STORIES

Stupid, Honorable, High-Road Seeking Fool

In a post from a few years ago (two posts, actually, under Going to Denver Because You’re Dead) I chronicled this transition of moving to Colorado to start a new life; again reinventing myself, with the hope of somehow finding my new place in this ever-changing, ever-challenging world. I got rid of three-quarters of everything i owned, packed a U-Haul trailer behind my Cherryot, and off I went. A journey that lasted 30 hours on many days of little sleep. By the time I arrived in Denver, i was exhausted, lost, and had this sensation of being on another planet. I was not used to driving in big city traffic, with all its interchanges and exits and geographic complications. I didn’t know how to get to this new apartment I had secured for myself by phone and online. I ended up off an exit in a bad neighborhood, worn out, my iPhone battery overtaxed and at that crucial moment, dead. I launched into a full-fledged panic attack, with some unsavory gang-bangers headed my way, and I dug the .25 out of the console and clenched it, hoping i would not have to use it. The gang-bangers wandered off, and i fell completely apart. I couldn’t go on. But then i realized that there was no one to save me but me. It was a familiar feeling. Somehow i managed to calm myself down, wait for my battery to charge, and checked the map against the street signs i could see, and re-route. I tried again to find where i was going, and got lost again. Finally i just stopped in the road and got out and approached the car behind me–several Latino guys in a jacked up car, and just point-blank told them i was lost and needed to find a a certain address. The driver was kind and helpful and told me exactly how to get there, and i did.

After that, i tried to fashion a life. I didn’t know anyone. I used the internet to meet as many women as possible, hoping to make new friends, find dates, and finally that partner i just knew had to be hiding here somewhere. Long story short, I dated 22 women that first year. All of them either I rejected or they rejected me. Then I met one who seemed genuinely interested. I wound up eventually moving in with her, and so began a nightmare of epic proportions that lasted another 9 months. Her mother would NOT move out of the basement as promised, her family hated me, my girlfriend quit her job started smoking pot every day all day, and drinking, (When she had presented herself as a non drug user and not a problem drinker when we met–and knew that was criteria I would not budge on) and not communicating, and hitting me when we had sex, and sleeping all the time, or having meltdowns where she would destroy the house and scream, all the while using my money to pay her mortgage and her truck payment and not paying MY bills. It ended with me calling the cops and she being arrested for domestic violence against me, and then me having to move in a few days, while injured and upset and exhausted.

There was so much more to that process but I’ll skip it all and just say it was another few weeks and months of stress and misfortune before things settled down. [For blogs about this situation, see Birthday Bash ; Fleeing Field Mouse ; Happy Effing Anniversary ; EXTENDED STRESS Hotel. ; Trauma Biscuit ; The Biggest Lies of All ]

Then I met someone else, four months later. Someone who made me feel things i hadn’t felt in 12 years. I was falling in love with her, and it had only been two months. My hope was renewed. I thought maybe it was my turn. That all my suffering had finally paid off somehow. But she could not feel sexual/romantic attraction to be 24/7–and thought she should. So we’d go platonic, and then she’d change her mind and want sex. I don’t get how someone can have sex with you 35 times in two months, but wonder if she had any attraction. Her attraction, though, she said, came and went, she said, and this became an on-again, off-again trial by fire. I continued to be patient and loving and kind and nurturing, and I made it all about her, and still, it ended. Trying to take the high road, as always, I agreed to be just friends with her, but then i saw very quickly that she could not be there for me. She could only handle her drama. All the while, I was dealing with my midlife crisis of getting older and facing that upcoming 50th birthday, and being reminded at a funeral for her friend’s girlfriend, that i didn’t get to go to my father’s funeral because my selfish petty family never told me he was sick or dead. And they left me out of his obit as a surviving family member. And i sat in that church–me, the atheist, listening to all that stupid blather, and wondering how many people would attend MY funeral. I realized it would not be many. And that also made me profoundly sad that I had gotten to this point in my life and didn’t have the fundamental things I should have by now. I had nightmares about my dad. Nightmares about me in a casket and no one there to say goodbye to me. Nightmares of drowning in an ocean with sharks circling me, and everyone I knew standing on a boat and watching, but not helping me. But she made it clear when I awoke from those nightmares the morning after that funeral service, that there was no room for my pain. She said “I really can’t take any of your negativity.”

But, like the stupid, honorable, high-road seeking fool that I am, I continued to be supportive and wonderful to her, swallowing my own pain…swallowing my heartache over her not returning my feelings, when it had been 12 long years of me thinking I could never fall in love again after that one gigantic heartbreak with the only woman who had been my first and last great love. I put myself aside again, while KR enjoyed my support, but gave nothing back. As long as i remained cheerful and strong and supportive, she was fine. I hoped it would all normalize and equalize somehow, if I was just patient.

Near this time, having not seen my best friend, JH, in two and half years, though we talked every day on the phone, I was looking forward to her upcoming visit. She knew me better than anyone on the planet and we had been extremely bonded for 11 years. She had planned to move here even before me, but I wound up having to go sooner before I lost my mind, being so unhappy where I was. Finally, then, she came to visit. First, in December. It was to be our bonding time. I had so much I wanted to share with her and i needed her more than ever–to talk to–in person. To help me figure out how to get my life back on track. But I introduced her to my two friends CW and KR (whom I had been dating and fell for, but was now just my friend). JH and CW had instant chemistry, and so it then became about them. I didn’t get that time with JH. But she assured me she was coming back the next month, to do that. Oh, and also to have me design her book cover. And of course, to see the new love interest, CW.

But that 2nd visit was even worse. Out of the 9 or so outings and plans, that were all planned by my best friend, JH–it was me and JH and CW. Or, it was JH and CW. I began to feel like a hotel, and a chauffeur. None of those plans were me and my best friend. My very missed and needed best friend. None of them. After several days of this, I voiced my feelings, and begrudgingly, she cancelled that date with CW that night and we got Chinese food and alcohol and watched a movie, but i never got the chance to talk with her like I’d wanted to for 2 and a half years. Because she preferred the movie, or talking about CW every few seconds. Another few days passed with the same paradigm. All these wonderful plans with CW, or allowing me to tag along with THEM. They had even made plans to go to Vegas in February, and New York in March for the CW’s birthday, which was near the same date as MINE. Finally I could not bite my tongue any longer. I had literally drawn blood in my own mouth biting my tongue. I told her how it made me feel (Again) and how much I had needed her, and how I had waited for this visit for two and half years.

Her response was, “Why are you trying to ruin my happiness?”

She was MAD. Actually MAD at me for expecting her attention, and some time together after all that time apart. I became so livid, I knew I would say something I’d be sorry for. I told her I was going to the store and would be right back. I spent an hour sitting in my Cherryot in the park, drinking a Hard Cider, smoking cigarettes I had sworn off of; and calmer, ready to have a rational discussion again, I went back.

She was gone. She had packed her bags and was just………GONE. She ignored my texts and my phone calls, (and after over a month, still no response). I even sent her a text that said “You mean I have lost you because I needed you?” I was met with more silence. Her new girlfriend, CW, then became my EX friend, because she ignored me too, except to send me the name of a counselor she had used. She had her own agenda now, and it no longer included me. In desperation, I tried to confide in KR, and I was an obvious mess, could not stop crying. She said she couldn’t help me, that I needed professional help. No. I needed a friend, and until that moment, I kind of hoped she’d come through finally, in my hour of need. But now, she was the third betrayal and abandonment within a few days. And no word from her either in all this time.

I called my VA counselor and could not get a regular appointment, because there were so many veterans now who needed help and they were understaffed and booked up. How could i be selfish enough to dismiss those soldiers who had their legs blown off in war, and suffered horrible psychological damage? So I called that counselor CW mentioned. I had a quick appointment the very next day and I thought it went well, and i started to feel like I would be okay. But then I got a call from that counselor, who informed me she couldn’t see me again because I owned GUNS. I am a single woman living alone, and only one of those was my usual one…the other two I had acquired quite by accident and never used. So now I was faced with my fourth abandonment and betrayal–by someone PROFESSIONAL, who I went to for help, because I knew I needed it. I tried to reason with her on the phone, telling her that taking away my guns would not keep me from killing myself if that’s what I wanted to do. There were a million ways to die, and it would have happened a long time ago, if that’s what I wanted to do. I didn’t go to her because I was suicidal. I went to her because i was profoundly sad and hurt and needed some help dealing with it. Help my “friends” could not give me because they were too busy walking in the other direction, after their own selfish wants. The email exchange is posted appropriately under the entry the Fourth Betrayal.

I now have this recurring nightmare of being bloody and bruised and broken, lying on the ground, and everyone who ever said they loved me, or were supposed to, are kicking me, spitting on me…walking away….

Now it’s February 22nd. My lease is up here on April 1st. I needed to find another cheaper place to live because I’m paying $1200 a month to live here. With more money, I could make other things happen–like fixing my credit that the last relationship ruined, and finally buying a home to call my own. I found a cheap apartment (even though it was up stairs and stairs destroy my knees), but maybe it was some rare good fortune, and I could just deal with it. Even though I didn’t even trust it; I chose to believe that things might be turning in my favor. Then I found out I couldn’t have my DTV dish there, and I was under a bundled contract with my internet, phone and TV. This, after I had already been packing and putting boxes in the garage for a week. I need a TV more than most people. All this time alone. And all those shows with familiar characters and storylines…it makes me feel in some strange way I have this virtual family…and I can also lose myself in the TV, and it keeps me from thinking too much about how I feel. I need that. I NEED IT like I need WATER and FOOD and SLEEP.

Honestly, I have not felt this degree of loneliness and heartache since 1999 & 2000, living in my van, crippled and fighting Big Brother, when all had forsaken me. It is the same now, lo these many years later. I feel crippled on the inside, and it’s no less harrowing and difficult than being unable to walk without crutches…I am lonely because the cold hard truth is no one loves me. Those who professed to, have forsaken me. My cats are the only living beings who I can say for sure have love for me, and how pathetic is that, especially at my age? My heart breaks from abandonment and betrayal. I have cried every day for over a month now. I don’t think I can ever understand or have any peace about what JH has done to me. It’s just three times the injury that CW and KR are also guilty of the same. Theirs is only a lesser crime perhaps because they have not been in my life as long. But does that really make it a lesser crime? The deed is done, no matter how I turn it. And yes, it does seem that JH’s crime is a capital offense. She and I have been best friends for 11 years…how is it that she can throw me away so easily, and for no compelling reason? She has been the only person in my life I could ever depend on. I would have taken a bullet for her. And yes, I realize that I have had her on a pedestal for some time because of that. I made a decision that i will never again need anyone so much, that when they leave, i can’t survive their absence. But it doesn’t take away the pain.

At the very least, it could be compared to a divorce. But it is also deeper than that. I am grieving over a death. The death of our friendship, at her own hand. And still, it seems more intense than divorce or death. When divorces and deaths happen, there are usually other people there to help support you, hug you, tell you everything will be okay and they love you and will be at your side. But what if what has been lost are all those people? What if you have no family and your friends have abandoned you? how much harder is it to pick yourself up off that hard ground, with no hands reaching to help you? There is no ameliorating force to dull the pain or provide strength. The only comfort and strength to be had has to come from inside the person on the ground. And what if that person is particularly sensitive? what if that person’s heart is tender and bruised to begin with? what if that person was reaching out for help with other pains when it happens? I feel that I have been beaten half to death and reached for my friends and they kicked me, and pelted me with stones. Where will I find the strength for this?

I have begun to make new friends, but that process is slow, and it is much too early to lean on those people, even though I desperately need to. They have been as supportive as they can, but it’s awkward to dump this all on them, since they haven’t known me very long. It’s not what I want to build new friendships on..and truthfully, I don’t expect them to stay around either. I fully expect them to just disappear too).

I have tried to keep busy. I have tried to stay in my left brain. I have ignored every painful thought that bubbles up in my mind. I have done all I know to do, and still it is not enough. I still cry every day. Sob. Bury my face in my sweet cats, and douse them with my tears. The medications I’ve tried are not working. The positive affirmations are not working. I am barely getting by. I don’t want to die, but this is killing me. I want to have hope. I want fortune to smile on me. Isn’t it time? Haven’t I suffered enough? Yet, to think this way is to somehow suggest that life is fair and there’s some balancing force that will reward me for trudging on. The truth is it’s all random. There is no fairness, there is only life, and what comes to you. It has little to do with how deserving you are, or how hard you’ve tried, or how good you’ve struggled to be. where does that leave me?

During this time, to have still another computer crash–which seems to happen every 6 months, is another thorn in my side. I was without a computer for a week, and this is not a good thing for me…it’s how I occupy my mind. But I had to sit in front of the TV and struggle through each minute, each hour, each day….I had to order a new computer and spend money on that which I needed for other things. And I am about to move again, in April, when my lease is up, to a cheaper apartment. I hope the extra money will help me reach at least one of my goals, which is to be able to clean up my credit so I can finally buy a home of my own. So now, in anticipation of that, determined not to injure myself by doing it all too fast, I have been packing up all the things I can do without for the next six weeks. I am surrounded by boxes and debris, the detritus of my existence, the things I carry around with me to set up in proper places to create this semblance of a life, but which has become merely the settings for a stage to serve a fictional play that is my life. Shakespeare said “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts…” quite existential–and that’s how I am feeling. I will turn 50 next month. 50. I am closer to my death than to my birth and I still don’t have a home, a partner…and no one loves me. This statement is usually some lament that is not accurate, but shockingly, it is in this instance, TRUE. There is no one in my life who LOVES me. That’s got to be the worst feeling in the universe. Especially while facing this threshold of getting older. I’m afraid. I’m fearful of too many things, now. Fearful of being ill with no one to take care of me. Afraid of something happening to me and no one will know, or even care….terrified of dying alone.

If I give myself to someone in friendship and love, and am repayed with betrayal and cruelty, then I might respond by withholding the precious aspects that make love valuable…but by withholding the very nature of what love is, I garner no interest in anyone loving me, and so I am caught in my own trap of self-protection. So I either have to choose a life of giving with the very real possibility of betrayal and pain, against the choice of loneliness, but without betrayal and cruelty. Which is the more formidable negative? which pain is greater?

Last night I had the same nightmare, over and over. I kept waking up from it, going back to sleep and then dreaming it again. And though I know, emotionally, that it was awful, I can’t remember a thing about the dream.

I can’t just stop caring. Believe me, I’ve tried. And I just go on caring anyway. I wish there was a pill for that, I’d twist the arm of the VA docs until they gave it to me. Sometimes I need to not care so much. It’s really a burden to care. Caring means it matters, and if it matters, it hurts when things don’t go well.

So today, I made the mistake of trying to correct the failing Internet connection on my computer and when using it wirelessly on My Nook. I called Century Link, and the woman wasn’t making sense, had me crawl under unplug and move to other room after I had to hunt for another phone cable and then when i finally get it hooked up in other room she had disconnected me. I wanted to drive down there, find her, and bash her face in. Not the kind of emotions I like to have.

Then Tom calls about my apartment–I can’t have a satellite dish on 2nd floor where my apartment will be. I’m under contract and can’t get Comcast because I am disputing what they say I owe and trying to be in the class action suit against them. So can’t get their service and couldn’t anyway because I’m under contract with Century Link along with DTV, Verizon. But, he said, he will have apt opening up on top floor, but not sure when it will be available because they’re being evicted and might fight it and that will put me over my lease period–and also I can’t climb that many stairs, my knees will blow and moving, will kill me unless I can pay someone to do EVERYTHING. And the past moving experiences have taught me that I NEVER have the help I need, and I wind up injuring myself to the point where it takes me months to get back to normal.

Tom’s supposed to call back.*

SO while I’m waiting, I couldn’t find my charger for my ear bud, and need it, because my neck injury won’t let me hold the phone with my shoulder like some people do, and I keep dropping my phone and If I hold the phone with one hand, like many people do, my hand goes numb, and I drop the phone that way too. If I break that I’m fucked because an iPhone is not cheap to replace. I did finally find the charger, mislabeled among all the other thousands of cords and cables, and plugged in my earbud. My only stupid victory in months. And I fully expect it to start smoking and catch on fire.

All the while, I am stressed because I’m stumbling through the chaos of packing…and the place is a mess. I’m about to lose my mind.

I’ve been crying again, feeling lost and alone… popping Xanax, drinking Hot Damn and Mudslides and Hard Ciders. Last night I spent $36 at liquor store–had to walk there because I was afraid to lose my parking spot outside because I’m using my garage for all the packing, and if I return to no parking spaces–which is VERY common here, I will have to then move ALL THOSE BOXES in the garage again to make room, and my back and neck can’t take it right now. Now my knees and hips are killing me, because there’s a big hill on the way up to Ohio street by the liquor store, that I simply HAD to climb to get some damn alcohol to try to calm my nerves, deaden my emotions.

I’m afraid I’ll get cancer because I’m smoking again. And that means I’ll deal with dying alone for sure.

I feel fat. I feel ugly. I feel useless. I feel hopeless. I feel alone.

_____

*ADDENDUM: Tom called back and said he couldn’t do it. SO good luck finding an apartment, sorry,,etc. SO back to square one. Square one seems to be my default position

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February 3rd, 2012

creativity, Highly Sensitive Person, HSP, RELATIONSHIPS, WRITING

Nietzsche, Relationships & the Creative Abyss

One of the more useful lessons I’ve learned in my life is that we often have habits about how we deal with things, based on a set of information that may not be applicable anymore.

This is why I have to do revisions. I have to re-vision something—look at it again—in order to discover whether or not the method I’m using still applies. Life is about change, and sometimes things change just enough, so that what you have always done is no longer a solution to the new situations and conditions that you are now experiencing.

I might be squishing around in the mud of a prime example, right now.

I didn’t think anyone or anything could ever steal my muse. I even have mantras and mottos based on this well-tested truth. I am “used by the muse” I say. Or “I don’t suffer from writers block, it suffers from me.” Yet, somehow I have been unable to write creatively—meaning novel writing—for a year, now.

Unheard of. Disturbing. Unacceptable. It’s quite analogous to losing the use of one arm for me.

The only clue to this burgeoning mystery, is that it coincided with the previous relationship that ended badly, (to be guilty of under-statement). I spent 9 months in a situation that tested my resistance to stress in the most unimaginable ways. Being an HSP, my brain architecture is predicated on Sensory Processing Sensitivity, and that means that I am hyper-aware of stimuli. In my environment and in my head. I see, hear, feel, taste and smell everything. It’s easy to become overwhelmed when you’re this way, and I have to say that situation was fraught with every type of challenge in every type of manifestation. I am a little amazed, frankly, that I didn’t lose my mind completely. So why wouldn’t I carry the residual effects of an experience like that? Though I often put too much credence into my own coping skills, it would be remiss of me not to recognize that I—even I—can come eye to eye with the beast of my undoing.

One result of that domestic milieu was the loss of my own individuality. I became only the sycophant for my partner’s needs and dramas, and lost touch with the importance of my own identity, my own desires and sustenance, emotionally, psychologically and physically. And this resulted in having the creative juice sucked out of me, for the duration of that relationship. I can only surmise that the effects have been more lasting than I anticipated they ever could be. And I was a willing subjugate to some degree, simply because I walked into that house of horrors under my own volition.

Why? I suspect it was because I was fearful. Fearful of being alone, fearful or growing old without a partner, fearful that I was such an oddball that should I find someone who wanted to share a life with me, I ought to dash inside before they changed their mind and closed the door in my face. What sort of absurd insecurity was that?

Nietzche said, “The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.”

So I drew a line in the sand, and when that line was crossed, I had enough self-respect left to open that door and walk away. I soothed and reassured myself by the idea that once I was free of this creativity-killing nemesis, I would again regain my individual identity, land on the path of my usual prolific literary self, and crank out another three books in no time at all. But in the year hence, that hasn’t happened, and now I must seriously investigate the reasons for this.

I know my writer’s block is not the usual variety. I have been writing voluminously for 25 years, with no indication of it ceasing without a brain injury or getting hit by a bus. Or getting hit by a bus which results in brain injury. So, there must be some ditch in my psyche that I must figure out a way to get over or around. Perhaps I should look into that ditch and see what’s there, but Nietzsche also warned us that if you stare into the abyss it also stares back into you. Depending on which translation you use, that quote from Beyond Good and Evil, in context, is “He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.”(trans., Helen Zimmern).

To me, this means that close proximity to a monster, (or monstrous behavior) might mean taking a piece of that monster with you when the struggle is over. I’m not being facetious when I say that I fought with several monsters at once in that last battle. And I suppose I ran the risk of becoming exposed to the contagion of their damage, simply by virtue of sharing space and energy with them. I would like to think the armor of my ethics and the cloak of my goodness was not tainted by this viral venom—that I had, at some point, developed the antibodies to deal with any infections arising from close quarters with the duly infected.

But who knows? Perhaps I overestimated myself. Perhaps the toxins got inside me and are now feasting on the cells of creativity that used to swirl around blithely unfettered for so long. Are they swirling anymore? Or are they coagulated into clumps of diseased apathy?

What is this subjective infection, and how do I eradicate it from my afflicted creative cells?

All I can do is what I have always done. Read. About creativity, and stress and individuality, and commentary from the masters who so eloquently inform our existence. Write. About all of the above. Keep priming the pump, talking to friends and others about it, and just continuing to trudge forward. Even if it is only an essay about not being able to write. The act of putting my fingers to the keys might remind some synaptic connection to start firing again.

Again, Nietzsche said, “What does not kill me makes me stronger.” Unless it instead snaps my spine. Then it makes me a paraplegic.

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December 20th, 2011

AUTHORS, creativity, HSP, PSYCHOLOGY, RELATIONSHIPS, Sensory Processing Sensitivity

Why not Me?

Pulitzer and Nobel Prize-winning author, Pearl S. Buck said,

“A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them… a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create~ so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off…They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating.”

And we now know Buck was an HSP – A Highly Sensitive Person, as it is colloquially called by the pioneer in this research, Dr. Elaine Aron, PhD. Perhaps ironically, HSPs also have the ability to be more adaptable than the average person, if for no other reason than we HAVE to be to survive, and I suspect that the HSPs who aren’t able to, for whatever reason, end up being overwhelmed to the point where they can descend into isolation or even suicide. Especially if they have little support from friends or family.

But HSPs are uniquely qualified to problem-solve. They have a unique brain architecture known in the literature as Sensory Processing Sensitivity. There is a difference in what they feel, as opposed to most others in our society. If two people are being poked in the leg, and one is an HSP and one is not, the one who is not HSP will interpret that as a finger poking them, the HSP might interpret this as an ice pick. So while they might be feeling more pain, they are also more motivated to make it stop, and because HSPs tend to be analytical and creative problem solvers, they are the ones most likely to find the solution.

With the Holiday coming up this weekend, I’m having to deal with many of my least-favorite things. No, I’m not talking about shopping or relatives. I’m not doing either. I’m talking about that dreadful set of decisions I have to make, which I not only want to avoid, but wish I could just sleep through.

I am in that mode where I’m fighting off depression and sadness because the holidays are always a source of pain for me. I can’t even recall the last time I had one I enjoyed, and most of them, I’ve spent alone. It’s made worse when I look around me and so many other people I know are all glowing and happy because they have someone who loves and wants them…it makes me feel sad. I’m happy for THEM, but sad for me, because I don’t have that, and haven’t, for a very long time. Even worse, is when one of those happy people is someone you recently fell for, and they didn’t fall for you, but then went immediately into another relationship and DID fall for the other person; and you watch as they say things about that other person you only wanted them to say about you, and they post happy pictures and remove the ones that had you in them. I want to be happy for them, and I am, but it always comes with a sadness. Why couldn’t it have been me? Why can’t I ever find love? And then the tears come, and the scar on my heart gets opened up again, and I sit and bleed…wondering when I’ll find a spark of hope or inspiration again.

So it’s helpful if I can be social with the friends I do have during the holiday season, since I don’t have any family, but it’s often difficult to catch them on holidays, because they have families and established friends to do that with, and I still don’t know that many people here. I’m not going to be on the list of first chosen to spend time with. Am I having a pity party? Hell yes. I feel pitiful. It feels unfair. And I’m once again feeling terrible about it all. Thanks to the wretched holiday season.

Here’s the crux of my dilemma. As an HSP, my Sensory Processing Sensitivity means I’m easily overwhelmed and stressed by certain situations. Some of those are chaos, loud noise and too many different types of noises, crowds of strangers, all crammed together in a small space, driving and parking downtown, drunk people. Now, tell me, doesn’t that sound like your average holiday party at a pub? So I am always forced into this awkward position: I don’t want to disappoint any friend I might have who invited me, but I also don’t want to put myself through it, especially since the holidays are already really difficult for me. And sometimes being among drunk strangers just makes me feel more alone (and there’s the added insult that they are all straight people, and I’m gay–another source for feeling like an outcast–why would I want to pal around with a bunch of drunk straight men? Especially when they’re usually putting their hands all over me–or trying. I have had moments when they run the risk of pulling back a stump). And then, there’s also the parking issue. The last two times I went downtown to socialize, I got two tickets and also got my car towed (and of course this was after I had to spend 300$ on a brake job–so 550$ later, I’m aware of my aversion to going downtown). Driving downtown is also very stressful to me because there’s too much information pelting my senses–

Turn here? [looking at GPS on iPhone]…oops BRAKE LIGHTS! Nearly rammed someone…Crap! I need my reading glasses because I’m wearing my contacts…what’s that sign say? I can’t read it! oh, take off my reading glasses…. my hands are shaking…oops, I should have turned there…I’ll turn here OH MY GOD THAT’S A ONE-WAY STREET….[backing up]…STOP HONKING AT ME! I CAN’T have an accident….I finally get a decent vehicle and if I have a wreck, I’ll be so upset…I smell something burning…I hope it’s not something under my hood….SAME FINGER TO YOU BUDDY!….plus worrying about paying for it, and being trapped with no transportation….that screaming Serpentine-belt I need to get fixed…so embarrassing when someone hears it, need to get that fixed, but it’s going to be a couple hundred dollars to do…the noise of it is so irritating…is this where I turn? fuck! I nearly ran over someone on the cross walk…STOP HONKING AT ME!! Did I bring my wallet? What if I have to park in the street? Do I even have change? DO I NEED CHANGE? Stop Honking at me!!

Welcome to my head. That’s a mild version, too. And only about a minute of time in that experience, but it’s what my head is doing.

Now, compare that to a low-impact or pleasant sensory experience….

Wow…the snow is so pretty and there’s so many trees….know where I’m going…it’s three blocks down on Vance, turn right then into the free parking area. Got a good space up front….walking into the shopping district…it’s so clean, here… the air smells clean, too…yum, this Juicy Fruit gum smells and tastes so good….it feels good to walk, the rhythm of it is soothing to me…I love all the holiday lights strung on everything here…people look happy, walking along…my life is good….I smell barbeque…and popcorn…mmmm……now I’m hungry, but this place has really good food too, so I’ll just order something delicious….the theater is right there…maybe we could catch a movie matinee tomorrow…oh, that’s my favorite Xmas song…..[singing] “have yourself….a merry little christmas….” just around the corner, my friend waits and we’ll have a drink and conversation, and enjoy our connection…maybe we can sit in front of that fireplace…I love fireplaces…so cozy…I love it when she laughs and smiles…she’s a good friend, I feel lucky to have her in my life…this time, I will hug her and not let go first….I’ll just have a nice relaxing drink or two…if we’re there a while, and I drink more than two drinks, I can just walk home…this is my neighborhood, and it’s familiar and safe…what a beautiful night it is tonight….

See the difference? Having that sensory sensitivity might be bad sometimes, but it can also be extremely pleasant other times. That’s why HSPs are generally highly creative, and spend a good deal of time doing creative things–music, writing, art–all three of which I ACTUALLY DO. And HSPs also need to have some control over their environment and their schedules and their social lives., so that they can create a balance of sensory experience.

So, when I am invited into chaos, I always try to make alternate plans so I can see the people I DO know and care about; but they don’t always want to sit in a quieter place and have a cocktail and talk . I guess I really am odd, because that’s one of my favorite things to do. I want to connect with those I care about or am interested in getting to know. Can’t do that in a loud bar where you have to shout at each other, or when the goal is to get hammered. And by the time I even GET to that location I’m stressed out. Then I can’t have more than two drinks, because I have to drive home, and I just DON’T drink and drive. And just when I needed a drink the most. Not to mention I’m really nervous because I know that a lot of people DO DRINK AND DRIVE and I’m afraid one of them will hit me. Call me a party-pooper, but it’s just not the sort of interaction I enjoy. Some HSPs can handle it better because they’re Extroverted HSPs. For the most part, I am an Introverted HSP. I love interaction like conversation and communion in a soothing atmosphere, watching movies, playing a game…but the more chaos and the less control I have, the more stressful it becomes for me. And I’m so weary of having to explain it, and so tired of being made to feel guilty for being who I am. Is it any wonder that it’s easy to become isolated? Or depressed? Is it any wonder why I question the reason for my existence?

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November 29th, 2011

HSP, PSYCHOLOGY, RELATIONSHIPS, Sensory Processing Sensitivity

I\’ll Try — Jonatha Brooke

Letter to a Battered Heart

Open letter to a friend whose heart is battered….

I remember that you were there for me when I was going through a lot and had no one. So I will do my best to be here for you, now.

In this life, you have to separate your mental and emotional things, your habits, your beliefs–like laundry. Whites over there, colors over there, delicates there. You can’t throw them all in together or the colors will bleed and what was once pure and white is now sullied. Some things must be kept apart, some things put together, and you always have to cleanse them on the proper cycle and temperature.

My first concern is how you can miss someone who treated you so badly. What do you miss? Missing someone implies that there were good things big enough to erase the bad things, and from what I know of her, there was little that could be strong enough to erase the damage she did to you physically, and emotionally, the betrayal she brought. What is this power she has? Please bottle it for me, it might come in handy. ;0)

You say your biggest fault is opening yourself up to everybody…that you give your all to anybody who needs help. And you just kind of shut down after being hurt so many times.

Well, Honey, I have been hurt a lot too…but look, here’s the deal…Since moving here, I found that I didn’t initially spend much time looking for a quality circle of friends. I’m looking for that, now, yes. (And I believe I have a few). And I’m looking for someone to date regularly, yes, even if it’s not serious, and just companionship and affection. But ultimately, I want a life partner. I don’t do well single. I like having my person to talk to everyday, to share those moments with, to nurture and support and have that returned, for once. I’ve been primarily single for 7 years, with short interruptions of heart-wrenching sadness and betrayal. So I get how that feels. But I won’t let it steal any potential happiness, because life is short. I just know that when you close a door to keep bad things out, you also block the good things from coming in. I don’t want to be that person.

You say you have tried so hard to open yourself up but feel you are so weird about that. You are terrified of feeling that hurt again. You speak of how your ex was the first person you ever truly opened up to…and you wonder for what? To be hurt?
You’ll never be able to open yourself up until you feel safe. So you don’t feel safe yet. That’s okay. I just hope you won’t close off so much you miss the good ones that might be out there…I know what you mean about the hurt. I felt that way the first time I got my heart broken. (And there have been plenty of other heartbreaks along the way). But that first one was the worst. I thought I wouldn’t survive. I began to feel hatred for all women, unfairly applying a blanket pre-judgment to every person of the female gender. But luckily, during my darkest hour, there was this cutie who thought I hung the moon, and she was right there waiting to pick up the pieces by telling me how wonderful I was, that I was her dream woman, and then it didn’t hurt so bad. I could see things in a different light. I realized I DID deserve to be loved and treated with respect and kindness, even though I had just been given an overwhelming example that I didn’t. Even if there are plenty of people out there who are willing to savage your heart, there are good ones too, they’re just fewer and farther between. Believe me, I have lost hope and then tried again over and over. You’ll see that if you have kept up with my blogs ;^)

I’m not sure what it is that keeps me trying. Maybe just that I know myself, know what I want and need, and know that I won’t ever be completely happy until I find that other person who will show me love again. But I won’t settle. I’ve learned that I’m capable of being blinded by that need and I can’t let it control me. But I know it’s there and it’s strong, and all I can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other and surrounding myself with as many good people and purposeful things as I can.

If you believe that every woman hurts more than she loves, then that means that everyone is bad. And I hope you don’t believe that. You are just sensitive. You feel everything all the way to the bone, as do I. You’ll have to learn some coping skills or this world and the people in it, will destroy everything good in YOU. So, I’ll be your friend.

I know you will, you said, and part of that scares me….. You said that you were used to proving yourself to women…But you don’t have to prove yourself, just BE yourself. Yet you feel that who you are isn’t enough, and I would ask you– do you LIKE who you are? You say as a lesbian, Hell yes!! but internally…It’s an ongoing battle. In your eyes, you say, Women are evil…They hurt more than they love...

Lesbians are defined as women who love women. You hate them. Maybe you’re not a lesbian. LOL. I’m just kidding. But really, what about being a lesbian do you LIKE? And then, what inside you is the battle about? What are you fighting? The need to protect your heart at all costs?

Yes…you say. It is my heart I am protecting… I LOVE everything about a woman!!!

Well it’s your heart, and you have a right to protect it. But protecting it doesn’t necessarily mean hiding it…so your biggest obstacle is fear.

Boy, do I understand that. I have moments when I think I’m just afraid of everything. And then, when push comes to shove, I somehow manage to survive. It’s all those horrible moments of fear that taught me more about myself, and the strength I have inside. We can’t know light without darkness. We can’t understand pain without joy. And we can’t have love without anger. There truly is a yin and yang to the universe.

One of the most poignant and pivotal moments of that learning about myself came when I moved here…you might recall what I went through to make it happen–many days of hard labor and stress and obstacles, and then 30 hours on the road, and then when I got to the end of that journey, driving into Denver, overwhelmed, exhausted, and irretrievably LOST, I panicked. I came apart at the seams. And there was no one to help me. And in that moment I made a decision. I realized I simply had no choice. I had to find a way to get back on track and find this place I was about to call home. And I did it. Tearfully, shaking, and near insane. But I did it. And because of that, I know that no matter how lost I am, how hurt, or exhausted, I really can find a solution, because inside me is an inner core of strength. You have that, too, my friend. Maybe you just don’t know it yet.

You say, Every part of me wants what you speak of, what so many others want…

I know. And fear can be powerful. It’s even more so with highly sensitive people. And perhaps, as you say, you are the most highly sensitive person I will ever know. Maybe so. All the more reason to launch a mission to find some ways to cope, so that you can be happy and fulfilled. You shouldn’t have to say no to yourself and what you really need.You don’t have to. But it IS a process. I know you know that, but you think it’s hard to find a woman willing to work through your “demons”.

Most people don’t have that kind of patience, it’s true. Our society has trained us in recent years to rush through everything. I’m guilty of it sometimes too. But first, you have to feel safe. And I see you arranging your life into little walls of safety. Boundaries of okayness…but it’s important to be able to discern what is safety, and what is hiding. I think you hide, mostly…and I guess my wish for you is that you can learn to feel safe without hiding.

This song speaks to that in a most poignant and profound way…

listen to it…

I did, and just made myself cry. That song just screamed in my head to play it for you.

You say, I’m not ready to give someone my all. That’s okay. But realize that dating isn’t ALL. It’s just dating. Personally, I wouldn’t want to get serious with anyone who gave me her all, upfront. But no, you say, I’m not quite ready to give myself up again… A healthy relationship doesn’t require that you give yourself up, either. You answer, You don’t think? I beg to differ…. But you should never have to lose yourself, is what I mean. It should mesh naturally. But you think you have to be willing to give your all. And I tell you, that’s not something you decide on the front-end. There’s time, and you should be allowed that time to know what you feel, and why you feel it. You are under no obligation to jump into the deep end of the pool, especially after you nearly drowned the last time.

But you’re guarded right now. I can see that. I was hoping you weren’t, since you said you’d worked through it. Maybe you still have work to do? Maybe this is the lie you tell yourself. You still say it’s an ongoing battle…but I’m not sure it has to be. Yet, you can only do what you can do.

Okay, Jae, you tell me, I DO hide. More than I like to admit!!!! I do not ever want to feel the hurt I felt when she left me…

I know, Honey. I have felt that way too. There are few things feel worse than that. When T. left me, it was like she reached into my chest, yanked my heart out and tossed it on the floor, still beating, still bleeding. Here’s one of the songs I wrote about that…see if it speaks to you.

The Fall — Jae Baeli

…so I know what you feel. And I know how powerful it can be.

But you can get back up again. One foot in front of the other. Keep passing the open windows…

…and I’m here to jerk you back if I see you put your foot on the sill.

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November 29th, 2011

FWPB

Sometimes we forget the gray areas. The innocuous middle ground that is so often overlooked because it doesn’t scream at us like the extremes do. It’s why certain things are overlooked; like the independent voters, the agnostics, reputable, stable, feminine lesbians, and the middle class.

It had occurred to me that sexuality holds its own equidistant region. We have often heard of that relational designation of fuck-buddy (FB), and the other one of Friends with Benefits (FWB), but I contend there is another. The one in the gray area, which has remained undefined, and perhaps under-utilized…

FWPB.

Friends With Partial Benefits.

What if you meet someone who is, for one reason or another, unable or unwilling to partake in meaningless sex, or sex without feelings of love, nor are they willing to remain in a state of forced celibacy or isolation. Would it not be beneficial to enjoy that gray area of interaction that might include companionship, communication, cuddling and kissing? A FWPB could then address a shortfall of interaction, a cloying loneliness, and a deficit of affection.

I welcome any thoughts on this earth-shattering concept.

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November 28th, 2011

Crush (poem)

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll get through it~
this solitude foisted upon me by fate.

I wonder why she doesn’t call me?
Must I do everything?
and nothing

Even when everything feels like nothing,
and nothing, everything?

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December 13th, 2009

Uncategorized

2 Comments »

Held by Jell-O

This is forced blogging.

I am the forcer in that sentence. I am forcing myself to just type and see what comes out because the lack of writing is just so counter-intuitive and i fear it might have some adverse affect on my psyche.

I have been in a funk. A writeless funk. I haven’t worked on any of my books in progress. I haven’t even blogged. Not because i have writer’s block–as I’ve said before, I don’t suffer from writer’s block, it suffers from me. This is about mood. I don’t FEEL like it. I don’t feel like writing. Or going out. And that momentarily devolved into not feeling like showering or being awake. Classic signs of depression. I’m familiar with it, as most overtly creative people seem to be. But i refuse to let it conquer me. I just let it bang on my helmet for a few weeks.

From that point, i went into this food-as-comfort routine, where i caught myself eating frequently, and sometimes too much, so that i have bouts with acid reflux and always wonder afterward why i just kept chewing and swallowing. Was it just something mindless to do? And i have this unusual craving for sweets. Probably my body’s retarded idea of how to make me feel better. Sugar high. But I have been constantly staring into the ‘fridge and cabinets, making short trips to the grocery at 3 a.m. only to find that one thing–that one bit of consumable energy that would make me feel better. Donuts. Cake. Ice cream. Comfort foods, all. Why aren’t carrots and celery comforting?

I’m not an over-eater or binge eater by nature. I recognize it for what it is. An effort to find relief from this ho-hum gel that has been poured on my head. This ecto-plasmic goo from some other parallel universe that likes to punish Intellectual Creatives. I feel like I’m suspended in Jell-O. I can see out around me, but i can’t move. And in some strange way, it feels good to just be held like that.

And i have been watching way too many episodes of Criminal Minds. Have grown very fond of the show, but it is, after all, a show about the underbelly of humanity. I used to go through times when i couldn’t watch the news because it depressed me so much. How people are. How vicious the world can be, and all the humans in it. So i would avoid it, and feel better. But haven’t i been making the same mistake with these serial – killer – crime – investigation type shows too? Maybe that’s contributing to my melancholy. I should stop. Let’s see, i only have about 20 more episodes on the DVR to go…

The underlying problem is good old-fashioned loneliness. I know that. And i know I’m doing what i can to fix it, but these things take time and money, and since the move, I’ve been the very quintessence of a hole-dweller. In the hole. It is very grave-like. This too shall pass. I know. But until it does, it sucks. And it’s on the heels of prolonged isolation and loneliness from whence i came. I moved to solve this problem (among others). And now I’m smacked by the frost-bitten hand of reality. You can’t open a pack of Instant Social Life Deluxe and just add water. It’s a stew. Like a crock pot variety. It takes a long time and has to go through a process. And i keep taking the lid off and breathing the aroma and wishing it was done so I could enjoy it.

People suck. But i only say that because I’ve had an inordinate amount of sucky people cross my path. I can also say that people rock. I have great friends. I just miss them. I never get to be with them. Okay. Love sucks. No, not love. The lack of love. That’s what sucks. That warm body next to mine. (And my cats don’t count, here, though they do their best by following me around and lounging on me). The lack of intimacy and romantic sparks and connection. Of loving and being loved in a physical, I’m-here-and-I-matter-to-someone-way. But it needs to be someone who matters to me too.

That’s the challenge. Finding someone who affects me that way, and then having the feeling be mutual. The hard part is that sheer absence of anyone I am really attracted to. The traits that seem to titillate my dopamine and oxytocin and other choice pleasure chemicals in my brain, seem like something only a paleontologist could find. I am holding on by my fingernails. And they are quite stubby. And bleeding.

But depression is boring. I don’t like it and I don’t like telling anyone about it. We all know what it is. But i just don’t want it to define me. There are other, more pleasant definitions of me. I am only having trouble accessing those at the moment.

Maybe I should just relocate to Prozac Nation.

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October 11th, 2009

What Would You Do to Have it?

My friend Justi and I were talking about our various relationships and non-relationships last night–she’s in one, I’m not. Part of the reason i relocated to Denver was so that I could meet different types of people than i have been privy to in the past, and have a better chance of meeting someone I could actually commit to.

She asked me if i would ever consider moving again if i met “the one” and “the one” was elsewhere.

My knee-jerk answer was NO.

My knee-jerk answer used to be “yes.”

But as I told her, I know that I simply could not go through a major move again. It was so hard on me. There are two lengthy blog entries (Going to Denver Because You’re Dead) on that experience– and it’s not one I care to repeat. It was supposed to have been my easiest move, because I got rid of so much, and just drove cross-country pulling a U-haul trailer. But in many ways, it was the worst move, for the toll it took on me physically and emotionally.

And I mean, i have moved 42 times in my life. I don’t want to keep doing it. I’m finally in a region I love, which i feel fits me, and offers me everything I could ever need–hopefully that will include a partner at some point. But my reasoning was that if I couldn’t find a partner there, I couldn’t’ find one anywhere, and I would have at least strategically placed myself so that I could have a vibrant life full of plenty of things to do, and interesting people to make friends with. It was my concession to the often cruel machinations of this life. You don’t always get what you want. But maybe you can get some things that make the journey a little easier.

But I know that after what I went through with the ruptured disc in my neck and then barely healing from that and going right into moving all by myself cross-country…I just can’t do it. It’s not even so much that i don’t “want” to do it–Love can be a powerful motivator if you’re ever lucky enough to find it. It’s that I know it’s not wise, in relation to my health. Moving is so stressful for me. Mostly because it’s been done so many times without any help. Another stance of mine that has been colored by too much isolation and not having a partner to help most of the time.

And moving is also stressful in other ways… there’s all this major financial crap–getting my Direct Deposit check switched to a new bank, changing all my EFTs to come out of the new bank, without missing a payment and without incurring fees (that never happens); doing all the unpacking, moving, lifting, rearranging, that inevitably comes from any type of relocation–and this time, I dealt with getting rid of three-quarters of everything I owned before I left–which meant moving things up and down the stairs and carrying them outside to the patio, and having sales, and it was just incredibly physical stuff.

Then there was, this time, dealing with storageI already had in this state, and driving back and forth to that (an hour and a half each way), pulling stuff out, going through it, loading it, unloading it, moving it around, etc….and then the expenses of getting things to replace the things I got rid of; and the unexpected expenses, and the final bills combined with the new bills and the deposits, etc…Holy Harpies! It’s just a major ordeal.

So that’s why my knee-jerk response was NO. I WON”T MOVE. Why do I have to be the one who always does that? If I meet someone special they better be able to afford to move me, and hire someone to do it, or else, they better just be near where I am. For one thing, as I told Justi, I won’t even communicate with anyone who isn’t nearby, anymore. I don’t even want to get into that situation at all.

Then she countered my declaration with a challenging question–as she is inclined to do–she said, “What if you meet some woman who is just visiting, and you fall for her? Then would you move to be with her?”

I took a deep breath and said, “No.” So brave. So crazy.

So she poked those embers a little more. “What if she was local, and you met and fell in love and were together here, sharing a home, and then she had to relocate for a job transfer? Wouldn’t you go with her then?”

Well, the only answer to that, was what i gave her:

“Goddammit!”

This type of dilemma is made doubly hard when you’re my age. Both because I’m set in some of my ways, and because I can’t be doing things that exacerbate any health issues. I want to remain healthy as long as possible. (I have this profound wish to live forever, but only if I can be at about the age of 35 the whole time….I’ve written about that here and here.) But I also don’t want to grow old alone. I don’t want to be without a partner. I thrive in partnership for many reasons. I am not cut out to be single. Some of that has to do with the nature of my work–it’s isolated, so it’s important to have someone to share my life with. Otherwise it’s too easy to just retreat inside myself. —So will the fear of not finding love be stronger than the fear of all that stress and injury, and perhaps being taken away from the friends and environment I’ve worked so hard to have? I can’t answer. And that’s one of my biggest irritations. I want to be able to have an answer. To almost everything.

What I’m left with, then, is to avoid meeting anyone who isn’t local. If that means that I meet someone and have to ask if they are from here, and if they’re not, don’t pursue romance, that’s what I’ll do.

As for the other thing–being in a relationship, and then something happening so that we have to move–all I can do is hope I never have to deal with that scenario, should I find that woman.

Last night, while lying in bed, I found I couldn’t focus on the book I was reading. And I stared at the ceiling–while this odd, frisson of sadness tingled inside me, thinking about how much I wished the other side of the bed wasn’t empty. And I felt a little panic.

Digital Painting, “After You Go” (c) Kelli Jae Baeli

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September 4th, 2009

Uncategorized

Horns, Loneliness, Memories & Flight Patterns

I dreamed that there were two ridges rising up on my head, and I could swear they were moving or pulsing. When I would try to show them to someone, they would deflate. Here’s my self-analysis….I think I have a subconscious need to grow horns. Meaning, I am tired of always being the nice one, and sometimes I just want to be mean. But I can’t seem to do it. It takes a lot of provoking to get me to snap off. So the ridges on my head represented the horns I grow when I’m alone. And when I’m around other people, they go away. I was supposed to have plans tonight. (CAUTION: pity party). Seems everyone is so busy they can’t make time to do anything. It’s making it so hard to meet anyone. That’s about the 10th time since I moved here that I thought I was actually going to have a social life, and it just didn’t happen. It’s so hard to start over, and meet new people. I guess that’s why I was sort of counting on the ones I knew here to help me with that transition…be my guide, chaperon, introduce me to people, etc. That didn’t happen either. So I’m thrown in the deep end of the pool again (thanks DAD for THAT memory. Not). I guess I will just have to swim until I can stand up again. It’s not like I haven’t done that scenario a hundred times. Funny, because today, I grew some horns just for a second, but they were soft, and then deflated, and then I just let myself tear up and cry for a few minutes. It was an honest-to-psych pity party. But I just don’t let them last very long. I do let myself feel what i feel though. Pretending i don’t is just counter-productive.

Let me just illustrate how well i understand myself: Yesterday, I went to Best Buy and meant to spend about $50 and instead spend $222. (okay, that’s not the understand-myself part); I had one of those moments where I was just sick and tired of having 40-eleven VHS tapes taking up much needed storage space in my home (and fearful some stuff would be lost when the tapes began to disintegrate). I was transferring videos and sharing some on Facebook. Watching these memories from a certain time in my life that was filled with social activity and approval and love, it jiggled something loose in my psyche–that I have missed that life so much, and have been lonely so long, and moved here to take care of that, but nothing has changed in that regard yet. And the postponed date I had tonight** incited a more acute reaction than would be reasonable, because all those videos stirred up a past where I was social, and did have people in my life who loved me, whom I could reach out and touch because they were right there–not on a computer screen, a text screen, or a phone line. I know I crave interaction that’s more tactile, more present.

Now, I know intellectually, that things don’t always happen immediately. You can’t just buy a packet of “Social Life Deluxe” and add water. But being reminded of what I need and want, and then realizing I don’t have it, threatened to throw me into an emotional tailspin. All I can say is, I always manage to pull up before I crash. So here I am, leveling off my flight pattern again, and hoping that at some point I’ll get to land.

________________________________
*ART: Butcher Boys by Jane Alexander (1985). An exhibit at the South African National Gallery in Cape Town.
**The woman was VERY sweet about it, though, so I don’t blame her.And we are rescheduling for Wednesday.

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March 25th, 2008

HEALTH

Brain Dump: Mortality & Meaning

Okay, I know this is going to be less a blog, and more a journal entry, but whatever. Consider it the first in a series of brain dumps.
<<--Look, i even made a graphic for it....

Onward…. I usually try to see the bright side of things, and when I can’t do that, I try to see the funny side. Anyone who reads this blog knows that. And often the dark side can be funny, if you know how to manipulate the data.

But this morning, I think my brain is in some other gear….PARK, maybe. It hits me like this every so often when it gets triggered by news from loved ones, or dreams I have.

I dreamed I had my ex girlfriend’s parrots. Like they were mine or I had inherited them or something. Maybe in the dream she had died…I don’t know…(and no, i don’t wish any ill toward any of my ex’s. They all tend to merge after a while anyway…E Pluribus unum.*) But I was enjoying the parrots. I was always playing with the Cockatoo, named Sophee (that was her real name) but in the dream she wasn’t crippled and her personality was more like Keegan’s–the African Grey of the pair, who was talkative and personable. I was living in my father’s house –have no idea why. A few days ago, I dreamed my father died, too…I’m sure all this came from finding out that another one of my ex girlfriends lost her mother. And once you hear that, there’s this mortality bacteria in your brain…and it sort of infiltrates your life for a while, until you get back into the bliss of ignoring all those harsh realities.

When I woke from all this, I lay there with Shoes curled up with half her body on my shoulder, purring softly. (Yeah, my cat. Women don’t seem to purr…well, okay, if I’m doing it right, they do.) For a long time I just laid there, and thought about things. Like you do when you’re sleepy and just waking up and the brain starts to make that trip back to rational consciousness again.

I felt sad. Like why doesn’t my ex, the one who lost her mother–why does she feel she can’t be in my life somewhere? Why can’t I be one of those friends to her that she seeks out during times like these, for support? Why does she continue to judge me by the person I was 10 years ago? And why does it still matter to me at all? Because she was the only woman I was ever so madly in love with? Because it was the only time I’ve ever had my heart ripped out of my chest and handed back to me as that person walks out of my life, while I hold my bloody thumping, dying heart in my own hands? Is that why?? (Okay, that was graphic, but that’s what the emotion surrounding it is like for me).

And I thought of how sad it is that I am alone so much. Is it mostly my choice, or is it part and parcel of being an author-artist-songster- type person? Everything I do is something I do alone….And I stayed sad as my thoughts wandered to the two dreams of my father.

How tragic that I have a biological family who rejects me on the basis of who I am, (an oxymoron in and of itself) and that it somehow offends their sensibilities to the degree that they would abandon their own child; and I thought maybe it wasn’t their sensibilities. Maybe they were all just selfish, shallow people, and I can still feel good about my decision to remove all toxic people from my life. Maybe it’s a blessing that I might never know when any of them die.

And I thought of my own mortality. I coughed. I thought for the umpteenth time, that I should quit smoking. It was the last thing left on this “take good care of yourself” train. Addiction to cigarettes is so hard to conquer. I’ve stopped smoking a large number of times, (yeah, quitting is easy: I’ve done it a bunch of times) and it was okay for a while, but then I would need that—what? comfort? is smoking really like having a Friend? And I know it makes my brain feel better. It’s like I can’t think clearly without cigarettes. A crazy excuse from an addicted smoker?

And then I thought about all the weird things that happen to your body as you get older, and how it’s a little frightening. The older I get, the more frightened I become. I lament the lost years–wishing I’d known 20 years ago, what I know now. Wishing I had more time. Wishing, as I’ve mentioned before, that I really could live forever. (Ironic, since there have been so many times that i wished to die). So many things on the horizon, other than a mushroom cloud (if we’re lucky). Things I’d like to see and experience….but as each birthday comes and goes, I find myself lying about my age more and more…and I get this dread in my gut…knowing I won’t grow old gracefully. That I’ll be kicking and screaming the whole way. Never mind all those big personal cosmology questions that arise about death and life and life after death. Just dealing with your own declining vessel is enough to worry about….Like when you’re driving a car that starts to have problems, and then there’s a whole list of problems on its heels and you know at some point it won’t be worth fixing and it should just be given over to the great junk heap. Is that my fate as well?

And will I face this progressing disintegration by myself, with no one to support me, care for me, love me? (I am so thankful for my best friend). Will I live out this timeline of mine without being able to give my heart to someone who deserves it? And why is it so hard for me to give my heart away? Why don’t I fall in love easily? Why is it so rare for me to even be sparkin’ on a woman? That’s only happened a grand total of 2 times in….god…how many years? And the first spark was doused with water pretty quickly. Well, not water. Wine. The second one–I don’t know about that. It’s current. I have no idea what this woman feels toward me, and I’m too chicken to ask, so I’m focusing on the friendship, which is very important to me anyway.

But amid this, The same questions continue to arise. Will I never find my PERSON? Will I meet my ultimate demise without knowing what it feels like again to be so in love with woman that the thought of her not being there aches like a case of restless legs and angina, combined. After all I’ve done to evolve and become the type of person who would be considered a valuable discovery for some lovely, evolved, intelligent, and funny woman out there, will it not matter? Is fate just fate? How much control do we really have over how our lives go? And I wondered if maybe my high ideals and constant concern for the practice of sound ethics has gotten me here. Is it just subterfuge? Does it really matter if I’m a quality person? Finding love seems to have almost nothing to do with how great a person you are. Rude awakening, that. Maybe I’m having a mid-life crisis.

So today I must try to coax myself back over into my concerted efforts to ignore these things that simmer on the burner at the back of my mind.

R. D. Laing, a British psychiatrist noted for his alternative approach to the treatment of schizophrenia, once said, �Life is a sexually transmitted disease and the mortality rate is one hundred percent.� I wish I didn’t resonate with that quote quite so much.

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*Latin for “out of many, one.”

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November 23rd, 2007

Desperation Barrel

Take one part sexual frustration, two parts loneliness, three parts overwhelming need to be needed and wanted, add an overzealous good-timer and beer, stir vigorously. Simmer well in a bed of cotton sheets, and you have a recipe for disaster.

When one hits the bottom of the Desperation Barrel, there is always someone down there.

Sometimes we make ill-advised choices based on the ingredients we allow ourselves to stock. While we might not be proud of these one night stands that last months or years, we must appreciate the educational value of such an excursion. If we learn our lessons well, we will be loathe to cook that dish again.

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November 21st, 2007

Artistic Angst

Certain situations and combination of events and feelings coincide and then all existential hell

breaks loose in me. I’ve gotten off on a track of thinking that has led me to this point of stress, angst, emotional upheaval. Partly, the stress stems from this Guitar Bar idea becoming more about me, and less about the venue. More pointedly, the stress of defining myself. Identity markers. Strip away those and we fall apart, evaporate, cease to exist or are merely taking up space.

How do we stay balanced in our understanding of success? Is success represented by money?
by acknowledgment of others?
by happiness?
by how many people love us?
by our contribution?
does it matter to someone?
does it matter to a great many someones?

Perhaps I should never make my artistic endeavors a source of income. Perhaps I should just be what I am: retired. . . someone who enjoys writing and recording music for friends or to give as gifts, creating art, writing books, and going to flea markets and buying and selling on eBay. . .I have a peaceful environment, plenty to keep me interested and busy; a few close friends, pets I adore, the ability to walk around outside in beautiful surroundings and take a deep breathe and just be in the moment.

The only thing that’s missing for me, then, is the right “someone” to share it with. But my standards are so high, that my odds are low. I have to cling to the belief that the universe has a wisdom beyond my comprehension, and when it is time for my person to waltz into the room, she will, and I won’t be OUTSIDE in my beautiful surroundings, taking deep breaths and being in the moment.

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