I lost someone this week.  I lost another someone this week.  Someone who I am better having known is no longer here.  I lost this someone, not to death, but to life.  

And for sure, I could write a chapter in my memoirs listing those I have lost in my life.  It is not new, but recently, it seems more important.  

Initial reaction, I’m certain, is going to be something in the vein of, ‘if they’re not dead, they are not gone forever’.  But I’m still grieving now.  So, that’s not true.  And I understand I sit in selfishness wanting everyone I think is important to want to give me their time and their thoughts and their words.  I understand how terribly myopic and self-serving I truly am. 

I started thinking about the words I’m using with this situation.  I am grieving another relationship.  Interaction I have in relation to another human being.  This word grief is defined as a deep sorrow.  Depending on the source, it is frequently accompanied with the qualifier, especially when caused by death.  I’m not going to mince words and spirit, but it did seem easy for me to hyperbolically use the word grief.  Admittedly, I use shock value to emphasize my words.  But something finally feels erroneous about tossing grief around.  I went a little deeper.  Sorrow is defined as a feeling of deep distress caused by loss, disappointment, or misfortune suffered by oneself or others.  That’s almost it.  The synonym dejection was on the page.  Dejection is sad and depressed state, low spirits.  I think I am dejected.  And perhaps it is so close to seeing the word rejected on the page that I’m connecting to it.  I am in a state of dejection.  

In the past couple months, I have lost a couple people.  And it’s not the first little bit of my life that I have lost people, but it’s been a significant couple who are either gone for good, or gone for a bit, and without being too much of a myopic baby, I shed days of tears.  

I probably should not zero in too deep, but one of the people I lost was one of my children.  I am in a predicament with her that I cannot fix.  I am trying to find a mediator for the situation, and have been a failure.  And here I considered using the word unsuccessful, but truly I have failed.  I have failed over and over again and perhaps have never been successful with providing any life skills to this child.  It is deeper than a lack of success, but a complete and utter failure.    

I have a friend who moves in and out of my life with periods of silence, but never has it been deafening before.  He is not even telling me that he needs a break from me, which is different than it had been in the past. 

Someone left this past summertime over a misunderstanding of words.  I’m too stubborn to try to clarify.  (There is an expression about burning bridges and a response about unwillingness to grab a fire extinguisher- Maybe I’m the one with the match, and maybe I’m the one with the fire extinguisher?)

This most recent one is hard.  And maybe I’m just not finished crying about the loss of my daughter, so this one compounded my feelings of dejection?  It is not my intention to cause anyone pain and the reasoning that someone separates with or without notice may or may not come with weighty thought?  

So then yesterday, tears were dry for a couple hours and my brain was trying to unravel these feelings to make sense of them.  My head was trying to define words so that I could lay out all the intellect amongst the emotional and reason how to honor the feelings but use rationale to return to functionality.  And when I say functionality, I mean to say that it could be restoring some or all of these relationships, or very much severing ties so that neither party needs to be in a situation causing pain.  

So, what is the point of all this?  Boo-hoo!  I’m fucking sad!?  I’m mad at myself for feeling it and irate that I have to say it. I have caused this.  Through a series of events, I am ultimately responsible for me.  I live in the consequence, which is sometimes not pleasant.

I suppose that is all.  I have work to do.  Physical, emotional, and intellectual.  I don’t feel better having gotten these words out of my head.  I don’t feel better for having obsessed over the tears I have cried for the past month and a half.  I don’t feel better for any of it.  I am selfish and I want it fixed.  I want to feel better, but more than that, I want to know that those people for whom I care know that they are valued and valuable.  

Stupid losing battle with dejection.

​
​Yesterday was bananas for me. I started with mania and ended with anxiety. I've been dealing with a a dull headache for days. I'm keeping the migraine at bay with meds. i know if i just let it take over I will be under a shroud of comforters in the dark for days.
i wrote 10 pages over the weekend. (i think i worked on my website too? more words.) I want to continue the momentum of writing, even though i know it's the mania. Having this constant pull of up and down is exhausting.

Details: Yesterday I woke and made coffee in my home. My daughter texted and asked if we could go through the drive through on the way to her work. Of course. But i had a conscious struggle with my head that I had just made coffee and should take her a cup. I was both annoyed with myself for wasting the coffee and not meeting her needs. I literally had just poured the coffee into my to-go cup and had plenty of time to finish it before I even had to dress for the drive. I finished the coffee I made at home and then picked her up. Stopped at the drive through and bought her the coffee she wanted. I refrained from the outside coffee.

​I came home believing i could continue the writing momentum that i had. (fully aware that it was mania and using it to my advantage.) I looked at my laptop and thought about the dishes in my sink that needed to be cleaned, the counter top next to the sink that could use a scrubbing, my floors that also need to be touched by bleach and the hunger in my belly. i had ten words added to my manuscript. I made eggs, cleaned the sink and swept the floor. Realizing that I was avoiding writing, I refrained from pulling out the mop and bucket and sat again to write. The sounds of cars driving down my street were deafening. I knew I needed to refill the dog's food container and should care for that. Also ran out of paper towels while cleaning the counter. I should run out and get paper towels and dog food and then come right back to write. I should go early because then I can get parking in front of my house. After a half hour of working out the pros and cons of running errands, I walked out the door in my slippers and drove to get paper towels. One more stop, just dog food. My car needed gas. If i pick up my daughter and the gas is low, she expresses concern. I have to ensure there is gas in the tank. I run to the gas station. one more stop. dog food. I go to the pet store and the shelves are empty. Rewind. the shelves containing my brand of dog food are empty. I question if there was a recall. The staff of my pet store is unaware and look up the listing of alerts they have at their aide. I'm looking on my phone to the world wide web for any notice on this brand. I find nothing. They find nothing. After twenty minutes of this panic i have vomited into the air, the csr asks, "Where did you hear of a recall?" i said, "The shelves are empty." She told me the delivery truck was delayed. It should be in later in the day.

I sit in my car. I know I am dead in the middle of the mania. But as in all the manic episodes I have, I have no idea when it started and I'm unclear if the bell curve would even indicate when I can expect it to end. I breathe deeply and weigh if I should just go home with my paper towels or if I should find dog food in another store. I take my car tot he car wash with intention to vacuum. I pulled into a space and when pulling the hose over to the car, I remember I just vacuumed it two days before and there really is nothing to clean. I move the paper towels to the way back of the jeep so the back seat is clear.

I look up the nearest pet store with the brand of food my dogs eat. My eye chooses a store and I plug in the address into the gps app I use. Drive through to get another coffee for the journey and drive. (By this point I considered going home and driving back around the corner, but decided with the madness I may be so engulfed in writing, i miss closing time. And what if the delivery truck doesn't come still today?)

The store is 15 miles away. Not a problem. I love driving and perhaps it will calm my thoughts to listen to music and drive mid-day? My thoughts were filled with collective consciousness and I had both sides of a conversation with a friend who seems to be taking a break from philosophical discussions. I wondered what two other friends thought and sent requests to see them for drinks so i could share with them my musings.
GPS wanted me to take toll roads. My brain screamed, "For Dog Food? Negative!" I wound up on the street m parents met. I never knew the exact houses in which they lived but they were next door neighbors 1968-1970. I drove slow looking at the houses and came across the historic society and police station (same building) of the rural town. I pulled into the parking lot and then reminded myself that I was just picking up dog food and had to write today. At this time, it is over two hours since I ran down the street to get the big pack of paper towels and a fifty pound bag of dog food.

​I get back on the road I know will take me back to Philly and cut through a road I believe takes me in the vicinity of the suburb where this pet food store is. Once I am away from the turnpike (toll road), I plug in the address again to GPS. I am taken into a neighborhood that friend who is taking a break from discussions with me. Every coffee shop that I pass screams at me to pull in and send a text that I'm at so and so, to see if he will talk to me. I resist and stay in the car. (The thought of interacting with someone, even to order a medium coffee with almond milk was frightening just then)

I pull into the parking lot of the dog food store and see that the store is closing. I sigh heavily believing they have already closed. But then, the door opens and the brand I am looking for is in there, with a discount from the store closing. I pull out my phone to text a friend who works at a shelter to inform of the discount and hesitate. I cannot handle the responsibility of waiting at the store for a list of his needs. I just cannot do it at the moment. I take the bag of dog food I want to the counter to pay and there are two people in front of me. They are standing too close to me and I really have not explored the sparse inventory to figure if I can get a good deal on something I would buy anyway. I put the bag of dog food down and walk through the store again. I am doing math for the 10-75% discount weighing if I want/need/can afford/cannot afford to pass up a deal like this! ... my brain is full of noise and I worry that someone is going to come to the counter and take the bag of food I selected. I return to the counter and pay for the bag of food. done.

I open the back door and put in the food on the seat. I open the way back and move the big pack of paper towels to the back seat, understanding that if the things aren't together, I'm going to forget and have to go out to the car for the second item. I need to spend as much time on writing as I can so running to the car a second time is going to interrupt that. I pat myself on the back for having this forethought and after turning on the engine, I move both the dog food and the paper towels into the way back in case someone calls and needs a ride. There is no need to have groceries on the seats when i have a cargo space in the way back.

I drive home. I know the way home. I don't have to GPS. Except I didn't know the way home. I was driving away from home and was lost in cul de sacs and school campuses with whole sports teams running together to my right. I plugged in the word home into the GPS app and found i was 18 miles from home. 18. So, I was going to a place 15 miles from home, had been out for four hours at this time and 18 miles from my home by the time I realized I was in the wrong direction. I found my way back to familiar streets while ice decided to fall from the sky.

The parking I believed would be available in front of my house was taken by a neighbor. Which is fine, but instead of unloading the 50 lb bag of food and awkward pack of towels while I was at my door, I parked and then beat myself up for not thinking about what I was doing. But I had a different focus then. I had to get in to my home without talking to any neighbor. I could not endure words.

I fell down on my couch after pushing the dog food against the inside of the door. I was exhausted, but pleased that I got the errand done and had the rest of the day to write. I made a cup of tea and realized I had spent six hours picking up dog food.
And then the anxiety hit. One of my favorites texted me. And I was talking to her about the positivity we are both trying to nourish for 2019. She had it harnessed. My positivity was scrambling to cover it's ass in yoga pants and provide some illusion it was holding itself together. My chest was pounding and my vision blurred. I sipped my tea and looked at her words, wishing she was closer, because I needed a run to a diner for a coffee and slice of pie so i could look at her breath when I can't. I hate feeling the crazy. And I know how much it hurts me to see her turn into the moods of her mental illness. I feel guilty about giving her this chaotic energy and just go quiet on my phone. She'll understand later. Just then, I had nothing more in me.

The anxiety didn't stop. I took my seroquel and fell alseep, completely believing, although unprepared to deal again today with it. I woke today with relief of the anxiety. The mania is gone too. I have a dull ache behind my eye and I wrote half a scene this morning. (writing a trial and took the change of witnesses to recess myself) I'm breathing today. I'm exhausted and hiding still. I'm feeling productive. If a friend calls for a bite of food and to see their face, I will be able to shower and change and drive as the crow flies.

​I once asked my doctor if this is what 'normal' feels like. He suggested i use the word 'functional'. i'll take functional. i no longer believe I'm ever going to be free from these episodes. And I'm no more equipped now to cope with them than at any other point in my life. But, it does feel like a small victory to have gotten through the day of bananas with my breath.

​I walked a mile in my own shoes today.  Not another’s.  Mine. 
 
I thought initially about writing of mud and mushrooms, reflecting on the trek through muck in order to get to some unexpected nourishment.  But then I walked on.

Rocks and Roots.  It was definitely an afternoon of rocks and roots.  I walked a mile in my own shoes among the rocks and roots.

Yesterday I spoke with a friend who is the rock of his family.  I too have been accused of being the same.

Rocks are steady.  They are the firm and strong.  And somehow, they are expected to hold things together; until, crisis is over and then they feel unnecessary.  Just a big heavy thing, crumbling into gravel with every use and walked on without much thought to the support they provide.

I walked along a path that didn’t appear to be a path at all.  It appeared as though I was treading lightly over the natural formation of stones that in some manner resembled stairs up and down into the woods.  I followed it along to a space called Devil’s Pool.  The Lenape Tribe believed the space to be where good and evil converge.  And as I sat on a rock entwined with roots of a tree that towered above me, I saw some things in the rocks I would have overlooked had I walked upon them without the moment of convening with them.

I saw the sun glint off the phosphorescent rocks twinkling in the air; and on a warmer day I may have been drawn to get closer and fall on the slippery bits into the pool the Lenape warned of in their legends.

Rock.  Folks around rocks break down.  And rocks do what they can to hold them together, nourishing their roots.  The rock is ground down with every step.  Every bit of growth that occurs through that root is nourished by that rock and credit is given to the sunshine and to the breath and to the water.  Never the rock.  Never the dirty muck the rock sinks in to allow the root to reach high with beauty into the light.  Never the minerals, the very basic nutrients that chaff off without notice every time the rain falls or the wind blows.

My friend told me his crisis was under control and as a result, he felt….  When my rocky situations were over in my own life – After being given credit for having been a rock, there was a time for me to sink back into the dirt.  Into my dirt.  Into the dark and thick muck of me.  Rocks don’t have rocks.  It’s just how it is.

I used to believe that it was very simply being distracted by someone else, so I didn’t have to be with myself.  So I didn’t have to feel what I felt, but I could fix what others wanted to feel.  I believed it was easier to live in someone else’s story, because it put mine in perspective and I regained gratitude for what I have while realizing things could be worse.

But I have this friend now.  I have this friend who seemed deflated after caring for someone who needed his rock persona.  And in a very clear visualization, I said it’s because rocks are, by nature, stepped on.  And until that moment, I hadn’t ever thought about being a rock or being stepped upon. 

I realized then that I may have had it wrong.  I may have had it wrong the whole time.  The abused brain apologizes for everything and cannot fathom being important to anyone.  And the elation of having someone need the rock reasonably has to have the corresponding reaction of deflation while feeling useless.
​
And none of this is to say that rocks are better than roots, or the other way ‘round.  But it has me thinking about the very nature of a rock.  How it cannot pull from others.  A rock relies on itself to sink into the muck and pull nutrients as it can so it is sturdy and ready to support others in their journey.      

i took a shower today.  

I said these words and thought these words when trying to quantify an achievement for the day.  It wasn't today.  I have not showered yet.  It is one o'clock in the afternoon.  

Depression has definitely been a factor for a few weeks and simple things like showering, washing dishes, even putting dog food in a bowl to care for the critters with whom i live - it's just exhausting. 

And i've done stuff.  i've gone to work, bought groceries, even went to a few social outings.  And in all the minutes i'm [sleep] walking through life, all i could think about was hiding under blankets again with or without eyes closed and with or without silence.  when the blanket is the important bit, it matters not if i'm sleeping or awake. 

And the blankets smell like dog.  (because i have these monsters laying on me - which is quite lovely and i miss them when they nest up on the comforters they stole across the room.)  So i smell like dog.  Everything in my house is covered with dog hair and dog smell.  A little one i work with said, "you smell like puppies and perfume."  To which i replied, "Puppies is my perfume."  It was enough of a jest to make her laugh and enough to convey that i hold no embarrassment about the fragrant scent wafting from my skin.  But the cause of the smell is .... the cause of the dog smell is simply because i cannot do a simple thing like cleaning my skin some days.  

I like being clean.  i like lying in a tub of bubbles and smoothing oils and creams on my skin to soothe any ache in my muscles and open my pores to remove the grime of the world.  And most days i am.  Most days, i can get through a shower or bath and pull some clean clothes on my body, brush my hair and even get mascara all the way to my eyelashes.  But on the days that i can't - the days i don't give a fuck if anyone can smell the stink i can.  (my nose is closer to me than anyone else - i know i smell bad.)  Those days are days of unease.  again it's not embarrassment.  i'm good with puppies being my perfume.  But it's an unease.  it's the cycle of why can't i function in a manner which  i expect others?  how can i have this derision in my thoughts manifesting itself with a crinkle of nose and a furrow of brow with the perplexing question of why can't they be clean?  it ever occurs to me that on some days i am not. 

There is a bit of --  that which we don't like about others is the thing in which we hate about ourselves.  i hate seeing bad parenting because i question my parental skills.  I don't like talking to obstinate people without a clue because i fear that in my stubbornness, i'm dumb and bullying my way into acceptance of my opinions. 

So what about this shower thing?  i am a blamer.  I say the words that i am explaining, not excusing; but, in contemplation [and among other mad folks] i can be honest with myself and use the word blame in relation to my behavior.  I can blame not having time or energy to do this thing that seems regular.  That's not true though.  i have water.  i have a hot water heater.  i live alone, so i never have to wait for a turn.  And yet? 

It takes three minutes to shower and thirty seven to fret about the process.  In the time it takes me to silently grouse about going through the process, i could have showered, made and drank a cup of coffee and read a short chapter of a book.  

The shower is not the only thing.  (and again, it's not every day)  It's washing dishes and cleaning the floors and doing laundry and making dinner.... And to be clear, this is not a joke where it's like, by the time i get out the shampoo, conditioner, soap, razor, scrunchy sponge, face scrub, foot scrub, and sugar scrub for my relaxing bath i can only fall asleep in the tub.  (not getting clean at all)  This has never been a joke.  When i think to myself, 'i took a shower today.' it's to reassure myself that i did something hard.  i did something my brain was fighting against.    

So right now, six hours after i woke up, i am lying on the couch on a dog-smelling blanket with my feet on a cane corso.  i have not showered today.  i have cleaned the floors and learned a new knitting stitch.  

I don't know why mental illness beats us up so hard.  I look at the pill bottles sitting on my coffee table and read the names to ensure i'm taking the right ones for the time of day and still it's excruciatin to remove the lids and count the pills while avoiding the slivers of light from the blinds covering the windows.  I'm afraid if i go outside, someone will see that i am mad.  Someone will know that i couldn't shower today.  And truly there are days when i don't give a fuck.  I'm not sure it matters with the dark cloud if i care or not.  it's hard to appear normal.  It's hard to do regular.  

   Last night, i left work relatively on time, took the train into the city, walked down the street to the bank, withdrew money from my account and walked down another street with intention to get a beer before watching a movie. 
   I knew the bar i intended to sit my ass on a stool to drink a pint and watch the minutes.  It was one that is not real busy and i could definitely hide in there without talking to anyone.  Still, i started about two blocks from the bank.  Should i go to, a thousand others on my way?  Should i text the remaining six people in the world i like to join me?  Should i stay on target and just get to where I wanted to be? 
    It was already starting and i didn't see it.  I went, ordered my beer, slid my dollars to the waitress and sat at a corner table alone.  I sipped from the pint watching people pass the open window, others at the bar talking about whiskey and work.  My heartbeat was calm.  Temperature reasonable.  Head at peace.  I read some emails, exchanged some text messages and was relatively content. 
   I walked to the movie theatre and bought a vegan cookie to eat outside while i waited for more minutes to tick and tock.  A sparrow dove at me from the tree under which i sat.  I startled and moved.  My heartbeat was still calm.  My temperature reasonable.  Head was at peace.  I ate my cookie.  
   I checked in to the screening and took my commemorative magnet and pin before getting a seltzer and taking my seat five rows back and in the middle.  Fifteen minutes to dark.  I was still fine.  People flooded in, but i had a buffer.  Two seats to the left.  Two seats the right.  Two people directly behind me, but no one between me and the screen.  Ten minutes to dark.  I was fine.  
   Then my eyes hurt.  i took off my glasses.  My head pounded.  I grew hot.  My heartbeat raced.  My thoughts raced.  My airway closed and my breathing became labored.  I looked  around and no one else was panicked.  Nothing changed in the theatre.  We were not under invisible attack.  Well, I was being attacked.  No one noticed and no one came to my rescue.  I had to get out of my seat.  i had to get to some place with more air.  I had to get someplace where the force pressing against my ears and eyes had room to move away from me.  I picked up my handbag and looked to my left, then to my right.  I had to pass five people on the right and two on the left.  The right was closer to the door.  The right is the way i came into the theatre.  The right way was the only way that made sense.  I excused myself over their legs, purses and popcorn hoping i didn't bump anything or anyone, not for the embarrassment of spilling something, but because if anything touched my body i will have known i made the wrong directional choice and would have to turn back to go left.  
   I pushed the door open and tried to breathe the outside air.  I still could not open my lungs.  I walked away gasping and holding my bag wanting to fall on the ground in tears.  I looked for my sunglasses to buffer my eyes from the setting sun in the overcast cloudy sky.  Left on the coffee table at home.  I told myself i could do this.  I couldn't feel my legs beneath me.  I couldn't see the traffic i walked into while i made my way to the bus.  I took my seat and put my little bag on the seat next to me to indicate, no you may not sit next to me, and watched out the window as the streets moved to the back of my periphery. 
   I stepped onto the blacktop.  Just two more blocks until home.  i can do this.  I walked in front of another car without apology.  I turned the corner and looked up to a porch to a neighbors house that usually gets a hello.  no neighbor.  breath.  i didn't have to choke out any words.  Walked in the middle of the street to buffer myself from the kids playing on the sidewalk.  Two more neighbors on their porch.  Can i get away with a wave?  I sighed heavily and made a noise as my hand went up into the air.  Not a word, but enough of a salutation to pass.  The Carolyns are sitting three doors down calling out to me.  I try to just wave and pull my keys from my handbag.  There's a red cup on my step with two ice cubes.  i turn to the cat in the car behind me.  "Is this your cup?"  He looks at me as if I used foreign words - and who knows - maybe i did?  I repeat myself using all my energy.  "Is this your cup?"  He responds, "nah, you can toss it."  I place it upon the trash from the weekend in the trash bin i haven't had it in me to put away since last week.  If it was his and he wants it, it's not spilled out, but it's not on my step to coax ants for a visit. 
   I turn the key, yell at my dog to stop jumping.  She jumps on the couch with ears down because she knows she forgot we don't do that anymore.  I shuffle to the kitchen to give her a cookie for remembering, even if she messed up at first, turned the container's lid to pull out food for her bowl.  I put the other dog in another room to close the door and let him eat without her interest in his bowl.  Turn on the tub and sink thinking the warm water will cycle through my pores and relieve the anxiety.  It didn't.  I'm not sure if the water made it worse, but it certainly didn't help.  The steam was choking me.  The pungent fragrance of rosemary and mint cut through my throat and I was mad at myself for buying that scent of shampoo.  I let the water out beneath me and feared falling when i stepped out from the slippery ceramic.
   Wrapped in a towel, i opened the door for my guy and sunk into the couch with two dogs at my feet.  I just needed to breathe.  I just needed air.  I still was struggling.  I took a quarter dose of my anti-psychotic, looking at the time, knowing it was too early in the evening to take the full dose.  I considered that this was not anxiety.  I could not reason why my body was shutting down although it was speeding up in every way.  My skin was prickly.  My eyes burned and tears fell from my cheeks. my nose felt swollen.  I looked at the bottles of medication and knew none of them would help me. 
   A sweatshirt and underwear was excruciating to  pull onto my body.  I wrapped up in a comforter and smelled the moisture being pulled from the air by the machine in the window.  I had to get out of the house, but outside was worse from what i remembered the evening to be. 
   It was that moment - when i wanted to be out of the house, but needed to be in it more - that i realized it was an anxiety attack.  Or a panic attack.  It was an attack.  From the inside.  I wanted to write then about it, wanted to get it out, but the thought of stringing words together in any cohesive form was overwhelming.  I couldn't' even look at my laptop.  I just sat there in silence helpless against the attack. 
   I know that was a long way to go.  I know that was a lot of words.  But that is what i experienced from the onset of the episode until i can't remember what happened to end it.  I woke today exhausted.  I can't remember my dreams which have been vivid since i started taking seroquel.  I still feel like i'm walking through a cloud and i imagine today is going to be completely non-productive.  I expect it.  
   On the train today, i considered the moments I survived last night.  I labeled it anxiety.  And then i remembered i used to use the words anxiety attack.  i sometimes used the words panic attack.  I used the word attack.    Attack:  an aggressive or violent act.  Attacked from my insides.  I keep saying it because i thought those words over and over while i sat sipping my iced coffee in my routine. 
   It's the kind of attack in which no one runs to rescue.  And if they do, it sometimes makes it worse.  It's the kind of attack one must battle on their own.  It's the kind of attack that movie goers and bus drivers and neighbors can't even see.  It's a forceful and viscous assault on my mind and body.  It's a punch to my spirit and stability. 
   I don't know what i'm getting to with this - many times I don't.  I suppose it's just another explanation of my madness.  A journal of bedlam.  I wish it ended here.  i wish that will be the final attack I feel.  It's doubtful that's true.  And for those looking for a reason, or claiming there is something external that causes this, know that it strikes without warning.  It happens while in a routine.  Within the benign that i carry myself through a thousand times (and also when chaos is an external factor), there is an attack, and there is nothing i can do but fight to get to a safe place where i can heal before going back into battle.                                                              

d  It’s been two weeks since I got a tattoo of a nickel on my right wrist.  It’s a 1973 P Jefferson Head.  As a guide, I could only find a ‘73 D and I don’t know if nickels were minted in Philadelphia in that year.  I intend to get tails with Monticello on my left.  Anyway, my dad said, “If you have a dime in your pocket, you’re never broke and you always have a way home.”
I was fond of dimes for quite a while.  I think I liked the magic three on the tails.  It could have been it was the smallest of the coins in my pocket.  It may have been the words from my father.  
   I don’t know when the fondness of dimes fell away to nickels, but I have enjoyed them for years.  Lucy Van Pelt of Peanuts fame charged a nickel for a psychiatric appointment.  When finished, I’ll have one for now and one for later.  And still there is that thing my dad said about ten cents. 
   While helping me fix my house, my niece said, “When you have the time, you don’t have the nickels.  When you have the nickels, you don’t have the time.”  She could have said any coin or dollar or the generic word, money.  She chose nickel.  And still there is that thing my dad about ten cents. 
   It’s no secret that I was in a horrific abusive relationship.  It’s no secret that I have this mental illness that feels like a list of disorders when I quantify the ineptness of my brain and body. And if you know me - really know me - you know that I have terrible financial wellness.  I still have that thing my dad had about ten cents though. 
   It’s all money.  There’s a heavy sigh while I sip from my cup of coffee and consider if I really am ready to discuss money and mental illness.  Invariably there will be discussion of abuse and money in my words.  I’m not sure I can separate for me the abuses I experienced from my mental illness.  I have no clue still if my mental illness caused the abuse or if the abuse caused the mental illness, or even still if they are separate but related.  I guess I will Venn Diagram this shit later.  
   Money.  My childhood.  It turns out we were not crazy poor, but neither wealthy by any means.  We were middle class.  Probably the middle of the middle class.  We- I mean my parents.  However, my mother would say things to make me believe we were poor.  Like on the low end of lower class.  The groceries we had in the house were the store brand and we never ordered pizza from the parlor down the street.  She would remind us all the time that we didn’t have money for everything we wanted and sometimes things we needed.  Looking back, we had too much on holidays.  She took us to five different fast food restaurants for lunch so everyone got what they wanted and she didn’t have to cook.  I could go on about the things I remember that doesn’t fall into the lie, “We can’t afford that.”
   Money.  My adult life.  I always worked and always had a paycheck that was coming.  I remember specific times when my pockets were flush and other times that my pockets didn’t have a dime, two nickels, or any coin to equal ten cents.  I was broke and there was no getting home.  
   So here is the analysis.  How can I have grown up with financial insecurity pressed upon my wants and needs and then not protect my pockets from emotional abuse? Maybe before this analysis, I should share what has been churning in my head and life before I ruminate on all that.
   Yesterday I paid my cell phone bill.  It was my payday.  My phone had been turned off for four days for non-payment.  I wasn’t worried.  My electric bill got paid eight days ago when I received a notice threatening disconnection if the bill wasn’t paid within ten days.  I’ve talked to four car dealerships so that I can have a little more flexibility in commuting and running errands.  I can’t figure out how to pay the down payment and quite honestly although I know with my wages, I can afford the monthly payments, but if I don’t have the discipline to pay the light bill on time, how can I keep current on vehicle payments? 
   And then reflecting on those shortfalls, I scoop up the coins in the bottom of my purse and drop it into the country rose vase that was given to me by my life partner’s mother.  It’s been half full for three years.  I realize that my wallet has enough dollars to give my adult children adequate spending and vacation money even if I’m pulling out nickels to pay for a chicken sandwich a day before my payday.
   Big friggin’ deal… right?  It is.  
   My doctor asked me one day what I spent my money on.  It’s not uncommon to go on a spending spree with mania.  It’s not uncommon to spend on things one does not need and cannot afford.  This is not just buying a diamond ring in the middle of February because it’s pretty, but it extends to spending habits so subtle that one may not even see it’s part of the madness.  So whatever I needed or whatever I discussed, my doctor asked the question, “Why can’t you do this?”  

Me:  I don’t have the money.  
Him: What did you do with your money?
Me:  What money? 
Him: You work and earn money.  What did you do with your money since you got paid?

   My brow furrowed.  As my dad used to say, I got my back up and I was insulted at his accusation that I was not wise with my choices over those two weeks.  My heart whispered to my brain, that’s not his business.  And then I justified whose pockets I moved my coins to, “I paid for groceries and my train pass to get into work.”  
He pursed his lips and his silence drew out the truth.  Today I cannot remember what I spent my money on, but I remember that was the day I became more mindful of my spending.  I have not changed my habits again, but I do watch my hand as I open my wallet now. 
   I lived with a drug addict for close to twenty years.  I supported a drug habit for close to twenty years.  I also lived with an abuser for twenty years as an adult and before, all of my life.  If anyone has heard me talk about it, they may think I believe I am a victim.  I’m just trying to open about it.  I am a sum of my parts and this is a part of me.
   One may think the financial abuse was a part of the drug use.  He took every penny from the house to buy his fix.  But then why were there days when I walked seven miles in and home from work while he had bus fare to go to the other side of the neighborhood?  Why was I shopping at the dollar store and giving my kids hot dogs, when he was out buying dinner for his friends?  Why was I hiding video games I bought for my kids so he didn’t pawn them when he bought another game console on a whim?  So yes; on the surface, using money for drugs must be the reason the finances were up and down with her.  But it goes deeper.  He took money and lied to me.  Had me at a bank crying because my debit card had been cloned.  His bike was stolen, he said because I didn’t lock it up.  My bike was stolen because I left it in the backyard and someone must have hopped over two fences and then taken it.  The television was stolen because I left the front door open.  All of those things needed to be replaced.  He controlled how much money we had even though it was in my name.  
   So it sounds like I’m blaming.  It sounds like I’m blaming my mother and my life partner for habits.  At this point in my life, it’s not a habit.  I understand it’s part of my brain.  There are weeks when I don’t buy groceries and I don’t eat at home.  There are weeks I spend hundreds of dollars in cleaning supplies.  I spend money until I don’t have it.  And other days I get through four and twenty hours without a penny leaving my fingers.  
   My money this past pay period, for anyone asking, I had this tattoo put on my arm.  I bought groceries and dog food.  I bought cleaning products.  I filled my Wawa card, my Dunkin’ card, and my Starbucks.  I bought two books I haven’t started reading yet and tickets for a show.  I gave two of my four children money for vacation and groceries.  And the most boring of my expenditures, I bought a couple pair of pants.   
   My vase is still half full of change.  I wanna say that again.  My vase is still half full of change.  I totally say the words half full now.  I’m not sure it was a conscience change from half empty.  But I know that now I say half full.  My vase is half full of change.  I’m changing, even if I am only half-way there.  My vase is half full of change.  I’ll take half instead of none. 
   I am probably not poor even though I never have any money.  
   I don’t know why it’s so uncomfortable to talk about money.  To admit the state of one’s financial health.  Coming from someone who just started (relatively speaking) about the state of their mental health is pretty ballsy.  I too find discomfort with it.  I heard a friend say, money is only important if there is not enough of it.  At the time, I thought that was true.  It was at the waning end of the abuse mentioned above.  But now without anyone to blame about the emptiness of my wallet, I am beginning to understand that money is important even when there is enough.  Money is the means by which we live.  We trade money for needs as well as wants.  In a case where the mind is not with all it’s wits, I’m considering that money is behaviorally tells of mental instability.  This is not to say it’s just empty pockets.  When I was ghost writing, I wrote tens of thousands of words which translated into nickels while manic.  Full pockets could be a result of working more in mania or spending less because the only thing we feed is our exhaustion in a depression.  It’s not necessarily one way or the other.
   A friend once said, “If I have a bed, you have a floor.”  And recently I have said to a few, “I would rather you not struggle if I have it in my pocket.”  In this acceptance of the importance of money, there is a corresponding irrelevance for it to hold onto it.  I’ve known people who have more than me and who hold their nickels so tight, Jefferson is gasping for air.  I knew someone who said the most generous are those who don’t have it to give.  I don’t think it’s true to say with absolution that the wealthy are less generous, but I believe that there must be some introspection with one’s financial wellness to decide what relationship they have with their wallet.
   So what is this all about?  I suppose, I put this nickel on my body to remind me of all that, in all the chaotic twists and turns it has been shaping the person I am.  Maybe my vase is only half full, but it’s not empty anymore.   

    I was swimming.  Not floating, but swimming.  I started struggling yesterday late and i sat to reflect on the things i wanted to get done this weekend, and the things i had accomplished.  I felt like i did nothing, because i have this monster of a mess i have to sort through.   I literally did eighteen other big things that needed to get done in my life, but not the monster.  
    Today, i'm exhausted.  The kind of exhaustion leaving my vision blurring and my mind foggy.  The kind of exhaustion where i'm afraid to blink, because my lids are too heavy to open again.  
    I have my gym clothes in my bag.  it's been three weeks and i'm pleased to say that i'm riding about ten miles each time i go, which has been four times a week.  I feel like i'm getting fatter.  I was told that seroquel puts weight on some.  I've been reading all the side effects again and i realized it's not the medication i thought it was.  I'm wondering if the half life of this is contributing to this exhaustion today.  There are sexual side effects and irregularities in sleep/wake patterns as well as the slowing effect to the metabolism.  I'm an eater.  So i'm sitting and eating for energy instead of taking a nap.  I can't take a nap.  i'm at my place of employment that provides, if nothing more, fancy dog food and health insurance.  
    And then five minutes before i started writing these paragraphs, i felt it.  the tears welling up in my chest, trying to meander their way around my body so i don't notice them making a path to my eyes.  I don't want to cry.  I feel like I've been slammed down with this invisible force.  It's depression.  I know what it is.  I've done this before.  
    I don't want the swing into the darkness right now.  i can't deal with this.  (which is making this weight heavier.) 
    There was a song a hundred years ago, or three lifetimes, i can't remember when - this song had lyrics, She's a brick and i'm drowning slowly off the coast and i'm heading nowhere.  She's a brick and i'm drowning slowly.  I feel both like the she in the song and the he who feels the suck of her weight upon him.  Another song just rotated into my ears with lyrics, I"m lonely and i'm tired and i can't take any more pain.
    I don't want this cycle anymore.  i'm so tire of it.  i'm tired of crying about it and feeling helpless.  My medication is making it better, but i'm hardly well.  Am i going to keep going?  Yes.  Am i going to be miserable for the next few days with a quiet longing for my blankets and sleep.  A hundred percent. 
    I'm in a place in my life where things are better around me and for me.  I kind of hate myself for feeling all of these things... the brick and the thing being weighed down, lonely and tired with an inability to take on one more prick of pain. 

I feel I should begin this post with some trigger warnings.  Rape, Violence, Anger, Sexual Misconduct, General Misconduct, Predatory Behavior, Intimidation, Social Acceptance of Repulsion, Politics, Economy... 

Complacent is not the word for how I feel toward the rape culture in which I live; but I feel like when I express my opinion about events in my life, my attitude may be viewed as such.  I was reprimanded by a favorite last night and was asked to stop talking.  I wasn’t finished talking.  I wanted to delve into why it was an uncomfortable conversation.  It certainly wasn’t a revelation that these things occurred in my life.  I didn’t think there was anything my friend was hiding.  And then the words were said, “Just because it regularly happens, doesn’t make it right.”  I used the word normal.  I’m big on mot using the word normal and try to use the word regular.  And when offense was taken to the word normal; I realized I meant regular, because it should not be normalized. 
I am wrong.  I wish I could express the jumble of apology with as much depth as I feel to this friend.  It wasn’t very nice of me to persist when I was asked to stop. 
And so I have been unraveling the feelings and memories I have.  I shared at least four times in the few minutes we spoke of physical or sexual violation using the word ‘first’ in each story.  And then this morning, I realize my words weren’t true.  There was a time before that I recall and a time before that.  It’s just a piece of who I am.  Some of it is what gives me the strength to walk around.  And some of it is what gives me the fear to - yes, walk around.
This is where it’s going to get detailed and personal and probably a little political. Unlike sitting at the bar and asking me to be quiet while I persist, you can shut off now and stop drawing in my words. 
Upon reflection, I don’t know if any of these are ‘first times’ but I’m going to try to make this a linear cohesive expression of what I’m thinking.  In eighth grade, I sat on the bleachers in gym class with shorts that were probably too short and too tight.  From under the bleachers, someone in my class touched the skin on my thigh and when I was startled, I shifted in my seat, enough to allow a finger to be inserted into my vagina.  Eighth grade.  I just noticed I wrote the word allow.  And I’m going to leave it there in that sentence.  But I didn’t request it, nor did I allow it.  My cheeks flushed and a tear formed in the corner of my eye.  I knew who was under the bleachers and by the end of the day, I knew which of the two penetrated me without consent.  I had to look at them in school that day and every day after for years.  I spoke with him on the phone outside of school.  I never confronted him about his finger.  I never told anyone I was in school with about it.  Three people, to my knowledge, knew it happened.  Me, and the two under the bleachers.  It was never addressed.  
In eleventh grade, someone who sat behind me touched my hair.  I sat in history class knowing the person behind me would sit for the forty five minute class and touch my hair.  He sat behind me in other classes, but the only class I noticed he touched my hair was history class.  I was afraid of him.  I’m not sure why.  He made me feel ooky when he looked at me and when he asked me for my phone number, I was strong enough to decline.  I was the weird girl in the back.  It would seem like I would welcome any attention I could get, right?  I didn’t want to feel ooky.  It occurs to me now that I did not consent to this hair touching.  I also did not consent to him cornering me near my locker, or following me home.  Other than the hair touching, there was no physical contact, but I was intimidated.  I was frightened.  
At the same time, I had a friend who made a false rape claim.  The situation was bizarre and this was the tipping point to alleviate myself from her friendship.  She had been lying to people with whom we worked about dating someone because she disliked being single.  (Eleventh grade)  There was no boy.  Of course those with whom we worked wanted to meet (the non-existent) boy.  She had to break up with him.  But why?  She claimed he raped her.  And her story convinced all of us.  She called me crying and short of breath.  And when I realized she was talking about the boy she made up, I was worried that she lost her grip on reality.  Understanding she lied to cover a lie and took it to a crazy dark place was not something I could handle.  I abandoned our friendship and did not try to make sense out of it.  We had friends who had been molested by family members and were witness to boyfriends and girlfriends treating each other poorly already. Middle school and high school.  Who was she lying to?  Who was she lying for?
I was in high school and a stupid thing we did was pick up the pay phone when it rang at the mall and give people our phone number.  Girlfriend who lied about her boyfriend wanted me to have my own.  She gave a caller my number.  He called and I was curious where it would lead so I talked to him.  Until he sat across the street from my house and watched me.  That was terrifying.  My father was a police officer and I felt like if I told him about this person, I would get in trouble for being stupid.  And trouble in our house didn’t mean being grounded.  It meant physical and emotional pain.  It was easier to deal with this alone.  After all I was almost an adult.  He became more aggressive, calling with sexual requests and masturbating while I was on the phone.  If I hung up, he called back.  It was a time of house phones.  It was easier to take the call than explain to my mother that I didn’t want to talk to someone.  When he knocked on the door when I was home alone and walked into my house and pulled me onto his tense lap in a chair I had to look at every day, I let him.  I didn’t want a fight in my house.  He left minutes later.  I can’t remember what stopped that situation.  I think I moved out of my parents house soon after. 
The first time I was actually raped, I was at a party.  Or I was under a party.  Someone at the party told me he would take me home because I was in no condition to be around people.  And to this day, I preface the tale with, it was my fault, and then I hate myself for post-consenting to the violence.  I was led down to a mattress in a stone basement and penetrated in both vagina and mouth by what I remember to be four people.  I was held down, but wasn’t fighting.  I just wanted to be sleeping in a safe place.  I remember thinking, I’ll just get through this and then I’ll get to go home.  But I blacked out.  Shut down.  My mind didn’t want to be there and powered off.  I woke up bloodied and bruised and alone.  Walking through the house to leave, one of the faces told me I should come around more often and I did everything I could to hold myself together until I was in the shower at school so that no one could see the tears stream down my face.  I was in college.  I just turned eighteen.  I saw the boy who said he would take me home later at a bar/club we frequented to dance.  I watched him dance with a statue and have a good time.  My body was frozen and my eyes could not leave him alone.  The friend I was with questioned me and when I pointed out that I didn’t know how to deal with the feelings I had thought I forgotten, he got into a physical fight with the rapist while I stayed frozen on a bar stool.  I don’t know how I got home that night.  I saw the rapist a few times after and each time I kind of black out while I was around him. 
Then I lived with a brutality I’m not prepared to share right now.  I’ve worked with people who have assaulted or intimidated me physically and sexually.  I’m also coming to terms with the fact I probably have post traumatic stress disorder. 
The friend I was out with last night reminds me that my life is terrible all the time.  It makes me smile.  Not that I’ve gone through it.  But that I’m still alive.  There’s a sense of pride figuring out the survival mechanisms to breathe.  And when I can’t figure it out, my brain just powers down so my body can work out the necessities without being paralyzed by something as stupid as fear. 
I know this is a long way to get to the political climate of the day, which precipitated the discussion last night.  
Last night, I watched Caberet for the first time ever.  I say I don’t like musicals.  I think I may really like musicals.  But that introspection is neither here nor there right now.  (actually, I’m going to explore this on the writing in a row house page in a bit.)  Caberet, for those who don’t know, has a gradual progression into intimidation with a backdrop of sexy naughty girls and boys.  Traditional gender roles were questioned, words were key for innuendo, and in this production, there was a blatant parallel between events leading to the Nazi rise to power and the Trumpian world I currently reside.
A movie mogul is accused of rape and sexual misconduct.  Our President treats women with disgusting depravity.  One has been ousted from his position, while the other remains…..  
I’m not surprised by the casting couch revelations.  It all seems regular to me.  I was in a pool when I was in second grade and the older boys in the neighborhood pulled my swimsuit away from my body.  One of them commented about the pubic hair he could see through the yellow spandex.  As an adult I hear family members and friends talk about their girls enticing boys.  It’s all a game of sex.  Everything seems to be sexualized.  And in my world, that comes without consent.  
So, I’m spending a lot of time in the past few weeks thinking on the matter.  And trying to sort it through with one of my favorites didn’t turn out to be productive.  
I had lunch or brunch or some kind of food with an old friend who told me that one of the best things they remember about when we first met was that I said they had a nice neck.  I was behind someone and felt it was appropriate to say, ‘your neck is beautiful’.  I remember the neck.  And I think now to when my hair was being touched.  It was around the same time in my life.  Was I the intimidating jerk sitting behind someone in class giving unwanted advances?   
There’s countless stories like that I’ve recalled over the past few weeks.  Sometimes it’s a word that I know makes people uncomfortable, yet persist in using for shock or to hurt, when that’s my intention.  Sometimes it’s an action that gets out of hand.  Still I’m the jerk face acting.  
I’ve had times when I’m sitting with someone and I think I’m reading signals, or I’m sending signals… there’s a sexuality present in many moments shared between people.  Except when it’s not.  Except when there is no thought of sexual attraction.  This consent though, this non-consent, this mutual intimacy only occurs when both parties are cool with the attraction.  But how does one tell?  Certainly a movie mogul who meets young actresses can’t believe there is an attraction to all of them.  He knows that he is a predator.  The president knows he is a predator.  Right?  
I’m as offended at the shirtless men who are ogled by women as I am by topless women ogled by men.  And then I go to a show like Cabaret where the boys are wearing corsets and garters while kissing one another and I’m aroused.  I’m aroused and I’m curious what their mouths feel like on each other and I think sexual thoughts about the scenes I’m witnessing as the Nazi’s are moving in to restrict who is allowed to perform in the theatre and go to the theatre and marry in Berlin while an American who doesn’t think these heavy things are his fight, turns to run home because these terrible events will not affect him at home in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Sex sells.  Sex is pleasure.  Sex seems to be a part of everything.  
But I’m considering, as I have in the past, that it’s not the pleasure side of sex.  It’s the control part.  And in my experience, when sex is the best is when there is a release of control.  There is a freedom in not being held down and not holding anything back.  There’s an impassioned crescendo allowing the purest of breath to pass through and relieve all the senses.  Sight turns to darkness and sound blurs within ears.  Whatever the science is behind an orgasm, it has nothing to do with being restrained.  
I feel like we’re taught - not just girls! Everyone!- I feel like we’re taught to be desirable to others.  To what purpose?  And I feel like we’re taught to endure some abuses because the assumed benefit outweigh the atrocities to our spirits.  I feel like I’m at fault for learning these lessons as well as teaching them.  I struggle hard to get to the next sunset, I can’t take on the enormity of coming to terms with all the facets of sexism.  I don’t know what my place in this morass of depravity.  If I ever made anyone uncomfortable, not only with my actions, but with my words, or a look… if I am responsible for anyone questioning their worth beyond their dick or their pussy, then I am guilty.  I can’t fathom that I’ve lived so long without being in such a position to cause pain.  
And then I think about intention.  Intention is big with me.  The intention of the movie mogul (I assume) is to get the physical release of an orgasm, the emotional charge of being in control, and the sensational gain of another movie on the screen.  The President in his misogyny is, in my opinion, more despicable.  Since his days in the limelight, he has used his money and name to become a character in his own depravity.  No reports of rape have surfaced yet for him, but he has said things to imply his daughter was sexually desirable to him.  He has said on record that women allow his sexual assault because of his societal position.  Society is completely dismantling one man’s career and then providing excuses for another who is in a position to allow an egregious devolution of consenting society.  Is it because no one has confirmed he penetrated them?  It is because all of the other things I have experienced except penile penetration were not rapey enough?  Am I being sensitive when I talk about it and admit these things happened or am I apathetic when I ignore that which I don’t think I have the strength to change?  I’m consenting to silence because I’m repulsed when I admit these things occur.
Consent.  (My fingers kept typing the word condescend.  Maybe it is a condescension.  It absolutely is condescension!) 
I was forcing myself on my friend last night.  I was forcing him to listen to me as I spoke on the matter when he did not want to listen to me justify predatory behavior.  My intention was to explain.  Not excuse.  In realizing, I don’t think an apology will help.  I disregarded his consent. Truly the best person I know and I was a jerk to him.  
I’m sick about the state of the world.  And feel helpless.  I’m scared.  I’m scared that the the things that have been regular abuses facing people will no longer be shameful acts that people hide.  I’m scared of some big things, because of how small some things make me feel.