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