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Tag Archives: Anxiety

“And then at long last…. Blue.”

I have been missing. I am sorry.

I could predictably tell you that everything went awry. Ha.

It did, I wouldn’t be lying. Lots of crappy stuff happened, I was spread too thin, I was depressed and overwhelmed.

And I was hungry.  To look at me, you wouldn’t know it, but I am hungry … a good percent of the time.

Right now I want to tell you I am ok.

Right now, I want to tell you that I am doing better.

Right now, I want to tell you that I have been hiding out and gathering myself together after giving too much of myself away for too long a period of time.

Father's Day

Pastel and Charcoal on Canson paper

And… I started creating art for the sake of itself again in the real world.
Just because.
I will tell you more when I can gather together the words, but right now – I wanted to say Hello.

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Posted by on February 27, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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The Self-Cleaning oven

I am sitting in my living room running a fan by my head in the window – blowing cold 43F air in.
In the kitchen, I have put bath towels along the bottom of the door and after awkwardly climbing up onto the sink counter, have managed to put an exhaust fan in the window back there.

On high.

On the stove – I have cinnamon and cloves bubbling away in plain water, and on my desk a rather gloriously potent Fraser fir candle flickering away.

The oven door is still in lock down mode, eventually it will allow me to unlock the door and open it again.

I knew better. I totally ignored the inner voice that said…

“You know – you should have run the self-cleaner when it was warmer…..”
“You should really put the fans in the window before you run the self-cleaner… “

Yep. Shoulda.

Why does the self-clean cycle always reek so terribly even if you do it often?
(My inner finger pointer would like me to tell you that I have NOT run it since early spring.)

 

In other news, I did try to contact someone and am now having more problems finding anyone that accepts my insurance than anything else. On the whole, I am doing quite a bit better than I was, having knocked out three deadlines that were really close together and causing a good deal of ridiculous stress. 

I can do deadlines, that usually isn’t the problem. I think the problem is mostly that it depends on who they are for that causes my anxiety to skyrocket.

 
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Posted by on November 20, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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I am not an adult – And this is a really long post.

I find that when I write or hold a conversation that it is usually this mess of words and emotional flotsam, sort of just spilling everywhere without form or function other than to get them OUT of my face.

Because I do not talk much you see. 

There are very few people who get all of me, and even then I am often very selective in what I am spilling. This is a bad thing because I have too much introverted pressure. All of that builds up and just sort of washes out in scary force here or to that select few, and when it does it is a jumbled mess, and its content is unpredictable.

What I do know however – is that an awful lot of the strange surface matter winds up here. The annoying fluff of negativity that sort of rides the waves in a murky kind of foam.

And I don’t mean pretty blue ocean with a little bit of suds lapping against the shore.
I mean this.

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Sea Foam captured by the AMAZING photographer Michael Hruby
http://www.michaelhruby.com.au/

Now, I can tell you that I am usually pretty calm. Calm for someone who suffers from a rather potent amount of anxiety. Usually at least – that anxiety has a trigger of some sort (except when it doesn’t) and it is not all pervasive. (Except when it is.)
So under all of that scary foam, there is generally calm deep water with much more substance, it is just that often all I am able to give you is the foam, because.. well I mean look at it. There is SO MUCH of it.

I have spent a very long time walking this fine line betwixt the desire for being anonymous and being able to say what I like, where I like to say it, and being attached to my name and censoring myself to the extreme where I just say nothing at all because I do not want to be accountable for my words. Which sounds wrong to me – it is more that I do not want the conflict and the discussions they will bring about. It is an extreme form of choosing my battles. Not even to say “But that isn’t even about YOU.”  Which has already happened before – because some people are insanely paranoid, and paranoia often spreads like some insidious virus. 

Besides…. what if my mother finds it and sees me cursing like a sailor?
‘But Saiyge…. your mother hasn’t found your blog, and you haven’t been cursing like a sailor, and you are 36 years old for a few more days, for Pete’s sake.’ You say?
But what if she DOES and I DID and she SEES?

My parents, for as long as I can remember have been extremely supportive of my writing. Every other conversation we have had since I was a kid, they impressed upon me that there was at least one, if not many – an entire universe of BOOKS hiding inside of me just waiting for me to allow them to sprawl out into reality. That witty, silly and engaging characters were just residing in my fingertips waiting for me to let them out.  They would accompany me from the age of 8 or so, to poetry readings where I was the only one under the age of 30. They still remind me how the Poet Laureate pulled them aside and urged them to keep supporting me, that some day I would wind up … doing something with it or being somebody or something. This was only fueled on by several English teachers, all of whom believed in me and encouraged me in every way they possibly could.

All of these people saw something in me and I find myself sitting here with a birthday coming up next week, and I have done nothing. I stopped writing poetry, I stopped scrawling on any piece of paper at hand. I could not tell you where my little journals are. I cannot tell you where all of my pretty words and belief went. Only that I made myself small by hiding bits of myself somewhere along the way for one reason or another, and I haven’t quite learned how to retrieve all of those bits just yet. 

There is a draft of a post that I thought I had published twice. Once when I originally scrawled it out and then again last week or so when I saw that it had never actually published and I couldn’t figure out why it was still in a draft. It is still a draft, I have no explanation as to why I haven’t just thrown it out there. Again. 
The gist of it was basically that while I don’t really remember what I set out to make this blog out to be – that I was writing it for myself. I was writing because I needed to separate myself from the rest of my life in some kind of way, to have a place where I was not attached to any other person as an identity (Not someone’s wife, not someones mother, not someones employee, not someones boss) because I have been lost in THAT type of identity for a very long time and have lost a good chunk of what it means to be ME in some solitary way.

I think I was going to take pictures of food, particularly when it went all pear shaped. I was not really going to talk about my life. I was not going to talk about being poor and hungry when my job situation fell apart or feeling lost or how baffled I am that many of the people I meet seem to have no common sense or work ethic. I was not going to cry when I was having a bad day with the kidlet, and I was not going to gush about how awesome said kidlet is. (He is really awesome by the by.)  I was just going to be me, an entity fully apart from alloftheotherthings.

And then I remembered something.

We paint who we are here. 

My friends can come here and read my blog and they know me. They know all the things that you might not. They know my voice. My strange and whacked humor. They know my story because they are a part of that story.

They know when I am being freaked out and when the painkillers for Toe are making a mess out of my head.
They know that I sound tired and distracted because I am mom and wife first, employee a crushing second, and that I rarely have anything left over for myself.
They know what lies under all that sea foam.
But you are just learning that there is something ELSE under all that foam, and who knows what might be under there. 
(Kraken albatrossi do exist here, just sayin.)

Someone I work with once brought to my attention that all I was really giving them was foam. Surface banter.

We would talk about the little annoyances each day would bring and fluffy things like pie, tentacled beings and socks.  
This isn’t really a problem? But unless we share more of our meat as it were, or in my case today – a tide pool or two, maybe some sea glass here and there… we aren’t doing ourselves any real favors because we give people a very incomplete appreciation of who we are.

This type of relationship is not where its at for me – and because of how I guarded myself, I gave this person a really bad representation.  Random complaining here and there and fluff with none of my story to temper it. 
It likely did not help that back then 12-18 hour work days were my normal, on top of the whole cooking/cleaning/helping with homework/handling autistic meltdowns etc. She did know about the long days at work, but not really the rest of it, and if not even that much? None of the back story.
It made me come off as tired, distracted, and ungrateful. 

I am still tired and distracted, but I have not been ungrateful since I was a teenager and I cannot tell you how much that one discussion still haunts me, that feeling of being so misjudged at the core of who I am -when really I had no one else to blame. I am the one who misrepresented myself because I desperately wanted to have some sort of identity separated from those who I devote myself to.

Because I have a real problem with moderation.

When I give myself to something I throw my entire body into it… and then later find myself resenting that I have gone and Borged myself. Again.

Borg!

Shhh… Just let it happen…. … … …..

The point being – I was doing it. Again – and there really isn’t call for it.
That is why I haven’t deleted my opiate induced posts about Toe, or the fever one about random peeing, as much as they are making me squirm.
That is why I am going to give you foam, and I hope that if I keep giving you foam, eventually I’ll be able to give you some sea glass too.

And Mom – if you ever find this, I’m sorry, because I’ll probably curse sometimes – and it won’t be to say Shoot, or OH Marshmallow, but I still love you.

 
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Posted by on October 1, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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On living inside the lens

35_QuoddyheadI think we all have landmarks that we visit in time. Places in our memory that we can point to without much thought, and say… “Ohey… ” Where we pick up the end of a dangling thread and can follow a string of events within our lives.

At the moment I was thinking of silence, of focus. I was thinking of selflessness and the place where things that are virtues in moderation become terrible albatrossi. (Is that a word? The plural of Albatross? Lets say it is. Albatrossi. Roll that around on your tongue for a moment even if it is terribly improper. I did, and instead of a flock of albatross, my mind conjured up huge birds with tentacles. Albatross Kraken. The world doesn’t need any of that.)

Anyway.

This is part of the problem. I will pick up a little snippet of thread, merely because I was thinking of writing, and I was wondering how that was even going to happen, as I just cannot for the life of me seem to settle down. That little thread brought me back to being little, in fourth grade, and how my teacher at the time would have us write each day in a journal. I remember thinking this teacher was pretty fantastic, she was theatrical and loved teaching still, even though she had been doing it for a long time. She wore dresses and knee high leather heeled boots. There were streaks of silver all through her hair but even then, I remember she was lovely, vibrant and passionate. I remember not quite knowing WHAT she was but that she was wonderful.  Well – each day she would have us write, and she would throw classical records on – and ever since then, I have a hard time writing without it.

I love and enjoy silence however. Stillness.

But in my house, silence and stillness are hard to come by.

In Maine, it was so nice to be …. still.

Where being quiet was not selfish and thoughtless.

In Maine, I realized something quite obvious.  I am content to take pictures, and wallflower.

I am content to take care of others to the extent that my first thought is never about what I might want or how I might feel, but rather – “If person A wants this thing, then that would leave me with choices B,C,D….” and THEN; “If I want B, it will be an inconvenience to persons A and B – but if I choose C instead of D, that will cause the least amount of ruckus for everyone else, even if I do not like thing C.

Did you follow that? If you want to reread it seven times, I’ll hang out and wait.
Now on the surface? That isn’t such a terrible thing is it? Thinking of others before yourself?

Wasn’t that exhausting to try to get? But what if you *lived* that way. All the time.

What if every thing that you did had to go through such an  exhausting flowchart of “Who is inconvenienced by what I choose to have for lunch, or how many pairs of socks I wash, or if I take my shower now or at midnight?” These are small decisions. I don’t even bother trying for larger decisions any longer if they affect others around me. Its too difficult. I will almost always choose to make someone else happier even if it makes me miserable, I know I shouldn’t do this, but I do it anyway.

So here I was. I was thinking – Well, if I want to write, I can put my headset on and listen to Pandora and drown everything else out.

“Oh no.. You can’t do that!” self said.

Well why the hell not? When did it ever become terribly and horribly rude to take a minute or five and just .. write?

“What if someone comes to the door?” Who? Who is coming to my door that wouldn’t call first? No one, that is who.

No one comes here except Jehovah’s witnesses and some other churchy folk wanting me to come hang out with Jesus sometimes. Oh… and occasionally a magazine salesman.  Well – they will live if I don’t answer the door.

And the thing is? So will my husband and the Boy-o. They will live. I am not out and out ignoring them, they know what I am trying to do.
Well… Ok, The boy-o, five minutes after I told him what I was going to do, and that I wanted it to be quiet, and that I might not answer but that ItDoesntMeanThatIDontLoveYou!!!  and I’mNotReallyTryingToHurtYourFeeeeliiinnnnngssssss……….

Yeah. He doesn’t really get it, but I kind of expected that.

That reminds me of the thing that really upset me in Maine.  I just sort of Sheepled. Took pictures, ambled around and tried not to be seen, and tried really hard to become a rock or some other quiet still thing that doesn’t call much attention to itself.  Content to take pictures of everyone else *living* in the moment, but not allowing myself to actually do it. (Haven’t been on a vacation in 12 years, and that was how I lived it! – WHAT IS THAT?!)

I am very good at it. But I am NOT happy that I do it nor that I have been doing it for so long.  So I made a sort of deal with myself – to try and … stop doing that so much. So that the next time I have a chance to be somewhere, I am not so locked up within myself and my inhibition that I cannot enjoy BEING where I am and living in the moment itself.

I am trying to pick up the thread of who I am and follow it without too much apology … and hopefully with less of a flowchart.

I guess we’ll see how THAT goes.

 
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Posted by on September 7, 2013 in Not Food, Uncategorized

 

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That one time, where we went to Maine…

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What can I tell you about Maine?

90% of the bits we drove through- it is like driving into a postcard that was never told that it needed borders or an end. It is lovely here.  I am sitting in one of the most Northeasterly parts of Maine, almost entirely off the grid… if I walk a little to the left, I will be in range of a hotspot, but even that hotspot has a real problem grabbing onto a signal and it is sporadic at best.

Tomorrow our week here will end and I will face a grueling trek back down the coast, but by Sunday I should be  back in my own bed, with my own shower, with water pressure and best of all – a steaming cup of coffee of my favorite brand instead of the tea we are drinking now.

I think I could live here, if work were not an option and if I were not afraid of the long lonely roads that span the distance from neighbor to neighbor, and town to town………

Quoddyhead

And then. If you know me at all, you know something happened; because I am no longer in Maine, I am sitting at my desk at home finishing this.

What happened you ask? Well, a spider like being fell from the trees above and I kid you not – landed right in my shirt – dead center in my bra.

I am terrified of spiders, especially large fuzzy black spiders with big legs and bodies and who are fully into being you know – spiders.

Needless to say, I jumped up,  yowling girlishly and ruffled my shirt and bra to get said visitor out of there.

I’m sorry, but there was no recovery of conscious thought after that. This blog post just wasn’t going to happen.

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The ride home was horrible. It was long and scary and long. Scary because I don’t handle traffic very well. I don’t handle anything about being on the highway well. I don’t like mergers, I don’t like tail gaiters, I don’t like offensive and aggressive drivers. I don’t like traffic, I don’t like speeding, I don’t like people being in my personal car space – I want two lengths on ALL sides please.

I don’t like jersey barriers, I don’t like multi- lane highways. I don’t .. like.. being in a car. At all. To me- being in the car feels like I am on a roller coaster I cannot leave, only it is worse, because I am on a multi-track roller coaster that has crazy bumper cars coming into my personal space along with the adrenaline infused powerlessness I feel.

I was in a pretty bad car accident as a passenger when I was 19. That alone wouldn’t have been so bad if I did not wind up in a few fender benders (minor yes) in the months that followed, or if I had learned how to drive prior to all of that.

I suppose I should tell you that I also don’t like being on dark water, I don’t think I’ll ever go onto a cruise ship, and I’m also terrified of flying.

I am NOT afraid of riding horses, and I am not afraid of riding an ATV. I crashed and burned quite a few times on a trike as a kid, and I’ve never been afraid to get right back on one and to get muddier than the boys. I think it is probably because I knew how to drive THOSE at least.

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But this wasn’t supposed to be a post about what I  am afraid of, or not afraid of. It was supposed to be a post FROM Maine while I was there, telling you how incredibly beautiful and quiet it was. I was supposed to rehash details about all the food I had nothing to do with cooking. I was supposed to be telling you about how awesome kayaking is and how badly I became addicted to it.

Yep. about all those things…. and all of it getting terribly derailed by a large, fuzzy and muscular spider hopping into my bra.

 
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Posted by on September 6, 2013 in Not Food, Uncategorized

 

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