While teaching writing is not nearly as satisfying as writing, it is less work in some ways. And there is a limit to how much you can give to your students, and how long you will work on an assignment.
All that said, I am grateful to be back in the classroom, albeit on something of a lark. There has been no contract to sign, I have completed paperwork but received no official notification from anyone that I am the instructor of record. No, I just showed up with good intention, and the office staff also showed intention by making me a mail folder and being patient with my stupid somewhat irritated questions. The paperwork may come eventually, and I think I have to wait eight weeks for the first miniscule check.
I don't get paid enough, and neither do they. So we're all in this collective that decided to do this community service project, and make it look like college. The trick is that the accreditation people take this very seriously, as they should, and so we must all act like it is a very very important thing we do.
But in the end, it isn't all that important. I show up to work, I do some good, I go home. The student show up, think about stuff and go home to their lives. That's how it should be, really. I'm no saint, I'm no better than my students. I just have a body of experience and knowledge that they have some murky idea that they "need." What they want is not to spend three hours in a room with me twice a week, but if that's what it takes, then they are willing. They will gladly pay that in order to get the reward.
The best thing about these international students is that they have overcome big obstacles to get here, even if it was simply a matter of travelling many hours, filing the right paperwork and coping with the weird life here in America. One student from the Middle East appears to be from one of those mega-wealthy families, but he is the only one who has that air of entitlement, and it's hardly noticeable.
They are polite, filled with gratitude, eager to learn and somewhat shaky at the prospect of doing a full-on writing class IN a FOREIGN language where proficiency is expected rather than coached. And they show up.
So must I. But it beats asking "whip or no whip? skinny? decaf?" I too am grateful. Why? There's a darker reason.
Many years ago, in another state, I had the fortune of teaching at both community college and university in a town where writers were a dime a dozen. Swing a sack of dirty socks and you could hit a writer. But somehow I had an inside track on this shadow life of contractual employment, semester-to-semester.
Except for the time when my father had a stroke, and I missed several weeks to be by his side, cheering him with crossword puzzles and specially prepared thick soups and other things. And I missed all kinds of deadlines for re-applying for work. I was simply NOT available when the call came, and I found myself in November buying groceries on credit cards, and by December, I was buying wine on credit cards.
It was a dark time. I took temporary employment as an admin with a machine shop for three days, and walked out after lunch on the fourth day. I also made up some dramatic story why I had to quit the data entry job. I could not go into good honest labor. I felt ruined.
Somehow, someone needed an English instructor at a distant, new community college campus - some place just south of town where a large percentage of Hispanic and tribal folks took classes. In a weak and reluctant moment, I agree to teach two classes, both at the worst possible times.
Too far away from my house, too far away from my regular haunts, too far away from my recovering father who was not quite the same, not enough money to make ends meet, I felt compelled to do something unforgiveable. I was also applying for full-time jobs, and I agreed to take one MID-TERM. It was about 6 or 8 class meetings into the semester. I cannot remember if I had graded a set of papers or not.
But I quit. I told the dean, who could barely disguise her displeasure. She shifted quickly and professionally into CYA mode, finding someone to cover my classes and minimize the damage to students. My replacement was much less forgiving. I met both classes with him, introducing him and then slinking out like the ratfink I was.
I left town two weeks later to take that job, near my parents in my home town.
Though I returned to teaching four years after that, I never did penance, really. I justified and rationalized my actions. But this morning, as I prepare for class, I see clearly and objectively that I violated a near-sacred trust. I left my students in the middle of a semester. Granted my schedule prevented any other jobs, and of course the pay was horrible. I would not have been able to sustain myself for the full 16 weeks, so what happened, happened.
Many years later, though, unbeknownst to them, my students are providing me with something very important: the opportunity to meet the challenge, to foster their education, and to redeem myself on a karmic level. Even though I am compensated, it's not enough for the hours and work. But this is me paying it back (paying it forward) in a roundabout way. When the semester is done, we're even, and I can move forward.
But no way am I going to tell them that, nor should I. It will be my little secret. And ours.
March 30, 2009
March 28, 2009
I Really Do
I see dead people.
In my dreams.
Last night, it was my brother. He was around the house, organizing or bossing something, and I ignored him. Later in the dream, I had to turn to him and apologize.
"Oh, I'm SO sorry. I was ignoring you as is my wont. But I forgot that you're dead, and so that was rude of me when you've come to visit me." Forehead slap. "Want a beer?"
I then had to go out in the front yard to ask the neighbors to move their cars from my front lawn. In the dream, that is. They were very polite, so for now, they were not zombies.
In my dreams.
Last night, it was my brother. He was around the house, organizing or bossing something, and I ignored him. Later in the dream, I had to turn to him and apologize.
"Oh, I'm SO sorry. I was ignoring you as is my wont. But I forgot that you're dead, and so that was rude of me when you've come to visit me." Forehead slap. "Want a beer?"
I then had to go out in the front yard to ask the neighbors to move their cars from my front lawn. In the dream, that is. They were very polite, so for now, they were not zombies.
Big Living
It's Saturday, and I have no intention of going anywhere, unless it's to get gas, buy a book with a 40% coupon, pick up a CD I want (yes, I am old school - I like to hold the factory product in my hands), and maybe buy some crickets.
I live big.
What felt a few weeks ago like surrender and not caring anymore now feels like harmony, if not peace. I don't get much done. The floors are still not swept, though the dishes are done and new ones accumulating. I have laundry to fold and more loads to process. It gets done, eventually.
I'm cleaning out a couple of dusty and hairy corners in the dining room, trying to make it a room where art will get done OR dinner eaten. It used to be that I could whip up dinner at the table from 3 hours to 30 minutes. Now? It's been at least a month since anyone has sat at that table, much less eaten.
This is another thing I tried to get my shrink to address: my list. I could sit down and write a list of all the things I need to do. That part is easy. It's doing them. I never actually got to show up my list, much less come up with strategies for accomplishing things. I realize now that I was pretty much just wasting my time with him, though I'm sure it was nice to have him "be my friend" for that year. In retrospect, he wasn't exactly listening to me, and he had no agenda for "our work." His main goal seemed to be getting me to take anti-depressants. When I succumbed and tried 3 weeks of Vitamin P, I had such a panic attack at the gym no less, that I didn't go back for 3 months and I quit Vit. P on the spot.
So, though he was handsome and laughed at my jokes, it was a wash. Now where am I? wishing I had someone to talk to in a therapeutic environment? probably. Wishing for a grief group? maybe so. Lately, a nice hearty cup of tea has chased away the anxiety, but a cup of real coffee can trigger it. At least caffeine is a legal and very cheap drug.
A bright spot: I am good at something. I mean really really good. At Luxor. Ha! I lost my one game where I had 8 million points and was pwning everything the game dished out. So I had to start from scratch. Two hours later, and I'm back to 2.5 millions. PWN!
I found some sketches by the lad and decided that I would make a "coloring book" of his work, along with my dad's. Kind of like an album, except it's their drawings, maybe for coloring, maybe with some colors. The photo album thing in iPhoto is perfect for this sort of thing. That feels good. That's a nice kind of productive.
Back to the dining room. The lad is out of the house for a party, and will come home unhungry, but maybe tomorrow we'll eat in there.
I live big.
What felt a few weeks ago like surrender and not caring anymore now feels like harmony, if not peace. I don't get much done. The floors are still not swept, though the dishes are done and new ones accumulating. I have laundry to fold and more loads to process. It gets done, eventually.
I'm cleaning out a couple of dusty and hairy corners in the dining room, trying to make it a room where art will get done OR dinner eaten. It used to be that I could whip up dinner at the table from 3 hours to 30 minutes. Now? It's been at least a month since anyone has sat at that table, much less eaten.
This is another thing I tried to get my shrink to address: my list. I could sit down and write a list of all the things I need to do. That part is easy. It's doing them. I never actually got to show up my list, much less come up with strategies for accomplishing things. I realize now that I was pretty much just wasting my time with him, though I'm sure it was nice to have him "be my friend" for that year. In retrospect, he wasn't exactly listening to me, and he had no agenda for "our work." His main goal seemed to be getting me to take anti-depressants. When I succumbed and tried 3 weeks of Vitamin P, I had such a panic attack at the gym no less, that I didn't go back for 3 months and I quit Vit. P on the spot.
So, though he was handsome and laughed at my jokes, it was a wash. Now where am I? wishing I had someone to talk to in a therapeutic environment? probably. Wishing for a grief group? maybe so. Lately, a nice hearty cup of tea has chased away the anxiety, but a cup of real coffee can trigger it. At least caffeine is a legal and very cheap drug.
A bright spot: I am good at something. I mean really really good. At Luxor. Ha! I lost my one game where I had 8 million points and was pwning everything the game dished out. So I had to start from scratch. Two hours later, and I'm back to 2.5 millions. PWN!
I found some sketches by the lad and decided that I would make a "coloring book" of his work, along with my dad's. Kind of like an album, except it's their drawings, maybe for coloring, maybe with some colors. The photo album thing in iPhoto is perfect for this sort of thing. That feels good. That's a nice kind of productive.
Back to the dining room. The lad is out of the house for a party, and will come home unhungry, but maybe tomorrow we'll eat in there.
March 26, 2009
Random
I've had quite a few thoughts in the past couple of days. Not sure if any of them will get fleshed out, but this is a journal, right?
It's high time I wrote a book, published it and all. Question is, which one? I have two novels in the works, a novella, a couple of short stories, more ideas for short stories. I have a number of guidebooks and e-books to write for "passive revenue streams!" Rock on. I have a couple of workbooks and a non-fiction book about creativity in draft somewhere.
I have a coloring book idea to develop, and a couple of patterns to write up (mostly embroidery and little felt figures for sewing).
I really should do something with my father's sketches - I have hundreds of them.
If I win the lottery, I want to get this house fixed up, buy another house with a pool, and a vacation home somewhere. Then I'll have enough wall space to hang all the art I own and want to make.
The car and garage need cleaning out. Working at home is very difficult for me, as I'm completely isolated and barely productive. But working FT in an office is hard because I get so tired, there's all that OFFICE nonsense and I despise wasting my day indoors.
I am filled with contradictory beliefs about life. "The Secret" for me is to reconcile them, not simply to (buy a book and then) imagine how it will be.
I believe chocolate is part of a balanced diet.
Incompetence and mediocrity (mine and esp. that of others) are the bane of my existence.
Sometimes even junk mail triggers my anxiety.
I would like a week's paid vacation, complete with maid service and a personal chef. Someone to do the morning school run would be heavenly too. Massage 4X that week, a hair and pedicure appointment, and perhaps a nice lunch in the sunshine with my erstwhile main squeeze.
The other night, when I wasn't sleeping, I had a complete and total epiphany about how Photoshop and Illustrator work, and the difference between them. It was rather profound, and everything has been easy since I figured that out. Now, THAT'S a Secret that works!
And here it is: Illustrator works as vector art, using points on the X/Y axes. Single points, and you tell those points what to do with each other. That's it.
Photoshop works like a grid, using ALL the points (72, 150, 300 dpi, or higher) in a square, along with "millions" of colors. Each pixel has be one of 256/1028/millions of colors, and they combine to make images. (When you think about inks, overlays and separations, it gets more complicated.)
But the simple explanation: Illustrator is a small collection of points in 2D, along the X or Y axis. Photoshop is a grid and each box in it must have a color value, even if it is black or white. And this stuff matters to the machines that are used to reproduce the images. It matters a LOT.
Neat, huh?
I dreamed the other night of asking for my old job and salary back. I think that's because I'm stressing about money, and also about moving forward. Going backwards in time is psychologically safer because it's a known.
My mind is a dark and scary neighborhood where no one should have to go alone.
It's high time I wrote a book, published it and all. Question is, which one? I have two novels in the works, a novella, a couple of short stories, more ideas for short stories. I have a number of guidebooks and e-books to write for "passive revenue streams!" Rock on. I have a couple of workbooks and a non-fiction book about creativity in draft somewhere.
I have a coloring book idea to develop, and a couple of patterns to write up (mostly embroidery and little felt figures for sewing).
I really should do something with my father's sketches - I have hundreds of them.
If I win the lottery, I want to get this house fixed up, buy another house with a pool, and a vacation home somewhere. Then I'll have enough wall space to hang all the art I own and want to make.
The car and garage need cleaning out. Working at home is very difficult for me, as I'm completely isolated and barely productive. But working FT in an office is hard because I get so tired, there's all that OFFICE nonsense and I despise wasting my day indoors.
I am filled with contradictory beliefs about life. "The Secret" for me is to reconcile them, not simply to (buy a book and then) imagine how it will be.
I believe chocolate is part of a balanced diet.
Incompetence and mediocrity (mine and esp. that of others) are the bane of my existence.
Sometimes even junk mail triggers my anxiety.
I would like a week's paid vacation, complete with maid service and a personal chef. Someone to do the morning school run would be heavenly too. Massage 4X that week, a hair and pedicure appointment, and perhaps a nice lunch in the sunshine with my erstwhile main squeeze.
The other night, when I wasn't sleeping, I had a complete and total epiphany about how Photoshop and Illustrator work, and the difference between them. It was rather profound, and everything has been easy since I figured that out. Now, THAT'S a Secret that works!
And here it is: Illustrator works as vector art, using points on the X/Y axes. Single points, and you tell those points what to do with each other. That's it.
Photoshop works like a grid, using ALL the points (72, 150, 300 dpi, or higher) in a square, along with "millions" of colors. Each pixel has be one of 256/1028/millions of colors, and they combine to make images. (When you think about inks, overlays and separations, it gets more complicated.)
But the simple explanation: Illustrator is a small collection of points in 2D, along the X or Y axis. Photoshop is a grid and each box in it must have a color value, even if it is black or white. And this stuff matters to the machines that are used to reproduce the images. It matters a LOT.
Neat, huh?
I dreamed the other night of asking for my old job and salary back. I think that's because I'm stressing about money, and also about moving forward. Going backwards in time is psychologically safer because it's a known.
My mind is a dark and scary neighborhood where no one should have to go alone.
March 24, 2009
Introvert v. Extrovert
(please note, Keirsey people: it is EXTROVERT, not extravert, for the love of god.)
As previously mentioned, I have started testing as an I instead of an E in the MBTI personality type tests. I have two theories about this.
1. I have always been a "slightly expressed extrovert." That is, I was a few degrees into E territory. Now that I've lived a while, and gotten used to myself, know myself more, I am now testing more on the other side of neutral, as "slightly expressed introvert." A change by a few degrees, but nothing earth-shattering.
2. I am grieving and DIFFERENT, and am testing as an introvert, because of the decided lack of interest that everyone has for interacting with someone who is grieving. No one wants to hear about it past a month. No one cares, apparently. You get a lot of "I wish I knew what to say." Yeah, well, if you have that much trouble reaching within to find something for me, then either you are shallow and not good friend material, OR you have some block about the whole thing, and I really need friends who grok the grief thing, even if they are projecting, intuiting and guessing, rather than working from experience.
Maybe it's both. I find myself feeling closer to people who have lost someone they love to death. It's not enough that they don't get along, or have been shunned or whatever. There's still a chance of a conversation.
I remember acutely hearing my mother's voice on the answering machine months after she died. I saved and saved that message. When I changed accounts, I made a special point to record the message so I would have it always. I know the words by heart.... it wasn't her last message to me but it was the "wedding" call.
When I went to record it, somehow it was gone. I'd saved and saved it... for months. Resaved and resaved. But it was just ... gone.
Yeah.
So maybe I'm not a very fun person to be around, and that's why I withdraw from folks. My interactions lately are not satisfying and "energizing" me. They deplete me. (Ha ha, Jerry McGuire joke.) I just cleared out my In Box, for example. At least four messages have made me physically cringe. I'm cutting down on the volume of email, but still having to deal with it pulls me down.
The phone calls. Thank god for Caller ID.
It's almost mind-numbing to think of how taxing it all is lately.
And so what I wonder is: is this permanent? will it change when I'm "done" grieving? what am I missing by not "getting back on the horse"?
If I were to get back on the horse, where the hell is it?
(Jots down on list "Look for the Horses.")
As previously mentioned, I have started testing as an I instead of an E in the MBTI personality type tests. I have two theories about this.
1. I have always been a "slightly expressed extrovert." That is, I was a few degrees into E territory. Now that I've lived a while, and gotten used to myself, know myself more, I am now testing more on the other side of neutral, as "slightly expressed introvert." A change by a few degrees, but nothing earth-shattering.
2. I am grieving and DIFFERENT, and am testing as an introvert, because of the decided lack of interest that everyone has for interacting with someone who is grieving. No one wants to hear about it past a month. No one cares, apparently. You get a lot of "I wish I knew what to say." Yeah, well, if you have that much trouble reaching within to find something for me, then either you are shallow and not good friend material, OR you have some block about the whole thing, and I really need friends who grok the grief thing, even if they are projecting, intuiting and guessing, rather than working from experience.
Maybe it's both. I find myself feeling closer to people who have lost someone they love to death. It's not enough that they don't get along, or have been shunned or whatever. There's still a chance of a conversation.
I remember acutely hearing my mother's voice on the answering machine months after she died. I saved and saved that message. When I changed accounts, I made a special point to record the message so I would have it always. I know the words by heart.... it wasn't her last message to me but it was the "wedding" call.
When I went to record it, somehow it was gone. I'd saved and saved it... for months. Resaved and resaved. But it was just ... gone.
Yeah.
So maybe I'm not a very fun person to be around, and that's why I withdraw from folks. My interactions lately are not satisfying and "energizing" me. They deplete me. (Ha ha, Jerry McGuire joke.) I just cleared out my In Box, for example. At least four messages have made me physically cringe. I'm cutting down on the volume of email, but still having to deal with it pulls me down.
The phone calls. Thank god for Caller ID.
It's almost mind-numbing to think of how taxing it all is lately.
And so what I wonder is: is this permanent? will it change when I'm "done" grieving? what am I missing by not "getting back on the horse"?
If I were to get back on the horse, where the hell is it?
(Jots down on list "Look for the Horses.")
Inconsolable
One thing my shrink did help me with (though I still have issues with how he left things with no closure, like stale bread)... my moods do seem to dictate how I'm doing re: grief. When I'm rested and well-fed, exercised and satisfied, I am in a pretty good mood and therefore, I can handle the grief and loss. (or is it the other way around? when I'm coping ok with the grief, my mood is good?)
but a critical mass of sleepy/tired, hungry, angry and lonely, and watch out - everything is hell in a henbasket (ha ha). I'm bordering on that for a couple of reasons.
One, I started a new teaching job and it's demanding a big amount of energy. Sustained energy for prep and for actual teaching. It's a long class so there's no way I can just skate. However, I am learning about pacing, and giving them time to talk. And they are a good group. Not a bunch of entitled snobbish teenagers, which was the "gene pool" I used to teach.
But still, that's a lot of human contact, responsibility and focus, and there is no ramp-up. Come classtime, it is ON, and I'm in charge. Not sure exactly how I feel about that anymore.
Secondly, tomorrow is the anniversary of my brother's death. His ashes are still not completely dealt with, and the family is having trouble coming to a consensus on dates for scattering. It involves a rather elaborate trip somewhere to honor his wishes... while I know he doesn't care wherever he is, which he believed was nowhere... it is a dangling chad that needs to be dealt with.
Thirdly (did I say only two things?), I haven't been sleeping well at all. Like hardly at all. I am aware of the passage of time, I sleep so lightly. I had a dream last night about moving back to my old town and asking for my old job back, and that somehow it would be all wonderful and cheerful with those co-irkers that I really really couldn't stand (which is why I left in the first place!). So, yeah, very very weird dream.
In the end, I'm really at a loss on how to grieve. I need to move on, but there are still so many dangling chads. I wonder if time will heal them, or if I need to actively do something. I'm so busy, and not in a really good way either. And I get no feedback from my dead family members. That's the roughest thing. I want to tell them, "hey, this is what I'm doing to honor you, to remember you. I miss you all." Just a little contact, a little encouragement from them would be nice.
So yeah, that's why I feel inconsolable. There doesn't seem to be any closure to this grief stuff. No consoling, no satisfaction. I understand now why married couples sometimes die close to one another... it's easier to do that, than it is to figure out how to move on. But I'm a young (ish) woman with a half-grown kid, so I'm in the big middle of life. Waiting for death is not an option.
but a critical mass of sleepy/tired, hungry, angry and lonely, and watch out - everything is hell in a henbasket (ha ha). I'm bordering on that for a couple of reasons.
One, I started a new teaching job and it's demanding a big amount of energy. Sustained energy for prep and for actual teaching. It's a long class so there's no way I can just skate. However, I am learning about pacing, and giving them time to talk. And they are a good group. Not a bunch of entitled snobbish teenagers, which was the "gene pool" I used to teach.
But still, that's a lot of human contact, responsibility and focus, and there is no ramp-up. Come classtime, it is ON, and I'm in charge. Not sure exactly how I feel about that anymore.
Secondly, tomorrow is the anniversary of my brother's death. His ashes are still not completely dealt with, and the family is having trouble coming to a consensus on dates for scattering. It involves a rather elaborate trip somewhere to honor his wishes... while I know he doesn't care wherever he is, which he believed was nowhere... it is a dangling chad that needs to be dealt with.
Thirdly (did I say only two things?), I haven't been sleeping well at all. Like hardly at all. I am aware of the passage of time, I sleep so lightly. I had a dream last night about moving back to my old town and asking for my old job back, and that somehow it would be all wonderful and cheerful with those co-irkers that I really really couldn't stand (which is why I left in the first place!). So, yeah, very very weird dream.
In the end, I'm really at a loss on how to grieve. I need to move on, but there are still so many dangling chads. I wonder if time will heal them, or if I need to actively do something. I'm so busy, and not in a really good way either. And I get no feedback from my dead family members. That's the roughest thing. I want to tell them, "hey, this is what I'm doing to honor you, to remember you. I miss you all." Just a little contact, a little encouragement from them would be nice.
So yeah, that's why I feel inconsolable. There doesn't seem to be any closure to this grief stuff. No consoling, no satisfaction. I understand now why married couples sometimes die close to one another... it's easier to do that, than it is to figure out how to move on. But I'm a young (ish) woman with a half-grown kid, so I'm in the big middle of life. Waiting for death is not an option.
March 22, 2009
Exhausted
It's 1130 on Sunday night, and I'm tired but not sleepy. I'm in pain, and stewing over something minor. About 15 minor somethings. This is the time when it would be nice to have some anti-anxiety meds. But when you ask an MD to Rx them for you, they think you are drug-seeking. Well, duh. I am. But really? seriously? 10 last me for six months. TEN. And I split them in half.
I start a new PT job tomorrow and will have students for the first time in 7 years.
It was a good Sunday... we walked in the park with dogs and it was gorgeous and windy. No one was out because people in this town are either godly or too cool for a park where there's a tad of mud and wind. I say bring it on.
Had an awesome lunch and a beer. Had a good nap, but now? I'm a little antsy and so all the demons are right there, ready to plague me. I hope I can sleep soon, but the alarm will go off at 6am, and spring break is over.
So many bittersweet thoughts, so much sadness. I see on Facebook how people are having lives, chit-chatting, making plans with friends, reporting on events. I got nothing. I have work where no one really knows me or cares to know me. I have the new job where I'll be as foreign as my students, and I have .... not much else.
It's this untetheredness that bothers me most. It's not having someone who really cares where I am, what I'm doing, if I'm ok. I do have the compassion and friendship of some awesome online folks. I cherish that. But it's not a substitute for the RL connections. The phone calls, the plans, the events, the chit-chat, the nicknames.
This could all change, but how? I just don't know. It's been like this since we moved here. And it doesn't help that I get email from someone I used to love (and could again) that confuses me and makes me pine away. And ponder what went wrong. We are so right for each other
Time to hit the sack again, tame the aches and pains and see if sleep comes.
The lad is good... he told me that his spring break was awesome. That's solid gold.
I start a new PT job tomorrow and will have students for the first time in 7 years.
It was a good Sunday... we walked in the park with dogs and it was gorgeous and windy. No one was out because people in this town are either godly or too cool for a park where there's a tad of mud and wind. I say bring it on.
Had an awesome lunch and a beer. Had a good nap, but now? I'm a little antsy and so all the demons are right there, ready to plague me. I hope I can sleep soon, but the alarm will go off at 6am, and spring break is over.
So many bittersweet thoughts, so much sadness. I see on Facebook how people are having lives, chit-chatting, making plans with friends, reporting on events. I got nothing. I have work where no one really knows me or cares to know me. I have the new job where I'll be as foreign as my students, and I have .... not much else.
It's this untetheredness that bothers me most. It's not having someone who really cares where I am, what I'm doing, if I'm ok. I do have the compassion and friendship of some awesome online folks. I cherish that. But it's not a substitute for the RL connections. The phone calls, the plans, the events, the chit-chat, the nicknames.
This could all change, but how? I just don't know. It's been like this since we moved here. And it doesn't help that I get email from someone I used to love (and could again) that confuses me and makes me pine away. And ponder what went wrong. We are so right for each other
Time to hit the sack again, tame the aches and pains and see if sleep comes.
The lad is good... he told me that his spring break was awesome. That's solid gold.
March 21, 2009
World Poker Tour
As I move through this new phase in my life, I am sorting through what used to make me happy, what used to turn me on, and what now does. Also what totally backfires for me now.
Used to give me a buzz:
eating almost anything
a cold can of Coca-Cola
food
herbal cigarettes (this was a long long time ago)
going to bars
drinking esp. tequila, gin, vodka, wine
pesto (mmmmm)
chocolate (mmmm)
Blue Bell
writing
reading esp. fiction
lots of other things
Given that my cholesterol, body pain and grief have become much larger factors in my life, I don't get the same buzz from booze. I love collecting wine and enjoying A glass, but it's a slippery slope after two glasses. I stopped getting a buzz, and began to get the hangover right away.
I need to lose 25 lbs. I lost 17 but gained it back. So I'm doing WW. But it doesn't give me a buzz. It's slightly annoying, but the results are worth it.
No, what gives me more pleasure now are non-caloric things.
expensive yarn
sometimes, knitting with that yarn
my walking fur pelts (dogs, two)
shooting (video games, arrows, guns)
watching Mr. Curmudgeon himself, Dr. House
and
the World Poker Tour.
Oh boy, the thrill of professionals playing Texas Hold Em, for millions in chips... the sweaty upper lips, the tells, the hushed commentary... the WINNING. Oh yeah! awesome!
Yes, it makes me happy. But wow, what an old fogey I've become. Who the hell am I?
(And where the hell did my love of reading go? is it my glasses? is it the crapification of fiction these days? all those chick novels and the pulpy airplane fodder? this dilemma - it's maddening!)
Used to give me a buzz:
eating almost anything
a cold can of Coca-Cola
food
herbal cigarettes (this was a long long time ago)
going to bars
drinking esp. tequila, gin, vodka, wine
pesto (mmmmm)
chocolate (mmmm)
Blue Bell
writing
reading esp. fiction
lots of other things
Given that my cholesterol, body pain and grief have become much larger factors in my life, I don't get the same buzz from booze. I love collecting wine and enjoying A glass, but it's a slippery slope after two glasses. I stopped getting a buzz, and began to get the hangover right away.
I need to lose 25 lbs. I lost 17 but gained it back. So I'm doing WW. But it doesn't give me a buzz. It's slightly annoying, but the results are worth it.
No, what gives me more pleasure now are non-caloric things.
expensive yarn
sometimes, knitting with that yarn
my walking fur pelts (dogs, two)
shooting (video games, arrows, guns)
watching Mr. Curmudgeon himself, Dr. House
and
the World Poker Tour.
Oh boy, the thrill of professionals playing Texas Hold Em, for millions in chips... the sweaty upper lips, the tells, the hushed commentary... the WINNING. Oh yeah! awesome!
Yes, it makes me happy. But wow, what an old fogey I've become. Who the hell am I?
(And where the hell did my love of reading go? is it my glasses? is it the crapification of fiction these days? all those chick novels and the pulpy airplane fodder? this dilemma - it's maddening!)
Data Point
Here is a quick check-in after seven hours up and somewhat active: I have virtually no body pain. It's a good feeling. I did gobble 3 ibuprofen when I got up, and have moved around a bit cleaning the kitchen and sweeping.
Didn't go work out. Yet. If I intend to keep to my promise of not totally screwing up my Weight Watchers weekly point allowance, I need to do some serious activity today and tomorrow. Or all just tomorrow, which could be very bad, and overexerting.
But I scored myself as a 1 on the pain scale about an hour ago. Which is excellent for me. I rarely get 1s!!
I also ate pork on Wednesday, Thursday and today. I am trying to figure out if beef causes me body pain, which it has seemed to in the past, but here is a pork test and no direct results.
So. That was a lot of data points.
Didn't go work out. Yet. If I intend to keep to my promise of not totally screwing up my Weight Watchers weekly point allowance, I need to do some serious activity today and tomorrow. Or all just tomorrow, which could be very bad, and overexerting.
But I scored myself as a 1 on the pain scale about an hour ago. Which is excellent for me. I rarely get 1s!!
I also ate pork on Wednesday, Thursday and today. I am trying to figure out if beef causes me body pain, which it has seemed to in the past, but here is a pork test and no direct results.
So. That was a lot of data points.
Body Issues, Pt. 1
I used to think I was fortunate in that I didn't have major hang-ups about my body. I've always liked it, and it's served me well in the sex department. However, that's a good and functional coping mechanism for what happened when I was a kid, and now overall as I age.
From age 3, I was sick a lot. Various things, mostly "normal childhood diseases." But I did somehow get hepatitis when I was 3, and then I had strep about every three months for a number of years. I remember getting measles and mumps. Measles - "both kinds" I recall my mother saying. I did not die. People get vaccines for these things now. But still, I was sick a lot.
When the polio vaccine came out, there were two version of that. Live and killed. Polio had been killing people, and injuring them for some 30 years in this country, and it was believed to be a miracle from somewhere... so sure, line 'em up and vax 'em down! Except no one in the military (I'm a military brat) heeded the precaution that those with weakened immune systems might not be good candidates for the vaccine. No, it was soldier up and take the medicine.
So, I got vaccine-dogpiled. And got polio from the vaccine. I have no way of knowing if my parents were ever apprised of the risks v. benefits, or just what. Or if they were told that I got polio FROM the VACCINE. It is clear that is what happened. And they told me as a child that "we caught it just in time" and the case of polio I got was "mild" because of their timeliness. But when I brought up this new awareness to them in the early 90s, they were in complete and total denial. Get it from the vaccine? No way, that's not what they told us! They had even forgotten that I was sick for months, on antibiotics nearly every month for a solid year before the vaccine.
I used to have my medical records from early early on, because we "hand-carried" them out of military life into retirement. As a single mom with baby on hip, I took them with me to Australia where I had planned to use them to assist with the anit-vax efforts down there, but that didn't work out at all. Sheer oversight on my part, I left them on a shelf in the home where I was staying, and when I left, it was not on good terms. So not good that the homeowner never replied to my requests for these valuable documents. That loss is keen. Still today. Losing them is probably the deepest wound I got from the whole experience. (The rest of my trip was quite wonderful - Australia is a lovely and beautiful place and its people are awesome. Perhaps more on that in future entries?)
My point is this: without my medical records, I could now never prove anything to anyone about the vax injury. But also the aftermath. There were at least 90 pages of physical therapy notes (extensive testing, these days not documented in as much detail), surgical notes for three surgeries, and similar. It would be important to me, in further medical care, in writing about my illness, to have those records. It would be important to others, I feel. Yes, the loss of those records is keen.
However, I do have the body still. The records only describe what was done to it, and I have the original body. The paralysis I suffered from polio at age 6 went up my left leg entirely stopping at my hip. I could not walk for a good three or four months. I did not lose function, at the time, in my right leg. The growth in that leg was stunted, but more importantly, the protocol after polio was to "take it easy." That was the exact wrong advice. After all the PT, wherein I learned to walk again, further exercise should have been allowed to build muscles and functionality. I grew but the left leg didn't catch up. There was an unequal leg difference and my slight limp became more pronounced as I grew taller. Scoliosis developed and I was put in a Milwaukee brace - from neck to hips. Special shoes were entertained for a few months but they helped nothing and caused pain, so I abandoned them.
You can imagine the social implications of this. Yeah, playground kids LOVE someone who limps. Oh, and the fun of 7th and 8th grade. Yeah. Good times.
Anyway, I had a permanent PE excuse. Great, except I was a very athletic-minded person. I wanted to be running, doing, riding bikes and horses, playing kickball, etc. I did as much as I could without incurring the wrath of my mom, but she never took the hint. I could stay out all day, come home completely dirty, sweaty and happy, and then get up the next day and do it all over again. But still they kept me away from sports and organized activity. After school, once we'd moved to the country, I was out every day with my dog, exploring the woods, climbing trees, trying to catch the neighbor's horses.
Which is why it is so hard for me now to get off my lardass and get to the the gym, or ride my bike, or whatever. But I'm going to do that now, as an experiment, so I can write about it here. It is so difficult to overcome the mental obstacles every.single.time I want to be active. Plus, there's the physical ones - constant physical limitations due to weight gain and now the onset of post-polio syndrome, with constant moderate back pain.
So when it's time to exercise, I can find a million reasons not to, most of which relate to the avoidance of pain, but a sizeable and significant handful of reasons are mental. First of all, it's just not fun for me to deal with all this. The fun is greatly lessened by the time I get into it. Secondly, it is not fun to be having fun and then suddenly lose balance or have a knee buckle and take a tumble, wrenching something in my back. That sucks, in fact. Thirdly, it's just rotten horrible lousy awful to be cranking along on weights or the elliptical, and have some idiot make an idiot comment. My anger at the whole thing is bubbling there just under the surface, and I want to throttle the unsuspecting idiot and remove them from the gene pool. Or hide.
See? Exercise is a good deterrent for depression and stress. Ha!
Stay tuned for Part 2 of Body Issues, post work-out.
From age 3, I was sick a lot. Various things, mostly "normal childhood diseases." But I did somehow get hepatitis when I was 3, and then I had strep about every three months for a number of years. I remember getting measles and mumps. Measles - "both kinds" I recall my mother saying. I did not die. People get vaccines for these things now. But still, I was sick a lot.
When the polio vaccine came out, there were two version of that. Live and killed. Polio had been killing people, and injuring them for some 30 years in this country, and it was believed to be a miracle from somewhere... so sure, line 'em up and vax 'em down! Except no one in the military (I'm a military brat) heeded the precaution that those with weakened immune systems might not be good candidates for the vaccine. No, it was soldier up and take the medicine.
So, I got vaccine-dogpiled. And got polio from the vaccine. I have no way of knowing if my parents were ever apprised of the risks v. benefits, or just what. Or if they were told that I got polio FROM the VACCINE. It is clear that is what happened. And they told me as a child that "we caught it just in time" and the case of polio I got was "mild" because of their timeliness. But when I brought up this new awareness to them in the early 90s, they were in complete and total denial. Get it from the vaccine? No way, that's not what they told us! They had even forgotten that I was sick for months, on antibiotics nearly every month for a solid year before the vaccine.
I used to have my medical records from early early on, because we "hand-carried" them out of military life into retirement. As a single mom with baby on hip, I took them with me to Australia where I had planned to use them to assist with the anit-vax efforts down there, but that didn't work out at all. Sheer oversight on my part, I left them on a shelf in the home where I was staying, and when I left, it was not on good terms. So not good that the homeowner never replied to my requests for these valuable documents. That loss is keen. Still today. Losing them is probably the deepest wound I got from the whole experience. (The rest of my trip was quite wonderful - Australia is a lovely and beautiful place and its people are awesome. Perhaps more on that in future entries?)
My point is this: without my medical records, I could now never prove anything to anyone about the vax injury. But also the aftermath. There were at least 90 pages of physical therapy notes (extensive testing, these days not documented in as much detail), surgical notes for three surgeries, and similar. It would be important to me, in further medical care, in writing about my illness, to have those records. It would be important to others, I feel. Yes, the loss of those records is keen.
However, I do have the body still. The records only describe what was done to it, and I have the original body. The paralysis I suffered from polio at age 6 went up my left leg entirely stopping at my hip. I could not walk for a good three or four months. I did not lose function, at the time, in my right leg. The growth in that leg was stunted, but more importantly, the protocol after polio was to "take it easy." That was the exact wrong advice. After all the PT, wherein I learned to walk again, further exercise should have been allowed to build muscles and functionality. I grew but the left leg didn't catch up. There was an unequal leg difference and my slight limp became more pronounced as I grew taller. Scoliosis developed and I was put in a Milwaukee brace - from neck to hips. Special shoes were entertained for a few months but they helped nothing and caused pain, so I abandoned them.
You can imagine the social implications of this. Yeah, playground kids LOVE someone who limps. Oh, and the fun of 7th and 8th grade. Yeah. Good times.
Anyway, I had a permanent PE excuse. Great, except I was a very athletic-minded person. I wanted to be running, doing, riding bikes and horses, playing kickball, etc. I did as much as I could without incurring the wrath of my mom, but she never took the hint. I could stay out all day, come home completely dirty, sweaty and happy, and then get up the next day and do it all over again. But still they kept me away from sports and organized activity. After school, once we'd moved to the country, I was out every day with my dog, exploring the woods, climbing trees, trying to catch the neighbor's horses.
Which is why it is so hard for me now to get off my lardass and get to the the gym, or ride my bike, or whatever. But I'm going to do that now, as an experiment, so I can write about it here. It is so difficult to overcome the mental obstacles every.single.time I want to be active. Plus, there's the physical ones - constant physical limitations due to weight gain and now the onset of post-polio syndrome, with constant moderate back pain.
So when it's time to exercise, I can find a million reasons not to, most of which relate to the avoidance of pain, but a sizeable and significant handful of reasons are mental. First of all, it's just not fun for me to deal with all this. The fun is greatly lessened by the time I get into it. Secondly, it is not fun to be having fun and then suddenly lose balance or have a knee buckle and take a tumble, wrenching something in my back. That sucks, in fact. Thirdly, it's just rotten horrible lousy awful to be cranking along on weights or the elliptical, and have some idiot make an idiot comment. My anger at the whole thing is bubbling there just under the surface, and I want to throttle the unsuspecting idiot and remove them from the gene pool. Or hide.
See? Exercise is a good deterrent for depression and stress. Ha!
Stay tuned for Part 2 of Body Issues, post work-out.
March 20, 2009
I See Dead People
I am certain that one of the most primary factors of what is going on with me right now is that I see dead people.
They are everywhere. In my house, in my life, in my heart. My mother died in 2003, my father and eldest brother in 2007, within six weeks of each other. I have one brother remaining, a handful of nieces and nephews and cousins who are distant.
I am divorced too, single mother to one son. The (ill-advised) marriage died, perhaps before it ever drew breath.
Somewhere in all this dying, divorce and turmoil of the past few years, I died too. I look in the mirror and I see someone else. 20 lbs heavier, I type-out on the MBTI as an I now, where about 10 years ago, I was an E. (Extrovert v. introvert).
My aunt died last fall. She was the one who had all the family memories. She was sharp as a tack until the last time she laid down in her bed at home. They broke out the emergency pain meds, and she floated out on morphine and terminal cancer. And all those memories died too. All the stories. The artifacts remain - those that she kept and that my cousin did not throw away. Those artifacts are in a box in my office. They are unconnected dots because the family is dead.
Everything I've ever known about who I am and what family I come from is gone. All I have is memories, disconnected. I've got a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle and only about half of the pieces anymore. Most people could enjoy the bit of lake that did get put together, or half of a big-eyed kitten. I'm only able to see the gaps, the lost pieces.
I've spent more than 10 years being a Good Mom. Now that the lad has begun to turn into teenager, all that hard work seems to be for naught. No one looks at the mother of a teen and says, "ah, what a good mom." The pudding is cooked, so to speak. Though I do know there are important months and years of parenting still to come, my 24x7 vigilance is not essential.
So what do I have left? Visions of people dying, young and old (brother died at 60 - that's young.). I held my mother as she died, I spent many hours with my father at the end, and I witnessed my brother in extremis. I've looked into the faces of the people I love, the people who made me, who raised me, and I've seen death.
Moreover, I've seen myself old and dying. I've seen it like it was today. And the way I feel in my body, the way I feel in my heart, it IS today. And so I wake up every day like it's the last. That, unlike the country songs, makes me feel like it's over, not like it's time to live. Or at least it's an uphill climb to live, to function like I'm part of the world here and now, instead of the world that is gone from my sight.
The emotions and moods come and go, but the simple loss of identity, the loss of people who cared about me on a cellular level - that's the hardest thing to deal with. The world that passed is more real to me. The world I live in now is foreign, bewildering, difficult.
Maybe I am coping... grieving, as the shrinks like to say, but it's just vastly different, and a lot less glamorous, than I thought it would be.
Edited to add: while I say that I wake up every day like it's the last, I do still wake up and have some kind of interest and impetus for living. I always look forward to what the day might bring. I'm decidedly NOT suicidal. I don't WANT to die at all. I don't WANT to be in this limbo between life and the beloved dead, but I am.
They are everywhere. In my house, in my life, in my heart. My mother died in 2003, my father and eldest brother in 2007, within six weeks of each other. I have one brother remaining, a handful of nieces and nephews and cousins who are distant.
I am divorced too, single mother to one son. The (ill-advised) marriage died, perhaps before it ever drew breath.
Somewhere in all this dying, divorce and turmoil of the past few years, I died too. I look in the mirror and I see someone else. 20 lbs heavier, I type-out on the MBTI as an I now, where about 10 years ago, I was an E. (Extrovert v. introvert).
My aunt died last fall. She was the one who had all the family memories. She was sharp as a tack until the last time she laid down in her bed at home. They broke out the emergency pain meds, and she floated out on morphine and terminal cancer. And all those memories died too. All the stories. The artifacts remain - those that she kept and that my cousin did not throw away. Those artifacts are in a box in my office. They are unconnected dots because the family is dead.
Everything I've ever known about who I am and what family I come from is gone. All I have is memories, disconnected. I've got a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle and only about half of the pieces anymore. Most people could enjoy the bit of lake that did get put together, or half of a big-eyed kitten. I'm only able to see the gaps, the lost pieces.
I've spent more than 10 years being a Good Mom. Now that the lad has begun to turn into teenager, all that hard work seems to be for naught. No one looks at the mother of a teen and says, "ah, what a good mom." The pudding is cooked, so to speak. Though I do know there are important months and years of parenting still to come, my 24x7 vigilance is not essential.
So what do I have left? Visions of people dying, young and old (brother died at 60 - that's young.). I held my mother as she died, I spent many hours with my father at the end, and I witnessed my brother in extremis. I've looked into the faces of the people I love, the people who made me, who raised me, and I've seen death.
Moreover, I've seen myself old and dying. I've seen it like it was today. And the way I feel in my body, the way I feel in my heart, it IS today. And so I wake up every day like it's the last. That, unlike the country songs, makes me feel like it's over, not like it's time to live. Or at least it's an uphill climb to live, to function like I'm part of the world here and now, instead of the world that is gone from my sight.
The emotions and moods come and go, but the simple loss of identity, the loss of people who cared about me on a cellular level - that's the hardest thing to deal with. The world that passed is more real to me. The world I live in now is foreign, bewildering, difficult.
Maybe I am coping... grieving, as the shrinks like to say, but it's just vastly different, and a lot less glamorous, than I thought it would be.
Edited to add: while I say that I wake up every day like it's the last, I do still wake up and have some kind of interest and impetus for living. I always look forward to what the day might bring. I'm decidedly NOT suicidal. I don't WANT to die at all. I don't WANT to be in this limbo between life and the beloved dead, but I am.
I'm Just Here
I started a new blog. I've backed away from blogs for a very long time, and tried my hand at noveling. I work online, in writing and editing, so the very last thing I want to do in my "free" time is sit at the computer and write. MSWord feels like work to me. I've tried other GUIs such as Scrivener and some different blogging software for "local" use ie, just for the computer.
But it is unsatisfying. Blogging is good because one can blather away in a little window, hit publish, edit, revise, hit publish again, and then move on into the next day. A little instant gratification, with publishing at the end of the writing process.
I want to write, and I'm good at it - at least people pay me money to do it. But I've reached an impasse on Writing. On life. On inspiration, on mothering, on earning money doing things I like to do. I'm just coasting along. I find myself with several hours to kill, and I'm either overwhelmed by choices of what I need to get done, or a complete and total lack of jack's interest.
I think there's a reason for that, but the rest of the world is swirling on without me. I am treading water here, but floundering a bit. A lot.
And before you say, ah, you need therapy. Been there, done that, taking a break.
I hit a dead space with my latest counselor. He was very good for a while, but so far out of his zone of expertise (addiction and substance abuse)... I show up with my recent, fresh "complicated" grief, my decided distaste for anti-depressants, and my need to break through the barrier. I've lost my ability to give a damn. I've lost my desire, my yearning and my persistent questing. Our last session, he said something like, "what about girlfriends? Don't you have any? You're such a hoot." Dude, if I had girlfriends in whom I could confide like I can a therapist, I wouldn't be here. And if I had girlfriends who could withstand the full force of what I'm going through, they would be worth every penny I'm paying YOU.
He also thinks I'm not taking enough sam-E. Well, pal, for one thing, the sam-E is for body pain and has an aftereffect of helping with depression (of a certain type). Plus it's pricey, and yes, I know that Prozac is cheaper, but not if you don't have health insurance, which is the case with me, which you know... but apparently, have forgotten.
I just got exasperated when he failed for the third time to hear me ask him to help me with a specific list I'd brought in... he veered off topic and, well, it was just an off day for him. A super off day for me, and I decided I didn't need that shit.
So, here I am. Needing a place to just spill it all out, unfettered, unfiltered, and unadulterated with keywords and SEO and worry about this being tied to my livelihood. I don't expect this to be more than a place to write it all down. It's easier for me to type (which is another thing that bothers me.... I don't write longhand anymore, and I'm thinking I'll lose the ability to do so. A minor worry, really.).
This is the last house on the block. My line in the sand. I cannot go lower than here. I must put my back up against this rock solid wall, down here in the bunker (ha ha, that's funny if you know who I am from a certain circle of crazy people)... but this is where the iron rations are, the extra blankets and the oxygen masks.
If I don't make it out of here, into the next good phase of my life, then I stay until the grub runs out and the zombies come for me.
But it is unsatisfying. Blogging is good because one can blather away in a little window, hit publish, edit, revise, hit publish again, and then move on into the next day. A little instant gratification, with publishing at the end of the writing process.
I want to write, and I'm good at it - at least people pay me money to do it. But I've reached an impasse on Writing. On life. On inspiration, on mothering, on earning money doing things I like to do. I'm just coasting along. I find myself with several hours to kill, and I'm either overwhelmed by choices of what I need to get done, or a complete and total lack of jack's interest.
I think there's a reason for that, but the rest of the world is swirling on without me. I am treading water here, but floundering a bit. A lot.
And before you say, ah, you need therapy. Been there, done that, taking a break.
I hit a dead space with my latest counselor. He was very good for a while, but so far out of his zone of expertise (addiction and substance abuse)... I show up with my recent, fresh "complicated" grief, my decided distaste for anti-depressants, and my need to break through the barrier. I've lost my ability to give a damn. I've lost my desire, my yearning and my persistent questing. Our last session, he said something like, "what about girlfriends? Don't you have any? You're such a hoot." Dude, if I had girlfriends in whom I could confide like I can a therapist, I wouldn't be here. And if I had girlfriends who could withstand the full force of what I'm going through, they would be worth every penny I'm paying YOU.
He also thinks I'm not taking enough sam-E. Well, pal, for one thing, the sam-E is for body pain and has an aftereffect of helping with depression (of a certain type). Plus it's pricey, and yes, I know that Prozac is cheaper, but not if you don't have health insurance, which is the case with me, which you know... but apparently, have forgotten.
I just got exasperated when he failed for the third time to hear me ask him to help me with a specific list I'd brought in... he veered off topic and, well, it was just an off day for him. A super off day for me, and I decided I didn't need that shit.
So, here I am. Needing a place to just spill it all out, unfettered, unfiltered, and unadulterated with keywords and SEO and worry about this being tied to my livelihood. I don't expect this to be more than a place to write it all down. It's easier for me to type (which is another thing that bothers me.... I don't write longhand anymore, and I'm thinking I'll lose the ability to do so. A minor worry, really.).
This is the last house on the block. My line in the sand. I cannot go lower than here. I must put my back up against this rock solid wall, down here in the bunker (ha ha, that's funny if you know who I am from a certain circle of crazy people)... but this is where the iron rations are, the extra blankets and the oxygen masks.
If I don't make it out of here, into the next good phase of my life, then I stay until the grub runs out and the zombies come for me.
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