I Will Title This Later

It has been an exciting1 few weeks around Chez Bon.

Soon after the holidays, Mister Man started to look a little peaked, a touch pale. And then a downright pasty gray. Turns out that he was very ill – in the “Yeeeeeeeeeeah, we’re gonna need to put some extra blood2 in him and keep him for a week, mmmkay?”

Apparently, when one is on Coumadin, one shouldn’t take Advil oh at all. Even if you ARE a nurse and you DO know what you’re doing. Because blood thinners plus ibuprofen equals bleeding ulcer.

Oh, what the fuck EVER.

Cheesuz pleezus.

Anywho, we’re home. Mister Man is fine, albeit a bit chagrined. He has new meds to take and has to go back to the doctor every week until the cows come home, Hallelujah and pass the co-pay.
Oh, except, oops – new job. His insurance has not yet kicked in.

Joy and trumpets, as a friend of mine used to say.

In the meanwhile, I’m still looking for a job. I’d like one in the field that I ran up a ton of debt for, but at this point am looking for damn near anything, up to and including house cleaning, pizza delivery, and substitute school teaching.
A dear friend gave my resume a look-over and made some suggestions. I am mid-implementing them.

I guess what I am trying to say is that no, I have not forgotten you, dear blog. Things just exploded in painfully exciting new ways and I’m still sorting the collateral damage.

Boom, baby.

In the meantime, here is a bit of a story that I wrote eons ago. If I have already posted it – I apologize. I would look but it’s ten ‘til midnight and I’m a touch exhausted.
Much love to you all.

“Joy”

Laurel panted, clinging to the side-rail of the hospital bed. Her whole body ached with the exertion of the birth. Her avid eyes watched the nurses carrying her baby back and forth. She knew in some small, less exhausted corner of her mind that they were doing important tasks with Jocelyn. Probably important. Still, she wanted her baby.  She wanted her without understanding exactly why. She thought about that for a moment. Didn’t she love her baby? Weren’t all mothers automatically in love with their babies? What was wrong with her?  Was she broken? Did the birth break something in her head? A wall of green and purple snails moved in front of her, blocking her view of Jocelyn, ending the tired chase of her thoughts. She tipped her head back to see a nurse standing there.

“Hey, sugar. That was a hard one, hmm?”  A large hand, covered in blue nitrile, tucked a sweaty braid behind her ear.  “I got something for you. Thirsty?”  A straw bumped against her lips, her slack hand molded around cold plastic. Laurel sucked on the straw.  Slightly watered-down apple juice squirted into her mouth.  For a split second, Laurel forgot her exhaustion. For a moment there was only the cool, sweet juice. In seconds, the cup was empty. She looked up at the nurse to thank her and saw a pink-swaddled caterpillar in the nurse’s arms. Black hair escaped the top of the blanket.

She took her baby from the nurse, tucking her hand automatically under Jocelyn’s butt.  Her thoughts began to rabbit around her head again. What if the nurses noticed her lack?  What if she hurt the baby because of her inability to love her? She gazed down at Jocelyn, trying to frame an apology. Puffy eyes gazed blearily up at her. A tiny pink mouth yawned toothless pink gums at her.  She bent her head down to place a tentative kiss on the mottled cheek. Warm-caramel baby smell wafted up.  Laurel felt every emotion concentrate down to a piercing sun in her heart.  The nurses smiled at each other and quietly left the room.

 

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ETA:
I hope the tone of this doesn’t make you guys think things are all doom and gloom here. As I said, it’s just been a waterfall of happenings. We’ll muddle through and get things back to what passes for normal around here. I just wanted to touch base and give you an update. I still plan on writing my bits and pieces, processing out my thoughts and words. I still have a major overhaul, with much new content added, planned.

 

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1– And by “exciting” I mean “craptastic”.

2– Six bags thereof.

Choogling

The face of anxiety is varied.

It is a fear of failure. It is a fear of success. It is a fear of never going anywhere. It is a fear of going somewhere and then fucking it up, but good. It is a fear of answering the phone. Fear of not answering it. Fear of rejection. Fear of offending someone, somehow. Fear of looking stupid. Fear of everything, everything, everything.

There are days, even as I look somewhat desperately for a job, that it is hard for me to even listen to voicemails left on my phone.

It is debilitating and exhausting. It makes everyday tasks seem insurmountable. Piles of clean laundry, waiting to be folded become monuments to Everything That is Wrong With Me™.

On the upside, I know most of it is in my head.

 

my head is a dark place, sometimes
my head is a dark place, sometimes

The downside is, of course, that often that doesn’t fucking matter. I can be perfectly aware that my thoughts aren’t right/normal/whatever and it doesn’t.fucking.matter. I will still sit in dread, petrified by the thoughts circulating in my brain like meth-addled goldfish.

Every now and again, I get a bright glimmer of me (as I used to be) flickering through my body. I’ll sit up straighter, start making plans and lists, think about story ideas, put away a few pieces of laundry. All too soon, the energy and oomph fade.

It’s disheartening, y’all.
It’s disheartening as fuck.

All I can do is to keep choogling. I’m too stubborn to just lay down and give up.

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I started that ^^ post about three days ago. It took me that long to finish writing (*counts*) 270 or so words. Good grief.
Since then, my mood has crept back up to a more even keel and I’ve even (GASP!) put away a lot of laundry. Mt. Clean is no more. I feel like I should plant a fucking flag or something. I’m still climbing and there is still work to do. But, I am also not hiding in a corner and praying that it all overlooks me.

I’ll take it.

🙂

 

Peace and flag-planting on YOUR deepest, darkest night terrors m’friends. 

 

 

Halp, halp. I’m being depressed.

Flippant title is not meant to be insulting. I was just amused by the rhyme and how it fit in with my current mental situation.
Thanks,
-The Mgmt

I read a really interesting article yesterday. It had to do with how people who are struggling with mental illness(es) often lead dual lives. A photographer, who also suffers from depression, is doing a beautiful series called “Dualities” that seeks to show the inner and outer faces of what living without endless spoons is truly like.

I thought about this article for a long time. I don’t know that  I would classify myself as having a mental illness, per se. I am easily overwhelmed and I suffer a form of social anxiety with large crowds or unknowns. I get hysterically furious if I am startled and it takes a good bit to calm down from hearing people bark at me in anger. But never have I been given The Diagnosis(tm, pat pending) from doctors or therapii1.

I wondered what my portraits would like, if she did them. I think that they would look something like this.

LEFT:

BON_has a sad again
The house has become chaos, the chaos overwhelms, and things pile up but there is no energy to do them, even getting out of bed is a chore to be dreaded. Crying takes too much energy, better to just hobbit-up and pretend that everything is OK.

RIGHT:

close up
Everything is sparkly and gay and full of laughter. Wit and energy bubble up and crash over everything, leaving a mirth residue and completed writings. Eventually it all gets away from center and wholesome energy becomes chaos and then we precede to LEFT, again.
It isn’t always this bad, but it can be if I am not careful. Prolonged stress and/or illness make it worse. Not writing makes even more hideous.I have  been in a place of no writing, no exercising, no time to de-stress. This, I truly believe, is part of what caused my usually kickass immune system to seek companionship with a flu; sort of like a belligerent and lonely drunk picking fights in a bar.
I’ll get back to working on it. Strangely enough, the enforced rest has done wonders for the stress. I’m still a little freaked, but everything doesn’t seem so fucking LOOMING as it has been.

My mental place is what it is, and I am working on it as I can.

1 – “Therapii” is the plural form, of course.