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.