show--one that encouraged kids to dress up like idiots and beg for candy. But no, my father wasn't mean. What he really meant was, I don't want my daughters going out in the dark to be either a. hit by a car, b. abducted by a strange man, or c. poisoned or injured by tainted candy. Or d. all of the above.

Now that I can very easily purchase as much candy as I damn well please, it's easy to look back and say that I don't blame him. At least not for that little bit of childhood misery. I mean, at the time trick-0r-treating was still done in the dark without parental accompaniment. True story.

Because any of those things could actually happen, he was abhorrently against Halloween and any of its traditions... except for that one time when my school held a costume contest. And that time, he really wanted me to win. 

I don't know why he did it, except maybe that I've got a sob story ten miles long about the mean kids at school. I think now perhaps somehow, somewhere in the middle of that story he wanted me to feel accepted--even though he spent most of his life teaching me that it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks of me if I'm doing the right thing. So he made holes in a white trash bag for my arms and head, and a white hat out of heavy card-stock paper, and drew and colored in red sharpie the Colgate logo. 

If the quality of my school years improved because of this, I don't remember any of it (and thanks for kicking my Garfield lunch box around the school yard, jackass).

Only the best lunchbox I ever owned.

In 2008, I decided finally to participate, and actually dress up for Halloween.  And again, with a few things I had around the house, including poor eyesight, cat-eye glasses and a hat, I went as Adrian. You know, from Rocky. I had watched it for the first time just that year, and not because it's my father's favorite movie, so you can see the irony. The funny thing I've found about dressing up is that I actually start to feel the part. 

Gardner Ale House, 2008

Knowing this, I decided last year to be Miss Holly Golightly. It wasn't far from where I was in my life at the time, and I had found my Paul Varjak, so it made sense. He went as Murray, from Flight of the Conchords.

Which brings me to this year. Jeremy and I are actually going to be and dress as a couple, and an unlikely one at that. I'm not going to give away exactly who just yet, but let's just say this time it involves pink lipstick, a flannel shirt, perfectly up-swept hair, and a mustache. In the meantime...

I'll follow.

I hate the cold. I hate winters. They always wind down such a long and slippery slope for me, emotionally speaking. 

I'm unemployed this year, which I didn't expect. In hindsight, I wish I could have found myself without work for at least part of the summer, but no, luck is not always with me. There must be a reason. I think it's that I'm supposed to revisit my writing career--possibly with a newspaper again. But I thought today, perhaps not. I thought maybe instead, I'm supposed to work on my semi-autobiographical mostly fictional story. Which I've already started. I just left it there, dying to be told when I hit a bump in the road that not only left my metaphorical tires flat, but my rims bent as well. It's just sitting there, waiting. It's been waiting a long time...

"I know how I hate to wait/Like even for a bus or something/An important phone call/So I can imagine how darned impatient/Everyone must be getting"

So I thought some more. I tried to find a workshop, or maybe a writer's group somewhere around here. You know, for inspiration. Maybe a little boost. Alas, neither seems to exist. So I think this might be it. I just have to do it.

"So I think it's time now/time to reveal myself"

So to make unemployment work for me, I can see now that I should really take advantage of the time and make it count for something. Something bigger than cleaning and cooking to avoid writing because of a stupid bump in the road, especially since said bump in the road is probably fodder for this and any other writing I may do.

Here's a little excerpt of something I wrote before all of this other static came into play:

I wouldn't even want to be stranded with him, if you want to know the truth. He's too moody, too meticulous, and too stubborn. Sometimes he's cold as hell. But we're not on a desert island. We're not even living in the same house or in the same town, and shit, I thought it was worth the trouble. I think he's worth the trouble. There, I said it.

I'd say why, but it's a million little reasons already, which seems impossible, I know.

If you think about it, we've only known each other for three months and nine days, but that's 13,824,000 seconds, so if we only spent 1/4 of that time together, that leaves about 3,456,000 seconds to come up with reasons it's all worthwhile. I'd stop here if I thought I could, but I started this equation, and now it seems like I have to follow it through. I guess you have to figure some of that was sleep time, so take away 1/3 - give or take - and you've still got 2,304,000 seconds to come up with reasons, so a million really isn't that many. On top of that, neither one of us sleeps through the night, so all kinds of possible reasons are probably accounted for somewhere during that half-sleep half-wake time, which I will admit I have trouble remembering. It's all relative, and we're talking seconds, here. Man alive.

I don't think it sounds stupid, because when someone tells you you're beautiful it only takes one second. When they tell you you're brilliant, depending on their diction, it's the same. I'm glad we met, same again. And that's just the words. There are all sorts of things that happen in seconds, in between the minutes and hours that I can't even describe without making us both uncomfortable. Maybe I will one day. For now I'm just going to recount that one really cold night, when he reached over the stick shift of his car and put my heated seat on number 3, then grabbed my icy left hand and stuffed it under his leg to warm it up. Two seconds, two reasons. It's pretty simple math for a now complicated situation.

Sometimes I think if everyone thought about things in terms of reasons and seconds, we'd all be a lot kinder to each other, but I'm not trying to change the world. I'm simply telling a story.

And so on (and on and on). I know I have something in me. Looks like me and my clicky little 50-words per minute fingers are the only ones that will be able to coax it out.

I can't believe I wasted 17 days of unemployment not thinking about this.

up we go.

I'm not giving up. I'm about $2,000 in the co-pay hole, I still don't know why for the past four months my head feels like it's going to rocket off of my neck, and I'm not surprised. I'm blaming the nasty circle of defensive medicine, prescription selling, insurance reforming bullshit we all know is happening. We can't fight it, because we're sick, over-medicated, and poor. This is not news. The reason it's not news, is because they're paying people not to tell us.

I figure if they stop screening me for cancer long enough to listen to all of my symptoms at once instead of fixating on the ones that might be life-threatening but probably aren't, they might be able to give me a diagnosis and a treatment plan. Why this won't happen? Because they avoid diagnosing anything, not for fear of misdiagnosing me, but for the fear me suing them (we little people are actually part of this four-part disaster). Therefore, I'm in referral limbo. Also, they only get paid for 15 minutes no matter what, and giving my four month overall health history at every visit takes at least 30. At this point, I could probably sue them for radiation poisoning after four CT scans and three X-rays, but whatever. 

The only thing Prednisone has done thus far is give me enough of the jitters to give my house a thorough cleaning, and finally enough raw anger to make me get this down. And maybe alleviate just some of the pressure. Not much of a bargain, considering the side effects. I kind of like the vivid waking dreams, anyway.

Still not giving up.

That means I'm going to focus more on this, and other things that matter. I've moved into a great place, with great people, and when I'm down they pick me up. It's good, because I'm finding it harder to get out right now - I'm not really driving due to the random dizziness and hearing problems. 

I'm hoping in the meantime, that wherever I've left off with the people I haven't been able to visit again, or as much, we can pick it up again. I do feel my relationships suffer for all of this, in that I feel disconnected much of the time because of the pressure. I can't read, speak, or process information as well as I know I can, or have in the past, and it's a huge source of frustration. All I've been able to say, at least to my family and closest friends, is that even if I seem absent, I'm still in here and I'm trying like an angry monkey to get out.

No exaggeration. And I'm so grateful to everyone who refuses to let me forget that I'm in here. Please keep it up.

and me, without my raincoat

I used to be able to do this. When I write, I want it to be honest. I used to be more optimistic, but that part of me is on hiatus, or maybe its left for good. I'm afraid to write, because I don't know if it can be good and terrible at the same time. And if it's terrible, does it need to be out there? 

The emotional pressure I put upon myself is enormous, and at this stage, I think I may have buried me. The physical pressure has been another ride I didn't expect, nor have I welcomed it. As of late, I can't tell the difference between the two. Four months ago, the dizzy spells started, then ear pain and popping, pressure in my face and head, and finally the head rushes while I tried to fall asleep. Swollen lymph nodes remain, old and new, and every day I wonder what the hell could be wrong with me.

 There have been terrible times. Blood tests, then wait. Cat scans, then wait. A one month round of antibiotics, and now, Prednisone. Holy side effects, Batman. 

And what do I worry about most through all of it? How my work, my loved ones, and my life are suffering for it. Sometimes I'm too dizzy to drive. Other times the computer screen looks like it's swaying back and forth, and a lot of times, I finally just cry.

I'm still toughing it out. Maybe I can find some optimism here if I really try. If I could just see the bright side, maybe all of these symptoms would just magically disappear. And maybe I could ignore the it when my co-worker rolls her eyes because I'm leaving work at 3:00 instead of 4:30 because the Prednisone makes me feel manic and pukey. As if I'm having a grand time not having the energy to cook dinner when I finally get home, or go for a walk, or sometimes just do the laundry. Or when I'm pulling over on Route 2 with a panic attack so severe that all color fades from my lips and my body turns into an earthquake so shaky that I can't even dial the phone.  I conserve my energy for fighting the panic attacks at work, so she can do less. And she does, believe me. Last I knew GFA home banking isn't an insurance Web site. Neither is Facebook, nor is your hotmail account.

That said, compassion only goes so far. My optimism is leaving. In these crappy financial times, people just get crappier. Compassion leaves the moment people realize that they might have to actually back someone up, like actually do something.

I've been apologizing for all of it. Hundreds of times a day, and if you ask me, it's become a problem. It's come down to apologizing for my very existence, and with that I'm done. It will never be enough - could never be enough. Expecting that it would was the very reason I wasn't sorry enough. Sometimes you can only be one thing to someone ever after. I can forgive, but I can only do that for me, and by doing so I can still continue to be someone that does better every day.

The days that I do come home and manage to cook dinner despite it all, well, those are the good days. For all of the weeks that I have been at work all day everyday, and have managed to help my co-worker finish the work she's let pile up while she was busy surfing the internet, those are good days, too. What makes me do that? Compassion. Not the fake kind, either. She's overwhelmed, and I feel her pain.

Life can be unkind; how cliche. Like the semi-colon. I can still stand, even if I have to do it alone in my little muffled world, for now. What a freaking metaphor.

in case of emergency, break glass

I don’t know if I feel liberated, or stupid. I sat through an all day insurance class today, at the end of which I was likely going to pass a test that would secure the third of five passing scores to complete my CISR designation. Which only means I’ve been appointed a Certified Insurance Service Representative, which in the end as far as education is concerned means next to nothing, except on paper. And I thought, I’ve got my class credits, and that’s really all I need to maintain my insurance license for another three years.

 

I had planned also to go to a wake tonight for a fellow alumni of the high school from which I graduated, and at which I only spent two years. But he was a good guy, we have a lot of mutual friends, and he committed suicide. I'm not unfamiliar with this kind of loss, unfortunately. This may seem like a non sequitur, but it's not. Stay with me.

 

So at 3:15 p.m., I thought, “Fuck the CISR designation,” and walked out at the end of the session without taking the stupid test. I think I was right. My current boss could care less about it, and my next boss will hopefully be me. Because I don’t want to end up like all of the middle-aged, feathered hair, office politics savvy, throw your coworkers under the bus to get ahead other CISR designated stick up their but morons also in attendance. That’s not to leave out the 55 plus-ers.  I’m never getting the old lady, easy to maintain, every hair frozen in place to aqua-net perfection, shiny gold watch to match hair-do. Uh uh. Never.

 

I don’t want to sell insurance for the rest of my life. Period. I want a book deal. Because I deserve it. I have things to say. I have experience, and because living is the thing I’m best at. Not surviving. Living. And writing.

 

I’ve been losing an uphill battle out here, at least as far as doing what’s really right for me, as opposed to what’s good for my boss, my friends, my family. All of it. And in the end I’ve been a nervous wreck, which doesn’t look good on me. I need and want to change this, effective 3 p.m. Thursday afternoon.

 

Work – I give it two more years max. I’m going to save money, and either leave here, buy a house of my own, or take a year off and write, write, write. Or all of the above. I’m not made to work at a place like I have been, with people who don’t care about anything important, serving customers who make every mistake they make someone else’s problem, etc. etc. An example: lady calls about her cancelled insurance after failing to pay her monthly bill for three months. I say the company will take a money order and signed “no loss” today to reinstate. Her reply, “I can’t get out of work to pay my insurance....you’re...you’re USELESS!” and promptly hangs up. Which brings me back to suicide. What if I were someone else (someone weaker)? What if I were going through a divorce, and missed my kids, and I were running out of money because gas is $4.07 a gallon? And I think we’re all killing each other to live, and it has to stop. And I can’t tell her this because she’s a sad, compassionless human being. And I think maybe she could be that other person, too.

 

I just wonder why we’re all doing this to each other, and how in the world we can stop.

 

I'd like to think all of my friends are my friends for life. I also know this can never happen. The most important thing of all is that we're here now. Me and you (and everyone we know).

 

creactivity.

I don't have many answers. The answers I do have are shaky, at best. I make room for this. I breathe. 

I'm not sure what to say about creativity that hasn't been said before. You either have it, or you don't. Or maybe you're one of those people that has a button collection. In the end, all of the buttons make up a collage of colors and texture, and while button collecting doesn't seem very creative, it sure is something to look at. So what makes people tick?

That's what I loved about writing for a newspaper. Finding out what makes people tick, and using what makes me tick to write about it. I miss it terribly, but at the same time, I've had this gnawing feeling that tells me I'm on to something else. Maybe something bigger. Like a novel, or a collection of stories, or an illustrated book of poetry. O.K., probably not the poetry thing. I'm just not all that good at it.

So maybe the thing about creativity, is that whatever it is, creative people just need to make things happen. Even if they don't make any money, or if it's harder than spending their time decompressing after they've done their 40 hours already. Even if it means sacrificing family time, or holidays, or having a bigger, cleaner home than your neighbor. Even if it means sacrificing what's left of all of your time.

As for me, I'd skip three meals a week to have a little bit more time to do all of this. If only the "this" would present itself in such a way that the little voice in my head that tells me I'm all washed up shrivels up and dies. I hate that voice.

I have so much more respect for people when they let creativity rule their universe, even when the odds and their day job and the laundry are all stacked up against them. Sometimes I dream about having enough money to forget all about that and reach the point at which I use all of my creativity all of the time. But then, I'm afraid if that happened, I'd forget what makes it so important in the first place.

verti-gone.

I'm not complaining about anything today. It's 8:00 in the morning, it's sunny and beautiful outside, and I have coffee. 

Working backwards, the last three weeks have been terrible. I had vertigo for three weeks, and if you've never had it, it feels awful. Not only is it very uncomfortable, but scary. Vertigo isn't really a condition, but a symptom, and if you Google vertigo and headache it becomes even more scary. Especially if you've been to the ear, nose and throat specialist and they come up with nothing. The next thing that comes up is cancer, which is pretty much the only thing that comes up when you consult with Dr. Google for any combination of symptoms. 

The effect of all this, is that I didn't feel like myself - it's like walking around in a haze, and I was exhausted by all of the work my body and mind had to do to keep me upright. I had trouble talking as well, and I couldn't read. Literally. If I tried to read my eyes would skip some words, and replace others. It's a real strain on your eyes when the world is spinning. 

And yesterday, after three weeks of walking around on what felt like some other planet, something gave. My ears burned, my sinuses felt like someone had a vice on my head, and even my jaw ached. All at once. I felt this for about 20 minutes, had a panic attack, and then...poof. The dizziness left.

After that, I still had dull aching pains where the dizziness once lived, but I survived. Today, I can read and write, and nothing feels terrible. I'm still a little achy, but I'm guessing whatever was in there expanded everything, and now it's shrinking back to normal size.


That said, the ear, nose, and throat specialist looked at my ears and throat, but had neglected to consider my nose. By process of elimination, that leaves only my nose and sinuses. And I can't believe that they could be the source of such a terrible feeling.

So I'm writing today, courtesy the explosion in my head. Not only has it cleared the vertigo, but I think it's cleared the path to a lot more of this, and a lot less of that other thing that was making me feel like a lost, lonely alien.

Makes me wonder how much of it was all in my head.

Thanks, Hank.

Oh, my. It's a long time between posts. Where have I been? I subscribed to Netflix, including the instant play feature. Over the last few months, I thought it had done nothing for productivity, or creativity, or any activity for that matter. Until now.

Last night, I watched Bukowski: Born Into This. I heard this, cried a little, and fell asleep. And I think it's time I put my big girl pants on and start writing again.

from memory.

He tried to choke me once. Twice actually, but the second time seemed, for about 30 seconds, that it was real. It wasn't in anger, but it might have been in hate. In fact, if he were choking me any other way, I would have been much, much more afraid. But it was in the most loving way possible, in that he didn't kill me, and the look on his face reflected far more pain than I felt, even in the moment.

And there were others. They didn't choke me literally, but metaphorically I can't say that they didn't.

I had forgotten this story, but sometimes, in the night, I remember things. Important things. Like how I used to become involved with men who both loved me and wanted to kill me. Why? Because I didn't think it was true. Even now, I don't know if it's true.

That said, no matter what I say or write, everyone will decide their own reality based on what they can stomach, and that's o.k. for them, the same as it is for me. Maybe that's why I felt so much for someone who wasn't afraid to show me what was on the inside, when really it was so disgusting and inconvenient. It felt at very least like I'd discovered an undeniable truth. It made me so sad, not for me, but for all of the awful burdens the people all around us have to bear quietly.

I'm not afraid of people finding out who I really am. I'm terrified, however, of people deciding in their comfortable reality that I'm something I'm not. I know this isn't a healthy fear, and I know that I need to change this. Fear comes out in anger, and anger makes for all kinds of ugly, inconvenient displays--like choking people in the night, at least for that guy I once loved. But this is not a resolution. After all, there is no resolve for the past. It remains, regardless of what I change, and regardless still of who I've become. No, this isn't a resolution. It's acceptance.

I've found the strength and the will to pry all of those dirty fingers from around my neck. I've found a way to believe that regardless of how much love I have to offer, there are times when I should be afraid and many times that I shouldn't. And that I may not always know the difference. But being afraid of what is, and being afraid of what people think of me are two different things. I should probably work on fixing the latter, no matter what day of the year it is.

This may or may not be a true story. I'll never know, so you'll never know, but it's not pretty.

"Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is really worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person's face as you pass them on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky. It's okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise."--Miranda July