No

Today is a no-good very-bad horrible day.

(Nothing horrible has actually happened, not yet, to me anyway. There are no-good very-bad horrible things happening all over the world, but not to me, not yet, not today)

I woke up with a creeping dread, it was that feeling that I had forgotten something: an important appointment, something I promised a friend, someone’s birthday… Try as I might, I could not think of what it was. I laid in my bed for a while, trying to go back to sleep. That turned out to be a waste of my time. I got up and tried to “solve” my problem, whatever it was. I reviewed all my messages, emails, even checked to see if I’d spoken to anyone on the phone. No luck. The tears of frustration had just started to fall when I realized there wasn’t any reason for me to feel this way. No triggers. Just dread.

Hello, anxiety, my old friend. It’s been a while since you came around uninvited. I’m used to you hanging around when I’m driving somewhere I haven’t been or when I’m already reviewing a reel of my greatest gaffs playing on repeat in my otherwise empty head. It’s been a while since I woke up with you in my bed wondering how you got there, again, despite all my best efforts, reminding me of a toxic lover to whom I still can’t say “no”.

I tried to pet the cat, for comfort, but my energy offended her and she ran off. It felt like a rejection, quite out of proportion to how much I would usually react to such a thing: the cat is not what we call “cuddly.” Rejection from her is a daily occurrence, usually taken in stride. Today, the tears and shame came. Where did that come from?

So now the question: “What the hell am I crying about?” The answer is nothing and everything. It’s all the times I stopped myself from crying because I didn’t feel safe to show my feelings. It’s all the things I wouldn’t let myself cry about because they weren’t worthy of my tears. It’s all the hurt and pain I didn’t let myself feel because I didn’t want to be accused of being “sensitive.” I’m crying for all the times I held myself back from saying the quiet part out loud and standing up for myself because I was so desperate for people to like me.

The tears come now, unhindered because I will no longer censor myself. I AM SENSITIVE. My sense of love is all mixed up in my sense of pain. I don’t know how to tell if I love someone or if I’m back on the roller coaster of emotion I used to associate with love. The things I feel are all mixed up together in a way that seems impossible to distinguish from one another. I’m feeling strong feelings: but is it love or pain? Have I ever even known the difference? If I cry until I can’t breathe, is that enough?

I remind myself to “sit in my feelings” as I tell my clients all the time. What does this feel like? I feel heavy. Where do I feel it? My head, my chest. What else do I feel? My hands and feet are cold, and my feet feel buzzy. What emotion is coming up” Grief.

So I sit with that and I feel it. It feels terrible, I want it to stop. So much loss, not just for me personally, but in the world. It’s so big I don’t think I can contain it in my body. It feels like it’s splitting me from the inside. I imagine myself opening up with the violence of a star exploding. The grief is dissipating and hiding behind it are anger and rage, inspiring me to hit and kick, throw and break things. I scream and growl as the tears keep falling. Returning to my breath, I remind myself to just feel it.

Big belly breaths, in: two, three, four; hold two, three, four; out, two, three, four; hold, two, three, four. I close my eyes and imagine I’m gently sniffing a fragrant flower and carefully blowing out the birthday candles. With each breath, I notice myself coming back into my body from wherever I had been. I can feel my feet again, planted on the floor. I notice my belly feels warm and it is expanding and contracting with each breath. I feel empty where I used to feel heavy and the headache is creeping in. I feel tired enough to take a nap, but I’ve only just woken up and I have an appointment in less than two hours.

I let my routines slip this weekend, the monotony of daily life can feel boring, so sometimes I abandon it. Crying isn’t a weakness, it’s a release. I stopped myself from crying all those years and now all of those tears are stuck inside me. They sneak up on my when I least expect it, when things are objectively “good.” It’s not as scary as it used to be, I don’t panic anymore when I’m crying for “no reason,” because there is always a reason, even if I don’t know it. Maybe I don’t need to be reminded of the reason I’m crying today. Maybe I still don’t need those specific memories. Maybe there is a reason they continue to be buried. So I shed a tear for my younger self, because that kid didn’t know better. I wrap my arms around my shoulders and hug that kid: we’re going to be okay.

#no #happinessinavacuum #cry #dread #anxiety #breathe #letgo #grief #pain #loss #love #hug #horrible #routine

goals

I was walking the dog yesterday and thinking about writing. I’ve been doing considerably more thinking about writing than actual writing lately. It’s part of the process, I know that. I have tried to schedule writing time in each day, and I avoid it. I’ve tried to reward myself, I still avoid it. I wonder at my resistance. I ask myself, “Do I really want to write?” “Why do I want to write?” and all of the questions authors ask themselves when they are in doubt, like: “If nobody ever read it, would I still write it down?” I think so. I have all these stories in my head and they are beating on my frontal lobe to get out. They sneak up on me when I’m trying to sleep or read someone else’s writing. I suddenly solve plot holes when I’m watching an old episode of Murder, She Wrote.

I write these things down on Post Its and I put them in a folder. Someday, I will organize them into outlines and I will finally have a place for all the little disconnected scenes I’ve written when inspiration strikes. I have so many writing tasks to do, I don’t need inspiration. If I’ve written myself into a corner in one story, I can just pick up another and keep going. Writer’s block is no longer the problem, it’s finishing.

I can be working on my stories forever, some of them are so real the characters visit me in my dreams and show me their secret needs and desires. If I never finish them, I never have to share them. I never have to submit my work to be judged by someone else. I always knew I wanted to write, I’ve been writing stories since I was a kid. But sharing them? That’s terrifying. It’s not even about “what if someone doesn’t like it,” because obviously, not everyone is going to like everything I write, that’s bananas. I don’t want everyone to like it. I’m kind of hoping for controversy: I would love to write a book that gets banned.

I talk to clients all the time about perfectionism and its pitfalls. The fear of finishing is strong, because I would have to, at some point, decide that my work is finished and pass it on to be reviewed and edited. This part of the process is me, literally asking someone else to judge my work and tell me where they find it lacking. That’s the terrifying part. The part where I’ve done what I can and I need help to finish. It’s never been very easy for me to ask for help, I was always an independent person, even as a child. The stories I wrote came out fully formed and complete: I struggled the most against the teachers who needed me to turn in “outlines” and “first drafts.” Why would I need that if I can start at the beginning and just keep going until I get to the end?

After two decades of teaching kids writing, I now understand the importance of planning. The devices and patterns are there for a reason: people expect them there. Of course I can turn something on its head, present something unexpected, but in order for my subjugation of the rules to have the desired effect, I have to follow at least the basic “rules” so my readers are interested enough to get to the surprise. I don’t want to be “almost” there; I want my characters to act in accordance to their lived values, I want my readers to believe in my characters.

I learned to keep writer’s block at bay by having enough different projects going that I can always find something to tickle my brain. I’m going to learn how to get past this fear of finishing. I had noticed this pattern a while back: if I wrote on any given day, I would feel so accomplished I would give myself several days off. A week or so later, it might still feel like “I just wrote yesterday.” So I’m trying a new habit: I’m putting a big, orange “W” (for writing) on my calendar each day I write. This is how I will keep track. That way I can’t escape from how long it’s been.

I’d like to try and write at least half the days, but that’s a pretty lofty goal considering I’ve averaged once a month for the past three months. I’m going to keep data for the first month in order to set my goal. 12 days into April and I’ve written four days, so I’m up to a third of the days. That’s not bad for a start.

fibromyalgia

So many negative connotations of this word. When I first heard of it, I was working as an associate therapist in Southern Arizona. Patients (This was about twenty years ago) started reporting this diagnosis, so I looked into it, asked around the professionals I worked with. The consensus was it was another term for “malingering.” The idea that a psychiatric patient is making up symptoms for attention. The verb was quickly turned into a noun during the classroom conversation, “malingerers,” the professor said, “they hypochondriacs of the mental health field.” That word was inflammatory as well. I’d been told I was one of those because I had physical symptoms of a much older person, and in the absence of explanation, the doctors assumed I was making it up.

All of these terms, diagnoses, reflect more on the nature of the medical professionals than on the clients. I do understand the need for categorization, especially in scientific pursuits. However, it seems that when a person’s set of symptoms don’t fit into any of the established boxes, the whole person is dismissed as pathological. Whatever happened to scientific curiosity? I thought that’s what I would encounter when I started seeking medical explanations for my symptoms, a scientist who would help me identify the problem and help me solve it. Instead, I get a series of doctors who easily dismiss my symptoms as something else: PTSD, anxiety, fibromyalgia, and I’m certain my chart contains the term, “malingering” at least once.

When I first heard of Fibromyalgia, the consensus around me was that people were “making it up.” That didn’t entirely make any sense to me. If people were feeling pain, what difference did it make if it was “in their head?” I can’t imagine any accurate way to compare pain in two different bodies, and anyone who has suffered emotionally can surely attest that pain cannot be compared to physical pain, even in the same body. I don’t understand why people place such importance on which pain is greater or more damaging. It doesn’t matter. Pain is personal. I’ve been in a lot of pain in the last week. I ADHD to close to the sun and ended up with a hurt back and a flare-up.

I don’t identify the diagnosis attached to the flare up, because I’m not sure which is which sometimes. All I can describe is how they make me feel. There was a flood in my kitchen. Not mine, exactly, but my neighbor’s kitchen tap broke and flooded their place on the other side of the wall when they were not home. It came through to my place, damaging some drywall and the floor. I’m in the middle of the construction process. I’ve had to pack up everything downstairs. I am told people will move the heavier furniture to the garage when they are ready to do the floor, so I had no reason to re-arrange anything. Yet, I am displaced, and whenever I feel unsafe or out of routine I tend to re-organize whatever spaces I can, until they “feel” right.

So I hurt my back rearranging the workroom upstairs, which is now also temporarily the tea room and TV room. I was dissociated enough at the time that I didn’t realize how hurt I was and I kept working. The next day, I could barely walk, but I had a few more things to arrange, and I was able to do (most of) that sitting down. I went to my acupuncturist and got some relief, as well as a nice, cozy nap. The next day, feeling better, I rearranged some plants. This only involved moving a trellis (not heavy but awkward) and some pots that I actually had to empty because I could not lift them full. None of these facts deterred me from my quest. Sunday I spent all day in bed with ice, heat, Ibuprofen, and a book. More naps.

Pain is difficult to describe, but I’ll give it a try. For about a week, I felt like I had pulled a butt muscle. I could feel something like an occasional spasm in my right cheek when I sat down, and sometimes it would cramp when I stood up. I tried stretching, rolling, and nothing seemed to help. After I hurt my back, I couldn’t feel that at all. My lower back felt fine as long as I was still: laying down, sitting, or standing. Anytime I moved anything, I would get pain shooting down the front of my right leg. Not like sciatica, where it feels like fire, but as if all the muscles on the front of my leg were clinching at once, although when I touched my leg, my muscles felt relaxed.

The most fun is the Fibromyalgia. Sometimes it feels like little sparks in my fingers and toes. Not like when my foot falls asleep, but like electric shocks. The body aches are similar to a fever ache, as if my bones are burning me from the inside. Could be full body or just some of it. Other times, it feels like there are ants crawling on me or something biting me, just under the skin. This time, it felt like someone had peeled away the skin on both of my thighs and was poking my raw nerves. I have some amount of pain most days, and it’s been most days of my life since I was sixteen. I can’t just take a couple days off when my back hurts and go back to work like nothing happened. I have to keep living my life. I have to keep moving, even though sometimes, it hurts.

That’s why the pain scale doesn’t work for me. I tell the medical professionals my number and all they can think is, “If I was at that number, I wouldn’t be this calm,” and assume I’m exaggerating. I had complications after a surgery and no appointments were available even though I reported my pain level at nine. I was told that was “impossible.” It is a mystery why I don’t trust medical professionals.

#fibromyalgia #blog #wordpress #tumblr #happinessinavacuum #impossible #pain #medicalgaslighting #chronicpain #adhd #copingskills #hypochondriac #malingering #PTSD #anxiety

Chrissy

When I was a kid, my family celebrated Christmas. I loved Christmas. My birthday was a few days before, so I always felt wrapped up in the Christmas magic. I believed in Santa Claus for an embarrassingly long time. I would wake up before the sun and wait by the bursting, sparkly tree, for everyone else to finally get up. After having a special breakfast of the sugar cereals we weren’t allowed to eat the rest of the year, we would pile in the car with “one toy each” that we couldn’t bear to leave behind. Then, dad would drive us “over the river and through the woods” (that’s how I remember it anyway) to grandmother’s house.

The entire family would show up: aunts, uncles, cousins. There would be football on the telly. There were snacks and sweets to keep us busy until dinner was served in the early afternoon. Grandma basically had prepared the entire feast by herself. I would be by her side the whole time, learning the details of every dish and how to get it all out at the same time. Eventually, the presents would all be ripped apart and a slight calm would come over the room as all the kids concentrated on our new toys.

Then the table would be set and grandpa would say grace. It was the only time my family prayed. Then, we all sang “Happy Birthday” to Jesus and started piling food on our plates. Roast turkey, gravy, stuffing from inside and outside the bird, green bean casserole, candied yams, mashed potatoes, both kids of canned cranberry sauce, and a fruit salad with mayonnaise dressing. After dinner, we would cut the pies and someone would make the joke “instead of a piece of pie, we have a pie-a-piece!” referring to the sheer number of pies on the table. Grandma would always make two pumpkin and a chocolate creme. My auntie would bring lemon chiffon and pecan. My mom would bring apple or berry. My favourite was the pumpkin pie with the Cool Whip on top.

By the end of the night, all the women in the family would be washing up while all the men in the family were passed out in front of the football game. Each parent would round up their kids, pack the presents in the car, and we would sleep in the car on the way home.

As the oldest granddaughter, I always knew I wanted to take over as the family hub. By the time I was married, Grandpa had passed and Grandma was on her second husband. They lived in a small place so I was excited to host my first family Christmas at my home. I was most excited to blend my family traditions with those of my new husband, who was English, and had specially requested Yorkshire Pudding. At the time I thought I could cook anything. I could have practiced more, but I didn’t. Instead, I had the audacity to assume I could cook anything perfectly: even make Yorkshire puddings happen during the chaos of cooking the whole dinner by myself with only one tiny oven.

I almost set the kitchen on fire. The oil has to be “smoking hot” before the batter goes in. It was SMOKING, all right. The whole kitchen was filled up. As I was waving pillows at the fire alarm and opening doors, I remember seeing my grandma’s tiny face through a halo of smoke asking me if I needed any help.

What I understand now, is that for fifteen years, I was married to a miserable, insecure alcoholic. The drinking would start when my winter break would start. On Christmas day, he would “crack a beer” before breakfast. Then he would spend the rest of the day trying to upset the fine balance I had prepared for myself in order to get everything done on time. It took me years to realize how he was undermining me in so many small ways. He always had to be the center of attention. When the family would come for dinner, I would get all this praise, so he had to “make sure my head didn’t get too big” by “cutting me down a notch.” He was expert at the classic bully line, “I’m just kidding, where is your sense of humor?” So I endured his insults and laughed along with him. I couldn’t let my family see how much I was hurting. (I learned that from Grandma, too).

I got into a routine with the holidays. I would do as much preparation as I could manage: both with the meal and trying to predict what shenanigans he would be up to. There was that time he almost killed my mom on a quad bike. There was the time he fired automatic weapons in the basement. There was that time he passed out so cold I thought he was dead for a bit. There was the time the horse kicked me in the head and he thought he’d bruised me up and spent the morning treating me so well I “forgot” to tell him he hadn’t hurt me when he was blacked out. There was the time he got in a fight with the neighbors and we both ended up in the hospital with stitches.

My last Chrissy with him was 10 years ago. We were living on the other side of the world from both our families and had “orphans Christmas” with some friends I’d made there. He became overwhelemed with the idea that I was cheating on him with one of my work colleagues and acted like a turd the entire night. I don’t remember details, but the night ended with him speeding off in the car, leaving me stranded. I came very close to calling the police and giving the description of my car and the number plate- Drunk Driving is much more serious in Australia- but he had always said that if I ever involve the cops in our conflicts, it would be over (“It” being our marriage).

Eventually, I did all the things that were supposed to cause him to “walk away without looking back” and none of them worked. He was always eager to “forgive” me and go back to our old routine. Of course, now he also had something else to hold over me. It’s pretty shitty to tell someone they are forgiven, but still hold their poor behavior as ransom in the relationship. In the end, I had to find the courage to leave, and I did.

A decade later and I still hate Christmas. Every passing year I think I’m going to be able to let it go this time. This year, I’m going to have a good time. I’ve been to friend’s homes for Christmas. I’ve watched other families joke and laugh and drink together. I’ve watched them have a tiny glass of wine and then switch to coffee. I’ve seed disagreements that didn’t end in bloody fisticuffs. Yet, I still can’t sleep the night before in anticipation of what fresh hell the day will bring. I can feel this creeping dread of not knowing what to expect, but knowing to expect something. Wearing a fake smile on my face all day like a mask. Waiting for that other shoe to drop. Trying to keep my mask from cracking, trying not to show weakness. A decade later and I’m still scared on Christmas day.

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #tumblr #chrissy #Christmas #dinner #pie #trauma #anticipation #stress #cooking #weakness #10years #freedom #letitgo #fakesmile #mask #masking #abuse #negging

Tower

On Samhain I did a simple Tarot pull. Among others, I pulled the Tower. I’ve pulled it before, right before the pandemic. I had a job that I loved that ALSO paid the bills. I was saving money and traveling. I was in a new relationship and this was finally feeling like my life. It was almost four years after my divorce.

The Tower, depending on the style of your deck, usually appears as a sturdy structure, which happens to be on fire. The tower is being attacked from all directions: by lightning, fire, water, and wind. Sometimes, people are seen fleeing or falling from the tower.

It signifies a time of total destruction. It means everything I’ve built is not standing on a stable foundation and it must collapse. I haven’t liked my job for a while, I wasn’t getting enough hours and didn’t feel appreciated, but I refused to acknowledge the problem or make any changes. The precarious tower I built fell down on Monday. I am standing in the rubble and I have so many choices in front of me. I didn’t get choose this transition, but I do get to choose what happens next.

Now that my tower has fallen, I get to pick through the rubble and take what I want to keep in my brand new tower. I know some of the problems this tower had. I take that knowledge while I strengthen the now-exposed foundation beneath me. I have the privilege of taking my time to inspect this place and build a much better building, based on all I have learned.

Being denied the power of choice is one of the most uncomfortable feelings I can remember. I have difficulty with transitions, even when I’m the architect of the destruction. When choice is taken away, I can feel powerless and revert to old coping skills that I’ve edged out of my routine. I’ve been binge eating sweets, gluten, and practically mainlining caffeine. I even had some red wine and ice cream. -5/10 do not recommend (score inspired by the stomach ache I got after, going down it was not bad).

I’ve also taken this opportunity to really focus on the things I want to accomplish. I’ve known for a while that in order to get anything written I have to put that in my schedule and hold myself to it. Each day since Monday, I’ve taken at least an hour for writing. I’ve written two blog posts, and the beginning of a short story. I’ve decided I’m going to put my long-form projects on hold and get some short stories collected. So far, I have seven. They are not all finished, but I also have a whole page of ideas scribbled on post-its, so it’s only a matter of sitting down and choosing what to work on each day.

I will set aside time for writing and music every day. I got a cup full of erasable markers to write my daily schedule on the bathroom mirror. Each night when I’m brushing my teeth, I’ll consider tomorrow’s schedule and list the things I want to accomplish by a certain time in the day. I’m going to forgive myself if I don’t get to everything each day, especially when I’m feeling extra fatigued due to the extra responsibilities I was just given and the dumpster fire that is implied by the most recent election (USA).

#tower #happinessinavacuum #wordpress #tumblr #falling #responsibility #adulting #idliketotakeanapinstead #napculture #feelingraw #jobending #rubble #rebuild #fatigue #feelingspiky

Closing

Yesterday, during my supervision session, I found out that the company where I’ve been working for about 18 months is closing. They gave us exactly sixteen days notice. I found out when my supervisor asked me if I had read my email and then gave me some time to do that.

yes I had a panic attack

I couldn’t even speak. I held up my finger and turned off my microphone and camera so I could slide down the carpeted stairs in a blind, screaming rage.

When I was able to return to the session, I learned that the business model just isn’t making “enough” money. They weren’t even sorry about waiting so long to tell all the therapists. The CFO and clinical director were both like, “Waaaaaah it was a huge surprise for us, too! (yeah fucking right) but don’t worry folks! We have an offer for you! The same founder that dreamed up this place is willing to transition ALL OF YOU! The onboarding process will be SEAMLESS! You will be able to begin seeing new clients the VERY NEXT WEEK after Thanksgiving!” I am not appreciative of anyone who hands me an emergency when they clearly failed to plan. As if the election week wasn’t enough of a shit week for me, now I have to change jobs. Potentially twice.

I had been considering changing jobs. There were a few things I didn’t like about the place I worked, most of these were simply annoying, but some were ethical gray areas. I had considered leaving, but that would require a lot of planning and nobody really likes a job hunt, do they? There were also my clients to consider. I could potentially bring them with me, but that would also require me to find a place of business where the client’s cost wouldn’t change too much. What I’m most upset about is the choice was taken from me. I don’t get to job search while I have another job and casually pick something better. I have to do a full onboarding transition to a place I have no intention of staying with because I can’t just not have a job while I look.

Last week I was vacillating between total dissociation and grief. When I did think about the election, it went like this, “The bullies won and this country is designed for that to happen,” (scream cry into the refrigerator). “Is it possible to leave the country? To trade the communities I’ve built here for the freedom to be myself? (rage eat all the gluten and chocolate). “I’m not as scared of what the president will do or not do, but what the people will feel empowered to do,” (dance to my favorite angry song). In the moments I was dissociated, I felt at peace until I remembered.

#closing #wordpress #tumblr #happinessinavacuum #closing #election #scary #rage #dance #loss #grief #change #fuck

fever dream

It’s been a while since I’ve had a dream I remember that was even worth writing down. My “dreams” journal used to be full of bizarre ideas. Then, I started writing these ideas as stories, the characters started developing, and the plots started twisting. The first story I wrote down came out of a series of nightmares I was having about my ex. In them, I would repeatedly visit specific places from my memory of our relationship and experience some version of not being able to speak, scream, or move. Over time, I found my strength and eventually I was able to say my piece and walk out. That was, after I went through a period of trying to pack useless crap into a tiny suitcase and then wandered around a maze-like neighborhood trying to find my car. I haven’t had a dream about him in a while now, but the landscape of my nightmares built the setting for a post-apocalyptic adventure. (still working out characters and plot for that one).

The first nightmare I remember was an army of water heaters marching toward my bed with the intent to kill me. I did have a fever that time. They had no faces, arms or legs: the “marching” was essentially hopping from one side of their cylindrical bottom to the other in unison, terrifying and noisy. The leader had a special hat and was “carrying” a baton. The medals were attached to the “chest” area, although, again, no human features. They were chanting something as they were marching. (I think it’s also fair to share here that I was a tiny bit obsessed with Pink Floyd’s The Wall album when I was a very small child, so I imagine that’s where all the military imagery comes from).

The recurring nightmares I had as a kid included just about every elevator horror story and multiple situations where I can see a disaster coming and nobody will listen, or even turn around and look, so I scream myself hoarse trying to get anyone to stop what they are doing and run away. The worst ones were the driving dreams. They started when I was about four. My parents would be fighting in the car, and all of a sudden, I would be not only driving the car (which I obviously didn’t know how to do and couldn’t reach anything important), but trying to get them to stop fighting. As I got older and more practiced at driving, the nightmares took a turn (pun intended) I would be driving along a California highway overpass when it would suddenly plunge toward the Earth like a roller-coaster track and end in a body of water. These dreams developed into “lost at sea” themes.

I would have to say the best fever dream I ever had was when I was about 11 and I had such a bad fever my dad threw me in the bathtub with ice. My friend happened to be spending the night and read to me from one of the Madeline L’Engle books from the Wrinkle in Time series. The fever was bad. I was definitely hallucinating. No, I did not go the hospital. It was the eighties and my dad had been an Army medic in Vietnam, so we didn’t go to hospitals. I doubt we even had medical insurance, TBH.

I rarely remember my dreams anymore. Maybe I’m sleeping better, maybe my mental health is more balanced. Maybe I’m taking care of myself, finally, and my brain doesn’t feel the need to rehash all the horror from my days during the night. Whatever the reason, I’m glad of it. While I did take inspiration from them, it really is a relief to not wake up every day with fear. I got my COVID and flu boosters last Friday; I didn’t technically have a fever, but my body was pretty convincing that I did. So, I’ll call it a fever dream.

I was on the set of the Golden Girls, sitting at the table in the kitchen. It was between takes. Bea Arthur puts her hand on my hand and says, “Rue, are you going to tell them or shall I?” This dream was unusual in the way that I was in the body of the main character, seeing out of her eyes. In most of my dreams, I can see myself fully, as if I’m watching a movie of myself, as opposed to experiencing the scene in real time.

#happinessinavacuum #blog #wordpress #tumblr #feverdream #goldengirls #hallucinate #bathtub #memory #nightmare #child #mentalhealth #bizarre

“tells”

In the game of poker, there is a strategy of watching for other player’s “tells;” or involuntary and subtle reactions to the cards in one’s hand. This is why you see poker players hiding most of their faces behind beards, hoodies, glasses, etc. Over the years, I got to know my ex’s tells. I became an expert at reading his behavior. I had to be, as it was unpredictable, and I had made myself responsible for regulating his emotions. Whenever he was thinking of something that he didn’t want to talk about, he would rest the first two fingers on his right hand against his lips with the rest of his fingers and thumb curled in a fist under his chin. I would ask, “What are you thinking?” He would answer, “How did you know?” It was an embarrassingly long time before he figured it out, too.

Recently, I’ve been having more conversations with people about their own tells, specifically for depression. I’ve noticed most people are pretty clear about their anxiety. They feel the symptoms of stress ramping up, there are obvious signs, like panic attacks and heart palpitations. Yet, people have a harder time identifying when they are depressed. Being educated does not make me better at identifying my own depression symptoms. I tend to notice my depression when I’m coming out of it, which is rather inconvenient. For me, coming out of depression feels like waking up from a bad dream. Everything seems brighter and more interesting suddenly, and I can do things I couldn’t imagine doing when I was stuck in the dream. Suddenly, the sunshine seems inviting instead of harsh and I start reaching out to friends without agonizing about every syllable I write, and overthinking the responses…

I’m often asked about how one goes about changing a habit when one does not notice it happening? It’s a gradual process, which includes much reflection and allowance to make mistakes. It took me years to recognize my depression at the front end. How I got there was by evaluating my “depressed” behavior up to the point I realized I was out of it. I would look back and notice the small changes in my behavior. Maybe I was more negligent in my personal hygiene and spending more time doom scrolling than interacting. The most interesting of my tells is when I start piling stuff in front of the door. I’m not even sure why I do this, but I have a feeling it’s some kind of physical barrier of protection. Each time I came out of my depression, I would write down all the little “tells” I’d noticed and keep the list somewhere I could see it. Eventually, I would come to associate these small changes in behavior with an onset of depression and I could do something about it: talk to my therapist, consider a change or increase in mediation, consult with a prescriber, and reach out to my friends for social interaction. Remember the mention of mistakes? Don’t expect to be good at something the first time you try. This was a hard lesson for me, because I’m pretty good at *most* things I try for the first time, so if this applies to you, you also might be an overfunctioner. Work to accept the fact you’re going to be bad at this for a while before you get better. The failures are part of the process, so no need to also punish yourself.

I’ve only been paying attention to what my body’s been trying to tell me all my life for about the past ten years. One decade out of almost five I’ve been listening to my body. Truly not my best work, but at least I’m here now. Lately, I’ve been feeling a storm brewing inside of me. It doesn’t feel like despair, it feels like something else entirely, but I’m not sure what. I realized I’m coming up on the ten year anniversary of leaving an abusive relationship. I’ve grown a lot in this time, and I’m only just coming into my own. It’s also been a decade since I lost my childhood friend to cancer. My grief over losing her has always been tangled up in the feelings about my divorce. Because they both happened in the same year, I’m not sure I had the chance to process each of them fully. Maybe this is the year for letting go. For accepting while I can’t change the past, I do get to write my own story from here out. I still have a lot of feelings stuck in the past. I’m still working those out.

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I promised fiction

For this story so far, I have various characters in different degrees of development, and vague idea of how they all came together, but not much in the way of plot (yet). I needed to answer some questions about the characters’ relationships, so I wrote out this scene which introduces a backstory for the villain.

“I met Serena when we were in high school. She was one of the popular kids, I was one of those kids that gets forgotten. I dressed and acted in a way that broadcasted “stay away.” For the most part, people did, except for a few assholes who threw trash at me during lunch…” Havoc paused and looked distant for a moment. September wondered where she went, what she was thinking. Havoc was the only adult here that September couldn’t “read.”

“I often fell asleep in sixth period math class, and one day I woke with a start and all I saw was her two black eyes intent on me. she and I were the only people in the room, even the teacher had left. I didn’t think much of it at the time and when I look back I wonder why this never bothered me. For some reason, I felt at peace, as if all this was perfectly normal: waking up to the most popular face in the whole school- staring directly into my eyes.”

September let out the breath they had been holding, making a raspberry noise. “Exactly,” continued Havoc, “I had no idea what was happening and I was feeling just fine about that. Not one tiny alarm bell was ringing in my mind, not like me at all. I only felt grateful that she was shining her attention on me.” September made a retching gesture. Havoc narrowed her eyes and continued, “She showed me I had power. She helped me develop it.” Here, Havoc sighed loudly. “How she helped me is the part I still have nightmares about. Those kids that teased me in school, she got me pulling pranks on them. It very quickly got out of hand. We were kicked out of school. I’m just glad nobody died.”

“At this point in our relationship, I was aware of her power of manipulation. She’d used it on others, but swore up and down she would never use it on me. That’s why I still have nightmares about what I did. Was she controlling me? Or was I doing these things on my own? Maybe a little bit of both? I’ll never know. I know she lied to me, but I’ll never know if she lied to me about that, specifically.”

Havoc continued her story, “She got us this property. I’m not sure of the details, or who was hurt in the process. She told me it was an inheritance from some long lost relative I’d never heard of. I never questioned her or even wondered how. We moved in and before I knew it, there were five of us: Serena and I soon found Daysha, Lily, and Jac.” September’s eyes widened at this and Havoc continued, “Yes, Jac was one of the original five. She doesn’t ‘like to brag’ as she would say, but she’s been with me since the beginning. If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“I started having these memory gaps, everyone seemed really worried about me and I felt like I was losing my mind. Serena had me convinced I was doing all sorts of mischief and not remembering. I still believed that she would never use her control on me, as she regularly promised. It really broke my heart. Serena was the first person who saw me, who understood me, who loved me when I was at my worst. The first person I trusted: it was too much for me to take. I locked myself in the tower and wouldn’t talk to anyone. When I finally emerged, Serena was gone. I don’t know the details, Jac has never wanted to share and to be honest, I am not sure I want to know.”

“I know you’re really good at pattern recognition and I can tell you’ve already worked why she disappears once a month on the full moon.” September’s eyes got wide again, but they nodded. Of course they knew already. September could almost see Jac’s thoughts about it like a dense cloud of stormy weather. What surprised them was that Havoc knew what they knew. How did she know?

“So to answer you question,” September started, because they had not technically asked the question, but it had been on their mind the whole time, “We are not hiding our love because were are queer. Jac is terrified of infecting me and therefore shies away from physical contact. What you’re picking up on is the connection between us: a deep and meaningful connection that I cherish. So you don’t have to hide yourself from me, or anyone else here. If anyone gives you shit about being who you are, they will answer to me.”

Havoc smiled, showcasing the spectacular gap between her two front teeth. September felt stunned. They hadn’t said a word when they walked into the office. “If there is anything else you want to know, feel free to ask. We don’t do secrets around here,” Havoc said. September walked around the desk and offered their hand for Havoc to shake. Havoc reached up and grasped their palm. Although September was immediately flooded with sounds, feelings, and images, they managed to keep their cool. They still weren’t used to the flood of information that came with physical touch, but they had already learned not to react when it happened.

Leave a comment if you enjoyed this scene and you want more of this story…

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Writing

Even before I could read or write, I was telling stories. Often, these were retellings of the stories from movies or books I had heard. My first original story was written in first grade. My grandma loved the story so much, she kept it for years. I found it among her things after she passed. It was a story about an apple, who was perfectly happy with mom and dad on the “family tree,” and was suddenly picked. The little apple found herself in a factory setting and was coated in sealing wax. When the apple woke up, she found herself in a bowl among many relatives, including, of course, Grandma.

Eventually, I would dream up some new worlds and start meeting the characters that populated those worlds. They started having adventures, conflicts, and losses. I started writing these out in my journals, then ideas on Post-its or voice notes. Eventually, I compiled all those ideas into a folder. New ideas go into the “new idea” file. More developed stories get files of their own. So here I sit, observing my daily appointment with writing tasks. I have my writing necklace on. It’s a heavy stone that sits on my heart. I’m hoping it reminds me to stay focused. The album is my timer, it lasts for about an hour. That means I write for at least that long, I’ve been known to start the album over or continue to write without the music, if I’m in a zone.

The writing conditions that are currently working for me took much trial and error along the way. I’ve made a weekly calendar identifying what kind of writing I’m supposed to focus on each day of the week. That, I’ve ignored completely. I looked at it the other day and noticed the task for the day was “character,” I thought, “I did that yesterday,” and proceeded to continue what I was doing. I’m pleased with that result: writing during writing time. I imagine I can use the daily prompts in case I don’t have a particular task calling me at the moment.

I also have to manage myself from absolutely sabotaging my well-oiled routine. I am easily distracted by the plants, a sunbeam revealing dust bunnies, the dog needing attention… There are some days I don’t want to sit and do writing tasks. I blame the way writing was taught to me in school, it was always such a chore. So I’ve made a bunch of choices for myself. Earlier, I used the phrase “writing tasks” and that was purposeful. I don’t have to be typing out prose to be “doing a writing task.” I might be doing research, background on a character, fleshing out a setting, developing a plot, reviewing old ideas scribbled on post-its, reviewing the audio files for ideas… At any rate, I have many options available during writing task time. On days when I don’t feel like functioning or can’t engage with creativity, I’ll watch or read something. I’m still immersed in story. I’m also thinking about what I’d do differently if this was MY story…

“Blog day” just so happens to be on Saturday. I know, it’s Monday. In fact, it is Labour Day, or what I like to call, “Bonus Sunday,” (really, any Monday off is). I don’t remember looking at my writing calendar on Saturday. It’s possible I did skip writing time. Despite all best efforts, that still happens. Some days, I’m resisting the task for some reason. Occasionally, I can act like a spoiled teenager when I am asked to do something (even when the person doing the asking is me). Why do I resist tasks I set myself? Who knows the mysteries of the human mind. I certainly don’t. The longer I engage with clients as a psychotherapist, the more I realize I have no idea what people are thinking. I’m way more in touch with what I’m thinking than I used to be, so that’s alright. Progress, not perfection, right? Practice makes automatic?

I am approaching my decade-anniversary with this blog. (If you’re reading this on Tumblr, the rest is available on WordPress). I started it when I had just escaped a relationship with someone that didn’t appreciate me for being me. I was in my people pleaser era, so I tried, and failed, to please. The blog was initially a way to publish my journals so other people in emotionally abusive situations could notice similarities in their life and leave. It was the least creative fifteen years of my life, and the muse didn’t come back for years. This blog helped me to process what had gone on. In the early posts, I’m very angry. I can see myself cycling through the stages of grief until I finally start to heal and begin really seeing myself, that person I’d hidden away for so long. It took me nine years to figure out what my favorite color was. I’m not mad the creativity took a while to return.

The music/timer ended. It’s not quiet, I can hear the air conditioner running outside and the traffic going by. In here, I can hear the dog licking her foot and the refrigerator running. I’m just about done with this post and I’m not feeling like getting up and playing the CD one more time. I did also have another idea for another post: this will go in the drafts for later. I’ve been wanting to share some fiction, but I didn’t have anything ready. It’s not much, but it’s part of a backstory for some characters I’m working on, so it doesn’t need much fleshing out to be ready…

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #tumblr #writer #blog #healing #journals #writingtasks #grief #peoplepleaser #emotionalabuse #muse #schedule #choices #distraction #inspiration #muse #character #setting #research #prose #zone #routine #schedule