love you more.

It's all part of it, this dying. That sentence may or may not be mine. I feel like I've read it somewhere before, yet Google defies me. Either way, the sentiment is mine. Every day our bodies die a little. Our teeth are full of cavities, our hair sheds, our skin sheds. Some of us bleed. And all of it amounts to tiny little cells, which make up our tiny little bodies just dying. We don't have to be six for it to be too soon. I learned that this week, because the very same day, someone I've known since I was about six--just days after he was born--was taken too soon. It took a long time for the obituary to show up in the paper. The media didn't know. It just happened, like the world turns, like the geese fly south for the winter. 

Sadly or thankfully, not many people will notice, relatively speaking. It's good on one hand, in that no one will passive aggressively attack our way of grieving. Our way of behaving while we face a loss. No one will criticize us for a lack of respect because we posted a funny joke when we could have instead been publicly sympathizing. Because Facebook, even if you did know that someone else was dying last week, you ain't the judge of me. 

The way I see this person is this. He did what he wanted to do with his life. He did it well. And he deserved at least 33 more years to keep doing it. We had lost touch over the last few years, but the last time I saw him I felt lucky that we had the chance to reconnect as adults, especially considering how close we were as kids. It really was as if no time had passed. 

That's the trouble with time. In no time at all, it becomes yours. It's all part of it.

dislocated.

I woke up yesterday with a full heart, feeling like it would be a good day. My mystery illness was mostly at bay, and my anxiety was at a low. I can usually tell how these things are going to treat me by the time I've had my third sip of coffee. That doesn't mean I can tell whether or not something over the course of the day is going to trigger it. This is mostly true, because outside sources are unpredictable, and I am not psychic. I also have always in my pocket the ace of all anxiety spades--an alcoholic parent. Sometimes it's fine. Other times said parent will ask you to take him to the grocery store, but then turn it into an all day excursion to the emergency room. And maybe said alcoholic parent will have a dislocated finger from falling and blame it on a neighbor's dog, which he was supposedly walking. When you pick him up, he might slip on the bottom two stairs as you're leaving his apartment. Sans dog. He'll then try to get out of your car without taking off his seat belt, which you then have to release. And when he finally gets out of your car in the emergency room parking lot, he will slip again. Sans dog. 

While you're checking in to the emergency room, the triage nurse will ask him, "How is your pain on a scale of one to ten?" 

You secretly wish that thing went to fucking 11, and that he was feeling it. After all, his ring finger is bent in half, saying left while the rest of his fingers are saying straight ahead. He will say, "Well, right now it's a zero."

"You, sir, have a high tolerance for pain," the nurse will say. And you will glare at her and think to yourself, "Yeah, bitch. It's called vodka."

About an hour later he will ask you to go see if they can give him that Motrin they offered him earlier. Then, a convict in shackles with a "DOC" coat on will come in, escorted by two corrections officers. He is throwing up blood and has swollen legs and hematuria, whatever the bloody hell that is. And even though you have no idea what he did to be in shackles, you hope he pulls through whatever it is. Damn you, big heart. 

At that point, I'd reached my "see things I don't need to see" quota for the day. While I'm sitting there, two hours into the stupid ordeal, my phone rings. 

I recognize the number from work, and I know it's the phone call I've been waiting for. For three weeks. I answer, screaming baby in the next bed over, and they tell me I got the job. Great news, laced with the sinking feeling that my alcoholic parent has once again made a happy thing bittersweet. I hate that word. I hate that I didn't feel happier about it in the moment. That instead of calling my friends and family to tell them, I was texting them, while my alcoholic parent began a drunken rant about how he hates that everyone is constantly staring at their smart phones and their tablets and their video games. And I thought, "Yeah Dad. You can suck it."

Because even after I spent four hours of my day off at the emergency room, he said, "You really don't have anything to worry about. This is no big deal, just a broken finger." 

By now, I hope y'all get the gist that it's bigger and uglier than a broken finger. It's a broken person, who in spite of the fact that you're just his little girl somewhere deep down and buried, has no idea that it's a big deal that is slowly breaking your heart into tiny little pieces.

I'm happy that I got the job. I'm happy that after all of this, I was able to open a bottle of wine and start the long process of getting back to playing music, thanks to a little push from a  friend. I wish that those were the only two things that happened yesterday. 

I woke up today with a half-full heart, my mystery illness somewhat aggravated, and my anxiety a four on a scale of one to 11. Manageable. I start work full-time Monday morning. What this really means is that I will have health insurance that I can nearly afford, and vacation, which I will try to not spend in an emergency room. It also means that I can go to college for free, which may turn out to be the biggest deal of all.

Important Account Documents Enclosed.

There is an enormous amount of information at my fingertips. By at my fingertips, I mean contained on my iPhone, which my sister convinced me would be awesome. Also, it was nearly free (if you consider $35 for an Apple product free-ish), so I bought it. Occasionally, I'm glad that I did. Like when I'm running out of money in my bank account and I need to make sure that I'm not going to overdraw when I need to buy cigarettes. But who am I kidding? I'd buy them anyway, and pay the effing $25 fee if it really came down to it. 

Ugh, but I digress. The problem with all of this information is that it can be a number of things at any given time. Things like, upsetting, useful, engaging, inspiring, disturbing, and saddening. There are more. The way my phone operates, it's usually a number of these things allatonce. Bad for the psyche, unless I'm trying to find my way out of the proverbial paper bag. Except that iPhone's navigation blows monkey chunks. Not that I don't feel awful about the people in China working under terrible conditions to get these things to us. I do, SNL, I really do.

Some of this information is important. Like when I need to know about prescription drug interactions. Or when I need to know what time I'm taking my parents to the airport. When I need my mom to tell me, "Everything's going to be o.k." When I need a reminder that my appointment with the therapist takes place this Friday at 10 a.m. Yes, some things are important. But Verizon, you are misled. I decide what's important here, and Account Documents are not one of those things. And National Grid, you hold a higher rank than Verizon, but still, no cigar. End rant. 

I've been feeling emotional for the past couple of days. Just when I thought things couldn't seem more upside down, another thing would arrive--by phone of course--to wreak havoc on my perspective (and my false sense of control). I have also applied for a new job, which is making me incredibly nervous. I've been part-time for almost a year. I've been biding my time, waiting for the right opportunity to pounce on something full-time, and it's here. I'm worried that the increase in hours will do me in. I'm also worried that I won't get it, which under the circumstances, could put me out of even a part-time job. So I'm waiting, like an old lady at BINGO. 

I'm also dropping my mom off at the airport for a two-week vacation, which leaves my alcoholic dad alone with his demons for the same amount of time. Do I worry when this happens? Every fucking year. As for my anxiety, I'm putting it to rest the best I can. Instead, I'm going to feel a whole range of emotions in the healthiest way possible. As opposed to suppressing them because they're not convenient--for me, or anyone else.

just a tiny...

bit of compassion travels a long way. Everyone needs a little, every now and then. 

Life can take some pretty serious downturns when you least expect it. Sometimes it's due to circumstance or bad luck, but more often it's due to a sudden inability to make appropriate choices. Has your vision ever been clouded? Have you ever felt more optimistic about an outcome than you should have, or been too confused or afraid to make the right decision? I have. I could say it's unfortunate, but it's not. It's human. I am human. I should be o.k. with that, but sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I take everything terrible I've ever actually done, then add some terrible things other people tell me I've done, and stew on it. Season it with a little bit of stuff I think I should be doing right now but I'm not, and there it is. A perfect recipe for feeling like a lonely, abandoned, inconsequential human. 

Even right now, just writing this I hear the faint whisper of criticism telling me that I'm not being human the right way, or that I'm once again submitting to the anxiety that keeps me from really connecting with the people I care about. That I'm batshit crazy, and I deserve every bit of terrible luck and heartache that comes my way. I hear it, but I know deep in my gut that none of that is true. A broken person can in fact mend, and that's what I've been doing. 

The truth is, it sucks to be human. You have to feel things, and you're stuck with this innate desire to be searching for the meaning of said things. Sometimes you have to suck up all of your nasty, ugly pride and forgive. Like when someone you love dearly can't wrestle their demons and win. Even when you know they never will. Sometimes instead, you have to carry your guilt like a wet blanket that because you can never be forgiven, never dries.

I'm not sad anymore. I'm still anxious, despite the little pink pills that are supposed to make me less so. A year ago, I didn't want to go out anywhere, nevermind someplace where I'm not comfortable. And I wouldn't have dared to go it alone. I did all of this and more over the holiday weekend, and I'm satisfied with that, if not happy. It's small progress. Or is it? Compared to last year at this time, it's a giant leap. 

Now that I'm doing better on my own, I've been reaching out, looking for friendly faces in a world that seems to have gone mad. I'm finding some, and it's good.

Life is hard, because by nature we want to live it for as long as possible. We don't have to make it harder, but we do.

oh, this old thing.

Dang, I did it again. I put this bloggy thing off for other important things, like cooking dinner, looking for a full-time job, appointments with my chiropractor, etc., etc. 

Now what? Well, Thanksgiving is right around the corner. I'm mostly thankful this year that I'm feeling somewhat better overall (although I still struggle at times). I'm also thankful that I found someone who understands as well as anyone my anxiety "problem", which from here on out I'd like to call the anxiety challenge.

Often enough, the anxiety is a challenge for me, but a problem for the people around me. I admit that I don't like having a great deal of anxiety about nearly everything. However, sometimes I cry solely because I am human. Sometimes my worries are legitimate and should be acknowledged rather than brushed off as anxiety. This is where it becomes problematic for everyone else (and an even bigger challenge for me). They can't tell the difference between my emotions, and the anxiety-induced drama that can from time to time (and time again) rear its ugly head. 

This can be a difficult problem for them, but with a little training, maybe one they can overcome. So I'm going to ask them to look at it as a challenge with me. The worst part of calling it a problem is that it suggests there is a solution. The people around you start offering you all sorts of solutions, some of which don't even make sense. Like taking more vitamins, or trying that new drug they just advertised on TV. Solutions are final. They are usually easy to grasp, like cause and effect. Anxiety comes and goes. Sometimes there's a reason for it, and sometimes there is absolutely no reasonable explanation for it. And anxiety (the "problem") will always exist within me. Sometimes medicine is the answer, sometimes it's not. Sometimes a little bit of therapy goes a long way, and sometimes I need both medicine and therapy. There is no solution. Challenges, on the other hand, can be overcome. The anxiety may always be with me, but I can overcome it. I don't have to own it, or admit it to everyone, or even take responsibility for it (in the sense that I am to blame for it). I only need to be human, and healthy humans, by nature, fight to live. 

As long as we're doing that, I'd say we're o.k., even if we feel mediocre at best. Mediocrity is relative. One wouldn't say that a guy with no legs learning to walk on his hands is mediocre progress. Therefore, a girl with no control over her fight-or-flight response driving on the highway every damn day to get to her part-time job and back is fucking excellent progress.

Even so, I find this, and this guy wildly entertaining these days:

 

It's fall. Again.

Season changes have a funny way of triggering one's memory. I think it's the same for everyone, but who knows. I had a call late last week from a former work acquaintance asking me to write a piece for a newsletter for a local food pantry. I'm not accustomed to that type of writing, but I agreed. I'm also unaccustomed to any sort of deadline--even more so since I've been working a mere 18 hours a week. I had forgotten about the thinking. That the moment you have a deadline, you can't get the process, the fear of failure, the pressure out of your mind. I even considered calling back and telling the her that I was too rusty to be able to complete the article on such short time.

That didn't seem right, especially since it was an opportunity to volunteer my time for a good cause. I had committed to it. Plus, I used to call myself a writer. And I'm so glad I stuck it out. For the first time in forever, my mind was churning with ideas. Driving in the car; while I was in the shower; before I fell asleep.

Once again, I found it to be the best and worst feeling in the world. And finally, after this long, long journey, I began to feel like myself again. I felt like I have something to say. I didn't watch as much television. I sang along to my iTunes in the car. Something clicked, and it was more than an idea. It was me. The good version of me that feels motivated and self-sufficient. The one that doesn't let the good times get away, and makes the most out of the bad times. I kind of like that old me, and it's high frigging time she made an appearance.

That said, it's time for a change. This blog doesn't serve much of a purpose anymore, set aside the occasional ramble when something strikes my mood. I think it needs a facelift. A title change. More interaction. Conversations.

Cheers, bitches.

What's missing here is another side. No, several sides. Also missing: quality content. The past year has brought a lot of pain. Pain that no words can describe. If I'm going to get stronger I need to take what I've written and set it aside as a tribute, at best. This pain can't make me stronger if I submit to it every time I want to write something.

If all goes well, over the next few weeks I'll be writing a new chapter. Both in my cyber-life and in real life. I'm not a one-trick pony, after all. Sometimes I'm all boring and habitual, and then sometimes I just need to shake things up, for sanity's sake. This is the perfect time for it. What with the leaves changing, and the temperatures dropping and the dark coming on earlier than usual. Oh, and of course I'm finally, after a long hiatus, back to drinking the occasional glass (or two) of wine.

walking the line.

We watch a lot of movies these days. This one caught my interest the other day. I watched it, and I've been thinking about it since.

Research suggests that via genetics, we have a happiness baseline, which accounts for 50 percent of our attainable happiness. Circumstances, such as having adequate food, shelter, etc. make up only ten percent. That means anything we choose to pursue will make up the remaining 40 percent.

Research also suggests that people who have strong ties to friends and family are typically happier. Otherwise, it's up to you. Shit.

I wonder what percentage of happiness I'm achieving right now, eating these Skittles and writing to the invisible people of the blogosphere. I'd give purple a seven percent. Red gets a full 10, and orange is a close second at eight percent. Green and yellow...meh. Maybe a three percent for either. I don't mix, so there'll be no adding them up. Anyway, I don't like to rush things.

Not rushing things. Has to be a solid 15 percent, at least for me. So that means if I'm maintaining my baseline happiness, and I have food, shelter, maybe a shower that day, and I don't have to rush, I'm 75 percent happy. That's not to say one can't dip well below their happiness baseline. It's happened to me, and it can happen to you.

People also say, "If you don't have your health, then you don't have anything." My experiences over the past year or two with a number of off and on, mostly on, then off again health problems suggest that yes, it's very hard to hang onto anything if you don't have your health. That said, not having your health can sometimes alienate you from the friends and family that research suggests, would make you happier.

Instead of getting off-topic and continuing on a negative thread, I'm going to get right back to the happy part.

I wouldn't deny that I've had many moments, and even long runs with happiness in my life. What goes up, must come down, but...what goes down must also get up off the floor. 

Eventually. If you came down hard enough, you may first have to regain consciousness.

Maybe that's what I've been doing. Honestly, it does feel more these days like I'm waking from a long sleep. I'm recounting better days, and trying like holy hell to make new ones. I've come to the conclusion that 2006 was a very good year. Quite possibly my favorite. I miss that year almost as much as I miss my cat Lucky, who died in March. I still cry when I think about both of those things too hard. Sometimes I'm making tears of happiness for having lived with and experienced things I wouldn't have without them, and other times they're tears of sadness that all things must pass. Even the great things.

And now, I suspect it's apropos to write some things that make me happy.

Hugs.
Smelling my cats' heads.
The peace and quiet only a fresh blanket of snow can bring.
Song.
Clean sheets.
The moment at which I've paid every bill for the month.
When the person behind the counter at DollarTree strikes up a conversation with me, even though he/she doesn't have to.
Riding on trains.
Yardley's Lavender.
The short time after I've cleaned the bathroom sink and it's completely free of my boyfriend's whiskers. 
Coffee.
Spring. 

“I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.” ― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

"I don't know anything. I'm just a rock in the sky."

Do you like sad and funny? I do. And I really liked this movie. I won't say that Miranda July is right about everything, nor is she everyone's cup of tea. Yet even with her skinny arms, she can punch you in the gut so hard you'll feel it for days. Maybe even the rest of your life.

I like to dream that my skinny arms will be able to pack the kind of punch that moves someone someday, too.

mad world.

The fight to quit smoking has begun. Even I'm asking myself why, and I'm the one who started this.

Here's why. 

It's time to save my own life. Again. 

And isn't it sad that every so often, I need to remind myself that I deserve it? That's what kind of person an alcoholic father, mostly absent mother, and really career minded step-mother raises. I'm the kind of person that had my ass handed to me every goddamn day that I went to school, and I'm the kind of person that didn't rat people out, or ask the teachers for help. And that kind of person becomes very sad sometimes, and puts up an angry fight to summons the feeling that yes, I deserve better than cancer. Better than emphysema. I fucking deserve to breathe.

So maybe this is withdrawal talking, or maybe it's something that I've been able to avoid by making a smoke screen so thick that I wouldn't have to think about it. I knew that I was an emotional smoker. I just didn't know how very attached to the cigarettes I'd become. And I didn't know that a tiny little dig, or what appears to be a tiny little dig might make it so much harder to keep on quitting.

Tiny little things, like the fact that my childhood home doesn't belong to my family anymore, make me realize that actually my childhood isn't something I can remember very fondly, even if I wanted to. And that my adult life has often enough been more of the same. I remember feeling this isolated, this lost, and this lonely. Even so, I found the strength to keep going (obviously).

Today, I'm picking myself up by the bootstraps to find not only the will to keep going, but to finally convince myself once and for all that I'm worth all of this trouble. That in spite of my failures in the past, I can stop killing myself with these nasty coffin nails they call cigarettes. I don't need them anymore. Because as of today, I'm calling it. The punishment has far exceeded the crime.

it's here.

Mind over matter. I'm not one to give up hope, and I haven't given up on me.

While my body says, "Screw this shit, I'm going all messed up on your ass," my mind says, "I can take it as long as you can dish it out. Bring it, body." Because regardless of my faults, I don't deserve to be sick. I don't deserve to have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, nor do I deserve the nodule on my thyroid--any more than I deserve to have a cyst near my first vocal chord that's keeping me from singing, and sometimes talking.

I'm not dead. My fire's not out (in case my lack of activity here had you going). All of these problems will pass. I know this is true, as I take a long hard look at everything that's ever happened in my life. I've been bullied, cheated, and abused. I've been the victim of someone else's jealousy, and the victim of my own. I've been lied to, slapped, kicked, and broken. I've also been more than one thing in my life, and no one thing I've done defines me, who I am, or who I'm going to be. No one person can make that untrue.

So who am I? A force to be reckoned with. I can say that with confidence, regardless and because of everything I've ever done. Some days you have the world at your feet, and then, out of the blue, the rug gets pulled out. You come crashing down, and the only thing your feet get to see is the sky. Does this fill me with fear and loathing? Not a chance. Nothing good can come from a heart full of hate and bitterness. Not one action, not one single let down, beat down, or break up can take away a person's ability to overcome. It's a choice.

Today, I'm feeling good. Optimistic, even. That doesn't mean my fight is over. It does mean I've decided to use all of the will I can muster to heal my mind and body. Anything left over, I'm going to share with the people around me if they need it.

Somewhere, deep in the pit of my gut, I know I have the strength. Yesterday, I cut an entire 10 cigarettes out of my daily routine. Before yesterday, it was almost 20. When you're as emotionally attached to smoking as I've become, that's a feat. One I plan to repeat today. Some people say cold turkey is the only way to go. Good for them. Some people say a lot of things, but that doesn't mean I'm caught up in their confines. In their invisible lines that they suppose would limit me.

I'm tired of poisoning myself. With the food I eat, with the cigarettes, with the medicine that's supposed to help, but does more harm than good. With the idea, mine or anyone else's that I can't get better. Inside or out.

I don't know right now if I'll ever get back to writing every day. I don't know if the book I thought I had in me is still there, or if there's another one coming down the pike. I don't know if my ears, nose, and throat will ever let me like my guitar as much as I used to. I do know that sometimes a door closes, and you have to peer into a lot of windows before anyone will have the heart to let you in and out of the rain. Other times, you'll have to weather all of it while you build a new house, with a new door for which only you hold the key.

when you're strange.

It's funny, this getting better. Feeling good vs. feeling like shit is a crap shoot nowadays, which is better than a sure thing, at least in this case.

The bad side. When I'm feeling good, and I'm ready to get out well...no one's there. Very few people have stuck by me through this mess. I don't blame them. I was (and maybe still am) boring and sad. The ones that remain, or jumped on board my screwed up bus in spite of it all are great. I appreciate every walk, every message, every invite, every word of encouragement. One way to find out who's going to back you up is to get really, really sick. The same way you find out that our medical culture is a complete sham.

Instead of being pissed off, I've been thinking about better days. Letting my mind wander to faraway places I've been, people I've met, and everything lovely about both. Then I flip it. I think warmly of the people I know now, and the places I manage to go without having panic attacks (ie: Target, the grocery store, once around the park by myself). I think, "What next," more often. I've been thinking about what I'll think about all of this when I'm 80, should I make it there. Is that too much? Starting several years ago, I began a harsh scrutiny of every bad quality I think I possess. So did a bunch of other people, including my co-workers, some of my friends, and once in a while, my family.

Starting this year, I put a conscious halt to it. I've made a lot of changes. I don't work as much as most people. I broke out of a potentially lucrative career that was breaking me. I worry more about having less money, in lieu of worrying about work and making a lot more of it. And honestly, it's the lesser of the two evils. I stopped caring what anyone thought about it. My dad, who hated this change at first, keeps telling me I seem better. More relaxed. Happier. He's right, because in spite of the alcoholism, he sometimes still is.

More lately, I've been wondering what wisdom will come when I'm so old and so much time has passed that everything painful is just a faint scar on the face of my and our earthly years. Part of me dreads the aging, and part of me looks forward to every coming day.

“Our lives are not as limited as we think they are; the world is a wonderfully weird place; consensual reality is significantly flawed; no institution can be trusted, but love does work; all things are possible; and we all could be happy and fulfilled if we only had the guts to be truly free and the wisdom to shrink our egos and quit taking ourselves so damn seriously.”
― Tom Robbins

getting there.

I am tired. The past few months have been a steep climb, and I'm never prepared for just how heavy burdens can become if I forget to let some go along the way. At the same time, my new path is unfolding faster than I could have imagined.

It's been a while since my cat passed, but we still miss him every day. That was hard. And expensive. I don't regret the expense. I just figured the dent in our budget would recover in a month or two. Then last week, not even a month later, my tooth broke. One enormous cavity and filling later, my fear of the dentist has been conquered, only much too late. My fear of dental bills--it's only just beginning.

In the meantime, I think I'm finally getting better. Little. By. Little.

Even feeling good feels foreign to me. The emotional scars caused by whatever monster has had a firm and painful grip on my head run deep.  I'm no longer confident in my health, and the occasional mild relapse keeps me from ever being too sure about anything. This type of ailment--the kind with no rhyme, reason, or easy fix--isn't foreign to me. So I know the emotional burden of losing trust in my body's ability to function normally. I know that it's a long haul to trips out of town, finding comfort when I'm out of my element, and relief from the panic that comes and goes after this kind of uncomfortable and sometimes terrifying experience. I've given up on ever receiving a diagnosis. Blood test after blood test, cat scan after cat scan and nothing. At least I know I don't have Lupus.

My part-time job has turned out to be good medicine. I feel useful again, and serves as a reminder that I've come a long way since the first days of vertigo. Numbness in my face. Gone. Crackling in my head. Gone. Feeling like my soul is jumping out of my body as I try to fall asleep. Mostly gone. Feeling like I'm still moving when I'm stopped at a traffic light. Hardly noticeable anymore. Memories of all of these experiences...oh, how I'd love to erase them.

What's back? Thinking about writing. Ideas popping into my head while I'm driving. While I'm in the shower. When I'm having my coffee.

Even better medicine than my job? Feeling loved. Loving people back. Positive thinking. Literally imagining what life will be like when I'm well again. Picturing myself as a non-smoker in preparation for the biggest kick of my life. 

Wait, what? 

Yup. I'm thinking about...no not just thinking about, but planning exactly how I'm going to quit smoking. All of these health problems have been scary, and I've made a lot of lifestyle changes for the better. Yet I continue to reward all of my hard work by poisoning myself.

End game.

and the winner is...

It's been a busy couple of weeks. A few short points today:

1. My boyfriend texted me this morning and apologized for getting a parking ticket, after he forgot to move his car into the driveway last night. I rolled my eyes at his poor judgment, but thought, "Oh well. What's 15 bucks?"

Then I parked in a garage to meet a friend for lunch. I'm pretty sure it was always free before, but I neglected to read any of the 10 signs on my way in. I got a $25 parking ticket.

2. While I was having lunch with a friend and complaining about how said boyfriend can't cook or tell the difference between clean laundry and dirty laundry, he was spending his lunch hour at work building me a shelf for my closet. Even more impressive than the act of building the shelf itself is that I asked him just yesterday if he would build it.

3. I'm still learning how to be less of an ass. Thankfully, I have days like today to teach me.

for everything.

I don't have babies, therefore I have cats. If ever any living creature were going to get the best of what I have to offer in terms of love, respect, and endearment, it's my cats. I can say without hesitation that morally, I've never done them wrong. So losing one is like losing a part of me, and not just any part--one of the best parts.

I won't go on and on about all of the little reasons Lucky was a special cat. Anyone who met him already knows, and anyone who hasn't looked past his dirty fur and into in his big, innocent eyes could never imagine. There was the time he stuck his head behind the curtain to hide and started dropping deuce on the kitchen floor. Or the times I came home from a weekend away and he stood in front of me and near-yelled like I'd been gone for six months. And then there were the times he'd sleep quiet as a mouse on the pillow next to me. I'm thankful for all of it.



I wasn't prepared for being the only person who can decide whether or not to end the suffering. No matter who tells me it was for the best, that sliver of doubt is going to stay with me forever. I hope I never have to make that decision again.

So I'm a two-cat owner, now. It's taking the crazy out of my cat lady, and I am sad.

entertaining.

Since I last posted, I started a new job, my dad was released from detox (into the cold, cruel world without a sobriety plan), and one of my cats has a life-threatening ailment of unknown origin.

I don't know why things are the way they are, but I know all of the bad stuff will pass. Maybe it will get worse before it gets better, but I've quit saying, "I don't think I can take much more."

Why? Because it's self-limiting, as well as self-fulfilling. 

"I can't take much more of this shit," is a line in the sand. Because it's within your power, you draw the line. Pretty soon, more of this shit (over which you have no control) crosses it. Before it does, you've added another problem to an already long laundry list of shit you don't want in your life. In spite of and because of the line, you worry about what's going to happen to you when the shit crosses the line. I say, "you," but I mean me and anyone who feels anxious and depressed, just to clarify. Maybe you're going to cry. Maybe it's going to get so heavy that you yell at everyone you love. Maybe you're going to feel disappointed and hurt...again.

What's getting me through is something I told a friend recently. It was, "You're stronger than you think you are." However, it dawned on me not soon afterward that I hadn't lately been thinking it about myself. I came to a point where I had to--I was out of Ativan. By then, screw ups at the doctor's office as well as the pharmacy had kept me that way for a week. I probably could have included this in the "Since I last posted" paragraph, but whatever. I survived. 

Without a line in the sand, it didn't really matter that much, and the problem was solved by the next day. That brings us to yesterday. I took my Ativan (finally!) in the morning, took a shower, drove my sickly cat to the vet, came home, dressed for work, went to work, picked up the cat (and forked over $320 to the vet), and cooked dinner while prepping an apple crisp for the oven. After that, I still had to hand feed the cat and give him a pill, then feed him water from a syringe. I fell asleep at 10:30, having taken everything the day had dished out.

I'm still not miserable. I'm sad about my cat. I'm happy that my boyfriend doesn't even flinch when our budget takes an $805 hit because of my sick cat. I'm sad that my dad called me while he was wasted on Tuesday (and me without my Ativan, oh lord). I'm glad that he shared a funny memory about our old dog, even if his speech was mostly slurred. I'm ecstatic that I have Ativan again. I'm happy about my new job, even if it is part-time. It's part-time because I'm self-limiting in a healthy way for me. I'm sad because health insurance costs almost $400 a month, and I haven't quite figured that part out just yet. I'm sad because people I know and care about suffer terrible anxiety like I do. I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. I'm happy that my sister offered to pay for a month's worth of Lucky the cat's prescriptions should he need them. Unbeknownst to her, they were $8. I think I'll take her up on it, while I'm busy taking much more of this shit.

Anyway, sometimes you hold it together. Sometimes you buy a bottle of wine on a whim, then get a snow day, in exactly that order.

drive.

I'm making a content change. Or adding a content restriction: no more sick talk. Let's just from now on assume I'm feeling like crap a lot of the time, but posting anyway. When I get to the bottom of this mystery, I'll talk about it. Otherwise, mum's the word. The other day, it occurred to me that this may be a food allergy, so I've adopted a gluten-free diet, which seems to be making a difference. The last thing I'll say about feeling sick, is that if I figure it out before my doctors do, I want them to pay me for doing their job. 

Moving on. I've had a great week, even with a few snags. I went in Wednesday morning to fill out all of the hiring paperwork for my new job. It's complicated. It's amazing how things work out, because during that exact time, my Dad was starting over again, too. Happy detoxing, pops.

Am I not supposed to talk about this online? Is this the wrong forum for airing dirty laundry? If that's the case, I'll just talk about me.

I'm the daughter of an alcoholic. I can't even figure out all of the ways this has shaped how I behave, how I love, or how I will continue to become the person I'd like to be. If sometimes that crosses the clothesline of a reader's comfort zone, so be it. I'm not here to create a virtual utopia, and I don't have a way to filter the fact that people have the most impact on my life, whether I want them to or not. I share these things because in some way I think they are important to someone. Not because they are about me, but because maybe somewhere down the road someone will find me here, even by accident. 

And maybe that person will need to read about someone else who is anywhere, trying to sort everything out just the same.

Every one of these topics are based on things I might talk about in my daily life. My daily struggle to live. To live with my mistakes, my successes, or what I feel are my shortcomings. Sometimes I like to talk about things like our current medical culture. That they're pushing me and anyone else looking for help with emotional difficulties into taking prescriptions to solve their problems. Yet, suicide rates are up, and have continued to climb. I wish there were more I could do to address this, but I'm only one person. Part of my struggle with this is also related to some dirty laundry that I may need to air for clarity's sake, since I've also vowed to quit being vague and elusive on the internet. It's pointless. You either have something to say, or you don't.

[I digress. I have at least enough of a filter to know that mean things said without purpose or provocation are best kept to yourself. If you find you have to encrypt something so you don't sound mean, it's probably not worth saying.]

So I talk about me, with everyone in the world in mind. I'm not a narcissist. And if I seem to be, just think about how much time during the day a depressed person thinks about themselves. A hint: it's all fucking day.

O.K. Back to the part where I had a good week. I got a job. It seems like it's going to be great. I guess that was really the only great thing that happened, but it was enough to keep me going. 

“In my paranoid world every storekeeper thinks I’m stealing, every man thinks I’m a prostitute or a lesbian, every woman thinks I’m a lesbian or arrogant, and every child and animal sees the real me and it is evil.” --Miranda July, It Chooses You

while i was sleeping.

All that football was exhausting. I've been spending a lot of time trying to get my anxiety under control, and that said, I've been looking for its root cause. When I watch television, depending on what I'm watching, I feel a lot of things. I can't watch disturbing movies, or even some emotional dramas if the content is horribly upsetting. It's not even that I don't like them. If it's done well, and there isn't anything technically wrong that breaks my attention, I absorb everything. Bad guys, good guys...it doesn't matter. And once I absorb it, it's as if someone gave me an emotional transplant. The same goes in my everyday life. Every encounter is the same. If you feel sad, I feel sad and want to fix it immediately. If someone is homeless, I observe their position, their injuries, the discomfort and hunger, and then I literally feel all of it from the inside out.

I know that this is empathy. I'm in a constant state of emotional overload, and my walls are thin. I think over the past year I developed a feeling that if I could just become invisible, I wouldn't cause people to feel so much, which in turn would help me feel less of everything overwhelming. Off and on, I think I knew that I shouldn't be making myself invisible, so I'd try harder--almost force myself to get out there and be someone who isn't.

Anyway.

I landed a job this week at a college. I start next week, and having been around a few of the classrooms and in some of the halls, I feel happy. Even if I'm not taking any classes, I'm thrilled to be around all of that education and stuff. I love to learn. I hope to take a few lessons from the job, and maybe even a few classes at a later date. First I need to get a handle on the job. A better handle on my life, even. But for getting this particular job, I am proud. This means no more selling insurance, less unemployment, and a fresh start. It's not that I didn't like insurance. I knew it, and well. I couldn't stand working with the customers, and I think now it was the stupid empathy.

Over the last several months, I kept hoping I'd wake up one day and all of my health problems would vanish...that I'd get to start over. That's not going to happen, so I'm going to have to start over now, and hope all of these nasty symptoms begin to dissipate over time. Figures, I get empathy, but no patience.

I just hope I'm well enough to start this new thing without too much additional discomfort. And if I'm not, that's o.k., too. If I've learned anything on unemployment it's that I can do more than I thought I could with a lot less of everything. 


"Wealth, in terms of dollars and so forth, could be counted up, because dollars were finite. It doesn't make any difference how many dollars you have--at a certain point you only have dollars. You start with finite, you end with finite." -Mike Nesmith

a bucket list.

Once again, I'm on the tail end of a bunch of tests and nothing comes up. Nothing always makes me feel good, until the next day, when I realize I still don't feel great and there's no explanation or end in sight. It's okay, because I'm not here to complain today. I'm here to talk about what I'd like to do if ever I feel normal again.

My MeMaw, 2007

Because of everything, my bucket list is getting longer, although the items on it for the short term are smaller and less of a big deal. To most people. It would be nice at this point to have enough stamina at the end of the day to go out to dinner, even if I have to skip the glass of wine. Even better would be to have the energy and be comfortable enough to take a trip to Louisiana to see my family. I miss them terribly, and my three uncles are performing with a new band that I'd love to see. I want to talk to my grandmother, who is the most lovely and kind person I've ever known.

This family of mine, the one that lives in the South, informally adopted my sister and I more wholeheartedly than I could have imagined possible. I was five or six when my mom left and my dad remarried, and my sister was about four. My step-mother took us in, and brought us into a life we'd never have known. Even though I missed my mom, I remember feeling all of the warmth and the hospitality a six year old child could ever know. I remember feeling loved, and not conditionally. It happened instantly, without reserve. Some of my best memories sleep in Shreveport.

The South is just different. It has its good and bad, like anywhere, but the good is wiser, better, and more soulful. I like having roots there...that's just it, I feel rooted there, more grounded. It's solid. So bucket list item number one: get South.

As for today, I'm watching some football. Maybe it'll mark a Pats victory. No matter who wins, this time of year always reminds me that it's the end of football season, which means Spring is coming soon.

Here's to happy endings and new beginnings. Please pass the wings.

Wednesday 1 February

143 lbs. (but post unemployment), alcohol units 0, cigarettes 5, calories 350 (but it's only 8:15 a.m.).

Food consumed today:

One cinnamon donut, Market Basket brand

One coffee, Folgers with three organic sugars and organic cream

This morning, Gardner, my apartment. I like to think of myself sometimes as Bridget Jones. One part ambition, two parts irony, one part serendipity, and 3 parts incompetence, both emotional and intellectual.

But I'm not a character in a book, I don't have a weight problem, and I've finally found a Mr. Right, although we did have to work through a whole bunch of unhealthy strife and indecision before we could get to where we are today. Lucky for me, he's in it for the long haul. Seriously.

I have a job interview in three and a half hours. I'm trying to take George Clooney's advice from last night's episode of Inside the Actors Studio. I don't have a job going into the interview, and I may not have a job when I leave. The only thing left to happen is that I may get a job. You can't lose a job you don't already have. Profound, right? Well, how profound can it be if you're getting your shit from the television? But it works for me, for right now.

I won't think about the endless possibilities were I to get this job. Like finally having the opportunity to go to college. I want to learn how to write. I want to really hone my skills. Sure, I've had some informal training. My former editor and boss was perhaps the best teacher I've ever known. She always gave me the freedom to screw up, and somehow made it seem like she believed in my talent even when I gave her 750 words of absolute horse shit. She helped me turn those particular stories around. That part of my life was the best time I can remember. Hands down.

As for my health today, I'm pushing through it. I need to ignore it today, just long enough to get to the next thing. I slept well, which is more than I can say for the two nights preceding last night. I feel hopeful, which is more than I can say for a whole lot of days leading up to today. Six months ago, I could barely read because my sinus problems were affecting my eyesight. I'd write and mix up the words, then find my mistakes later and worry that I'd lost my wits. Well, they're back, if in fact they were ever gone. I'm back. Not me, as in Bridget Jones, but me the way I've always wanted to be. Sick or not sick.

I think I'm finally just fed up with everything I've had to do, only to find it's barely keeping me afloat. So I've been through the mill. Big fucking deal.

All of this is going to make me stronger. Or, it'll make me feel like a fool. I sincerely hope it's the former.

sometimes it's a bitch.

Well, I'm still here today. I've survived a lot of chaos, and I've muddled through with a lot of more recent health problems. Some of my health problems may be related to anxiety about other health problems, and they still don't know what might be the underlying cause of those. I took a break from doctors and trying to figure it out, but I got back on the train yesterday. I feel more hopeful than I did--I have a new doctor and she's much more helpful than my old one. She's truthful, which can be scary, but as I learned yesterday, also an absolute must when it comes to my health.

She was truthful enough to tell me that based on my records, the Lyme disease test that my old doctor told me they had already performed, wasn't actually performed.

Today that leaves me in a waiting game once again for more blood work results for that, and a slew of other things. On one hand, while you're waiting it feels like you'd be glad to have some answers. I mean, no one wants Lyme disease. So on the other hand, while you're waiting, you're shitting yourself hoping you don't have something horrible that requires a whole lot of medical treatment over the next several months. And that horrible 'C' word. Let's just forget about that for the moment.

What I'm trying to do while I wait, is think good thoughts. Thoughts about the days that I've felt better. Thoughts about how much worse I felt six months ago, and how some of the initial symptoms have subsided. Thoughts about how effective positive thinking can be.

I've become frustrated with the comings and goings of my symptoms. Sometimes, when I'm feeling good, I make plans to do things. The next week comes along, and I'm not feeling good, so I have to break them. This just feeds the anxiety. I feel like I've let people down. Like I've let myself down because I'm not strong enough to break the cycle. I keep trying, because sometimes it feels like I'm fighting for my life. Not in the literal sense, but fighting to maintain some kind of normalcy during this somewhat uncomfortable time. I also have to stop fighting sometimes and remember that I can't always win. Sometimes I have to call a truce with this stuff and save my energy for doing some regular, everyday things. The dishes, some cooking, and a load of laundry or two. Sometimes I have to remind myself that my friends are there for me, too, and that they care enough to know that I'm in the middle of a struggle. That they're not unsympathetic to my plight. I put a lot of pressure on myself, and it's really about something over which I have no control. I have to remember this.

So it's Tuesday morning, and I'm waiting to find out if my blood tests are normal again. I'm waiting to find out whether or not I have Lyme disease, or possibly TB. The goal is Thursday. I have to stay sane until Thursday.

And I'm throwing it out there into the universe, 'C' word stay the fuck away.

HappyThankYouMorePlease.

Life is just like the movies. Not like what happens in movies. Life is like the part where you think you're going to get one thing based on the trailers, and then maybe you've just seen all of the funny parts and the rest of the movie is very, very serious. Or sometimes it's the other way around.

I've tried to train myself not to expect anything in particular, but to try really, really hard to make things come out all right. I don't know if that's the right thing to do, but it's still what I do. It probably always will be. I can't help but notice that sometimes you can try really hard, and things still come out shit, or at least someone else will think they're shit, and well, I just can't always make everyone happy. I had a friend once mistake me for someone who would try really hard to do things their way--if I succeeded, they would be happy and like me. It took me about 20 years to realize that we weren't meant to be friends. That was about three years after she realized that we weren't meant to be friends. Does it bother me sometimes? A ton.

Even without her, I guess I just try to be the best possible version of me. Nothing less. If it's like the movies, one day that might mean it's not as good as you'd have expected, and sometimes it's better. I had one of my better days last week, which helped me during a telephone interview, and I'm happy to say that they emailed me today (on Sunday!) to schedule an in person interview for this week. So, if anyone really did send those positive thoughts I had asked for in my previous post, it worked! Thank you, and please keep more of the same coming. I've been feeling more under the weather than usual...I think it's just post-cold residual, so any encouragement and positive reinforcement goes a long way.

An aside, four months of unemployment goes by very, very fast. I know I'm going to look back and kick myself for not making more of the time.

possibly, maybe.

I may survive this cold/flu season yet. And maybe I'll survive this mystery illness that's been hacking away at me since last March. 

I've been unemployed now for four months as of tomorrow. We've adjusted our lifestyle to fit my new and improved budget. I say improved, because we've fixed it so that we have less of what we think we want and more of what we need. The food's better, because we have to plan our meals, and have adjusted our diet accordingly. We spend more on the food, but I spend much less on gas. Currently I'm running through one tank a month. I refinanced my car around September, knowing in advance that it may come down to this, so I earned a better interest rate and a lower payment. We had a lean, but meaningful Christmas. I buy toothpaste at the dollar store, and we finish our leftovers more often, which means I'm even more creative with the food we have instead of being lazy and ordering out. I exercise for fun sometimes, which has the side effect of getting me more healthy. We moved, and with the "no more smoking in the house" rule, the cold outside has effectively cut down my cigarette intake by half. I'd say unemployment has lead me down a better path. Better for my health, better for the environment, and oddly enough, better for my finances.

Having made these adjustments is leading me to a place whereby I can go back to work part-time, and possibly manage to start something to--after 20 years away--continue my education. And having finally met the guy that's completely behind my sometimes unconventional approaches to life and work, I can say with confidence that I'm more than content, if not happy. The wheels are finally in motion. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a long-awaited interview that might place me in just this kind of position. I can only hope that my health continues to improve as I try to get a running start. I'm also hoping my friends, new and old, can send some positive thoughts my way to help keep me moving toward this new chapter. Who knows, maybe it will lead to a bunch of new chapters. The kind I can bind together and hopefully find in a store window someday. And yes, you'll all be obliged to buy a copy, even if it's rubbish. That's what friends are for, right? 


So. What's everyone else planning for the rest of their life?

and upward.

It's morning. The cats, starting with the smallest one woke me up at 5 a.m. The door to our bedroom was shut, and she was locked out. From what I could gather by her tiny, desperate mews was she missed and wanted to snuggle with our next oldest cat, the black one. When he heard her, he knew his go-to guy, the one willing to get out of bed and let him out to see her, which was not me. That was that. I was awake (again) at 5 a.m. Once the black one was out of the room, and his liberator and I had snuggled back down into the covers, the white one jumped up and onto the bed, walked over both of our still sleepy bodies--this usually includes at least half of his startling body weight stepping on my full bladder--then curled up along side me, effectively sealing me into the already heavy covers. I went back to sleep.

Could this routine be the source of the feeling of heaviness I feel at two in the afternoon to take an hour-long nap on the couch? Maybe. This has, in fact, occurred every morning for at least a month. We all have our routines. Some parts of them are good, some are annoying, or at very least boring, and some are a detriment to progress.

At 6:30 a.m., a new routine begins. I don't get up until 7, after I slip my sweatshirt over my head, put my socks and slippers on, and step out of the bedroom. My coffee's waiting, and we head out onto the porch to start the day. The cold air feels good, because once the cat's got you sealed into the bed, it gets pretty hot under the covers. Occasionally he's close enough to my head to allow me a leg out.  I sleep better those mornings. Anyway.

Flash forward to 7:30 a.m. I'm alone in the house again. I check my bank account online. I look for a job. Or I look at jobs. I'm qualified for very few, or often, none. Hmph.

And now this. I'm making every effort to add this to the routine. I'll also make more effort to make it sound less routine. Blogging. It's not really writing, but it's not not writing. For me, it's like a diary. For others, it's like a game show. Sometimes it's just a bunch of ads and a picture of somebody's feet in the sand. But there's no wrong way to do it. I like it, and I don't. It's undisciplined and I don't have a copy editor. Yet I don't need either. Not for this.

I write about what I know. Or at least how I perceive what I know. My imagination, either fortunately or unfortunately, doesn't work any other way.  I do sometimes wish it did, if escaping into some fantasy world might help me with some of the real life things I face every day. Perhaps I prefer the routine, and most of all the disturbing little breaks in it that give me things to write about. To think about.

8:28 a.m. 

It's time to eat some toast. Whole grain.

how to avoid writing at all.

I've been an idiot. I've had more than enough free time for writing--five or six years ago I would have sold my left arm to be where I am today, minus the illness. I'm much better physically than I was, albeit still a long way from 100 percent. I'm good enough for this, and more of that, and yet here I've been avoiding it at every turn. The words are inside. They've just been shaken up, and I think it's high time I started reorganizing them in a fashion both you and I can understand.

Instead I've been using my "good days" to do the cleaning, to rearrange the furniture in my new apartment at least two or three times, cook almost elaborate meals, and "rest", if resting means watch the stupid Biography channel and fall asleep on the couch for an hour a day. None of this is getting the job done. At first, I thought I needed the rest to feel better. Now I think the rest and the idea behind it has its hold on me. So I'm going to limit that. I'm going to reassess this writing thing and remind myself that every day I have something to say.

I know, I know. I've said this before. It's been a struggle, but when my doctor suggested that I have suppressed anxiety, then tried to feed me little pink pills so that I'd begin to suppress it in a more healthy way, it made me think. Even as I started the pills, I thought perhaps if I try to dig a little deeper, and began to face my fears rather than suppressing them, well maybe, just maybe they'll go flying out the windows and disappear for a long, long time, if not for good. Because really, very few fears are rational ones. I'm sure I'm smart enough to know the difference if I were to look at them straight on. I also know that what happens in my head and heart is of value, and not to be medicated away. So I stopped taking them after a week, some nausea, and a panic attack that made my chest feel like it was going to explode.

Finally, 12 days after the new year began, here I am. Fears and all. In the spirit of de-suppressing, I'll name a few.

I'm afraid that my parents are unhappy, and I'm afraid that one day either I or someone I love will have a fatal wreck. I fear the doctors, because I don't think they work for me anymore. I'm afraid that people think I'm inherently evil, which makes me wonder and sometimes fear that they're correct. I can trace this to the source(s). I'm afraid that I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time, yet I'm afraid if I changed any of it I'd be throwing away the best thing I'll ever experience, and the closest thing to true love I'll ever know. I'm afraid that it's not a true love, but a nice one, and I'm afraid that it really is true, but I just don't know it. I fear that I'll never play music again. I fear that I'm a writer who doesn't write, and that nothing will ever come of it, even if I try. Even though it already has, and then sometimes hasn't. Some days I'm afraid I'll have trouble sleeping at night. Other days I'm afraid that I feel sick because I have some undetected, life-threatening illness. And then I start to fear that I've brought it on myself simply by way of fearing it.

Today is just the beginning. In fact, every day is just another day to begin again. No amount of rearranging the furniture could have helped me see it as much as this past twenty minutes of rearranging the words. How could I have put this off for so long?