The Eke: Day 5

If you don’t do the things you say you’re going to do, there is no reasonable, logical, feasible way for you to end up the places you say you’re going to be.

I need to get a new mattress, because sleeping as I do, laying here as I do causes such a violent and terrible response, one that I am surely experiencing in my teeth as well, that I really lose functionality.  This is my day to get stuff done and I can’t fathom doing anything but laying there just on the softer edge of agony, waiting for something to physically kick me out of bed.  Reading about the state of the world is no great help, you just want to pull up more and more covers to quash all the noise of that.

So somehow, we’ve peeled ourselves out of bed, the bed/iron maiden, long after we ought to have emerged.  We’ve logged the mini-breakfast, but need to pour some water. A small thing, but I can feel myself shying away from it today.  I just want to be still and think my way around the headache rather than taking some aspirin, drinking a cup of the clear stuff and moving.

The haircut will help.  Force me to get up and put something of a face on and be in public.

Shortly, we will need to investigate lunch.  A house lunch, not a wandering out and spending too much on things we don’t know we are eating.  See, the magical mental shifts sometimes happen deep underground.

….

My hair smells like the oil from the pizza.  I ate it, but I ate it ensuring it was allotted and measured and I hardly ate anything else to let me eat it.  And I enjoyed it, so I suppose that’s how this is meant to work.  Still need to get some nutrients in with this method and damn if it wasn’t chock full of the sodium.  Things I would likely never choose to be aware of it was I wasn’t tracking. It should have told me I needed to bring some water with me to the show, but no, I didn’t realize until I got there, and it was BYOB how shitty an idea that was.

The concert was nice – a Sofar show where people are expected to, and largely do, be quiet while the performers are singing.  Got a couple new artists, one in particular who I enjoyed, and I know I enjoyed it because I started crying within ten seconds of her beginning her first song.   Totally like being beaten emotionally raw while I sat under a metal stool surrounded by man-bun sporting hipsters.

I antagonized my sister with my Leftist propaganda.  We took a picture I should hate but I’m too tired to care about it being shared online.  We discussed things and vented about the respective stalled out relationships in our lives.  We didn’t decide anything.  We didn’t do anything but be and for a while that felt pretty okay.

 

The Sapidity of Thou: Day 4

Well, water only gets you so far.  And a weirdo lunch does not always suffice when you’re looking down the wand length at a 5 hour D&D game.  So my thought is at this particular moment, we just go ahead and get something for lunch when I leave here and track it down to the screwiest last calorie.  Just to get myself good and proper full and then we don’t eat post 7.  Sounds doable.  Maybe.  I think there will be stuff floating about to eat, but I am at that stage of fog and clutching, desperate, disorganization where I can’t feel very much control.  So I don’t know.  I’m going to try and go to the store and find something feasible for my purposes.

When you’re hungry like this and distracted by worries and incomplete tasks, it is a huge fight not to let yourself just wild if you can just say it’s only for today.   It is a matter of some small account to realize that I at least kept the leash and kept going.  Paid attention to portion sizes and stopped when I intended to stop.  Even though that meant sitting with lots of barely touched things in bags while I talked to J about anything other than the things we need to talk about.  Mostly D&D.
Naturally, I go to the game and have a grand ol’ time.  There were only three of us. Well, two relatively tender men and then, the wounded, with the brazen, sometimes Falstaffian GM.  And me, oblivious to the arch, comic romantic attentions of some random NPC oarsman, given that fact that some tentacled, flying sorts of fish nearly killed me.
It does go to make me re-realize that so many things we don’t want to do – we kind of do want to do them.  We kind of do want to experience them and we can endure some low-level resistance internally to get there.  Lately, I’ve had to stop asking myself certain questions because I know what the answer will be and the answer will never be anything helpful.  It will be a verbal obstacle to the positive benefits of reality.  Don’t turn there.  Don’t stay here.  Don’t breathe the air around you.  Sometimes, we have to act in our own benefit because the rest of us doesn’t have a clue.
This did, however, make today’s paperwork and diet go a bit awry.   But only a bit.  I still cut the factory off at 7pm, but I did probably go over a bit in an attempt to correct a very strict and austere breakfast and lunch situation.  I wanted to be able to concentrate on the game, to not be offered pizza and be ravenous enough to eat it, and to not freak out about driving there at a weird time with a lot of things on my mind.  So many things I’d forgotten until many hours later that today is my mother’s chemo day.
Tomorrow, tomorrow we see her and complete paperwork.

A Coterie of Whirlygigs: Day 3

So many things going on.  Task upon task upon task.  I used to fear and crave this sort of life.  That my creative self would be broken upon its rocky shores, that my life could be pulled up out of its primordial ooze and spun into an elegant vase by the forces of just being busy.  Being full of purpose and absent of time to worry and suffer and build up anxiety within. Being a vessel void of anxiety seemed always like a good way to be.  Daydreaming of adult life as a girl, I always imagined silver cars up steep hills, making the hairpin turns out of a harried, glittering city, into the mountains, the highest mountain to some massive estate.  Sweeping into a room that overlooked the city skyline, a glass of wine in hand, silver stilettos tossed aside to clatter on the marble floor, I would collapse onto some white chaise longue, or even some simple kitchen table and I’d watch the sun set.  I would, I always imagined, feel safe and secure, fully funded, free, and yet, I always imagined myself entirely alone in those moments.

Here I am, grown-uppish, striving for something better for myself than an unhealthy future or capitulating to the belief that I can’t have anything just because that person driving those switchbacks to that hideaway mansion feels so far away from my hopes and dreams as they are today.  I’m actually counting the old calories.  I’m actually drinking water and not eating late into the evening.  I’m actually doing the things I’m asking of myself.  Weird. Who knows what this means?  Who knows what 365 days of this will bring? But it would be something.  It would be something.

So I am trying on the third day to continue.  Not perfect.  Teeth still irritated as hell and they’re begging for help and the best I can mentally say to them is that there is an appointment and it’s 12 days away and unless there’s blood or things falling outta my head, that’s what it is.  I wish they’d call and let me know, I’d love to not have this impede my fun this weekend and next, but I can only do what I can do.  I am just human.  Sorry, gums.  Sorry, I lived a life of dental fear and immoral and indecent dental behaviors, but I can’t undo it now except by being brave and calling…which I did.

So J.  So that talk that seems ongoing and strained and strange.  I mean, suddenly, there’s a slew of compliments…good ones, meaningful ones that only come from someone who’s actually paid genuine attention to you.  But I’ve haven’t been able to say the parts of this that are the hard parts.  The…thank you, but you need to know that if we don’t move on from the nebulous nature of this…that the pull to figure out how to be with someone here, someone local, is going to just get stronger.  It’s going to just be harder to bear and I don’t want us to suffer through that, suffer worse if it comes as a surprise to either of us when we don’t want to suffer anymore.  Not being able to properly call a thing a thing is its own sort of pain.

When I say “Oh, I don’t know” what I mean is, I know exactly, but it would hurt you so I won’t say it.  That’s a deeply disappointing thought.

No disappointment.  We’re on target. We’re on track.

Campestral

Fascinating how the presence of a single word – a word altogether new to me, a word I can’t recall ever having seen written anywhere before just now – can thrill me and change my mood so entirely that I can’t even imagine naming this post what my first impulse was:  The Drop-Off.  Campestral is much prettier, suddenly I’m painting in mental greens and everything is English and brookside and summery and far away from an icy mountain at which I’m flailing about at its bottom.

Day 2 is always hard after a generally good Day 1.  This is why all these business coaches started writing about what happens after you have a great start or launch in your company.  How do you do more better at the same time maintaining and not slipping from where you were? (These are my references these days, sorry, it’s all Blue Ocean Strategy from this point on.)  All of which is compounded by the fact that this whole rig is piloted by me, a girl, a lady who generally forgets to come in out the rain.  I have so much hopes and energy and sometimes there’s just reach way exceeding grasp.  Doesn’t mean it’s not a good idea or a good plan.  I just need a breath to make sure that everything breakable stays on the cart I’m careening around.

I cooked food last night that was good.  I tracked it and was exorbitantly pleased with myself for my organizing and following the materials I’d put together to help me and check, check, check, day 1 in the can, suddenly, I’m going to be slender.  Not precisely?  But close enough.  Then I wake up this morning with a blistering headache and feeling like I’d been running through fields of molasses all night and I come to the kitchen to collect my perfectly portioned brussel sprouts and delicious butternut squash and parmesan ravioli and fuck me if they aren’t sitting there in their containers waiting to be put away like I promised I would last night.  DAMN, I was pissed.  Well, I was as irritated as I get these days about it.  Day 2! The glorious triumph, crushed.  Then, everything felt pear-shaped and slow and if anyone at work cared where I was or wasn’t, it might have
Still, we do some important things.  I called a new dentist and have an appointment in two weeks and I even went so far as to ask to be put on the waitlist.  Bit irritated that I’d have to feel this shittiness while I’m on vacation, but I needed to do something and as my therapist says, this is hard for you, so it’s great when you find the strength to try.  So, yeah, I’m a bit proud of that.
I also had a challenge today to work on an old story.  Still going to try and pull it out if I can.  Only so much in a day, but I’m feeling far more positive now that I’ve eaten and I’m locked down into not eating again until morning – nothing to prowl for.
I need the time back, to write and read and put away dishes, so off I go, but thank you, day 2, for linking me to the future where I’ve done this.  For pushing me out, safe and secure, into the impossible dream.

Your Favorite Cliche: Day 1

Well, here I am.  Day one of 2019.  Locked and loaded.  Imperfect in my plans and desires but missing you all dreadfully.  Every one of you my favorite voice in the Void.  Me not writing last year had reasons, I suppose, but none of them ever seemed very reasonable.  I just didn’t want to deal and I see now, the results of not dealing.  You gain weight.  You stress out.  You lose hair.  Your gums ache.  Your heart is powdered.  You exist but only on the terms of the unforgiving universe.

I would like to think we can do better than that.

So here at the start of the year, I’m not afraid of a useless five hundred a day.  I’m not afraid of repetitive posts, of a whining, broken record telling me the same hopes and draining me of the same fears three hundred and sixty-five times in a row.  Because somewhere in all of my nonsense, there are granules of the good stuff.  Clarity and freedom and mental security where I know what I want because it’s on virtual paper.

I have grand plans for 2019 and I’m not afraid of that, either.  I’m not afraid of the piping, shrill, nasal inner voice that indicates “She always has plans! And all of them go to shit!”  Sure, dear critic, I have plans and want things, things that my circumstances do not warrant, things I am not trained or prepared for, things that I don’t have any way of getting – especially, when I refuse to acknowledge that I want them.  I’m human.  It’s okay.

And I’ve done work in 2018 to clear some paths.  I’m in therapy again.  I’ve got every kind of tracker imaginable and I’m joining boards and teams and taking before shots and measuring myself the way it’s suggested so I have that baseline.  I’m not making any decisions on doing low-carb until after my birthday.  I’m going to try and practice careful tracking and exercise and loosely reducing sugar and starch in the meantime, but I know that I am going to hit those dates and judge myself based on my behavior and I want to give myself the best chance I have.   My friends are coming in a few days – 10 days – and I care more about figuring out some supportive habits that I can keep going through that than showing everyone I can be perfect.  When nobody knows what I think perfect is anyway, nobody cares in that regard at all.  I have what I need to do mapped out.  I have things beyond just dieting and exercise that are important to me to get back into and they’re a part of this movement forward.  I am here.  I will be here, writing my shit out instead of leaving it somewhere lost in a fog in my brain.

J.  Well, there, at least I can say that I am growing myself up.  We had an adult conversation that didn’t go superlatively well.   I cried a lot. He said I was wonderful, marvelous, all the things any girl would like to hear.  But wouldn’t commit to the fact that we’re single, only to say that he is not in any position to meet anyone.  He doesn’t want things to change.  I don’t want things to change, but I know that they have to – I know that I have to have his understanding that I need a person in my life who is here.  The therapist kept reiterating that’s what I need and at first, I felt frustrated, thinking that was something she thought I needed.  But I can’t live a thousand years on a string.  I’ve lived so long that way and it’s what I know, but it isn’t fair.  It isn’t enough.

So that’s going to be a place where work has to be done.

But not today.  Not everything today.  Today is showing up.  Cheering myself for showing up instead of being down and dire about another restart.  Let’s have a lifetime of restarts and caring for myself enough to give a shit about not letting myself go to shit.  Let’s have a lifetime of being a dork about it.  Let’s be cliches, baby!

Garfield Run

I love this place, so how could I let it burn?

I’ve been having reactions to the world that this nervous anxiety that is flaring up is telling me I can’t share.  This has been my life for always.  I intuit a reality that is personally terrifying, I shut up about it, just let shame force up a smile, let a face show focus.

I’m thinking about things that I have opinions about because I am alive and an individual and sometimes these things and opinions are out of line with my own circumstances.

It’s the high-dive.  Where I wait, standing on the edge of the edge, up over the sea of light and ruin.  They said doing the thing was where the magic was, nowhere else, and still I stood, blankly.  Another woman at the office is leaving after just two nights ago we had a big party to say goodbye to another, when not two days ago I had to sneak away the computer of another while they told him and five others in some office not to come back.  I am not existing in a vacuum.  Then the nice, but not particularly warm woman announces, casually that she’s pregnant, that she, at my age, is having a “geriatric pregnancy.”  Suddenly, the PMS throttles and sends me down some sort of biological clock luge.  Suddenly, I feel perhaps the burst of energy to get me to jump from this place into anything, anyone, anyway, but I look down and the sea is a sea of knives.  I look up and the birds that begin to swarm, knives, too.

I write this and know that there’s no place to go, but yet, maybe.  Maybe in the surreal world we share, I could fall and make it.  One hit point left. And if not make it, have the victory of having escaped the question.  Will I ever? Ever, never, ever?

This sounds darker than it is. But it isn’t not a cheerful prospect. It is factual in a way no one deigns to speak with me.

I called yesterday to see again about some therapy, some venting of the spleen and heart, easing of these sparklers I call a nervous system.

Could I make a plan to divest myself of circumstances that pain me within one year?  Could I delve deeply into these ideas of perfection, imperfection, motherhood, being loved, being feminine, having ownership of my own vessel again?  Could I go into the painful places rather than pretending I have none?  Could I be honest about the fact that all of this is my choice and nothing that is happening to me or owed me by any other entity in all the wide universes? One year can be remarkable in terms of habit, in terms of total output, but I have no reason to believe myself capable of doing much more than finding my way back into bed after breakfast.  I don’t know how to make this plan.

But I at least want to make one.  I don’t know how to get out of the January Trap, but I at least want to.   I don’t know how to jump or climb, but I at least am blinking in Morse code to the versions of self, the Astrids, the engaged and alive and writing parts of myself, that I’m here and I want help.