Nameless Liberal Arts College was the wrong college for me in so many ways.
I was even more bull-headed then than I am now.
I wish I was consistently well enough to go back to school. Maybe one class this fall as a trial. I miss the awesome Chicago college I started attending right when I got sick.
I want to be one of those people who can overcome shit, and I want to be one of those people who can accept shit, and I don't want to be so frustrated and saddened by my version of life. They say to write down goals and then achieve them. Can that be my goal? I'd like to get my BA and support myself, but the real all-important pie-in-the-mother-fucking-sky is to be accepting of and happy with myself. Be good to myself. Love myself in a real way for once and for good.
Corvus and Aural Girl walked my dog while I was away this weekend at my brother's college graduation. Corvus cleaned my house as a birthday present surprise. He really cleaned my house. He organized my closets and did the laundry in my hamper and everything. And he said beautiful things about me I didn't believe. He can be quite incredible. I should have gone over there tonight but I'm so tired and have to have my car jumped in the morning (booooo) and I didn't. Now it's 1:30 and I'm still awake and I'm all upset and I feel like an ass for not running over there as soon as I got home. I'll call him in the morning once my car is running and we can drive off into the sun(wrongtimeofdayforset).
So many of my Nameless College regrets surround a Boy I let treat me like garbage. I loved this shit out of him, maybe more because I could taste the blood on his lips. Corvus treats me well and I'm holding myself to holding him to it.
My own voice is still so loud in my head, it makes for better writing* than personality or happiness.
*and sometimes not even that.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Thursday, May 12, 2011
I'm anxious. In general. About everything. I think the assault was more damaging than I gave it credit for. Not that it's so terrible, and not that I'm afraid to leave the house or anything. I'm just on edge. My safety and general well-being were fundamentally threatened and it rattled me. No wonder I felt no great relief the next day when the US offed Bin Laden- I'd just been reminded how many more dangerous people lurk around every fucking corner who have nothing to do with Al Qaeda.
Sorry. I don't mean to freak you out too, readers. I'm just jumpy because one asshole decided to be an asshole and had to remind me I'm mortal. Ugh.
Sorry. I don't mean to freak you out too, readers. I'm just jumpy because one asshole decided to be an asshole and had to remind me I'm mortal. Ugh.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Bin Laden's Death to One 28-Year-Old
When we heard Bin Laden was dead, Corvus spontaneously ran outside to shout with joy. "It's over. It's finally over." Tears dripped down his face.
I wasn't quite sure what ended with Bin Laden's death. I wasn't complaining, but I wasn't feeling the overwhelming relief or joy that seemed to take over my boyfriend. He's three years younger than I am, and it didn't occur to me at the time, but we were in different places in our lives on September 11th and I may be five minutes too old for the jubilance. Or maybe I'm just too skeptical to place my feelings of safety in the mortality of one human. Still, I envy the death revelers.
On September 11, 2001, I had just begun my sophomore year at Nameless Liberal Arts College. When someone in my statistics lab stood up that morning and announced an airplane had flown into the World Trade Center and another into the Pentagon, I thought they were doing an experiment for psych class. But no, Google quickly confirmed that the world had gone to shit. Class let out early. Some classes were canceled for the day, others went on with optional attendance. The dorm lounges were packed with students staring at the news, horrific images, and the first time I ever heard the name "Osama Bin Laden."
My most hawkish (and incidentally, at the time, only Republican friend) wanted, to bomb someone. Blow up something in revenge. But being a self-centered 19-yer-old, that was my biggest fear: war. We were in the middle of a middle state, nice and safe. I already knew my family was safe, so my next concern was my of-drafting-age male friend pool. We'd just elected The Bad President and there was no way he was keeping us out of war. I assumed at that point it would at least be the "logical" war, but my peers were the ones who'd have to fight it and I didn't like that. We sat in that lounge and I wanted to be held by the Boy I was pining over at the time as well as every single boy I gave a marginal crap about before they all had to go die for the country.
I had friends in school in New York too close to Ground Zero. One still has PTSD.
I had friends help clean up at Ground Zero.
Then somehow we ended up in Iraq and no one I really cared about at the time had to fight.
But the threat of Terror never felt like it was the threat of Osama Bin Laden. I remember Oklahoma City (though I was quite young) and that was American extremists. There will always be a small percentage of the human population that likes to screw things up for the rest of us, and that is terrifying. I'm glad there's one less ultra-asshole, but he was never the focal point of my fear or pain and therefor doesn't get to be a trigger for great relief.
Maybe if I was just a bit younger, or a bit someone else, I'd need a face for the abstraction of fear. I wouldn't have such concrete non-Bin Laden things from September 11th and he would hold status as the threat of my youth. Maybe he would have been my childhood's boogieman. But he was only a piece of my fear and feels like just one piece of the puzzle, not full closure on a hole in my soul.
I joined my friends for a post-Obama speech tequila shot. Obama is so presidential and doing a shot seemed somehow the most appropriate response to Bin Laden's death, anyway; we drink to life, death, joy and pain, to numb the feelings that are too alive and to remind ourselves we're alive when we're too damn numb.
I wasn't quite sure what ended with Bin Laden's death. I wasn't complaining, but I wasn't feeling the overwhelming relief or joy that seemed to take over my boyfriend. He's three years younger than I am, and it didn't occur to me at the time, but we were in different places in our lives on September 11th and I may be five minutes too old for the jubilance. Or maybe I'm just too skeptical to place my feelings of safety in the mortality of one human. Still, I envy the death revelers.
On September 11, 2001, I had just begun my sophomore year at Nameless Liberal Arts College. When someone in my statistics lab stood up that morning and announced an airplane had flown into the World Trade Center and another into the Pentagon, I thought they were doing an experiment for psych class. But no, Google quickly confirmed that the world had gone to shit. Class let out early. Some classes were canceled for the day, others went on with optional attendance. The dorm lounges were packed with students staring at the news, horrific images, and the first time I ever heard the name "Osama Bin Laden."
My most hawkish (and incidentally, at the time, only Republican friend) wanted, to bomb someone. Blow up something in revenge. But being a self-centered 19-yer-old, that was my biggest fear: war. We were in the middle of a middle state, nice and safe. I already knew my family was safe, so my next concern was my of-drafting-age male friend pool. We'd just elected The Bad President and there was no way he was keeping us out of war. I assumed at that point it would at least be the "logical" war, but my peers were the ones who'd have to fight it and I didn't like that. We sat in that lounge and I wanted to be held by the Boy I was pining over at the time as well as every single boy I gave a marginal crap about before they all had to go die for the country.
I had friends in school in New York too close to Ground Zero. One still has PTSD.
I had friends help clean up at Ground Zero.
Then somehow we ended up in Iraq and no one I really cared about at the time had to fight.
But the threat of Terror never felt like it was the threat of Osama Bin Laden. I remember Oklahoma City (though I was quite young) and that was American extremists. There will always be a small percentage of the human population that likes to screw things up for the rest of us, and that is terrifying. I'm glad there's one less ultra-asshole, but he was never the focal point of my fear or pain and therefor doesn't get to be a trigger for great relief.
Maybe if I was just a bit younger, or a bit someone else, I'd need a face for the abstraction of fear. I wouldn't have such concrete non-Bin Laden things from September 11th and he would hold status as the threat of my youth. Maybe he would have been my childhood's boogieman. But he was only a piece of my fear and feels like just one piece of the puzzle, not full closure on a hole in my soul.
I joined my friends for a post-Obama speech tequila shot. Obama is so presidential and doing a shot seemed somehow the most appropriate response to Bin Laden's death, anyway; we drink to life, death, joy and pain, to numb the feelings that are too alive and to remind ourselves we're alive when we're too damn numb.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Assaulted
April's last evening was among the only to feel like spring. Chicago winters are always long and hard, but this one refused to end. The whole city is suffering for sunshine, and the first hints of warmth make everyone insane.
Some in a more destructive manner than others.
I was walking home from the el around 10:30 PM. I was too tired to stop at the bar to be social, so I said hello to the smokers outside and kept walking towards my house. I didn't cross the street at the corner because a car was coming, so I rounded the bend and figured I'd cross at the alley.
There was a tall man in his 20s standing at the gate to the apartments next to the cafe. I was glad I didn't live there because he seemed like he was up to no good. When he started following me I decided not to turn into my alley but stay on the lit street and power walk it. As he walked too-close behind me I sped up and started wondering what I should do if he kept following...
GRAB!
In one swift motion he groped my left boob and my right ass cheek and said, "Hey, baby."
I threw him off of me and yelled "HEY! Fuck you!" as he ran down the street.
Two men and a women in some sort of all-white religious frocks came up the alley and I told them what happened. I called 911 and when the police came I got into the back of their car and drove around, hoping to find my attacker. It's not like he did me any great permanent damage, but more than anything I didn't want him doing worse to someone else. He probably lives in the neighborhood. If he's still out tonight, we couldn't find him, so I filed a police report (the officers explained that way if I see the guy again I can call 911 and have the asshole arrested) and came home.
Fucking dick-ass-douchebag-ass-hat.
Some in a more destructive manner than others.
I was walking home from the el around 10:30 PM. I was too tired to stop at the bar to be social, so I said hello to the smokers outside and kept walking towards my house. I didn't cross the street at the corner because a car was coming, so I rounded the bend and figured I'd cross at the alley.
There was a tall man in his 20s standing at the gate to the apartments next to the cafe. I was glad I didn't live there because he seemed like he was up to no good. When he started following me I decided not to turn into my alley but stay on the lit street and power walk it. As he walked too-close behind me I sped up and started wondering what I should do if he kept following...
GRAB!
In one swift motion he groped my left boob and my right ass cheek and said, "Hey, baby."
I threw him off of me and yelled "HEY! Fuck you!" as he ran down the street.
Two men and a women in some sort of all-white religious frocks came up the alley and I told them what happened. I called 911 and when the police came I got into the back of their car and drove around, hoping to find my attacker. It's not like he did me any great permanent damage, but more than anything I didn't want him doing worse to someone else. He probably lives in the neighborhood. If he's still out tonight, we couldn't find him, so I filed a police report (the officers explained that way if I see the guy again I can call 911 and have the asshole arrested) and came home.
Fucking dick-ass-douchebag-ass-hat.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Taxing
I finished my 2010 Federal Taxes this morning and now I'm having a panic attack. My business came out either $1300 or $3000 (I'm still confused) in the red according to standard deductions and accounting and all that and I'm freaking out, even though I know much of that has to do with car and house depreciation numbers and deducting $300 for an office supply that was a gift from my parents. Still, that's kind of the real cost of my business and I'm just sucking money from the universe and I had no W-2s all of 2010 so I feel like a giant suck on society and a useless human being. I'm still not over the can't-hold-a-real-job-with-headaches-but-need-one-to-feel-like-a-real-person thing. Like if I'm not leaving my house on a daily basis and doing something for seven hours a day, I'm wasting community air. Never mind how bad my head got in 2010. Never mind being hospitalized half-way through. That feels like an excuse when I'm having a day without a headache, with just a pathetic panic attack that makes me feel even less human and more..well, pathetic. What I'm doing seems so useless when you put a big number up like -$3000. Will it ever be profitable in a real sense? If not, what should and can I be doing instead? And why can't I just logic through this like a strong real grown-up instead of a sniveling useless panic-attacker?
I'm hard on myself. But shouldn't I be? How will I ever be a grown-up otherwise? Except right now being hard on myself is making my cry and panic like a fucking baby. I take photos of things. I sell those photos and/or those things. People buy them. It isn't enough. When will it be enough? What do I have to do to constitute "enough?"
I'm hard on myself. But shouldn't I be? How will I ever be a grown-up otherwise? Except right now being hard on myself is making my cry and panic like a fucking baby. I take photos of things. I sell those photos and/or those things. People buy them. It isn't enough. When will it be enough? What do I have to do to constitute "enough?"
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Frustration, Smiles
Where’s my novel? Where’s all my greatness?
I’m so frustrated right now.
I want to write music without sound.
I’m annoyed I’m not writing or doing more.
I’m annoyed I can’t decide what more I want to do and practically can accomplish.
I’m annoyed I’m not satisfied with the things I do accomplish.
I need a project I feel good about.
Something that feels worthy.
Something tangible and challenging yet manageable.
All my albatrosses feel pointless. I want to knit or build or even pick up a normal boring-person hourly-waged job so I can checkmark success in more than repetitive motion.
I just want something to show for myself, but every minute of every day—a prolific portfolio of lifetime achievement.
I’m the only one who can make these things happen. But I have to pin them down as more than theoretical feelings and goals. I need practical steps and to do lists or I stay aimlessly wandering around the house looking for my sense of satisfaction and throwing temper-tantrums inside myself.
Writing something is a good step. My writing has gotten rusty. Keep it fresh and practiced so when there’s something to say, it sounds how I want it to sing. That’s pretentious as hell but true, so not the pretending part of pretentious, just the annoying part.
Too much computer time lately. It makes me crazy. Buying season starts now and I can start that fun part of things again if I relax about my financial situation. Let myself be happy again. I’m cranky slipping and at least I’m catching myself while it’s still just slippage.
A business requires building. It requires learning and figuring out and I haven’t been doing this so long. Days like today are frustrating because I suddenly am so capable doing so much and I don’t have sufficiently varied activities to keep myself entertained when I’ve done by noon what often takes me an entire day to accomplish.
Now what?
Violin or finish the knit gloves. Those are good. And get all my to-file papers in one place even if I don’t start filing them. And shower. That’s a good tangible checklist for this afternoon. If I can stand getting back on the computer and editing more photos, so much the better, but I don’t expect that to be in my tolerable zone in the next few hours.
Writing is grand.
* * *
Romance always makes a juicier update than the cerebral shit I can't help but spew:
Corvus is great. We still seem to think the world of one another. We spend huge quantities of time together. My dog specifically requests to be pet by him, then randomly freaks out and barks and snaps when Corvus laughs or stands too suddenly, and Corvus still likes my dog. Likes me, too. Has an insanely healthy view of the world and relationships and surprises me over and over again with yet another high-quality layer of himself.
My only complaint: he reminds me too much of myself, so the days I am particularly annoyed with myself I end up defaulting to annoyed with him for no reason. There was an episode of 30 Rock called "Double-Edged Sword" and I think of it every time I'm in self-hate-and-therefore mode. But, at least in Relationshipland, I'm learning to be a grown-up and it's all tremendously healthy and good and I'm just looking for something to complain about because it's easier and less-corny-sounding than all the perfectly content smiley swellness that makes up 98% of things. Tomorrow, we may go to the zoo.
I’m so frustrated right now.
I want to write music without sound.
I’m annoyed I’m not writing or doing more.
I’m annoyed I can’t decide what more I want to do and practically can accomplish.
I’m annoyed I’m not satisfied with the things I do accomplish.
I need a project I feel good about.
Something that feels worthy.
Something tangible and challenging yet manageable.
All my albatrosses feel pointless. I want to knit or build or even pick up a normal boring-person hourly-waged job so I can checkmark success in more than repetitive motion.
I just want something to show for myself, but every minute of every day—a prolific portfolio of lifetime achievement.
I’m the only one who can make these things happen. But I have to pin them down as more than theoretical feelings and goals. I need practical steps and to do lists or I stay aimlessly wandering around the house looking for my sense of satisfaction and throwing temper-tantrums inside myself.
Writing something is a good step. My writing has gotten rusty. Keep it fresh and practiced so when there’s something to say, it sounds how I want it to sing. That’s pretentious as hell but true, so not the pretending part of pretentious, just the annoying part.
Too much computer time lately. It makes me crazy. Buying season starts now and I can start that fun part of things again if I relax about my financial situation. Let myself be happy again. I’m cranky slipping and at least I’m catching myself while it’s still just slippage.
A business requires building. It requires learning and figuring out and I haven’t been doing this so long. Days like today are frustrating because I suddenly am so capable doing so much and I don’t have sufficiently varied activities to keep myself entertained when I’ve done by noon what often takes me an entire day to accomplish.
Now what?
Violin or finish the knit gloves. Those are good. And get all my to-file papers in one place even if I don’t start filing them. And shower. That’s a good tangible checklist for this afternoon. If I can stand getting back on the computer and editing more photos, so much the better, but I don’t expect that to be in my tolerable zone in the next few hours.
Writing is grand.
* * *
Romance always makes a juicier update than the cerebral shit I can't help but spew:
Corvus is great. We still seem to think the world of one another. We spend huge quantities of time together. My dog specifically requests to be pet by him, then randomly freaks out and barks and snaps when Corvus laughs or stands too suddenly, and Corvus still likes my dog. Likes me, too. Has an insanely healthy view of the world and relationships and surprises me over and over again with yet another high-quality layer of himself.
My only complaint: he reminds me too much of myself, so the days I am particularly annoyed with myself I end up defaulting to annoyed with him for no reason. There was an episode of 30 Rock called "Double-Edged Sword" and I think of it every time I'm in self-hate-and-therefore mode. But, at least in Relationshipland, I'm learning to be a grown-up and it's all tremendously healthy and good and I'm just looking for something to complain about because it's easier and less-corny-sounding than all the perfectly content smiley swellness that makes up 98% of things. Tomorrow, we may go to the zoo.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Scream
Inordinate amounts of pain. Ovarian cyst acting up again is my guess, and I just shot up with the Torodol since I can't take normal over the counter drugs. The pain is unbelievable. Took a shower and a bath. Nails peeling, dog whining, but it's pain and pain and pain above all. Trying to think of other things. Just spelled "of" "ove" and had to correct it. Feels like I've been ripped open or I want to rip myself open, not quite sure which. Both.
Corvus. He's in Charleston. His grandmother's funeral was today. Want to say more about it but now is clearly not the time. Too lost in the immediate negative corporeal. Come on, Torodol. Fix it.
This is after I spent a few days fighting the jitters, only to realize they were me adjusting to medication change. Add Lorazepam and all is forgiven. And forgotten. Sleep away the changes. Now after sleeping most of today I am awake and I eat and it stabs the cyst. What the fuck. Body is not very cooperative. Want to clip my toenails. Something positive and body and pretty. Corvus thinks I'm hot. Is broken the price of hot? Could perfect toenails negate the pain?
O! True apothecary! Thy drugs are quick! 20 minutes from wishing for death to re-evaluating my tolerance for aliveness. Not bad.
Corvus. He's in Charleston. His grandmother's funeral was today. Want to say more about it but now is clearly not the time. Too lost in the immediate negative corporeal. Come on, Torodol. Fix it.
This is after I spent a few days fighting the jitters, only to realize they were me adjusting to medication change. Add Lorazepam and all is forgiven. And forgotten. Sleep away the changes. Now after sleeping most of today I am awake and I eat and it stabs the cyst. What the fuck. Body is not very cooperative. Want to clip my toenails. Something positive and body and pretty. Corvus thinks I'm hot. Is broken the price of hot? Could perfect toenails negate the pain?
O! True apothecary! Thy drugs are quick! 20 minutes from wishing for death to re-evaluating my tolerance for aliveness. Not bad.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Holy Fucking Corvus
My dog has declared a bit of snuggle time; he's feeling neglected, having been locked away to give this crazy electricity free reign over my house and my heart.
Corvus. What the fuck? How does a reciprocal crush become oh my god without blinking? For once, I don't actually care how. That's a mini "oh my god" in itself.
But Corvus! Like a mirror--a reflection without being the same. And so much kindness, so sweet. He babbles things fit for poetry, apologizes for perfect words (and I'm supposed to be the writer?). Then, without thinking, he holds my head up as I drink water in bed, tries to wash the dishes, makes the bed the moment I'm preoccupied...I'm not the porcelain princess, he treats me like I'm made of gold; like an unworshipped goddess; like an adored equal.
He sees beauty and light and hears it, too. He doesn't know he's brilliant or doesn't believe it. He is story after story and he is warm strong quiet and he understands the laughter in the saddest of things.
There's so much more, but to dwell and list seems petty this time. Somehow, it's all more real and fair to just babble and swear and scream the name of the nearest deity.
Holy fuck.
Corvus. What the fuck? How does a reciprocal crush become oh my god without blinking? For once, I don't actually care how. That's a mini "oh my god" in itself.
But Corvus! Like a mirror--a reflection without being the same. And so much kindness, so sweet. He babbles things fit for poetry, apologizes for perfect words (and I'm supposed to be the writer?). Then, without thinking, he holds my head up as I drink water in bed, tries to wash the dishes, makes the bed the moment I'm preoccupied...I'm not the porcelain princess, he treats me like I'm made of gold; like an unworshipped goddess; like an adored equal.
He sees beauty and light and hears it, too. He doesn't know he's brilliant or doesn't believe it. He is story after story and he is warm strong quiet and he understands the laughter in the saddest of things.
There's so much more, but to dwell and list seems petty this time. Somehow, it's all more real and fair to just babble and swear and scream the name of the nearest deity.
Holy fuck.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Starry-Eyed
Boy, oh Boy.
He kept using the word "hypnotized," and that's about accurate...we're both still hypnotized. Chemistry and starry-eyes and things I can't yet render in words.
Boy gets a name..."Corvus." Constellation, raven, sacred servant to Apollo.
I picked him up at the airport. I've been cleaning my house and myself. He seemed entirely taken by surprise...I wasn't surprised by Boy and Girl make with the smooching, but the whole thing was surprising...listening to eachother's heartbeats just holding close but somehow doing so without pretense or even awareness at first...it was all so crazy electric yet smooth and perfect. We're so awkward until...we're not. I'm less and less sure he's real or I'm awake because it seems impossible, but there's no question, we were awake and alive. Jesus fucking fuck.
He kept using the word "hypnotized," and that's about accurate...we're both still hypnotized. Chemistry and starry-eyes and things I can't yet render in words.
Boy gets a name..."Corvus." Constellation, raven, sacred servant to Apollo.
I picked him up at the airport. I've been cleaning my house and myself. He seemed entirely taken by surprise...I wasn't surprised by Boy and Girl make with the smooching, but the whole thing was surprising...listening to eachother's heartbeats just holding close but somehow doing so without pretense or even awareness at first...it was all so crazy electric yet smooth and perfect. We're so awkward until...we're not. I'm less and less sure he's real or I'm awake because it seems impossible, but there's no question, we were awake and alive. Jesus fucking fuck.
Sunday, January 09, 2011
Nocturning
My psychiatrist may be brilliant.
I've been in my standard winter useless-lump-slump. Every year I forget that it happens every year and I fight it tooth and nail, or at least "fight it" as much as I can without leaving the house or accomplishing anything and really just fight my own sense of self-worth. But every year I try new drugs and new therapies and new resolutions to not be generally miserable and this year has been no exception. So far it's been a sun lamp and that horrible, horrible Ritalin experiment and lots of yelling at myself to be fucking positive and get off my fucking ass and accept my health and my family and get on with it already.
It's not working. At all. Which is much of why I'm not writing. I don't feel like doing anything, writing included, but I also am trying so fucking hard to be positive and I don't feel positive so I can't write positive so I can't write. Hell, most of the time I can't feel because it's feel crappy or feel nothing. We're messing with my medications again or still or more or however you want to look at it. The migraines have been so much better, I don't know why The Sads have been so much worse.
But in the past 9 hours I've gotten more done than I've been getting done in week-long stretches, and without stressing or straining; just quietly working and accomplishing like I do when I'm not in depression mode. Like I said at the beginning, my psychiatrist may be brilliant.
I was trying to explain to him my listlessness and days of foggy nothingness, migraine or no migraine.
Is it cognitive? Motivational?
I don't fucking know, probably because I'm having too much in the middle of it to have a clear understanding of what it is.
So is it a medication? Does it get better or worse at different points of the day? When I've taken things?
I'm clearest at night. Always have been. I wake up at 9 or 10 and can only start to think then...which is right around or after I've taken my night dose of the same crap I take in the morning and feel like a fuzz-bucket.
So maybe not the medication...
BUT!
If I'm naturally nocturnal and am clear at night, what if I actually allow myself to be nocturnal? Get shit done at night when I can get shit done and sleep during the day when I'm a grog-monster? I can still see my friends in the evenings, when I see them anyway, and spend some portion of business hours awake so I can make phone calls and go to stores and things.
It took me about 24 hours to get over the idea that staying awake all night and sleeping during the day made me an automatic freak of nature and quite possibly bad person who just couldn't make it in society. But why? Other cultures have different sleep patterns than ours, anyway. It's just when the sun shows up that tends to dictate the most popular times for productivity, and even that's BS as proven by the existence of Cleveland where the sun never shines yet at least three companies still operate (though I hear one is in talks with Miami).
I'm still adjusting and figuring out what works with my biological, medication, dog-walking, hypothetical social, and errand-running schedules, but today started to feel right. I slept hard from 5-10 PM and it's now 7:15 AM and I've done all kinds of Etsy stuff, written this, worked on a BS time-wasting project I enjoy (in which case maybe I should be nicer to it and stop calling it a BS waste of time), did all the dishes, researched prices on printers and contact lenses, talked to my brother and Aural Girl on Facebook, and walked the dog twice. Maybe the return of the bitter self-hate is an indicator that it's bed time again. Also I'm itchy, another good sign. I'd wanted to write a bit about The Boy, but I'll give the extremely condensed version instead:
Boy. Talked hours and hours of IM pre-Christmas. Then didn't hear from him between Christmas and New Years. Heard from him New Years Eve, ended up talking to him on the phone for a long time, now no sign he's alive for a week. He's on vacation and working on his own stuff (and getting a shitton done, it sounds like). And I had a fear it'd be like Love in the Time of Cholera or something...passionate love letters curdling when faced with actual proximity...but he comes back in a week and I'm trying to play it cool when we all know very well I'm a giant dweeb whose unsure about everything in the entire universe, worst of all myself and second-worst-of-all Boys.
7:30 AM. Sounds like a good bed time to me.
I've been in my standard winter useless-lump-slump. Every year I forget that it happens every year and I fight it tooth and nail, or at least "fight it" as much as I can without leaving the house or accomplishing anything and really just fight my own sense of self-worth. But every year I try new drugs and new therapies and new resolutions to not be generally miserable and this year has been no exception. So far it's been a sun lamp and that horrible, horrible Ritalin experiment and lots of yelling at myself to be fucking positive and get off my fucking ass and accept my health and my family and get on with it already.
It's not working. At all. Which is much of why I'm not writing. I don't feel like doing anything, writing included, but I also am trying so fucking hard to be positive and I don't feel positive so I can't write positive so I can't write. Hell, most of the time I can't feel because it's feel crappy or feel nothing. We're messing with my medications again or still or more or however you want to look at it. The migraines have been so much better, I don't know why The Sads have been so much worse.
But in the past 9 hours I've gotten more done than I've been getting done in week-long stretches, and without stressing or straining; just quietly working and accomplishing like I do when I'm not in depression mode. Like I said at the beginning, my psychiatrist may be brilliant.
I was trying to explain to him my listlessness and days of foggy nothingness, migraine or no migraine.
Is it cognitive? Motivational?
I don't fucking know, probably because I'm having too much in the middle of it to have a clear understanding of what it is.
So is it a medication? Does it get better or worse at different points of the day? When I've taken things?
I'm clearest at night. Always have been. I wake up at 9 or 10 and can only start to think then...which is right around or after I've taken my night dose of the same crap I take in the morning and feel like a fuzz-bucket.
So maybe not the medication...
BUT!
If I'm naturally nocturnal and am clear at night, what if I actually allow myself to be nocturnal? Get shit done at night when I can get shit done and sleep during the day when I'm a grog-monster? I can still see my friends in the evenings, when I see them anyway, and spend some portion of business hours awake so I can make phone calls and go to stores and things.
It took me about 24 hours to get over the idea that staying awake all night and sleeping during the day made me an automatic freak of nature and quite possibly bad person who just couldn't make it in society. But why? Other cultures have different sleep patterns than ours, anyway. It's just when the sun shows up that tends to dictate the most popular times for productivity, and even that's BS as proven by the existence of Cleveland where the sun never shines yet at least three companies still operate (though I hear one is in talks with Miami).
I'm still adjusting and figuring out what works with my biological, medication, dog-walking, hypothetical social, and errand-running schedules, but today started to feel right. I slept hard from 5-10 PM and it's now 7:15 AM and I've done all kinds of Etsy stuff, written this, worked on a BS time-wasting project I enjoy (in which case maybe I should be nicer to it and stop calling it a BS waste of time), did all the dishes, researched prices on printers and contact lenses, talked to my brother and Aural Girl on Facebook, and walked the dog twice. Maybe the return of the bitter self-hate is an indicator that it's bed time again. Also I'm itchy, another good sign. I'd wanted to write a bit about The Boy, but I'll give the extremely condensed version instead:
Boy. Talked hours and hours of IM pre-Christmas. Then didn't hear from him between Christmas and New Years. Heard from him New Years Eve, ended up talking to him on the phone for a long time, now no sign he's alive for a week. He's on vacation and working on his own stuff (and getting a shitton done, it sounds like). And I had a fear it'd be like Love in the Time of Cholera or something...passionate love letters curdling when faced with actual proximity...but he comes back in a week and I'm trying to play it cool when we all know very well I'm a giant dweeb whose unsure about everything in the entire universe, worst of all myself and second-worst-of-all Boys.
7:30 AM. Sounds like a good bed time to me.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Friday, December 31, 2010
Lovesong for Shed-Beast
How did Dog survive before it had Man to hold it while it whined and protect it from thunder? Did Dog always need its food broken into smaller pieces, or did it at some point consistently and instinctually remember how to chew? And what did Man do in the pre-dawn sleet storm? Sleep?
No, Darwin here is a fairy tale. Fur and love and big desperate eyes must be grand design; otherwise I would have eaten the little fuzz-monster.
No, Darwin here is a fairy tale. Fur and love and big desperate eyes must be grand design; otherwise I would have eaten the little fuzz-monster.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Belated
Why write now when I haven't blogged in almost two months? A Boy, of course. I'll get there in a moment...
I never wrote about Thanksgiving, how much we had to be thankful this year. My cousin adopted a child. My other cousins are pregnant. Amber stopped by and she's all kinds of pregnant, too. I've created an actual business that's started to make actual money that I enjoy and works extremely well with the chronic migraines and depression that I need to accept as part of myself that's not going anywhere any time soon. And my mom had the fastest, easiest experience with breast cancer humanly possible. I don't think we've ever cried so much as we went around the table and did our "I'm thankful for..."s.
My babycousin (the adoptee) is almost one and friggin adorable. My parents still have this plastic horse on wheels that was my favorite 1st birthday present. I found it in their basement, Lysoled the hell out of it, and brought it up to see if Babycousin wanted to try it out. She loved it and I love that she loved it. Maternal instincts creeping in, biology and all that...raising the next generation with my own experience...someone please start singing "Circle of Life."
I never wrote about my business taking off over the holiday season, money coming in for the first time in a substantial way, paying down the credit card I pretend doesn't exist from a few years back, seeing 800 shop views in an hour, front page, treasury after treasury, hard work paying off.
I never wrote about The Ritalin Experiment. As happens every year, fall showed up and so did a general feeling of gloom and constant exhaustion. My psychiatrist thought I'd do well on a "stimulant" meaning Ritalin. It was a good thought. Unfortunately, I had a paradoxical reaction and it took me two weeks to realize my total lack of desire to do anything and deep dark depression were a result of the drugs and not just a part of me I deserved (isn't depression fun?)
I never wrote about my mom's surgery. Breast cancer reconstruction stuff. The last of it. She was getting back to her negative fussy ways, but then about 24 hours before going under, she saw her therapist and POOF! back to positive thinking. Amazing.
I never wrote about the ovarian cyst I got the day before my mom's surgery. I ended up driving myself to the ER in agony, getting probed by nice people with creepy machines and dumb people with nice drugs and then missing the entire time my mom was in the hospital. Not ok. Ok with my mom (who was wonderful about it) but not with me. I felt guilty, like somehow I'd made myself sick so this would be about me instead of her. They got a nice clear view of the cyst in the sonogram, so if I did somehow give myself the damn thing, I've gotten good at materializing my psychosomatic symptoms.
But I never wrote about the boy, either.
At first I thought he was gay. I misinterpreted something as him flirting with another guy, and I must have thought he said something else early on, too, because I filed him away as "gay" very quickly in a way I don't normally do. So he was my fun new friend I didn't see that much. He was there for Halloween, we hung out for a good chunk of the night as I got consistently more and more wasted. He was gone by the time I was almost ready to follow home the snarky stranger.
I think Halloween was when I first thought, "Wait, why exactly did I think he was gay?" Went from "Too bad he's gay" to "I don't think he's gay..."
Apparently I'm extremely dense. Aural Girl is amazed at my obliviousness, and Possible Boy knew exactly who I was talking about because "it's just that obvious that he likes you."
Still, I wasn't sure until he was talking about Neighbor Guy basically trying to rape him no matter how many times he said "I'm. Not. Gay." (Glad to hear Neighbor Guy is sticking to his M.O., falling for straight boys and then not taking "no" for an answer.)
I had to reevaluate The Boy. Because now he could actually be a Boy. What? Further investigation was in order, but I saw him at most once a week at the bar. We didn't actually hang out until right before he left for the east coast for a month-long winter break vacation.
But.
The day we hung out, we were together from 11 AM to 11 PM and had a really fantastic time. Driving around in freezing rain and an estate sale and making music and cooking and more music and being awkward and then just a little bit of smooch on my way out the door. He followed me out to my car in his t-shirt, oblivious to the cold in our mutual dazed bewilderment. The freezing rain slush had turned to snow. After our final bits of giddy and apprehensive, I managed a cool "See you in a month," and drove home.
And then he flew away. To a Carolina. For a month. He won't be back until mid-January.
I wished for an excuse to write love letters, but at this point it would be for the storyline and the love of myself.
But it turns out, he tends to be awake at stupid hours of the night creating things. Whether it's a bad habit or just my natural clock, I've been indulging my nocturnal tendencies and spending hours and hours (like, a good 5 hours a night) "talking" to him on Facebook chat.
I'm not quite sure he's real. I suppose there's enough about him that is just completely his that he can't be purely a narcissistic projection of myself, and there's so much I still don't know. But so much of what I'm finding out seems to fit very well. I'm not getting completely lost and stupid because, via instant messages, he seems more like a concept than a real person. We'll see when he gets back. As long as he keeps making me feel better about myself instead of worse, he's an improvement on most of my past emotionally-involved Boys and I"ll gladly live in fluttery-but-cautiously-optimistic limbo for a few more weeks.
[No code name yet because I haven't decided on one.]
I never wrote about Thanksgiving, how much we had to be thankful this year. My cousin adopted a child. My other cousins are pregnant. Amber stopped by and she's all kinds of pregnant, too. I've created an actual business that's started to make actual money that I enjoy and works extremely well with the chronic migraines and depression that I need to accept as part of myself that's not going anywhere any time soon. And my mom had the fastest, easiest experience with breast cancer humanly possible. I don't think we've ever cried so much as we went around the table and did our "I'm thankful for..."s.
My babycousin (the adoptee) is almost one and friggin adorable. My parents still have this plastic horse on wheels that was my favorite 1st birthday present. I found it in their basement, Lysoled the hell out of it, and brought it up to see if Babycousin wanted to try it out. She loved it and I love that she loved it. Maternal instincts creeping in, biology and all that...raising the next generation with my own experience...someone please start singing "Circle of Life."
I never wrote about my business taking off over the holiday season, money coming in for the first time in a substantial way, paying down the credit card I pretend doesn't exist from a few years back, seeing 800 shop views in an hour, front page, treasury after treasury, hard work paying off.
I never wrote about The Ritalin Experiment. As happens every year, fall showed up and so did a general feeling of gloom and constant exhaustion. My psychiatrist thought I'd do well on a "stimulant" meaning Ritalin. It was a good thought. Unfortunately, I had a paradoxical reaction and it took me two weeks to realize my total lack of desire to do anything and deep dark depression were a result of the drugs and not just a part of me I deserved (isn't depression fun?)
I never wrote about my mom's surgery. Breast cancer reconstruction stuff. The last of it. She was getting back to her negative fussy ways, but then about 24 hours before going under, she saw her therapist and POOF! back to positive thinking. Amazing.
I never wrote about the ovarian cyst I got the day before my mom's surgery. I ended up driving myself to the ER in agony, getting probed by nice people with creepy machines and dumb people with nice drugs and then missing the entire time my mom was in the hospital. Not ok. Ok with my mom (who was wonderful about it) but not with me. I felt guilty, like somehow I'd made myself sick so this would be about me instead of her. They got a nice clear view of the cyst in the sonogram, so if I did somehow give myself the damn thing, I've gotten good at materializing my psychosomatic symptoms.
But I never wrote about the boy, either.
At first I thought he was gay. I misinterpreted something as him flirting with another guy, and I must have thought he said something else early on, too, because I filed him away as "gay" very quickly in a way I don't normally do. So he was my fun new friend I didn't see that much. He was there for Halloween, we hung out for a good chunk of the night as I got consistently more and more wasted. He was gone by the time I was almost ready to follow home the snarky stranger.
I think Halloween was when I first thought, "Wait, why exactly did I think he was gay?" Went from "Too bad he's gay" to "I don't think he's gay..."
Apparently I'm extremely dense. Aural Girl is amazed at my obliviousness, and Possible Boy knew exactly who I was talking about because "it's just that obvious that he likes you."
Still, I wasn't sure until he was talking about Neighbor Guy basically trying to rape him no matter how many times he said "I'm. Not. Gay." (Glad to hear Neighbor Guy is sticking to his M.O., falling for straight boys and then not taking "no" for an answer.)
I had to reevaluate The Boy. Because now he could actually be a Boy. What? Further investigation was in order, but I saw him at most once a week at the bar. We didn't actually hang out until right before he left for the east coast for a month-long winter break vacation.
But.
The day we hung out, we were together from 11 AM to 11 PM and had a really fantastic time. Driving around in freezing rain and an estate sale and making music and cooking and more music and being awkward and then just a little bit of smooch on my way out the door. He followed me out to my car in his t-shirt, oblivious to the cold in our mutual dazed bewilderment. The freezing rain slush had turned to snow. After our final bits of giddy and apprehensive, I managed a cool "See you in a month," and drove home.
And then he flew away. To a Carolina. For a month. He won't be back until mid-January.
I wished for an excuse to write love letters, but at this point it would be for the storyline and the love of myself.
But it turns out, he tends to be awake at stupid hours of the night creating things. Whether it's a bad habit or just my natural clock, I've been indulging my nocturnal tendencies and spending hours and hours (like, a good 5 hours a night) "talking" to him on Facebook chat.
I'm not quite sure he's real. I suppose there's enough about him that is just completely his that he can't be purely a narcissistic projection of myself, and there's so much I still don't know. But so much of what I'm finding out seems to fit very well. I'm not getting completely lost and stupid because, via instant messages, he seems more like a concept than a real person. We'll see when he gets back. As long as he keeps making me feel better about myself instead of worse, he's an improvement on most of my past emotionally-involved Boys and I"ll gladly live in fluttery-but-cautiously-optimistic limbo for a few more weeks.
[No code name yet because I haven't decided on one.]
Sunday, October 31, 2010
My Halloween Evil
Every Halloween, much of the female population dresses as sexy, skanky, whory as possible. This year my costume was an inanimate object not normally considered sexy, made sexy. It's part of an inside joke from a few years ago (mainly with NBF) that somehow seemed funnier if most people witnessing the costume weren't in on the gag. Aural Girl and Possible Boy ended up going to non-Chicago portions of Illinois for the weekend and my social awkward/laziness landed me at a single party where I pretty much laughed alone.
But the costume turned out very well and I was walking sex.
I spent much of the past week growling at the extra 15 pounds Emsam exploded around my middle. I actually got stuck in the corset that used to be too big for me, and shirts and dresses all seemed to point directly to the weird lumpy bulge popping out at my waist line. I tried to contain it and hide it and wondered what I was doing bothering with a sexy costume at all now that I'm such a lard-ass.
Fucked. Up.
I still fought with the tights that wanted to roll beneath my roll, still buttoned my sweater lower than I would have a year ago. But once I found tight cotton short-shorts to wear over the tights, I remembered the First Rule of...well, certainly not Fight Club. Aesthetics Club? They'll be staring at my ass, not my middle. And if that's embarrassing or whorish, in autumn it easy to forget how much less we wear to the beach in summer.
But here's the real deep-dark "secret" of it all: I like the attention. I like the sense of power. Not only was my costume an inside joke with myself, so was the reaction the costume produced. I got to be Holly Golightly and Mae West all at once, boys' sly remarks caught in their tied tongues.
When we're dressed up as someone else, we get to be ourselves. And for me, as I think for a lot of women, ourselves are a lot more sexual than we think we're supposed to admit. I think my ideal is a smile with just a shadow of smirk wrinkling my lip. Enough to remind myself I'm in control but no real malice.
I could have brought home one of the boys. Considered it. But once I'm reminded that even with my awkward and crazy and my gimpy migraine life, that I can still command a room, then I get to require basic things of a boy like intelligence, attractiveness, and giving a shit about me. Greedy? Perhaps. Thinking a whole fucking lot of myself just because I wore something slutty? Yes. But I'm hanging out with Ken on Tuesday and no matter how sexual I'm feeling, that's a much better option than random strangers.
Happy Halloween.
But the costume turned out very well and I was walking sex.
I spent much of the past week growling at the extra 15 pounds Emsam exploded around my middle. I actually got stuck in the corset that used to be too big for me, and shirts and dresses all seemed to point directly to the weird lumpy bulge popping out at my waist line. I tried to contain it and hide it and wondered what I was doing bothering with a sexy costume at all now that I'm such a lard-ass.
Fucked. Up.
I still fought with the tights that wanted to roll beneath my roll, still buttoned my sweater lower than I would have a year ago. But once I found tight cotton short-shorts to wear over the tights, I remembered the First Rule of...well, certainly not Fight Club. Aesthetics Club? They'll be staring at my ass, not my middle. And if that's embarrassing or whorish, in autumn it easy to forget how much less we wear to the beach in summer.
But here's the real deep-dark "secret" of it all: I like the attention. I like the sense of power. Not only was my costume an inside joke with myself, so was the reaction the costume produced. I got to be Holly Golightly and Mae West all at once, boys' sly remarks caught in their tied tongues.
When we're dressed up as someone else, we get to be ourselves. And for me, as I think for a lot of women, ourselves are a lot more sexual than we think we're supposed to admit. I think my ideal is a smile with just a shadow of smirk wrinkling my lip. Enough to remind myself I'm in control but no real malice.
I could have brought home one of the boys. Considered it. But once I'm reminded that even with my awkward and crazy and my gimpy migraine life, that I can still command a room, then I get to require basic things of a boy like intelligence, attractiveness, and giving a shit about me. Greedy? Perhaps. Thinking a whole fucking lot of myself just because I wore something slutty? Yes. But I'm hanging out with Ken on Tuesday and no matter how sexual I'm feeling, that's a much better option than random strangers.
Happy Halloween.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Ethics, Judgment, Fault: Conversations with my Mother
Yesterday I had a conversation with my mother about blogs and privacy and all of that.
When I write about my life, there are other people in it. What right do I have to publicize their secrets and stories? But I do have some right to my own happiness, and writing is how I process. And not to sound pretentious/conceited, but "Art" has a stake in this equation as well. The written work created effects far more people than those mentioned in it, and that is every bit as important as the process of its creation, for what good is the unaffected life?
My parents pick pick pick and criticize my (and everyone else's) every action. My own doubts in my mind sound in their voices, echoing back and forth conversations real to imagined and imagined to real.
I tried to be clear and strong to my mother yesterday that she, as a therapist, needs to insulate her privacy to the degree she sees fit, and that's her prerogative. If she wants to write books (as she has) and be findable on Facebook (as she does and is), those are all her decisions and her issues. I am a writer and not a therapist. I write under a pseudonym now, but my business is under my real name, I'm on Facebook, I am me and I am not afraid to share with the anonymous world or with people who might know me very well. I get to choose what I cloak about myself. If she is the therapist and the person trying to maintain privacy, she needs to be the one to put up the blocks and the barriers. It is literally her job, not mine.
When it comes to writing about other people in a public forum, I wrestle with it all the time. My instinct is to share it all as openly and honestly as I can, real names attached because then you know what I'm talking about and it's true and pure; anything I change or fabricate on purpose will be somehow less beautiful than the genuine article.
But I behave myself. I'm not actually the narcissist I often think I am. Maybe that's why I'm so bothered by my mom calling back today with her ominous "We need to talk. About the blog thing," that I know is just her dissatisfaction with my trying to put the responsibility on her instead of taking the burden on myself.
I have to decide what path to take when I call her back, because if I just listen and respond the conversation will be her telling me why I'm hurting other people by doing the one thing that means the most to me in the world, and it's my responsibility to protect her and myself and everyone else from her crazy stalking client because she (my mother) didn't foresee the professional conflicts of Facebook.
I get frustrated because I feel like everything is all about my mother except for judgment and blame.
When I write about my life, there are other people in it. What right do I have to publicize their secrets and stories? But I do have some right to my own happiness, and writing is how I process. And not to sound pretentious/conceited, but "Art" has a stake in this equation as well. The written work created effects far more people than those mentioned in it, and that is every bit as important as the process of its creation, for what good is the unaffected life?
My parents pick pick pick and criticize my (and everyone else's) every action. My own doubts in my mind sound in their voices, echoing back and forth conversations real to imagined and imagined to real.
I tried to be clear and strong to my mother yesterday that she, as a therapist, needs to insulate her privacy to the degree she sees fit, and that's her prerogative. If she wants to write books (as she has) and be findable on Facebook (as she does and is), those are all her decisions and her issues. I am a writer and not a therapist. I write under a pseudonym now, but my business is under my real name, I'm on Facebook, I am me and I am not afraid to share with the anonymous world or with people who might know me very well. I get to choose what I cloak about myself. If she is the therapist and the person trying to maintain privacy, she needs to be the one to put up the blocks and the barriers. It is literally her job, not mine.
When it comes to writing about other people in a public forum, I wrestle with it all the time. My instinct is to share it all as openly and honestly as I can, real names attached because then you know what I'm talking about and it's true and pure; anything I change or fabricate on purpose will be somehow less beautiful than the genuine article.
But I behave myself. I'm not actually the narcissist I often think I am. Maybe that's why I'm so bothered by my mom calling back today with her ominous "We need to talk. About the blog thing," that I know is just her dissatisfaction with my trying to put the responsibility on her instead of taking the burden on myself.
I have to decide what path to take when I call her back, because if I just listen and respond the conversation will be her telling me why I'm hurting other people by doing the one thing that means the most to me in the world, and it's my responsibility to protect her and myself and everyone else from her crazy stalking client because she (my mother) didn't foresee the professional conflicts of Facebook.
I get frustrated because I feel like everything is all about my mother except for judgment and blame.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Dual Citizenship
September, my head was so good. I had days and days of zero headache. Zero. And almost every day the pain was at least tolerable enough to function.
At first, I freaked out. I was so desperate to cram in everything I don't get to do when I'm a blob. I worked my tail off and felt like it wasn't good enough, like I wasn't getting enough done, like there was so much more to do and any moment I wasn't doing something visibly productive was a waste of my precious healthy time.
Then there were my friends. When the migraines are bad, I have trouble maintaining friendships. I have to cancel plans all the time and then we stop making plans. I can do things spontaneously, but few other people are available at my healthy whims. Then when we do get together, what do I have to talk about? My life is fairly limited, and if you don't find my present occupation or the ethereal and observational shit I like to spew interesting, I will bore you. Illness is incredibly isolating, and with a healthy dose of narcissism (I'm a writer, for fuck's sake), the Bad Days go by as all about me. My pain. My struggle. Pain is loud and makes me strongly aware of myself, everything else just background and things that might add or detract from pain. I'm like an infant, entirely corporal and needy. I kick and scream at pain, hunger, loneliness, frustration, and when these base things are quieted I marvel at my own two feet and the way light and color exist in and out of my dreams.
When September was good, I barely started relearning how to go out and be outside of myself, try to rediscover those friendships I care about. I went out to dinner with Possible Girl. I went back to the bar. I went to a party. Just getting my feet wet.
My neurologist says that my brain thinks pain is very important. We find something new to confuse it for as along as possible but it's trying to get back to the pain. When it finds it again, we go to something new. I like him better than the migraine clinic. The clinic is more aggressive, which was great short-term, but now that they've kind of blown their wad, he still has lots of ideas and worries about things like my long-term health and if my medications are killing my kidneys. But the point is, we'll keep working on finding things to trick my brain and keep getting chunks of time without pain. And each chunk of time I'm not in pain, I'll keep learning how to live a double life. And maybe I can take some of my this-is-just-how-it-is migraine-life acceptance into the bright places, and maybe I can take some of my human contacts and friends with me back into the dark.
Because October, thus far, sucked. I've gotten some good days. But more than half the days have been bad with some really bad. Today was particularly rotten with light and sound kicking my ass and logic evading me at every corner. When I curl up into myself, I want it to be about someone else for a change. I've had enough of me. I'm reading, looking for contact on the internet, but obviously it's not the same. I may call a friend tonight and deal with the pain of mechanised cell phone sound. Tell me a story of you.
At first, I freaked out. I was so desperate to cram in everything I don't get to do when I'm a blob. I worked my tail off and felt like it wasn't good enough, like I wasn't getting enough done, like there was so much more to do and any moment I wasn't doing something visibly productive was a waste of my precious healthy time.
Then there were my friends. When the migraines are bad, I have trouble maintaining friendships. I have to cancel plans all the time and then we stop making plans. I can do things spontaneously, but few other people are available at my healthy whims. Then when we do get together, what do I have to talk about? My life is fairly limited, and if you don't find my present occupation or the ethereal and observational shit I like to spew interesting, I will bore you. Illness is incredibly isolating, and with a healthy dose of narcissism (I'm a writer, for fuck's sake), the Bad Days go by as all about me. My pain. My struggle. Pain is loud and makes me strongly aware of myself, everything else just background and things that might add or detract from pain. I'm like an infant, entirely corporal and needy. I kick and scream at pain, hunger, loneliness, frustration, and when these base things are quieted I marvel at my own two feet and the way light and color exist in and out of my dreams.
When September was good, I barely started relearning how to go out and be outside of myself, try to rediscover those friendships I care about. I went out to dinner with Possible Girl. I went back to the bar. I went to a party. Just getting my feet wet.
My neurologist says that my brain thinks pain is very important. We find something new to confuse it for as along as possible but it's trying to get back to the pain. When it finds it again, we go to something new. I like him better than the migraine clinic. The clinic is more aggressive, which was great short-term, but now that they've kind of blown their wad, he still has lots of ideas and worries about things like my long-term health and if my medications are killing my kidneys. But the point is, we'll keep working on finding things to trick my brain and keep getting chunks of time without pain. And each chunk of time I'm not in pain, I'll keep learning how to live a double life. And maybe I can take some of my this-is-just-how-it-is migraine-life acceptance into the bright places, and maybe I can take some of my human contacts and friends with me back into the dark.
Because October, thus far, sucked. I've gotten some good days. But more than half the days have been bad with some really bad. Today was particularly rotten with light and sound kicking my ass and logic evading me at every corner. When I curl up into myself, I want it to be about someone else for a change. I've had enough of me. I'm reading, looking for contact on the internet, but obviously it's not the same. I may call a friend tonight and deal with the pain of mechanised cell phone sound. Tell me a story of you.
Monday, September 06, 2010
When I'm in pain, I feel like I can't get a grip on my life and the few things I can control I desperately cling to and force into storylines.
When I'm clear, I feel like I'm all hands and I don't know how to just live. I went out tonight and felt so sober and awkward, I didn't know how to just be. Nervous, out of balance, I wanted to scream. I could have gone home, but I stayed out. Mu usual signals to go home, like I get tired or start to feel the booze or people I'm talking to leave, just didn't exist. So hour after hour it was like I was waiting for the fun or the human connection or the sign that the world is beautiful. Instead, I finally spoke to the guy who had been sitting next to me and he was a magnified version of everything that was disgusting myself about my own awkward. He'd brought with him a sketch book, half a dozen artist pencils, pencil sharpener, and eraser but spent hours on the outline of a single cartoon-like character's head an 11-year-old could have drawn. His t-shirt tucked into his jeans belted high above the waist and the way his fat collected above his belt, in the seat of his pants, and in his face all added to the 11-year-old affect. I wasn't in much of a mood to give him a chance to redeem himself, but when the bartender said something about his drink also not containing alcohol, I asked why not.
"I just don't have much of a taste for it."
I asked why come to a bar then (he hadn't spoken a word to another human being since I'd sat down hours earlier).
"For the conversation. You don't get the social element at Hardees or McDonalds."
At this point he physically shifted forward waaay into my bubble. In as few sentences as possible I closed up my bag and escaped.
So is that me? Not even to middle school in my ability to interact with other people? And at the same time, I keep questioning what I'm doing with myself, letting my brain rot away, doing my sad bits of male scouting at a bar?
It's 2 AM, I'm still not tired. I'm going to go read. Like, a novel. I'm PMSed and on too many medications that make me want to climb walls and throw up angry things. Where's my fucking dog?
When I'm clear, I feel like I'm all hands and I don't know how to just live. I went out tonight and felt so sober and awkward, I didn't know how to just be. Nervous, out of balance, I wanted to scream. I could have gone home, but I stayed out. Mu usual signals to go home, like I get tired or start to feel the booze or people I'm talking to leave, just didn't exist. So hour after hour it was like I was waiting for the fun or the human connection or the sign that the world is beautiful. Instead, I finally spoke to the guy who had been sitting next to me and he was a magnified version of everything that was disgusting myself about my own awkward. He'd brought with him a sketch book, half a dozen artist pencils, pencil sharpener, and eraser but spent hours on the outline of a single cartoon-like character's head an 11-year-old could have drawn. His t-shirt tucked into his jeans belted high above the waist and the way his fat collected above his belt, in the seat of his pants, and in his face all added to the 11-year-old affect. I wasn't in much of a mood to give him a chance to redeem himself, but when the bartender said something about his drink also not containing alcohol, I asked why not.
"I just don't have much of a taste for it."
I asked why come to a bar then (he hadn't spoken a word to another human being since I'd sat down hours earlier).
"For the conversation. You don't get the social element at Hardees or McDonalds."
At this point he physically shifted forward waaay into my bubble. In as few sentences as possible I closed up my bag and escaped.
So is that me? Not even to middle school in my ability to interact with other people? And at the same time, I keep questioning what I'm doing with myself, letting my brain rot away, doing my sad bits of male scouting at a bar?
It's 2 AM, I'm still not tired. I'm going to go read. Like, a novel. I'm PMSed and on too many medications that make me want to climb walls and throw up angry things. Where's my fucking dog?
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