a curse and a blessing, blessing and a curse

Said by the boyfriend tonight, after a long hard day. "You have a lethal combination. You have big balls, and a big heart."

I could be filled with doubt and modesty, but I know this is true. I know because my father has the same problem. I've seen him cut down and chewed up because his big mouth, attached (loosely) to his big heart, drew too much attention. And what it all boils down to, is that sometimes when you mean well, and you have the guts to put yourself out there, people want to hate your guts. Not because you're a terrible person, but because they see things through your eyes, and sometimes it just ain't pretty. If you have a big heart, too, be prepared to be hurt. To be sad. To feel unfulfilled. To feel mortally wounded, even though you're still alive.

I'm not on a sinking ship. However, if I were, I'd be the bearer of bad news who goes down with the crew and passengers. All of whom are pissed at me for telling them we're on the sinking ship.

Where does this leave me today? Well, I've had a good few cries. O.K., outright sobs. I don't feel sorry for me. My heart will mend. It always does.

Comes with the territory.

5:30 a.m.

I have a good mind for procrastinating. Unfortunately, I have a good mind to get some shit done, and said mind has woken me up at 4:45 in the morning. I have five papers due in eight days. One is halfway done.

A few months ago, I didn't feel like going to school. The opportunity is the chance of a lifetime. Instead of not deciding, or waiting for determination to take hold, I just applied. Then I got in. Yet, I still didn't feel like it. I've learned one thing in my nearly 40 years on the planet--sometimes listening to your feelings isn't the only way to make a decision. Now, not only do I feel like it, but I'm for the most part enjoying it. The feeling of getting a decent if not excellent grade makes me look forward to the next assignment. The feeling of developing my critical thinking skills and putting them to task is better than I could have guessed. Spring semester is almost over, and luckily summer sessions are just around the corner. So going to school; not so bad. I had always hoped it would happen sooner than this, but if I do what I think I can do, I'll be done in five years.

I stumbled into a wonderful article about mental "illness," yesterday. It raised the question: why do doctors want to keep us sick? Ethically, they are a mess. Our country and its views about mental illness are a mess. We are capable of so much more than just "managing" our anxiety, our anger, our control issues, our trust issues...the list of our issues is never ending. The list of issues is human nature, declared an illness. It also made me question my approach, which right now is medication in (very) small doses. I haven't determined that it's a good idea not to have a little bit of synthetic, but effective help. I don't judge myself in that way. No one should. However, I don't want my emotional and probably biological glitches to become a life sentence. My life goals should not be to manage my anxiety. If that were the case, I would avoid stressful situations. I wouldn't strive to do well at work. I wouldn't go to school. I wouldn't have bought a house. But I also don't want to enjoy those things in the context of managing the stress they inflict. I need to enjoy them. This is required therapy.

I recently took a Mindfulness course, and I got more out of that than I could have imagined. The mindful way of living is better than the manageable way of living. I was already doing much of it. Practicing more made it that much better. Made me more present. I don't do the dishes on autopilot anymore. I feel the warm water, the soapy sponge, the clean of rinsing the soap off of the shiny smooth surfaces of our coffee cups. O.K., so maybe that sounds crazy. But it brings me into the present, into my life, rather than into the abyss of doing most of what I do every day while thinking about the rest of my life. It immerses me in the rest of my life, which is right now. After all, hearing my breath right now means I'm alive. When I don't hear it, I'm not sure where I'll be or what I'm doing. And then bam, there's the panic.

As of today, I have seven days to write four and a half papers. Half of one day is band practice. The remainder of that day is a birthday celebration (dinner) for my sister's birthday. The day after my papers are due is our housewarming party. Plus work. Plus six days of cooking dinner and yes, doing dishes. Yet, I'm not particularly anxious. Not that it matters if I were.

I still have better things to do than sit around and manage my anxiety.

gifted.

This week has been full of mixed emotion. It's amazing how much you can learn if you just be still and listen to people, to your own heart, to the cyclone that makes up your thoughts every minute of every day. To your gut.

I owe an apology of sorts to the insurance company. Seriously. What I thought was a nasty game to keep my father ill, is really a nasty game that my father's illness plays, and almost always and every day, wins. There were pieces of very important that he, that my own mother, left out. Why? Because I think they are both terrified of his sobriety. Generally, I'm able to put pieces together fairly quickly. However, if the pieces aren't all there, I jump to conclusions too quickly to consider that there may be something going on that I'm missing, or that doesn't present itself openly at first glance. And the pieces that were missing were the pieces that would have landed him in first, 30 days of rehab at a place for which he and my mother decided he was too good, and then six months in a sober house, which by default he--they and all of us--lost. So again we have lost him. 

Fortunately, I've learned how and when to set boundaries for myself. I had to. Years of therapy is proving its worth every minute of every day. Not only can I face my demons, the guilt, the sense of hopelessness, but shrink their ugly little heads at first glance like it's been my life's work and learning. I feel good about this. I only wish everyone knew how very much going to therapy and learning some new approaches can benefit them and everyone they encounter. It's not a sentence of permanent mental illness. It's freedom. It's self-awareness. It's hope. 

We are all perfectly flawed. I depend on this and our differences to keep me alive. I relish every connection and hang on every word. Some this week were more important than others. Forgiveness. Self-control. Understanding. Awareness. Friendship.

I had to speak in front of a group of coworkers this week. A feeling of dread overcame me.I did the only thing that could save me. I made a joke. They all laughed. And then I let loose. We were there to share, so I did. It may have been as uncomfortable for everyone else as it was for me. But I felt like a weight had lifted, and walked away with my back perfectly straight and my head held high past some of them without a word, beaming from the inside out. Mainly because I knew I'd given it my all both for me, but more importantly to them.

So I am thankful for the gift of communication this week. That when I had a message to give, it was received with gratitude. That connections, however small were made that I can cherish for a long time. This can only happen with courage and compassion. I'm thankful that my own messages can only be received because of the beautiful people that exemplify both. I knew you all had it in you, and for doubting this ever, I am sorry.

between me and the lamp post.

As happy as I am, I still sometimes feel angry. I don't like it, but at least I'm not bitter. It's a healthy anger, in that there are so many things about which I should be angry. Not personal things, like who cleans more in my house, or why I have to work in an isolated office entirely alone for most of my work week. No, those things don't matter a whole lot. They won't kill me, and more importantly they won't cause harm to anyone else. Right? I mean why not minimize the importance of one person's pain? Why should I feel I deserve any better when people are starving in Africa?

As I wrote this, I began with the thought there are so many people worse off than I. After all, isn't that the sort of person we are supposed to want to be? The kind that doesn't become absorbed in their own life trials. Someone who is unselfish, and considers what other people are going through in spite of and sometimes in lieu of their own needs. That's when I realized I was writing a blog about who I think I would like to be, only it was based on the kind of person whom I've been told is more likeable. The kind of person who thinks Phillip Seymour Hoffman's death deserves less attention simply because he was famous. The kind of person who believes other people's needs are always, without question, more important than mine. All of which is probably the opposite of what I need to be to be a truly decent person. And I wondered, what makes my struggle matter?

There are things with which I struggle every day. And that struggle is largely ignored, if not exacerbated by unnecessary rudeness, criticism, or even unintentional ignorance. Not far into the first paragraph, I thought, "It begins with one." We learn to ignore the problems and plight of one person whose issues make us uncomfortable, under the guise that we care more for the starving people in Africa. I am willing to bet a decent wager that at least 50 percent of people who berate a "friend" for thinking too much about their own struggle, when, after all, they could be worrying about an entire population that can't get the medical treatments to delay the onset of AIDS do little or nothing to try to solve either problem. And by ignoring and berating the problems of one person at a time, we learn also to ignore the problems of the majority of our fellow humans fairly regularly. 

I didn't feel like writing today. I don't even know if any of this makes any sense. I'm so out of practice. Mainly because when I think about writing, I think about sorrow. I think about painful times. I think my voice will not only be heard, but criticized. Not because my voice is incapable of saying anything important or useful, but because it is mine. I am trying to change how I think about this. I am trying to say more. I am celebrating music. I am celebrating my own voice, along with the voices of others. I am enjoying renewed friendships. I am not, however, trying to matter. I just do. 

(So do you). 

swim, swim

This year has been a whirlwind of activity. Most good, some bad. I feel like I've been under water; water that is sometimes calm and peaceful, and other times turbulent and crushing. My new year will begin with a forceful current--pulling me into my first college course ever. Better late than never, right? So I am coming up for a full, deep breath of air, and off I will go for two-and-a-half weeks of what will be either an intriguing and thought provoking experience, or sheer torture. Maybe both.

Buying a house this year has us reeling. I am mostly filled with joy. There is something to be said for feeling rooted. I couldn't have imagined the relief that I live somewhere that has the potential to be so permanent. And then there is the weight that it is almost permanent, and anything that could go wrong is our responsibility to avoid, and if it does go wrong, we are in complete charge.  That said, it still feels good that our room is, in fact, our room. I'll concede that at the closing table I realized that we are really borrowing the house from the bank for 30 years. At which point I will be (with any luck), 68. Aye.

But home is where we will celebrate Christmas, with both of our families, and I couldn't be happier. Filling our house with the people who love us most, and making new memories here is exactly what the doctor ordered. Well, that and 15 mg of Paxil a day. But I feel good. Almost normal, but not in the boring, over-medicated way. Just right for a change.

We are considering adding a kitten to our pack. Because I'm still not convinced this old body can manage to pop out a child before it reaches 40. For the record, we aren't pursuing it. At least not now.

So much to think about, so little time.A deep breath, and under I go. My only hope for the first month of the new year is that I pass my course. One. Thing. At. A. Time.

Thanks, Hank. Take two.

It's been a long time since I wrote this, but once again, ol' Hank has given me the gift of inspiration. And yet another reminder that I do write. That it's part of me. I'm proud of the piece I wrote and submitted to a lovely little blog called, Bukowski On Wry. It looks like the start of a great page. I hope it's the start of a new chapter for me. Do check it out. I'm really excited that my poem was selected.

 http://bukowskionwry.wordpress.com/2013/10/02/i-love-you-an-alternate-ending-bukowski-erasure-poem-by-keyna-thomas/

how to be crazy.

Stigma, it's a bitch.

While I have a love/hate relationship with the healthcare system's way of managing mental illness, I have to say, lots of therapy and pinpointing (diagnosing) my issues has opened my eyes over the past three years. Yes, three years. It is, and will likely be a part of my life forever. As for the medicine, hopefully not. Today, I am relatively stable in and unstable world. And why is the world unstable? Because it is filled with mentally ill people that either refuse treatment, or don't know how to find it. Or just plain can't afford it. Hell, I can't afford it. Whatever. Generic mac and cheese is fine with me.

Back to stigma. Are we really "ill?" I would argue that in most cases we are not. We may be in a state of dis-ease. And who could blame anyone. I go to work. It triggers many chemicals that have no place showing up in the middle of my work day. But adrenaline runs high when the people around you take themselves so seriously, that if you haven't completed a task it is, in fact, the end of the fucking world. My (healthy) response is, "We aren't in an emergency room saving lives.We are drafting a budget to run a program, that if it does not run, people will not die. We would simply have to give back the money. Worst. Case. Scenario."

All that said, because someone has convinced my nervous system that it is the end of the world, I have too much adrenaline pulsing through my veins. Nowhere to go but down. But this is fine for all of the mentally fit, I suppose. For me and my generalized anxiety disorder, things are a little more complicated. And besides adrenaline, a shit-ton of hormones and other chemicals find their way into my body, which is really just a recipe for disaster. O.K., so not a disaster. Just a panic attack. Let me piece together the panic attack for you. It is the fucking end of the world. I am sure that I will die, because if a person can't breathe they die. If I can breathe, but my heart is beating 150 bpm, I am sure that I will have a heart attack. I tell myself that is fine, but it won't be. Because the biggest fear is that no one will help you if you are dying. Yet, I am not crazy. Nor am I ill. I am just a person that is highly affected by the stressors and difficulties I encounter in my daily life. Apparently, most other people are not. Who knew?

But this isn't even my problem today. Thanks to the past three years, all of the above is more manageable. I smoke too much, but so be it. I would still like to quit, and I haven't, which makes me incredibly sad some days. However, I don't have depression. What I have is a normal reaction to being frustrated that a carcinogenic drug has a grip on my life and my future. Even to the sane, this must be reasonable.

Moving on. I have made many, many mistakes in my life. Most of them were small. A few of them were very large, and made me very sorry for a long time. Today is the day that I must let go of that sorrow, because it can no longer help me be a better person. Instead it is dragging me down, and convincing me that somehow I am a lesser person. Today is the day that I must tell myself that I am not inhuman. I am not subhuman. That I do really have a do no harm attitude. I have been quiet, if not amputated of my voice, somehow thinking I could prevent damage, present or future. This has proved to be untrue, and an unhealthy assumption. The truth is that I am filled with love for my past, some regret for losing sight of the path I could have followed, and yet I am also filled with love and excitement for my present and future. This doesn't seem crazy to me. It seems healthy. That said, having carried the guilt for two for too long, I feel it's time I speak. Not about the past, but about the fact that good, crazy people, do crazy things sometimes. Secondly, about the fact that if you keep calling people crazy, or bad, or anything else the like, they will always be that to you. But it doesn't change their true heart. My true heart.

I have heard from various sources that many references to my name have been made with regard to how crazy I am (or, according to me and a small handful of dear friends, am not). I will speak to this only once, because you see, none of you are the first. I look different. I have looked different since birth. I have been and will be passionate about things that I believe in. To the point of ridicule. Starting in the first grade. So my experience with "crazy" is wide and varied. I'm crazy and smart enough to know that I will never, ever master it. I will however, vow to refine it in such a way that I lead my life in a way that becomes me, and at the same time helps the people I love, end even sometimes, the ones I can't or don't. Let me tell you, that last number is very low.

So at long last, here is my list of rules for being crazy. I think you'll find they aren't so crazy, after all.

DO:

• Be there for your friends no matter what the hour. Three in the morning is a good time to be crazy.
• Laugh at yourself when you do something like say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Hope that it's actually the wrong thing at the right time. Crazy people have difficulty discerning proper timing (see above).
• Should you make a mistake, forgive yourself as soon as possible. Crazy people know remorse more than anyone. Often enough they are living in their own prison. 
• Be kind, even when it's difficult. It's better to be good crazy than bad crazy.
• Don't be afraid to speak your mind when necessary. All bottles with too much pressure WILL explode. Too much pressure is a crazy person's worst enemy.
• Find reasons to be happy. If you are crazy, you will be insanely happy. On the converse, allow yourself to be sad, but don't seek out sadness in your daily life. If you are crazy, and you do this, you will also be insanely sad.
• Let go. By all fucking means, let go. Not of reality or self-control. Let go of that which you cannot control. It feels like you're floating if you do it right. Crazy, huh?
• Be a loose cannon. As in, make people laugh, jump in a lake with your clothes on, try new things...you know, a loose fucking cannon.  

DON'T

• Rely on a list of don'ts to tell you how to be crazy. Anything goes, so long as you're doing good. 

And last, but not least: