Writing in a Row House - Heating a Home on a Hot Plate

Mind Over [the crazy] Matter(s)....

4/1/2017

This past week, I was cranky. Like, get away from me because i can't stand myself - cranky! I hate when it happens and it usually never lasts more than a day or two. This bout was a much longer ride on the roller coaster of crankiness.
   I tried to warn people and some thought it was a joke. Others thought something triggered it. Just my brain. Just my body. Just my feelings. Just me.
   AND THEN> while taking a pill, i realized in a flood of mindfulness, that my medications have been changed! It's chemical. I'm slow. I told people for a week and a half, 'i'm taking 8 pills a day now.' and 'witht he ibuprfen for the headache, i took 9 pills this morning.' I made jokes about getting a pill caddy with the days of the week on it. And then followed up with, 'the thing will just be another [empty] box to carry around. i'll never remebmer to replenish it for the days. Why didn't i realize immediately that the meds were the thing?? I really don't know.
   However, it was liberating and calming to understand that there was science behind the mood and not some jerky emotion that crept through the cracks of the unwatched and crumbling buffer wall, built brick by brick through the years.
   So this morning, i'm getting through. i'm drinking coffee with a dog on my lap and panicking that my day is going to sweep by without any accompllishment. And then i remind myself that i had that revelation yesterday. I am sitting not only with canine and caffiene, but a mindfulness. By that very truth, i cannot move through this day without accomplishement.
   This blog. These pages of me are me freestlin'. Seriously, i pull up the page when the whim strikes and i type. There may be   spelling errors, grammar errors, inconsistancy, whatever... it's all me. this is the strings of words falling from my brain through my fingertips into the world. Freestylin'.
Now, understanding that the crankiness coming out from within is much like this stream of consciuosness writing. I can alert everyone to some triggers but if they [you?] choose to draw it in... well, that's you. i hardly control what comes out of me, but i certainly control what i let in.
This pancreatitis. I've changed my eating habits. If i take in the wrong foods, my body reacts with discomfort. So too with the bullshit of life. This is not to say that i'm completely in control. I'm frequently impressed with people's ability to walk away from nonsense. I still have some ways to go with this skill. But, i can contol what i put into my body, my mind and my heart. (i said it... science, intellect, and emotion - the trinity of nourishment.)
   I control what goes in. not necessarily what comes out. But, here's my thought. If I put better things in. Better things come out. Simple right? Why has it taken me half this time to figure that out?

Enough.

3/19/2017

A lovely friend of mine once said, "money is only important when there is not enough." My response, "true." But i think this sentiment translates to so many other things.
Buddists learn, Do not say/feel, I want something. Release the ego (I), release the desire (want) and you have the something.
I've been reflecting on these two ideas recently at unrelated times. But this morning, I wondered if these ideas are related.
   My son is shipping out in less than a month. I have planned to visit him but the money i wanted to use to pay for the trip had to be used for something else. No problem. I'll figure it out. More expenses, and time ticks away. Additonal worries about the journey... pocketbook is still light. And this past week, yet another finncial obstacle occurred. I was mad (both crazy and angry), because with this obstacle, I was not treated with value. My money was not valued and my feelings were not valued. I am left with that not enough bit.
   It is important. I've reflected on what i have - count your blessings, not your bruises and all that - but it's difficult when there is so much that i don't have. This week i felt done. I felt spent. I felt like four cents when i need to be a nickel.
   Nickels. My niece said, "When you have the nickels, you don't have the time. And when you have the time, you're short on nickels." Again, "true."
   So this struggle, both in my head and in my purse is necessity versus desire. I have a want to see my son before he goes. I have a want to take my daughters and mother with me. I have a necessity to pay for these things. It's not as simple as releasing any of that. I need to take this trip. I need to show my son that he is important. I need to illustrate and facilitate this important thing. He is important.
   And I'll do it. My son in fact said, "You always figure how to get the things done that need doing." True.
   So the difficult part. Analyzing why I'm in this situation. (My brain won't have it any other way.) If i have, i am willing to give. Partly because i have had the kindness of others rained down upon me. Partly because i understand i avoid my own wants and needs.

It's only important when it's not enough.

Thinking on this concept, I wonder if there is an importance put on the stuff in which i don't have enough; then, can i truly appreciate the importance of things when they are enough?
I'm going to leave this here for now because i have more questions than answers. I'm in the curious stage and in no position emotionally or intellectually to work out the resulting growth that i'm sure will come.

Questioning

8/18/2016

From my four children, I have gotten four different concerns leading to the same question. Do i have mental illness?
Most recent incident of query occurred this weekend past, Although the approach has been different the resulting question is the same. Am i crazy too?
   My response is one way or another a shrug of my shoulders.
An apology occurs with a reason behind their question. And then there is the discussion. It starts with an uncertainty about diagnosis. Did a a doctor tell you, or is it part of your shtick?
I have experienced the same symptoms since i was six years old It was [mis]labeled all sorts of things. I sunk with all the heaviness of an anchor pulling me to immobility and galloped with the unbridled strength and passion of a racing steed.
   I saw doctors and was medicated, often for issues i didn't have because so many were afraid to say this little girl doesn't work quite like the rest of the world.
   But i did. There are so many folks with something that's not quite right and being on this side of the fence; it's frustrating to see what's considered normal and shunned for not being it.
   I heard on a television show [a long long time ago], All my life I've beaten myself up for not being normal. It turns out that i can't.
At thirty-four years old, when I was tired of running amok in my thoughts, I was hospitalized. Let me clarify: When i was ready to be treated, I was a hundred percent honest about that which I felt and thought. I told of my coping mechanisms and described my habits to get through the days lessening discomfort. I wanted to be well.
No longer did i answer the questions with responses that would lead to discharge from the physicians' care. No longer was i hiding from who i really was.
     I don't want to be mentally ill; but, i am.
I was diagnosed Bipolar 1.
   And now, my son tells me he's doing the same editing of information to get along with his days. But truly, something has always been different with him than the rest of the world. He never quite fit in. None of us do. I wonder who actually does fit?
In my adult years, I realize that my mother, my sisters, my brothers - We all have that something that is just not normal. The concern from my kids is valid, real and probably going to result in an affirmative response when the question finally gets answered. I jsut wish it wasn't labeled as it is.
   Crazy. It's an easy word to say. It's an easy thing to feel and it's much more complex than many people know.
I messaged another mommy on a related topic... the questioning bit.... and it directly and indirectly applies here. She said, "You can find peace knowing he's struggling."
   As awful as it may seem to to those not struggling with mental issues and parental concerns, it summed up everything i felt [including the misplaced guilt for being at peace with it].
   My girls are vocal about their ups and downs. (They are NOT just mood swings!) We make jokes about what's going on inside and out of us [as a coping mechanism]. And in all this introspective progression and internal acceptance, there are those who say things like, "I'm depressed," when they mean they are sad. Or that everything can be fixed with ice cream. But my brain is not lacking sugar and cream. I have a chemical imbalance. It's not funny and it's not a passing feeling. Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Anxiety, mania, Psychosis - it's debilitating. The only thing that gets me up and moving some days is having been exposed to someone who let the blackness consume them.
   Sure there are days that i wear the clothes i slept in and sleep in the clothes i worked in. But i'm moving through my days. And that is a step forward.
   Last night, anxiety struck half way home in my commute. I was on a city bus about thirty-five blocks from my home.   I couldn't breathe. I felt like a vice was tightening a corset around my middle while the boning pushed into my ribs stopping my breath and cramping my belly. I felt confined and like the bus was speeding too fast with too many passengers , until i noticed i was no where near my home. I was twenty-seven blocks away with an empty space that made me wonder if i had gotten off the bus to wait for another. i hadn't.
   I walked to my house gasping for air and making my face with tears that didn't relieve the pain. I climbed into the bathtub. Hot water was too hot. Cold water was too cold. I could not get the temperature right. It wasn't just an adjustment. It was hurting my skin. My dog poked her head through the shower curtain and i realized, all this was me. Just me. I was alone. I am alone. I will be alone.
   The anxiety lasted hours. I sat in the bathtub and talked myself away from the crying. I talked myself into easing the breath through me and releasing the cramping that my body was then experiencing. I thought about going to the hospital, fearing i couldn't cope one more time with this alone, but the thought of going outside the house sent another wave of discomfort through me.
And then it stopped. As fast as it came, it left. I could get air into my lungs again. My muscles were no longer tense. I felt like words came to me in linear thought instead of an ugly tangled ball of gibberish.
   This morning i hurt. My stomach feels like i did a thousand sit ups. i did none. My arms and legs are fatigued like i walked a thousand miles. i walked down a city block. This is my regular after an anxiety attack.
   I hate being crazy. I hate that the chemicals in my brain are not steadily released in a manner that keeps me, not just placid, but on a plateau of stable normalcy.
I digress to the question. THE QUESTION. I've heard, if you still question, you must not be... Well, i still question. I question if the textbooks are made up of other people hiding their symptoms because they are not ready for treatment yet. I question how this is irregular when this is all i've ever known. And i don't want my children [or anyone] to suffer and endure what i have. However, i am proud that they freely talk about it and question me. I haven't given them much, but i have given them this.

Clean

5/10/2016

I took a shower this morning. Seems like a regular thing and hardly noteworthy; but, when debilitating depression sets in, it's difficult to... everything.
I took time with every part of my skin and when i was finished, i even put lotion on and painted my toenails.

And as I commute I'm touching my skin and breathing in the scent of my shea butter shampoo considering going out of my way to get the goats milk soap i like so much.
There is something freeing about being clean.
My life is NOT clean. ... i just agonized over the things i could list to illustrate the dirt and scum in my life, culminatinating in importance until i crescendo into my head. None of it matters. it's just a list. Just a list of all the things over which i have no control. I lie and tell myself that life is dirty and therefore it is no different in my shirt and in my shoes than anyone else.
     I am in fact a dirty mess. But, if someone curls their lip in snarling judgement of my inside or out, i know they are just as dirty. Except in my brain.
     I've struggled with some physical illness for months now. I think i finally have a good clue of the trigger and finally am on the road to recovery. So i had a good few weeks of productivity with getting stronger - until -
Internally i'm groaning, as i sort through the words to explain this bit. I've long relinquished the embarrassment of the situation and have entered into the exhaustion of experiencing the cycle. I'm tired of my mental illness. I'm tired of accepting it. I'm tired of seeing it creep in. I'm tired of living in it. I'm just tired.
     It's taking it's toll on my body and it occured that my inability to deal with extrenal stresses triggered internal shut down. I was in pain physically as well as emotionally. If i could liken it to anything, it would be to cutting. When i hurt so much that my brain forced me to see something on my body to reason the pain, my hand went to work opening my skin in places it ought not be open.
My body was on grand scale shut down. (Thanks brain!) Emotionally i felt like i could not handle one more thing and i left my life and stopped doing everything i had done to survive. I was in hiding. And then i was given this one more (horrifically painful) thing with which to deal. A wave of good and bad days had me coping. I blamed my body and not my head.
But I digress - a little more than a week ago, some things became clear. In talking to my doctor after an illuminating discusssion with a friend, i saw that my immobility was the beginning. and i'm somewhere in the middle of the whole mess, so reasonably, i just needed to be present and keep struggling through the dirt until the end presents itself.
This is the 'until' part. With the revelation i was good for a couple days. I was handling it all. And then, the depression set in. And it crashed into me hard. It defied reason again. One of the worst things I ever heard while going through the wave of anxiety was, 'if you know what it is, you 're almost out of it.' Depression is the same. NO Just NO! > just because i recognize it, it does not get 'easier'. In fact, it's terribly discouraging to know that it's this awful dirty mess showing up again. It's the kind of mess that is in your back room and you just close the door instead of throwing junk away. (it ALL just needs to be tossed away.) The ugly dirty pressing thoughts junking up.... everything....
   So, taking a shower is a pretty big deal. When it's all i can do to wake up and get myself dressed in clothes appropriate for the day. There is something about it being the one thing within my control. (I can at least clean the filth from my skin) And as much as i know that being clean is a huge step in holding my head up and walking a little straighter and washing the angry intolerance down the drain.... i just can't be clean some days.

Again, or still... whatever...

1/12/2016

Every time I think I've effectively wiped the goo from my shoes and pulled myself from the muck of all that's sticky, making me struggle to move forward with my brain and my life, it gets thicker and stronger...
And truth be told, I've been more complacent with sinking in to the morass and abyss than kicking and screaming to motivate my arms and legs to work even when my head doesn't.
I was pretty manic a week ago. Taking on the world, feeling sunlight in my pores, putting together a sink, going to the same movie four times in same week to see if I missed anything. I bought cement for my brick wall with intention of pointing. Replanted everything, rearranged furniture and cooked too much food. (probably a hundred other things?)
Birthday arrived and I was in Baltimore with a list of things I needed to do and a longer list if things I wanted to see.
In my brain, it was crazy. In my steps, it was happy.
To digress, I found a paper doll puppet in an artomat machine and have been carrying him in my hand, pocket, and handbag to share my adventure. I was motivated again to write a little book for inclusion in the wonderful ker-plunking machine and this time I knew I was gonna get the prototype done!
It all seems like good and no wonder that when I finally take a breath I'm exhausted and spent and not in the mood to cope with one more thing.
But its not a breath, or exhaustion.... Its that crash again. And the thought of being functional in the midst of both the mania and the depression is debilitating.
This morning I woke to read that David Bowie died overnight. 69 years old and that fucking piece if shit parasitic whore called cancer got him. When I read it, I was in disbelief. He just had a birthday! Just released new music for goodness sake!
And then the black gummy molasses-like gunk slowed in viscosity - no longer oiling my mania or gumming up my thoughts in depression. It stopped. Like cooling taffy with which I cant deal.
My brain is stuck even though I feel like a bum not writing when I can knowing this man worked his ass off until the day he died. (not even a little bit comparing myself to bowie... I'm just saying... I don't know why its sometimes so hard)
This blog post even... I wanted a lively announcement that I had decided to move forward with this new little project and assure everyone I was still keeping commitment to upload work on patreon. It just turned into more immobility. More sorting through my actions to figure my feelings? Or my thoughts? I keep forgetting which I have.
Its not a do or do not thing. Some days all I have in me is the trying nonsense.

Fire

10/27/2015

I set someone on fire last night. Doused them in gasoline whose tank felt heavy in my hands and threw a match into the air. Flames erupted, my heart pounded and I woke from the nightmare sweating.
Caught my breath and hydrated but woke again when the police caught up with me questioning why i thought this was a reasonable way to deal with someone I was unable to explain in my dream.
I laid looking at the lines in the ceiling wanting something as mundane as complacency to lull me into a restful sleep.
Is it insomnia if it's bad dreams that inject fear into my sleep?
I feel like I am fighting myself. When I watch a movie or tv show with excessive violence, my brain shuts off. I cant retain the story. In my fiction, I'm amazed that I can write scenes of violence and rage. In my actual factual days, I lose my words and see red when anger sets in (or more appropriately, explodes out). So why then, would my thoughts sing songs of fireballs and stabbings when I lay in the dark and quietude for rest?
I'm having a hard time again this week. Inside-not out. I feel like I'm holding myself together pretty well externally and have had only a few cuss words fall from my lips during huff n'puffs; although I caught myself this morning muttering aloud, "who the fuck cares?" when discussing alternatives to current SOP.
So would my brain want to extend violence and hurt? Why am I not dreaming of rainbows and unicorns? I've taken hard steps to reason what occurred and stuff it down deep inside. (not just latest evening of turmoil-but all the negative things).
It is not reasonable that my brain is setting folks on fire. It is less reasonable that it is propagating fear.
Without sleep, my brain hurts. Its a headache or feels like I got bumped up and I have to close my eyes to make the swelling and pain drip in salty discharge.
Twice today I was standing for longer than I should and thought I would collapse. I think my brain is sleepy. I think I need to rest.
And yet there is the reasonable expectation that I will sink into depression if I allow my brain to convince me to lie down making up for the restlessness of murders and torture.
I really don't know what to do and i guess I'm running on auto pilot right now. Which further concerns me because if my hands act out on the thoughts in my dreams when I'm actually in my waking moments, I'll have become the very thing I fear.

Another Lie.

10/25/2015

So this is pretty heavy and I guess if I was more considerate a human being I would list possible trigger warnings.
A liar lies to protect themselves or for personal gain. (otherwise its sociopath shit) This was told to me by a liar of great skill. -- Lied enough that he believed his words some days.
This morning I stirred... Not going to say I woke because I'm not convinced I slept. I stirred and counted the hours until I was to attend a movie with the film fest. My ticket was given to me generously by someone I think I will label acquaintance who seems to want to be a friend. Acquaintance. I thought hard about the relationship between he and i and truly it is only that we have been acquainted for a few months.
   So i have this ticket to a show i wanted to see and the 'special instructions' on the order even said, 'make sure she enjoys herself.' Now, the person who sent the ticket in my name did not plan on going with me and did not suggest he would me meet for the show.
Looking so forward to twelve hours of movies today at the festival and coming to the realization that i couldn't bear to get up to see even the one that was already paid for pretty much sums up the state of my brain today.
In my life, I've been assualted - physically, emotionally, verbally, psycologically, sexually - i suppose in everyway imaginable. Last night was another - um - incident. And this morning i worked through the lie i had to prepare to hide what happened to me last night and the reason i could not bear to be in the light of day.
But why am i lying? i was victimized. If i dont' lie, then i have to disclose why i didn't go to the movie. So, "Movie was great! Thanks for the gift!" Easy enough.
   A few months ago, I decided my nanowrimo project would be Liar; an exploration of abuse. In the past few days, I had a brilliant wave of inspiration and feel excited that i have a project that may be condusive to finishing a piece in which I will take pride AND can actually share with others. I can't explain how lovely it feels not to have the unease that comes each time I think of the exposure possible with the heavy project exploring my feelings about enduring abuse. Until this morning when I realized I have to start spinning lies to hide again being under the thumb of abuse.
   I'm sore physically, torn emotionally and have to wake up and be around people. I lied first to myself (I'm fine. I'm tougher than this. It wasn't that bad. I can and have endured worse.) and then given the opportunity to say, 'i'm pretty far from okay,' lie again and say, 'i'm fine,' aloud.
   But it's not fine. I have a rage inside me that builds up and comes out comically with words of a huff n' puff or a cuss n' fuss, depending on the severity of my anger. I don't think i've ever assaulted anyone. My brain just poked the words, 'assaulted one's character?' and i nod to admit to myself that maybe i'm no better than the others who squeeze their fingers around my neck and arms or push me down so that i can't move while my brain swells with situation diagnosis and my vision blurs until i'm an animal just like the one assualting.
So I lie. I lie and tell myself i didn't deserve the attack or that i deserved exactly what i got. I lie to others to hide where the bruises originated or why there is a tear in my eye. And i lie to people with reasons I don't meet commitments. Today was the first day i considered lying to say that i was someplace i wasn't. I just figure it's easier to say, 'I went. it was good. thank you.' than to explain, 'i'm dumb having put myself in another situation where someone hurt me and as a result, i'm a fucking quivering mess of a scared little girl.'
   When someone is bruised, it doesn't toughen up the muscle or the skin making it more difficult to bruise the next time. In fact, it weakens the integrity of the muscle and creates a greater chance of getting bruised from a lesser impact each time.
   I'm tired of the bumps and bruises. I feel like at this point in my life, i haven't got any fortitude left. i feel like every little thing is triggering a memory, not to mention the inability to deal with any physical harm. I've got no buffer left and everything hurts.
   So i have these old friends who seem to have abandoned me. Maybe i'm too black and blue and they don't recognize me? And i have these new acquaintances with whom i feel i have to set parameters - well, so i don't get bumped up.
I'm angry with myself because it took so much to accept the ticket to this show and i coudn't bring myself to go. i am still on the fence about lying or breaking down and saying i had a personal issue and couldnt' attend.
Today while i was at the train station, a man i have never seen before and probably will not notice if i ever see him again said, "Miss, you dropped something." I responded, "No i didn't," with all the indifference i could muster. To which he replied, "It's your smile, sad girl."
      And walking to the window to buy the pass that will carry me back and forth to work all week to see the show benefactor and the person who scratched and bruised me i realized this train-station-stranger's words would make any normal girl pick up her smile. A smile is free, it doesn't cost a thing to smile. (The movie i saw opening night of film fest even had a reminder of that little addage.) But today, it does cost something. It costs my dignity and my integrity and that smile is a lie. There is another adage, 'i say i'm fine because explaining why i'm not would not be understood.' Well, i'm not fine. And it's hard to remember a time when i was.

Pennies from Heaven

10/13/2015

Last week one day I sat having lunch and there was a disturbance behind me. I looked and a coin was spinning on the floor below my chair. I looked around and saw that no one moved. No one was looking for something they dropped or snickered having thrown something to get my attention. The coin just spun under my chair until it collapsed on the floor in exhaustion.
     So the story goes, as does the rest of my life -- an unexpected spinning until collapsing on the floor....seemingly valueless as it is just a penny and disregarded by most.
     And then this morning I saw a pile of pennies on the street as I walked to the bus to get the train to go to work. Quietly, I took a few and left most for another who was possible in as much of a little fortune as I. Before stuffing them into my pocket, I counted seven. My fingers plucked up seven of the little copper reminders -- even the smallest of things have value.
     I heard a motivational speaker quite a few years back talk about a friend needing to win the lottery and finding a dime on the street. His friend didn't pick up the dime because it was only a dime and he needed more. The speaker explained it was a reminder of the fortunes one is given that are often overlooked.
     Now just before I heard this cat share this wisdom, I had a rough patch of time where money was scarce... In fact it was absent most days. I probably struggled no more than any other with finances, but with my brain, it was crippling emotionally to go through this neediness. At the time I worked in a suburb that I had to transfer two buses and a train for the commute. It was a long ride and there were days I was counting nickels for the fare. I had arrived at work one day and felt grateful that I got in. The commute was no different than any other day, but it was pouring rain and possibly the day I received my paycheck. Definitely a day I took a coffee from the break room. And I remember, still today, bring grateful for finding the coins in all the corners and jars and change purses to make the fare one more day.
     I decided to take a moment and instead of making the to-do list, showing me at the end of the day all that I had not achieved; I decided to write all the things for which I was grateful that day. And I hear myself as I recommend this exercise -- there is the very trite, my friends and family, my kids and dog.... But that's not what I mean. Daily gratitude is the little picture. Its the pennies adding up to a bus ride and a free cup of coffee.
     At the end of a week, I looked back at my little notebook. I had things about my kids in there, but i also had things like, uninterrupted bath and hot water. I had things like milk in my coffee and unexpected dinner invitation from my sister with a nice bit of fancy cheese.
     I don't want to list the things for which I felt gratitude yesterday. I am focusing on today and those seven little things that should not be disregarded, but piled up into a mound of valued moments.

Sleep ... or Redundancy... Maybe Indecision....

10/12/2015

To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub.
     Shakespeare wrote these words exploring death and more specifically suicide.
In the same play, Hamlet states unequivocally, as of late - wherefore i know not- lost all my mirth.
Two sentiments, that I have expressed over and over to those who know me best.
But in my efforts to move forward with my life, I have found my mirth. It was no where other than within my mind. Sure i still have days when it seems to be dormant, but for weeks now it has not been missing in that place i know not.
It's the sleeping with which I have trouble. Shakespeare suggested, and Stoppard stated plainly that being dead was nothing more than being asleep in a box. Tom Stoppard, as a matter of fact, gave a nod to Hamlet beginning his To Be or Not to Be... speech and then had Rosencrantz and Guildenstern define the struggle Hamlet considered. Thus conscience makes cowards of us all. The suffering we've endured is at least something we know we can bear. Religion, with its hopes of afterlife does nothing more than propagate fear of the worse thing that is death. If death is a restful sleep, there would be no fear and killing oneself would be as easy a decision as the breakfast cereal one chooses. However, if death has the potential to be worse than life, who would want to close their eyes in the big sleep?
But as of late, I have, in regaining my mirth, have suffered bad dreams. One friend asked, like discovering you're naked in high school? No. It's being murdered in the basement kind of dreams. Last night I flipped a car and not only killed myself, but a couple other people because someone was chasing me and was trying to kill me. And then there are the dreams where I am confined and being tortured while my aggressor explains why I deserve the beatings and blood. (It all comes down to making me as ugly on the outside as I am on the inside.)
And in reason, I know the dream is the brain's way to file memories with images it knows. But when the fear of dreaming prevents sleep -- well, I become as ugly as the abuser suggested I am. My disposition, my eyes, my skin....
And I have entertained the possibility that after the big concussion, I had fallen into a coma from which I never recovered and I remain sleeping in this horrendous dream....
   Today, I was reminded the redundancy of this conundrum and I'm going to ask forgiveness; but i'm struggling with the lack of sleep and questioning my thoughts. If the payment for mirth is disturbing dreams, i'm not sure a smile is worth the insomnia.

HaLF

10/10/2015

I feel like half. Reasonably I should be a whole. Just as I am. But, my brain and my eyes continues to work separate from one another.
My brain - the thing that lets me feel and my eyes - the thing that lets me reason.
I am stuck at a half-way point in my head and it's causing an immobility-- i know, again with the immobility -
   I have a house in which I lived and suffered a great deal. Internally and externally. It just was unpleasant. As much as I tried to feel comfortable both within the walls and within my skin, I did not. But now is the time to clean up. Clean up my thoughts and the floors. Breathe behind a locked door and breathe with open thoughts. Today is going to be the day I return home to stay for good.
So i'm thinking about the half i feel i am and i'm thinking on the word home. Growing up, home was not someplace i ever wanted to be. It was full of violence and anger and fear. Laughter and joy came when we were away from the home even if it did occur with the same people who stayed within when the doors were locked. i think about the entry i agonized over with the toys and think to angry words i deflected my whole life about having a lot of things or the frequent accusation that i never was home. i was home enough. And the things I had were just distractions - fantasy in a world in which i felt alien.
   As an adult, i have children and we have a home. i always said, 'i'm doing my best,' even when i fell short. And their story is theirs. i don't want to presume they saw things they didn't.
But it's not what i wanted and it's only half of what i feel i could have done for their security and nourishment.
   I'm halfway through my life (if i'm lucky!) and i just went through enough introspection to realize some pretty big things. i count because my dad respected the numbers and i write because it was a rebellious thing to do with letters. But i feel -- I just feel when i do these things. I have a hard day with numbers where i take a minute (or twelve) to cry because the problem before me is too grand to reason. And then i breeze through some work and can really quantify my value. With writing, I pull some words together and maybe look at it again - possibly agonize over the configuration - but in the end, it lets me - i don't know what it does, but i re-read my words and even if they make me cry with a memory i'm not quite ready to handle, i smile a little knowing i have written.
   The final piece of the incomplete pie chart making up the whole of me is this: i may only want half?
   I never finished my accounting degree. At this point, I don't want to. I don't write with these analytics and shy away from the other writers who talk about book sales and editing for publication. I just want to write. And when someone tells me that others are going to notice me someday... i really don't care - the stubornness - the rebellion - i don't want to change my writing unless i decide to sit and re-write. Bottom line. It's only half. It's the epitiome of mediocrity.
   We're in this grand time of society where the masses can decide what they crowdsource and truly give their voice on the things they like, but in my opinion, eloquence has suffered and devolved into a lengthy and slow buzz feed slide show. Quite frankly, I don't care what anybody else wants. I don't care about the thumbs up and the recgnition. It's hard enough to just get to the sunset without having to deal with accolades.
Sometimes I feel like all that I am is half of what I wanted to be but most days I struggle with the half that I am; so truly I would be useless waging internal war on the half I could be when I reason that I don't want to be whole at all.
This feels unfinished, but it's all i'm going to say today.