Fuck you, Mercury retrograde.

I decided yesterday that today would be a productive day regardless of whatever shenanigans the Universe threw at me. And there have been some shenanigans. I woke feeling like I'd been hit by a bus, but this isn't unusual for me. I still count the fact that I was out of bed and dressed before noon to be an accomplishment. I took out the trash and did the dishes, and then headed to the coffee house. It was raining just hard enough to soak through my jacket in the time it took me to walk the mile between my house and Travonna. I narrowly missed being covered in mud by a passing dump truck.

When I got here, the Internet was down, but lucky me, I have the Internets in my phone, so I can connect through there... usually. Even that didn't work, at first, but I had things to do in Photoshop, which doesn't require the 'Net, and eventually it got fixed in time for me to upload the stuff I needed to. Now I have the beginnings of a business website, Lokabrenna Graphics, through which I hope to make a little scratch by designing logos and web graphics. Point being, it was a productive day. I did everything I planned on doing despite all the shenanigans.

These are good days. When I can get up and power through the pain, the anxiety, the weather and the mental blocks, I feel empowered. I thank the gods for days like this. I thank myself for days like this. I need more days like this, please and thank you.

My husband, on the other hand, is not doing too well right now. He has been buckling under the stress of work lately, and the medical bills are piling up and stressing both of us out. He has a second MRI scheduled for Friday. This time, we're only responsible for $200, as opposed to $2000, but it's still quite a strain. He thought he was doing the right thing signing up for the HSA in January, but it's ended up costing us several limbs rather than saving us any money. (Actually, I really wish he had talked to me before making that decision, because I could have told him that this plan is not practical unless you're fairly healthy to start out with.) But what's done is done. We aren't starving, we aren't shutting off the phones or the Internet or getting rid of cable. It just means a little less "fun stuff" for us. The thing that sucks is that sometimes, that "fun stuff" is what keeps us going in times of stress.

These are problems that all couples face. Though we have an amazingly mature relationship for only having been together less than three years, we're hardly experts at handling this yet. A lot of times, partners blame each other, but Matt and I tend to trade-off blaming ourselves, and that's really not any healthier. Despite our tendencies to self-flagellate, we do try hard to hold each other up. We say reassuring things to each other. I think I am afraid sometimes that he thinks I'm "just saying that to make him feel better," and that he's "just saying that to make me feel better." It's such a clusterfuck. I hate it. I really just want the cycle to stop and for both of us to say, "Fuck this shit! It sucks, but dammit, we're awesome and we'll get through it." I still treasure each moment Matt and I spend together, even if it's just sitting on the couch watching TV. We're in a rut right now, but I know things will get better. They always do.

I pray for more good days for me and Matt. We deserve it. We've earned it.

Fringe science.

Vanishing twin syndrome. It's a documented medical condition in which one twin is resorbed entirely, sometimes very early in the pregnancy. Various dubious sources suggest that left-handed people are more likely than right-handers to have been twins in the womb. I am sceptical of the theory because it seems, like so many fringey ideas, to have been appropriated by charlatans who prey on people's insecurities in order to make money. One site claims that surviving twins have severe emotional difficulties into adulthood, including gender identity issues and eating disorders. The desired reaction, of course, is for sufferers of these maladies to say, "Oh! This explains EVERYTHING!" and buy the guy's book. Well, fuck that.

But what if it's true? For me, I mean. It's as good an explanation as any, isn't it? Not an explanation for "everything," not some conveniently beyond-my-control tragedy to blame all of my troubles and shortcomings on, but... it at least makes some sort of sense in terms of my inner-child work. And any explanation brings comfort. Can it be proven by science? No, of course not... but then again, neither can any part of my spirituality, and spirituality is an integral part of who I am.

So perhaps this boy-who-never-was really was, and now some part of him still remains with me, though his spirit dwells elsewhere. Of course I was closer to him when I was a child. Young children, I believe, are closer to the spiritual realm when they are born, and our souls get more and more tethered to this world as we grow older.

It's something to think about, to come to terms with and accept. It is not something to dwell on. I have to take care of the little girl. She is the one who hurts. The boy never really knew pain, and is quite beyond it now.

Flying/falling

I made it to the coffee house, but I'm feeling very "blah" and unmotivated. I should do some art, but since it's just not flowing right now, I figured I'd write instead. If nothing else, I can write... right? Even if it's just to bitch about my fibro-fog, my anxiety and my lack of motivation.

Trying to remember the dreams I had last night. I think one of them was about flying, or possibly sky-diving. I know I was in the air. I had sort of a satellite-view of the landscape, looking down, with the ground getting progressively closer. I'd hit terminal velocity, so it felt like I wasn't actually moving at all, like I was stationary but being held up by a strong wind. I knew the ground was coming, though, and that I didn't have a parachute. I didn't hit the ground this time like I have in the past. That's about all I can remember.

Flying/falling dreams are common for me. Sometimes while I'm falling, I say, "fuck this, I'm not going to smash into a million pieces or get sucked into that black hole or whatever," and I fly instead. Then again, sometimes while I'm flying, I crash despite my best effort. I'm never hurt too badly, though. It's never as bad as I think it's going to be, when I first lose my feet. Am I afraid of falling? Most definitely. Am I afraid to fly? Yes, but only because it brings with it the possibility of falling. I know, same difference, right? Except it's not. Fear of flying is fear of myself, of my own inadequacies. Fear of falling is fear of things I can't control getting the better of me, getting the upper hand.

Last night's dream was a little different. I think I knew I was falling, but I didn't care, and I was enjoying the ride. Maybe somehow I remembered that I'd always be okay no matter how far I fall. Forgiveness? Vindication? Is that what I need? From whom?

FWOOSH! Wait... how did I get here, again?

Waking up is weird. No matter how much sleep I get, I almost always have a moment of panic when I wake. "Where am I? What happened?" Sometimes my brain actually rearranges the room so that it looks like somewhere I have been before. My mother's house, my dorm at Kent State, my ex's place, the last house I lived in. It's really quite remarkable. During that second or so, I am actually "seeing" my past. Most of the time, it's unpleasant, but there are times when I kind of wish I could go back, like I want a re-do. "I studied for that test I failed! Can I turn in the corrections for half-credit?"

Of course, I know that this is silly, because I am who I am for reasons.

Meh. Everything is just a little bit too much today. The lights are too loud and the sounds are too bright. At least it's a little bit warmer. I really should draw. I also really wish there were fewer people making less noise at the coffee house today. Usually it's so quiet on a Monday afternoon. Damn you, Presidents' Day.

A case of the Februaries

I explained a couple of entries ago one of the biggest reasons why I hate February. Aside from the anniversary reaction I described, there is probably something of a seasonal affective component. I have lived most of my life in Ohio, and Ohio Februaries are typically a big bowl of nasty with a side of dirty slush. My usual mood swings are further exacerbated by the ups and downs in the weather. Even though bright sunlight gives me migraines, I find myself craving the warmth of the sun on my back. The cold makes every joint ache and creak.I have learned to love the snow again in late November, December and January, but it's in the drear depths of February that I usually hit my limit. Yep. That's it. I'm done with winter. I want to smell the earth, feel the warm rain on my skin, revel in the rolling thunder of a Spring storm.

Symptoms of the Februaries include:

• Profound and prolonged lack of mental energy
• Consistent underlying anxiety threatening to break through as panic (lasts more than a week)
• Fear of illness that compounds anxiety (probably because I have had the flu this time of year before)
• Sadness with no obvious cause
• Longing for signs of spring and feelings that winter will never end

I know this happens to a lot of people, but on top of the resat of my issues, it makes doing simple things much more challenging. I guess the best way for me to deal with this is to just do my best to keep going and find things to occupy my thoughts. Maybe I can turn that longing for spring into art or poetry, for instance. Maybe I can reassure myself that yes, the Winter will abate, as it always does, and bring Spring into my heart and mind until the weather breaks.

All of this is easy to say, but a lot harder to do. And, of course, in a few months I will be complaining about how the heat, sun and humidity make it nearly impossible for me to leave the house. Then I'll have a case of the Augusts. The Augusts usually aren't quite as bad as the Februaries, though, probably because even if I am avoiding the sun, I still get more sunlight on accident in August than I do in February. 

Vitamin supplements? Exercise? Wait it the fuck out? Meh. 

Inner children #1

Before you read this, I want to make the disclaimer that this is a mental and spiritual exercise I am doing to try to unlock the source of some deep-seated anxieties, to locate old wounds so that they might be healed. It's complicated, it's painful and it's strange. My therapist is guiding me through working with my inner children. That's right, plural. But remember, these are constructs, and I am using them to figure things out. It does not mean that I am going any crazier than I already am. Both of these children are fully "me" and I am both of them. Got it? Maybe? Okay.

My therapist had me picture my inner children in therapy, in sort of a half-trance, meditative state. I saw them and talked to them. She asked them some questions and I spoke with them and her on their behalf. I am trying to expand on the experience now, and make a little more sense of it.

The boy, Morgan, is curious, outspoken, boisterous and quick-witted. The girl, Heather, is lost in her own world, unmotivated to interact with others, preferring to play with her toys. It seems like they are different ages, but really, they are twins. Morgan is Heather's big brother. Heather wishes she could be more like Morgan, but can't quite manage it unless they are alone together. They share many traits. They are both very smart and very introspective. They think with the same mind sometimes, and feel with the same heart. They love each other very much. Heather feels safe with him. Morgan likes to protect her.

Of course, they are both "me," constructs of what was and what may have been, in my childhood. Morgan is everything I wish I would have been able to say and do. Heather is who I was. It makes me a little sick to say and write the name "Heather." It's not that I hate her. It's just that I had to put her aside and grow up to be Morgan. But excising parts of yourself, dividing up your soul into bite-sized pieces, is never a good idea. I just don't know what to do with that little girl anymore. I know I need to take care of her, and yet, I wish she'd just disappear.

I didn't have a name for Morgan until recently. Morgan is the little boy who never was. I think I adore him and idolize him the way a little sister might admire her big brother, but he has an evil streak, too. He is monstrous, sometimes. He tortures bugs and toads in quiet amusement. He rages and screams when he does not get his way. He tricks people into doing what he wants, and he isn't above playing his parents against each other. He does this, when Heather just curls up into a ball and cries.

When Heather cries, her father always says, "Stop that phony crying!" He invalidates her fear and pain, which makes it worse, and she cries harder, and her father yells more and makes her stand in a corner until she shuts up. And Morgan hates it and wants to hit his father. He wants to take the old man on in a bare-knuckled fight and teach him to pick on someone his own size. But he'll lose, because he's little, too, and Daddy is big.

... Whew. This is hard. Gives new meaning to the term "bipolar." I'll come back to this later. It's going to take several entries to work this out, but it must be done.

Emo ramble

I think I'm getting better. It's hard to tell. The last week or so has been a blur. I have not accomplished many of the things that I set out to, because I have been in so much pain, and so very tired. When I have a fibromyalgia flare-up, it's as if everything slows to a crawl. I could sleep for 24 hours if left alone that long. It was so bad last night that even having the cat jump onto me caused excruciating pain. I felt feverish and light-headed and sickly for several days in a row.

Fuck this shit.

It took all my strength, but I made it to the coffee house today. The walk was easier than the last time because it was not quite so cold today. Quite warm for February, in fact, though the wind was chilly. I have sat here for hours, and no drawing has flowed from my pens, but I did work on a project in Photoshop for a friend, so I consider that a suitable accomplishment. Three weeks now. I'm on a roll.

Flare-ups make everything worse. My sleep is disturbed, my steps are slower, my head is foggy, my thoughts are darker. I am always in some kind of pain, but during these flares, the pain often wins over my will, and I hate it. If I were still in school, I would have missed several classes. If I had a job, I would have missed work. Since most people either don't know what fibromyalgia is or do not understand it, it has cost me many opportunities. Pain, depression, anxiety and poverty have been my saboteurs all of my adult life. How much blame to I place on those things, and how much blame do I place on myself? Where is the boundary between "taking responsibility" and "accepting blame"? Where does accountability become guilt-tripping? In any case, I must stay in the moment and cling to small victories where I can, so bigger ones might come later.

Later. How much longer do I really have? I worry about dying far more than anyone my age without some dire prognosis should. Since I was a kid, I've had this idea that I'm not going to have a very long life in this body. Often, I feel as if my soul is wearing this body out, burning through it in desperation, in longing for what's next. This didn't used to bother me, but now that I have something to lose, it really does. It's only since I've learned to love life that I am afraid to lose it.

There are brief moments when I wish I was entirely free. No relationships. No family at all. No ties to this world of any kind. Then I could go back to laughing in the face of mortality. With nothing to miss or leave behind, I would not mind letting go. I think I wish these things, but having been there, I know better. There is no joy in being hollow. There is no freedom in directionlessness.

Sometimes I feel that in facing my inner child, I also face my own demise. Cradle to grave. I used to leave my body when I was little. I remember looking down at myself at my crib. I remember flying. I thought everyone did that. Maybe everyone does, but not everyone remembers. Despite this, I am absolutely terrified that I am merely fooling myself, and that death is not merely a transition between worlds but the absolute end. That possibility is so horrific, so terrifying to me, that it brings a deep fear I cannot seem to quell.

Will that child die, too? Or will I be reunited with him, in monstrous beauty, in some other place and time? Will my consciousness remain? Will I remember anything?

I don't want to go. I'm not done. I don't even know what it is I'm supposed to do, I just know I haven't done it yet. I may be 35, but emotionally, I am barely out of childhood. It's funny how when you're forced to deal with very adult things when you are young that it takes so very much longer to grow up. I think I still have no interest in growing up. I just want to be a child again and know all that I know now. Cliche, yes. But true. I want it back. I want my youth back. The energy, the pain-free days, the easy rhythm of school days and weekends and summer vacations. Being teacher's pet. Making dandelion chains. Playing with imaginary friends. (I'm sure my gods are really just my imaginary friends, but I tend to take Dumbledore's attitude about that. 'Of course it's all in your head, Harry. Why would that mean it isn't real?")

I'm rambling. Really, really rambling. Doing several things at once, actually. Listening to music, chatting with a friend, watching the fish in the tank at the coffee house, checking Facebook. Generally distracting myself from how much I want to cry right now. Because I know I can't cry, no matter how much I want to. I often feel as if I am storing up my tears, and that they then come out at inappropriate moments, erupting from me as lava does from a chamber stressed beneath the earth. How can I feel things so keenly, and be so detached from those feelings at the same time?

I'll revisit this later.

Whine, bitch, moan.

Sometimes, I just need to bitch and complain.

I've been having a fibro flare for the last few days. This includes IBS, indigestion, migraine-like symptoms, poor sleep, and, of course, joint pain and body aches. I feel foggy and slightly dizzy. My skin is dry and feels tight. I'm constantly either too hot or too cold. I am so sick of this shit.

My plans today were to get up and go to the coffee house, but my husband stayed home sick, and I didn't want to leave him by himself. We ended up spending the whole day watching TV on the couch, which isn't really so bad when you're feeling shitty, but it still makes me feel guilty.

Oh, and on top of that, my search for a psychiatrist is still coming up dry. I don't understand why it's so fucking hard to get psychiatric meds. What if we treated people with, say, diabetes like this? "Well, we know  you need an evaluation to adjust your insulin, but there's a three-month waiting list..." Fuck this shit. Fuck it right in the ass with a branding iron.

Today just sucks. That's all. There's nothing for it.

Meh.

Why I hate February.

Okay. Now that I've written something positive, I'm gonna dig deep into my past and tell you why I hate February. I told my husband over the weekend some stuff I'd never told anyone before, and it felt good to let it out, so I'm going to write about it here.

That day must have been sometime in late January. I was living with B's family. The relationships in that household were complicated and unhealthy, and I'm not going to go into that quite yet, but I'll try to summarize it in order to put that day into context. My mother had gone absolutely batshit after she and my father divorced, and I no longer felt safe living with her. My then-fiance's mother took pity on me. She took me into her own household, as if I were one of her own. Her husband didn't like me. Her daughter didn't like me. Her daughter's husband didn't like me. They had good reason not to. I was 19, and unmedicated, and acting out because my own family had rejected me. I trusted no one. I was petty, and so tightly wrapped in my own pain that I couldn't let anyone in.

I didn't really know how sick B's mom was. I didn't have the capacity to care, at the time. And now comes the part that I have never told anyone before this past weekend. It is a quiet thing that has slept fitfully within my conscience, something even the people involved never knew. It was on that day in 1998 that I ignored Be's mother's cries for help. I was on the other side of the house, screwing around on the computer. No one was home except for me and B's mom. She called out. I couldn't be bothered. I don't know why I ignored her. I just... couldn't. Move. I was beyond any capacity for caring for anyone else but myself.

Weeks later, late afternoon, February 10th. I heard her calling again. I didn't ignore her, this time. I brought her a glass of water. I saw death in her eyes. I wanted to care, but I could not. The next morning, B and I were awakened by a harsh knock on our bedroom door. B's sister was screaming, "Mom had a heart attack!"

I watched them take her away on a stretcher. I stayed behind while the rest of the family went to the hospital.  They don't want me there, I thought, and I was probably right. Moments or hours later, I don't remember, they came back. B's sister just shook her head. I was ... I don't know how to describe it. I wanted to show compassion. I wanted my hugs to mean something, but the emotion was not there. When they left again, to see B's mom off to the morgue, I stayed at the house and cried bitterly. I wasn't crying for B's mother, though. I was crying for myself. What would happen to me, now? Would B's father kick me out? Would I have to go back to my mother's house? The thought terrified me. These people, to whom I had shown so little gratitude, hiding in B's room all day until he came home from school or work, these people were the closest thing to a real "family" I had ever had. But I was beyond even guilt for this. Survival. That is all I could think of.

I wrote a eulogy for B's mom. I talked about how she had been more a mother to me in the short time I'd known her than my own mother had. I talked about how she'd taken me in when I had nowhere else to go. Even as I spoke, the words felt hollow. Why couldn't I feel anything? They buried her on Valentine's Day.

I don't remember what happened in the months between the funeral and when we moved to Saratoga Springs. I don't remember a lot of things between 1998 and 2001, but I do remember New Year's Eve, 1999. It was the day B finally told me he could not stand to be with me anymore, and he wanted me out by the anniversary of his mother's death. It was the first and only time I got so drunk as to make myself sick. The hangover didn't abate until late the next evening.

Everything about that era in my life is gone, now. The house where we lived has long-since been occupied by others, the tree B and I planted in the back yard has grown up, the places we used to go are all out-of-business, paved over or otherwise obliterated. Yet, I remember everything about the morning his mother died. The way the sun was coming in at just the right angle to make me squint. The way my Winnie the Pooh fleece nightgown felt too hot on top but my feet were freezing. The EMTs' blue nitrile gloves pumping the purple bulb of the breathing apparatus, trying to bring her back. A large stuffed gorilla B had bought me for Valentine's Day sitting in the glider his mom used, seemingly mocking the entire situation.


B still hates me, wants nothing to do with me and has made every effort to eliminate any mention of me from his life. He has denied me forgiveness, and I suppose that is his right. I don't know if I ever really loved him, or if he loved me. I do know that the relationship was an escape. Out of the frying pan, as they say. And the whole thing had happened before I'd really had a chance to grow up, grow into myself, become who I was. I don't know that I've ever quite recovered from it. I have tried many times over the years to atone for my wrongs, but I can't control what B does or feels, and it's ridiculous to hold onto any hope that he may forgive me someday. It's the charred embers of a bridge I must be content never to rebuild. We were drawn together because we were misfits, but our relationship was doomed from the start because I had not yet learned how to love. I can't get it back.

I try to honor B's mother where I can, in ritual, in cooking the recipes she taught me. I hope she doesn't hate me. I hope she can see now how lost and broken and sick I was, how I was simply incapable at that age and at that time in my life of showing gratitude in the way that I should have. I hope she forgives me for ignoring her, and for hurting her son. I hope she doesn't hate me.

February is the shortest month, but it always seems the longest to me.

Doing it anyway.

I didn't feel like getting up. I did it anyway.
I didn't feel like getting dressed. I did it anyway.
I didn't feel like making breakfast. I did it anyway.
I didn't feel like walking a mile through the snow to the coffee house. I did it anyway.
I didn't feel like making art. I did it anyway.

A day that could have been a really "meh" day is now a good day, because I did it anyway. I don't always have the strength to do it anyway, but when I do, I feel better. And I make good days happen.

However, I was very slow today. Took me an hour to get up. Took  me another hour to get dressed, make breakfast, eat, and gather the stuff I needed to take to the coffee house. With every step, I was fighting pain and anxiety. Even listening to music wasn't helping much. It was that annoying "feeling like you're going to have a heart attack" deal. My knees and shoulders and back were aching from carrying my backpack, which weighs about 15 pounds or so. I kept walking anyway. I took my time, took it slow, didn't try to keep pace with my music or anything else. I felt better when I got to the coffee house. I feel accomplished, now.

Doing it anyway is a start. It's what I'm going to need to do every single day if I ever hope to have a real job again. And by "real job" I mean one that requires me to actually get up several days a week, get myself to a bus stop regardless of the weather or how shitty I'm feeling, and work a shift all the way through without feeling like I'm going to scream.

Get up, get dressed, make breakfast, eat, pack my stuff, walk the 1.1 miles to the coffee house, and make art. I want to make a commitment to do this every Monday, whether I feel like it or not. The only exception should be if I am actually sick enough that I can't get out of bed, which does happen with the fibro and the migraines and whatnot, but if I'm being honest with myself, not as often as I stay home instead of going out. I've done it two weeks in a row, now. Three times will make it a habit, six times will make it a pattern, twelve times will make it a victory, and anything beyond that is gravy. But I've got to take it one minute, one day, one week at a time.