A Refusal to Be Vexed: Day 9

No head starts today.  I think I am almost there.  I don’t know.  I’ve got options for clothing for 3 and a half days like I was going on a 30-day cruise.  I’ve got all sorts of random things I somehow think my friends may be interested in.  I’ve been running madly for four days and now, now, I think I just need to hit this wall.

My font just changed for some reason I can’t determine.  It’s interesting.  Now that I know people are reading this – maybe people I care about, maybe not, I should be more motivated to speak broadly and boldly.  To write with verve and linguistic punch.  To speak of the project of self with power and hope and to pull all of us, collectively, out of the muck and mire that is this life with the piquancy of my wit, the sincerity of my vision.

But I’m fucking tired, y’all.  I don’t know what to say about that in a novel way.  You know what it is.  Everybody’s got sore shoulders from holding up the universe.

Tomorrow, tomorrow everything just relaxes.   And gets silly.   I hope so, anyway.  I’m looking up brunch places and hoping one of them won’t be so obnoxiously busy that we have to wait.

So let’s do this, my friends, as you may or may not know, these posts have to be five hundred words long.  I make the rules, unfortunately, and that one was carved into stone tablets long ago.  Let’s do the old game.

I am grateful for…my mother enduring her chemo so beautifully and keeping up her spirits and all the odd things that come with this – my father so earnestly telling me about the will, my sister taking it upon herself to supply my mother with cute caps now that her hair’s falling out – for the nice people at the treatment center that she so enjoys or at least fakes enjoying.  I’m grateful for the luxury of not having this an anvil in my heart right now.  I don’t know when that weight will fall, but I’m grateful that now for the moment, we can enjoy her spirit.  Her heart.  Her being her in the purest form.  She’s a good person.

I’m grateful that there is therapy tomorrow and some of the loose detritus floating about my brain pan will be filtered from my system and I’ll be set back in order again.  I’m grateful I had enough werewithal to put a few things in order and get what I think I need to m

I love the Black Phoenix Alchemy lab oils I’ve discovered hiding away even as I tore my place apart to pack.  I’m excited to wear them tomorrow, to wear jewelry, to have a nice,full face of jewelry on tomorrow.  I love that I don’t have to impress anyone, but I can try to impress myself.

Wouldn’t it be nice if I could stay calm and happy tomorrow and enjoy without trying to leave my head too much?  Wouldn’t it be grand?

The Track, The Rut, The Path


Things we do tonight:

Pack the bag for tomorrow – this will mean that there probably won’t be a post tomorrow now that I think of it.  I do want to get up early enough to hit the library to print my resume, just in case.

None of that is of particular importance to me right now.

I am looking back at tweets and posts and thoughts from two years ago, digging into the massive digital archive I have of my emotional wellbeing or lack thereof, and realizing that it was precisely two years ago that I gave my notice.  That it was precisely three years ago I started the writers group (which, despite my hiatus, is carrying on in my absence, which I love because that means I can bring a fabulous draft back to them when I am ready and present and attentive).  That it was about this time four years ago when the driving panic really set in.

There’s a moving forward and a pulling back and I don’t know what it all means, but I know, know, know, know that I need stability so that I can work on myself and never be consumed by my job again.  So that if there’s a Mumford show, it can’t sneak up on me and I have thoughts about whether or not I’m capable of enjoying it.  Whether or not I’m capable of experiencing it with anything other than this hairshirt distracting me from the joy that is my reality.

I am wildly frustrated at my boss.  She’s so wigged out about everything that she’s at the fully checked out stage.  Nothing is working so there’s just goofy ideas about cat cafes and…Nothing and I  find myself unable to carry the spear that will pop her and bring her down to earth.   There’s just constant bad news, we have to move from the massive, free-rent office space we have, and the few co-workers that remain are exhausted by this drama and being let down day after day.  It’s just not acceptable.  It’s daily regression.  It’s not fair after everything I’ve given up to see it work.

Here’s the trajectory I want.  New job, potentially at the place I am visiting tomorrow, though, it’s just talk.  The thing about whatever new job is that it will be steady, regular work for regular pay. This means I get my weekends back.  Evening and weekends, that’s time for writing.  Getting your hair cut on a regular basis, starting this whole exercise routine that improve my disposition.   Put this story to bed, start writing articles, doing little things that build my capacity to write fiction on a daily basis.  Really dig into my projects and eventually, eventually, write full-time at home.  Do that whilst being in mad love with someone.

That’s the glory I want, I am gunning for, I deserve without changing a hair on my stressed-out head.

And now, Sleepytime tea, no computer glare to wake me up, a good try at catching Queen Mab as she sails.

Before You Say No


I have felt what I would call depressed this past week.  Low-energy, depleted, deflated, self-abnegating, overwhelmed, trapped, thwarted, so thwarted, and scared out of my wits.  I am not sure that many people who have interacted with me would be able to tell, but I have.

It is this wet, heavy coat.  I have not taken it off, but I have let it fall off my shoulders for a bit.

I was surprised today.

It is a curious thing how as negative as you care to be, the world will sometimes extend an arm around you and gather you up if only for a moment in a gesture of warmth and caring.   Sometimes this happens just as you are realizing that there is a life beyond your panic, that you’re a sunny-side up girl at your core, that okay, eventually, you will get your teeth handled and eventually your neck won’t hurt and as spazzy as you are in this instant, you will be alright.

Sometimes this happens when your boss and mentor decides that the necklace you’ve put on layaway (the one you secretly think bears your soul in the facets of its vintage glass that can turn five colors when you hold it towards the light) should be yours.  Your boss/mentor and her husband who you adore and respect up and decide that you are doing a good job and you just deserve it.   You just get to have it.

I don’t know, precisely, how to deal with things like this.  My dad giving me money (which in turn lets me give money back to my sister that I owe her).   My other sister saying Let’s go to this show you love.  My mother making me lunch.  People doing these kind things that say that you have been on their minds.  You exist, if only as an idea, to them.  When you are away, they think about how to make you happy or happier.  This is odd to me.  The people I have love me, they just love me.  And that just is, but this is an act of love and support.  Makes me want to be a better person.  To be thoughtful for others.

In that vein, I put my writers group on hiatus.  It’s just not fair to show up there without really having shown up – without really doing the work that I’m asking everyone else to do.  To not be interested, to be around people who are less interested, it just becomes a drain.  I will see if the new year will find me in a better position to do it, but right now…I look at things like that in terms of gas money and just driving that far to hear one person’s fanfic is not something I am into right now.

It’s not in service of building me up.

I am thinking too big right now as far as that goes.  Right now, getting myself into the bath is as big as the dream is stretched.  That’s okay.

A Point In the Palm: Day Two Hundred Seventy-Five


A new post typed gingerly as my left hand is quite sore for some reason.

For a half-second, a half of a half of a half, I’m allowing myself a glimpse of life without this yoke.  I’m thinking about a time when I won’t work from home, trying to just put in 4 focused hours, end up putting in 10, half-distracted ones and feel no further ahead than when I started – when I won’t plot to somehow get to work at 6am (that is a completely impossible pipe dream) every day from here to the end to get everything done.

I think my therapist would say that I can only do what I can do.  It’s true, but my opinion on how much that is seems to vary moment to moment.   My faith shrinks (and grows – from time to time, but mostly, I find that it shrinks) and I wonder if I’m moving closer or further away from anything I really care about.

Autumn seems to be the time, if I go back and glance at the archives, when things start to arrange themselves in my mind, when I start to see my pattern for what it is – something I can stop at any time, not an addiction to purge, just a habit to alter.  A groove, a rut that can be sidestepped.  Plans start to come together in autumn.  I got my final hotel room for Boston and was able to save just a tiny bit of money on it.  Not enough so that I feel really great about the fact that I will check in, wash myself off, get something to eat, and I expect collapse into six hours sleep before getting up and getting to the airport to fly home.  I am also thinking about possibly taking a day trip to Pompeii, but, well, I don’t know if I will get back to Italy or not. The Trevi fountain trick has yet to convert me, so maybe it’s worth the money to run off and do it while I’m there.  I’m waiting for my friend’s feedback on that one.  We may be too drunk to move.  I don’t know! That’s the joy of it, I don’t know!

This is just a note of reminder, but I will not be posting while in Italy.  There’s just no way to haul the computer around.

I really feel that for the first time once the new job begins I will have the time and mental capacity to take care of my health. You heard it here first and it’s only on me to hold my feet to the fire and do it, but it’s thrilling to imagine being able to be at home and concentrate wholly on that without flicking back every hour to the anchors awaiting me in the morning.

To say that the short-term solution will no longer be necessary.  To ply the liniments, to lay on thickly all the salves, to cocoon all winter and emerge in the spring a new sort of creature.

Lost a Poesy Ring: Day Thirty-Seven

Oh, the thoughts whirling in my head.  I am well-pleased, well-pleased.  The weather is changing from today’s treacherous -9, to tomorrow, they expect it to be almost 40.  Warm enough to melt away the few questionable patches on the road and warm enough to begin to think again of spring, of summer, of the future.

The boss was out more than in again, and as I have been empowered in so many ways, and am not chained to the copier to print out nearly anything any more, I felt like I accomplished quite a bit.  I felt like I was interested in actually crossing things off the to-do list rather than worrying about its completeness before beginning.  Getting to listen to music as I worked helped me to destress and keep focused.  I actually walked out of there feeling better than I had in an age…hopeful, that if I could work at this pace, with having these weights lifted off of me, I could find an exit strategy.  That maybe this was my exit strategy unfolding in front of me.   I didn’t worry that the new boss didn’t come back when she said she would.  I didn’t worry that old boss might be waiting for her.  Those things were out of my control and my workday was done.

Now, it’s time to be back on the low-carb ball.    This is more and more critical, in the light of the reading, in the light of the fact that I am not so crunched in to the fetal position (at least today) and I’m not so overwhelmed (at least today) and in the fact that I look on OKC and find guys that I could like and everything’s matchy matchy and wouldn’t we like one another, isn’t he cute, I could maybe tolerate this guys face, and then the question, can overweight people be attractive and they answer no and I go, okay, well, mark that one off the list.  They can’t even try to be, apparently, for this guy.  Fuck me, of course, I can’t just choose you because you won’t choose me and I’m not going to stand on the firing line when all I want is a toe in the water. And it’s not just that I think I need to accommodate that one particular guy’s tragic inability to see beauty in all its variant forms, but because I can’t see it, either.  Apparently not when it comes to me.  I have an evil, hard, unfair double standard.   Aside from the whole body security/probably help the vertigo/I want to fucking do it to strike it from the list/because I want to feel pretty when I go to Italy.

Because late October of this very year, I am going to Italy.  It’s pretty official now.  I keep thinking that someone would stop me and say, hey, this is kind of weird or dangerous or not acceptable or not allowed.  And then, I wonder why I need someone to talk me down from all my best darings.  And it doesn’t matter at this point if they do, because there are parts of me that are completely fearless when it comes to this.  When it comes to travel, and I need right now to identify those parts and places and be there for a while.

Chickabiddy: Day Thirty-Three

Or is it thirty-four?  It must be thirty-four because there were thirty-one days in January. I will have to go back and edit in the correct numbers since we crossed over into February.  Anyway.  I was thinking on the ride home, the relatively calm, relatively controlled ride home that what I really wanted to talk about was titles today.  Less talk about them, actually, and more just generate a 500 word list of titles that I could foresee using for posts.  Sometimes picking out the title is my very favorite part, often, it is.  Somehow, every day, there’s something that catches in the net of my mind and is reeled in and picked out as intriguing or interesting, or fitting in some way to play off of the writing that follows.  Today’s just came to me unbidden, and I remembered Walk Two Moons, and the temporary building our classroom was set in that year and the teacher’s voice as she read that book to us.  It clung to me like a burr in a sweater.  Which is to say, forever.

I need to eat, I’m starting to be very unsure about what tomorrow will bring weather-wise and I’ll have to get gas in the morning.  Bratwurst or eggs and bacon?

…I’m sitting here and trying to explain to myself, yet again, that I am getting hyper about something that will happen whether or not I choose to get hyper about it.  It is no defense at all.  It does not keep one flake of snow from gathering on the ground.  It does increase my anxiety and fear so that it seems like the only logical solution is to avoid experiencing the petrifying possibility of losing control and dying on the road.  I keep thinking – is that what I’m afraid of happening – but that’s not even it, though it plays a role.  It’s more a fear of being in someone else’s way, of impacting someone else’ life, of not knowing the rules in every instance and in my ignorance causing an accident, or even down to just frustrating people around me.  I seem to be able to project my frustration and anxiousness out on the cars around me and then, via this ever-loving empathy, soak it right back in, double-time.  This is not new news, this is just me breathing through crazy.  Recognizing that I’ve been able to overcome this day after day, night after night, but the crop sprouts up anew.  I still feel like this is being done to hurt me.  A really ridiculous, self-centered thing to believe.

Maybe the smarter thing to say is I don’t like driving in the snow and it’s frustrating to have to do something I don’t like, but I can only do the best I can to handle my life requirements and often this means I will have to drive in and on and around snow.   And as I do it, I’ll feel better equipped.  Probably I’ll never like it.  Ever.  But life is not WonderBread, you get the hulls and the shells and you just have to use your tools to get around that.

So, yes, there’s that plus going to the psychic, all of which is doable.  It’s not like I’m not going to go.

Peachy Keen

I suppose it’s all going to have to be put down to bloggers’ prerogative that even though I am quite aware that I am emotionally hotwired right now and I really can’t handle the paranoid and depressing way I’m framing the events of the day, I’m going to post anyway.

I have to get this out of the way before I can deal with Calling In the One.

I am having one of those days when having a boyfriend would be, actually, really nice.  Nice when I have to go to events where every single person around the table is engaged to be married.  Nice when my little sister messages me with great news about her promotion and all I have more work, no raises, no health insurance, people throwing frantic and stupid at me all the time, expecting me to fix it.  Nice when I get the news that my uncle is having seizures.  Nice when I keep trying to eat and do the right things and always end up rolling backwards.

Sorry.  I know it doesn’t work like that.  I know that’s negativity leeching out of me and warping any slim potential chances I have of, y’know, seduction and allure and beaming out positive rays that somehow make people DTF.  I just haven’t felt this fucking sad in a long while.   This much of a fucking reality check.  So I need to vent before I curdle.

It starts with work just eating me alive, where I can’t even get away to eat lunch, but I do the best I can to eat the low-carb leftovers.  No, it starts with my weight going back up.  I know the answer is I need to work out or walk – it will make me feel better.  I just come home so tired.  These are excuses and I have to get past excuses.

I just was beginning to get a little clarity, a little bit of a grip, things where starting to clear up and they’ve gone all cloudy again and all the other forces in the universe have begun to re-assert their will over me.  I suppose I should be grateful that fate would even care to lift its thumb and catch me once more.

I didn’t screw up or capitulate as a result of all of this crap, which makes me happy.

CitO is writing about the way we emotionally invest in negative cycles.

I have to believe that same happiness my friends and acquaintances are able to achieve is accessible to me.  That I am not diminished, nor my quest, by the successes of others.  That however many hearts flung open cross my path, the only thing that matters is me being able to open my own.

And being there was a positive step.  Being with people my own age who were happy to see me was a good thing.  And I am happy for my sister.  And I had an instances of thinking maybe my face wasn’t so bad today.  And I tried to be open to ideas of love, I tried to think of Mr. Future caring about me instead of one character caring about another. I came home the most efficacious way I knew how.  I did my sit-ups.  It wasn’t all a loss even if I feel disappointed and worn out now.

She quotes Kierkegaard, “To cheat oneself out of love is the most terrible deception; it is an eternal loss for which there is no reparation, either in time or in eternity.”

I think I know this, inherently, which is why the light behind my eyes  is both cold and burning.