The Rocket Book: Day Seventeen

It may be time for some midnight – or at least late night – oatmeal.  Or maybe not.  It might just be a better idea to leave that for the morning when all the excitement returns.  We’re going to see a friend and her new baby tomorrow so rest and avoiding making a mess of myself just for the sake of impulse  tonight so close to bedtime is probably inadvisable.

It is Friday night and I am calmer than I have been in a good while, ironic, after a Starbucks-related run of anxiety marring an otherwise peaceful day.

It is a day with a bit of a lip, a bit of an overlook, an aerie from which we have a small sense of perspective.

I am going to be okay.    I hope and think it’s actually pretty likely that you will be okay, too.

I decided to wear high heels today.  I did this because they were a perfect brown to wear with the skirt that I decided to take off the hanger and try despite the fact that it’s a size too small and still bears its tags from when my mother bought it for me more than a year ago.   For some reason, I try it today and find it fits just fine.  I also had a green sweater and tights and may or may not have looked like hipster G.I. Jane, the college years.   This is of note because I am terrible about wearing high heels.  My gait becomes like a newborn giraffe’s, all tentative and akimbo.  So loaded on Starbucks, I drive the three minute trek to one of committee members’ house, and clomp across the street in these mostly kitten heels.  Here,amongst the shotguns mounted on the wall and the wood paneling (the home was quite beautiful, just very indicative of the owners’ political persuasions) we discussed business pretty heavily, the needs of the market and our plans for discussing with new boss.  Then, there was wine I could only sip after realizing how terrible wine tastes as chaser for a frappuccino, with notes of battery acid and cumin, and some actually delicious pozole that my stomach also turned on halfway through.   As all of that settled, and some sort of frosting stuffed bundt cake appeared that I didn’t not even begin to contemplate, discussion turned to light, comfortable venting and I spoke my mind, graciously, and found them all supportive and understanding of my lot.  It was nice, even as the caffeine about ruined my ability to handle sitting still and breathing, to feel so liked and social and a part of something.  To have a role that I understood.  Finally, we said goodnight and I made my foolish, awkward way back to my car and while the nerves ran and caterwauled through me, I think it’s a bit obvious that I made it home in one piece.

So, my bed and my sense is calling me.  Time to give Queen Mab her due, and submit to Somnus.

 

Chatoyance: Day Thirteen

 

There are no five paragraph essays to be had this evening.  I am evolving towards health.  I am not there yet, and am enjoying today’s new symptom: cotton mouth.  The coughing has been in ragey spurts, mostly this morning and it comes, it’s stressful as hell, but I’ve been able to breathe most of the day and haven’t upset too many people by sharing their space while being less than in the finest of fettles.

 

I have been, though I think it is quite easy to forget, well before and will be again.  At least now, I’ve got the advantage of a week and a half of curative experience and have the humidifier back on after finding it burdensome to setup last night.  But I like the nightlight and the subtle bubbling sound it is making. A very nice sort of white noise.  I have a cup of decaf chai.  When we’ve settled this daily debt here, I may find it doable to watch Austenland.  Not sure if my mood is up for muslin and swoonery.   I have you, of course, me hearties, and I have the day that has been.  And in that day I got the three big must do things done – the books which seemed to go too smoothly and I’m willing myself to get up early enough to account for proper drainage time so that I have a moment to review things before I send them off willy-nily.  Aside from the books, I got the Monday email out.  It does make me look forward to the new boss being in place so that we don’t have to generate content that the old boss used to.   I also got the oodles of event tasks the old boss was unexpectedly frantic about having done early done.  All between gasping for breath and pondering who the young man working for the tenant upstairs might be.   It doesn’t matter, of course, but I am curious to know who he is and where in the grand scheme of things he belongs.

This sick spell has not clamped off my appetites, I can tell you that.  Not of any stripe.

Idle fancy.  I think it is a sign of recovery.  It’s always healthier to think of things outside of yourself, especially if you find yourself falling victim to the most vile solipsism.  You are just one egg in a vast chicken coop and it’s time to start pecking your way into the light and the warmth of your fellow poultry.

Okay, there’s a lovely metaphor that needs to stop.

While the above sort of covers the general question I’ve been asking myself lately – essentially, you could read it as Stevie doing the Heather Smalls’ voice in Miranda and singing  “What have you done today to make you feel proud?”  I also drove through my continuing grumpiness about night driving.   I’m trying to get to the nut of the illogic and have that be as powerful as my sense of nebulous, impending doom.  All I can do is do it.   That’s all we can do.

 

 

 

 

 

The Tarantella: Day Twelve

Helen, put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea.

Tea, which I have much maligned throughout my life for its inferior nature in comparison to coffee which just tastes delicious (when altered completely with fakey sugar and fakey creamer), has gotten me through this section of the ongoing, neverending, cold which desires to take over my life.   I’m about to make myself a pre-sleep cup.  I’ve found that I don’t hate the stuff.  If I’ll drink it beyond this horrendous stint of snot and spit and hacking gasps for air to relieve my itchy lungs, I can’t say, but I do know it’s kept me from murder in the past ten days.

Things I did today which made my life better, freer, healthier, and altogether more saleable:  once we realized that there was no possible way for my car to materialize here at home when we’d left it after the party on Friday night down by my work, we went down and got it.   And I kilt another bird with that stone and grabbed a bunch of loose-leaf work that needed my fingers on them, and since I didn’t heal up and spend eight hours of my weekend working, I would at least help organize myself for tomorrow morning so I can get through the time-consuming tasks I’ve got on the docket.    Driving home during the reduced traffic was also a good brief reminder of the instances in which I like driving.   Then, I did more laundry and with the family watched the Broncos win.  I’m thankful for that not just as a dyed-in-the-wool fair weather fan, but I know it will be just one more reason for people to be grumpy tomorrow and I will have to survive everyone’s moods and tantrums and there would have definitely been some if the Chargers found some way to make it happen.  Then, everyone left, my parents went to bed and I ate a hot toasted bagel, some guacamole, folded my clothes and went through the paperwork I brought home and separated it into things I needed to do and things to file and while that isn’t really all I might have done (I am trying to find a productivity app to replace Astrid and still haven’t found one that really feels comfortable and exciting to use.), it at least gives me a feeling of not having to dive into the deep end on Monday morning.

So, yeah, not so much on the food and exercise tack, but I at least feel like I don’t want to stab and murder or put my shoulders in my ears and assume a defensive posture.  It’s the last three days of the boss ever.  Like ever.  I feel like surely he must just be going on vacation.

Ugh, truth.  These are the things that are coming to change me whether or not I’m ready.  And frankly, I am ready for a change.  I am ready for some more unknowns dancing the tarantella around my head, ready for some happy insecurity, some giddy risk.

Fernside: Day Eleven

The girl continues to not die, and not entirely be well.  However, I was incredibly well looked after today and I feel I have a certain amount of life in my eyes once again. So I actually slept without my neck hurting, with a humidifier, with hot tea running down my gooey throat.  My mother full-on mothered me and my father and sister made sure I was covered up, slurping soup and watching the football games.

We argued about where to put the Vicks vaporub and decided “below the holes,” though I will be testing out the theory that it will stop the coughing if you put it on the bottom of your feet before you go to bed.  We also laughed excessively, ate buffalo wings, and found that by not fighting the sickness, it seemed to abate.   I’m back at my house now and I am feeling less confident about being able to push all this gunk to the side and prevail, but I’m not miserable as we watch Return of the King.  I will take it.

I am beginning to feel that I have to start thinking about being active as I begin ever so slightly to actually  and being well and that perhaps, this is my moment of retrograde, that I’ve been given this time to think if I so chose and up till now, I’ve just been so much about the discomfort and the sense that I needed to be somewhere else, doing something else other than recovering, that time was of the essence.

Another thing I spoke to the therapist about on Thursday was that expectation that I’d get off on the first of the year with all of these life changes and suddenly have the sort of grace and perfect way to finally make it work despite the distractions of getting a new boss and having all of these events, these carb-eriffic food-based events, that dot the first three weeks of January.  I always plan for transcendence and then always take the failure to transcend as evidence of my inability to change even the slightest bit.  So, yeah, that’s no longer in the cards for a 2014 365 day charge of perfection and I think the therapist was a bit bemused at how seriously I had hoped for that, how much reliance I have on the beneficence of the hour, that the auguries are set, the stars in alightment.  When, I can start whenever I feel up to starting, when I can do as much as I wanted to.  When I can get going without any rules or outline aside from be healthier and question if I can’t go a better way than the debilitating habits I have.

That’s what I’m thinking about tonight.  Between gagging coughs.

I am lucky, I am thinking, too, to not be alone as I feel unwell.  That, I am sure, would be so much more frightening and lonesome.    And I have good bits to hang onto, look forward to, so we go to bed again with hope.

 

 

 

Eurynome: Day Ten

While I have the werewithal, I should start this post.  I am actually, no jinxies, feeling like my airway is starting to clear.  Still coughing to beat the band, and as I am compelled to work out this cold, irritable piece of phlegm that is hanging there at the back of the throat, I’m fine with that.  More sense of maybe I’m getting better, maybe I’m not, but at least it’s a different feeling yet again.  More optimism that sleep will take hold and do some repair work.

I saw my friend, got a hug, and pretty much stayed the hell away from him after discovering that after 5 or six words in succession I would start hacking all over the place and it was not a good look.   He looked kind and Tom Mison-like, in his own, Woody Allen sort of way.   If I’d have been well, I don’t think the story would have been so very different, but I’m working on changing the possibilities.  Once I got this little bump in the road sorted out of the way.

Shit, I just want to finish this up and yet again, my mind has gone completely blank.  My boss’ party was nice, chock full of people who had good memories of him and everyone stayed relatively calm unless I just missed the flare-ups because I was hiding in my office most of the day. God, I can only focus on the attempt and failure to swallowing this down my throat.

Maybe for a moment there’s nothing current to be said.  Maybe there’s just a quiet in my head that needs to be nourished and not agitated.  Warm milk to engender a sleepy head.  Maybe there’s no reason to find myself spinning within the framework of this body.   It just has to heal.  Everything just has to pass through the time limits and we can think of beautiful things like the silver butterfly pin that my aunt gave me, my deep blue guitar blinking at me, the sunset in the print from the festival in 2007, inching towards a greater destiny, the end of Parks and Recreation in Paris with Ben and Leslie, the sweet little kitten at the end of the bed.  Hope of a healthier tomorrow than I had today.

Things I did today that will improve my lot, make me a better person, get me healthier, increase my eudaimonia, freedom, vigor.
I rested, even at work, even though I should have tried to find some way to stick my nose to the grindstone, my stuffy, mucus filled snout.  I was just going through hell and I took care of myself first rather than worrying about how the perception of it would appear to anyone else.  Drank tea and took my Vitamin C capsule.  Did not eat cake despite big blocks of it being on offer.   I wrote a boring and uneventful post because I promised I would.   I went to bed and let myself sleep through all of this misery going on above my neck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enough Already: Day Nine

Ca suffit! This is the answer I want to give and yet, I know there is a lot to say today.  Mostly because any time I go to therapy, it brings up just oodles of fun things to rehash and deal with here.

So first of those things first, I am still sick.  I am wondering/worrying if I have a fever (I think I do and it is totally wigging me out) though I went to the store this morning (after calling in that I would be late again…because I do wake up just feeling like my head is full of unholy cheese sauce and my taste buds are coated in gunk and I just want to shout for help because it feels so wrong and not good.) I feel unnerved about the whole thing.  So yes, I put makeup on my face and felt like my eyes weren’t entirely fried and dead looking, I also bought fresh medicine and soup and bagels and I went to my parents house just to have someone look at me and verify I was not  actually about to die.  And just being there gave me a certain sense of solace.  So I did feel well enough to drive to town and go to therapy.

And therapy started uneventfully.  Lots of just checking in on different life areas, talking in general about being sick.  Eventually, though, we talked about my anxiety levels and driving and sort of ended up epiphanizing about what I guess I termed my cul-de-sac of crazy where I stop every now and then and life just goes on by me.  And she talked about how we’d sort of spent the past year or so really checking on and working on my ability to cope and now I was starting to clue in on some of actual irrationalities that govern my life and the thing I told myself I was never ever going to do at therapy got blurted out.  I said I knew I should go to the doctor, and get a better sense of maybe what’s going on blood sugar-wise and what some of the things going on with my body might have to do with some of the things that are going on in my mind. I said I also knew that this gave me a huge amount of anxiety to even consider and that I really preferred not to know and I must have had such a face of aghast fear that she said we didn’t even have to go there and I…stopped her and said that I thought it was important that we did.  I thought it was important for me.  I thought I didn’t want to have that fear.  So afterwards, once I started coughing again and worrying again for my life, I emailed my dad and sister and asked for their help and I have a couple recommendations and supposing that no one lets me forget,  that is happening.  A physical.  Ugh.  Fuck.  So not what I was planning for today.  Also, my boss’ wife got rear-ended and I am completely unaligned with space and time right now

 

Aurica: Day Eight

Five hundred words, oh my baby Jesus, how are we going to pull this off when I am practically blind with my sick, watery eyes?

I figure if I just write one line at a time, they are each about twenty-five words and then it would just be twenty lines and I’d be done.

Twenty lines can’t possibly be that difficult to do especially when I’ve had an eventful day watching documentaries about Lipizzaner dressage horses.

Once I wrap these up, I’m dosing myself up again when the medicine I forewent due to the bloody noses, and hoping it zaps these awful remnants.

I did make it to my early morning meeting, but was an obvious headcase.  Then, attack of the crimson tide, the fire hydrant of blood, where more than

could possibly be in my head came out of my nose in a great bloodsnot rush which convinced me to maybe go home and take this seriously.  I slept the

tiniest amount at a terrible angle, trying to watch Law and Order: Criminal Intent and call that resting, which it isn’t.  Then I ate poorly, stared around at

the mess of the house with an altogether obliterating sense of disease and despair whilst reading worried emails from my father which is absolutely the

worst thing I could ever do because it sets off all sorts of hypochondriacal ideas in my head when what I need to is get some non-expired medicine,

take it and go to sleep. This probably would also take less time if I stopped worrying about the  lines and just got typing because I don’t think my eyes or my itchy, mucus-filled nose give one damn about formatting.  Yes, we are halfway to Graceland.  I want to be thinking about nice things like going to Italy and my birthday and hell, even this thing on Friday with the old friend and my mind just can’t get over the discomfort I feel.  I’m mad at myself for even having gotten sick because it has really screwed u my drive to do anything, especially my work and I’m blaming myself and becoming frustrated instead of sensible adult stuff like making sure I am resting and drinking water and taking the time off to see that I can actually recover.  I just am so antsy that there’s so many places that need my attention and I can’t focus for shit on anything.  This has been rough tonight, well, obviously, and I am, yet again, homing this plan will give me a clear morning with energy and strength to start fresh.  I have therapy tomorrow and all of a sudden I feel like I have a rash of issues to talk with her and my throat doesn’t want me to use it.  I probably shouldn’t go anywhere, but I just keep hoping I will wake up and be okay.  And then freaking out that somehow this is the new paradigm, mostly because I don’t do doctors and that, too, is one of the issues.

Okay.  Enough.

Things I did today to make myself a better person: did not cry when I pulled 2000 feet of blood snot out of my face.