Well it does has something to do with a motor, Okay, motor skills actually.
The whole ‘engine’ thing was more than a Silly Putty stretch and more like a Stretch Armstrong kind of stretch.
If you don’ recognize the two items that I’m referring to above then you’ll just have fuck yourself and do some Googling.
And get off my lawn you kids.
There have been very few posts the last three weeks. The surgery was long and arduous.
Am still using walker, taking opiates (which I a am weaning myself off of ) feeling intense pain
Right now the engine is broken and the Motor Skills are irregular and slow. My cognitive abilities appear to be normal as well.
What’s worrying me is that it seems I’ve forgotten how to type. Now what kind if weird side effect is this?!
Called doc yesterday to ask some questions.
Forgot to ask about this little tidbit.
Will let you know as soon as I can. This blog has taken over two hours to write. It should have 15 or 20 minutes. The spelling is so bad, because I’ve forgotten where the keys are, that spellcheck doesn’t recognize th,yjindu.gyuiod!
~Way fucked up in Reno
My mind has been a vortex of depression, anger, fear (and loathing) for months. How to change? What can help and help immediately? Laughter.
Taking an inventory of my behavior over the last year I’ve noticed something unusual: Laughter doesn’t come as often or as easily.
This morning I signed on to Facebook (go ahead and sneer now) and saw a status that said:
‘DEPRESSION is not a sign of weakness. It is a sign that you have been trying to be strong for too long. Put this as your status if you or someone you know has had depression. Will you do it and leave it on your status for at least an hour? Most people will not, but it’s mental health week and 1 in 3 of us will suffer at some point in our lives.’
Never believe what you read on Facebook. It’s a networking site that promotes idiocy, skanky pictures (woo hoo!) and wasting some time. Not that it can’t be amusing. It’s just that any information coming across the feed is suspect.
I’m not the snopes.com of the internet but checking out statements dealing with issues that concern me direct my attention to research. First, it is not National Mental Health Week, it’s actually National Mental Health Month. Second, An estimated 26.2 percent of Americans ages 18 and older — about one in four adults — suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year according to NIMH.
Already we’ve learned the basic tenet of Facebook. If some idiot posts it as a status it’s gotta be wrong.
To keep myself from wandering even further into the abyss of statistics I stopped there. It would be akin to spending four hours on Wikipedia reading all the links from your primary topic and winding up at the Three laws of Thermodynamics. After your initial search for information on David Bowie.
What’s so funny?
National Fruitcake Week is actually National Fruitcake Month. As a psychiatrist-carrying Fruitcake this example of humans acting like sheep (POST THIS STATUS IF YOU DARE FOR ONE DAY!) would normally cause a chuckle. Instead, hardly a smile. Hell, even my favorite Eddie Izzard bits barely cause a subdued laugh these days. Something is definitely wrong.
Climbing out of the despair requires laughter and humor. So beginning the day with Fark.com, The Chive or even LOL Cats is a start. It’s better than allowing your brain to cross into dark neighborhoods. Or eating too much food rich in trans-fat and refined sugar, or sleeping all day. Or calling in hourly bomb threats to the local 7-11.
First thing in the morning with good coffee. It’s a slow process but a start.
Hopefully the easy laughter will come back. I just have to change and look for it. And as my crone of a piano teacher often told me Practice Practice Practice.
Finding out about National Mental Health Month (Week) was funny. But not as funny as laughing at myself.
I’ve been thinking. No comments about my working without tools again please.
The past few weeks have found me awash in various levels of depression, obsession, worry (about things financial, physical, blah blah blah) and stress.
There’s a roof over my head. Food in the fridge. A car that runs (knocks on her head). My daughter is healthy and doing well.
Still this miasma of unhappiness, uncertainty, fear and the longing to simply give up permeates the waking hours and the dream time.
Now, don’t get me wrong. The days and nights have been punctuated with laughter, self-deprecating humor, and the usual day to day crap that can make one smile. It’s just that… they’re so far and few between. Couldn’t even get into ‘the zone’ when I went skiing today. A bad sign.
I think I know what’s wrong. I may have an axiom here.
All people require two special items to survive:
1. Physical touch.
2. Encouragement and kind words
Seems to me that these two facets of life are as indispensable as food, shelter and health.
I’ve been missing both. For a long time. So holistically I’m not healthy. Ya, no shock there but bear with me.
Humans are programmed to feel comfort from touch, from words of solace or compliment. Those wacky fun-loving serial killers you read about were all missing these two critical objects in their lives.
So, I feel better identifying what may be a major cause of this current desolation. There’s no cure on the horizon which gives me little hope, but there’s something positive about all of this self-discovery:
I’m too old to start a new career as a serial killer.
Since the debacle with my family (over one of my blogs for chrissake) I’ve been unable to write. Or play the piano. Or catch up on any of the other blogs that I normally love to read.
Nothing seems to shake out.
My depression over dad’s death and the fall-out afterwards have stricken my heart and mind.
Apathy has taken hold and creativity has fled screaming into the night.
Hell I can barely read a book. Have a great one going too: Wait Until Spring Bandini by John Fante.
Anyway, it feels like everything is going sideways. For example:
Yesterday I couldn’t leave the house. Or my bedroom.
Got up early (as I do) and went to a local property management place called Action Properties.
There is this great duplex for rent. It’s a funky weird-ass 1930’s building with lots of defects, tons of storage, a leaky ancient basement and (supposedly) a ghost.
The other side of the building is occupied by a wonderful musician and friend (playing my music would not be a problem here)
The grand piano would fit in the living room
It’s much larger than my current apartment
It has a back yard
The rent is $110.00 LESS a month than I pay now.
Here’s what happened after I took a looksee at the duplex…
Went back with all of my documentation, completed application, $45.00 app fee, social security cards, copy of current lease, blah blah blah.
The receptionist immediately looks at my income verification and says that they cannot rent the duplex to me because their ‘formula’ requires that the rent expenditure be no more than 30% of my income.
Wait. I know that this is the optimal percentage used in determining credit approval for mortgages (didn’t spend all of that time in NYC finance for nothing) but this is Reno. It’s a duplex. It’s in a ‘transitional neighborhood’ (bwahahaha).
Not to mention (oh hell I am) that I overlooked the 30% rule when approving mortgages and credit…. a LOT.
My rent and previous mortgages have always been paid on time or early.
Every fucking month for years and years.
She didn’t care that I’m currently paying $100.00 MORE a month right now and all of my payments have been on time or early.
Told her that I would be willing to set up a direct deposit for the rent check.
She still didn’t care.
According to Action Properties I need to make $351.00 more a month to qualify for this duplex.
She asked if I had additional income.
Uhhhhh no. (I’m on disability you dumbasses)
Then I burst into tears.
As you do.
Absurdity Notice: I was told that I would qualify for a $525.00 a month rental but not the one I wanted which is $575.00
This means that according to their cretinous reasoning I need to have an income of $351.00 more a month to make a rental payment of $50.00 more a month.
Is it me?
So, I’m stuck here in tiny apartment hell with a herd of elephants upstairs, crazy managers next door, and nowhere for my dad’s piano (or any other possessions).
Thanks Action Properties of Reno. You fucking eeeediot bastards.
I feel a bit better.
It’s not real writing but it is a small vent in the surface of my soul.
By: Deacon Blue
Release date: 23 October, 2006
Things could be worse. My girlfriend Susan called this morning. She had a flat affect to her voice. Weird for her. She always cheers me up. We’ve been friends for close to 15 years. Met her in Idyllwild when I opened my first retail store.
Susan was a rep for several game and toy manufacturers and came into my store one day.
This fucking wonderfully hysterical woman got a $500.00 order out of me that day. We’ve been fast friends since, despite the geographical distance of the past 6 or 7 years.
I asked what was wrong.
Turns out she had had a wicked fall from her bike over the weekend and was now sporting pins, plates and other man-made parts in her ankle. Oh yeah, and a buttload of vicodin. Lucky bitch.
She said “Oh Rachael I had a freak accident.”
Naturally it was all I could do to keep from saying “Oh God you mean you hit a car full of freaks?”
So she’s laid up in bed for more than a month, and she works strictly on commission. I advised her to have the hubby peel grapes and work overtime. The point is that things could be worse. For me.
Who’s it all about?
Anyway yesterday I was lying on the bed with a heating pad on the neck, shoulders and back of the skull. The pain would not abate. Of course today I’m seriously concerned it’s the friggin blood pressure…. BOOM!
I was listening to the TV because the stereo is out in the living room and I was sick of every song on iTunes.
The two days prior I got in 4 mile sojourns on each afternoon. It felt fabulous. The sky was blue and the river flowed over the rocks and sunlight tickled the remaining leaves on the trees.
Anyway I reach for the remote and take a look at the offerings:
Montel Williams, People’s Court, some soap opera, Dirty Jobs (which I’d already seen), The Bad New Bears 2 (ugh), a trial on Court TV, and then I saw it.
Holy shit I LOVE this film. Australian and released in 1982. Hell I have the soundtrack on vinyl, purchased at Tower Records in NYC when Tower Records first opened there. Tres cool and hip in the way the Virgin MegaStore in Times Square is now.
Aiii there were no CDs then.
1982 was the same year that Fast Times at Ridgemont High came out. Another fun flick with great tunes and a great sense of the 80’s. Fast Times had a huge release though and a lot of people know it.
Starstruck was an Indie Aussie Music flick. Wow. Talk about three strikes.
Tapeheads belongs in this class as well, although hit was released in 1989. A quirky funny cult music-related flick released with absolutely no publicity or decent release. Tapeheads stars John Cusak and Tim Robbins as well.
Yes I own Fast Times AND Tapeheads. Didn’t think that Starstruck was available.
Gonna put the DVD on my holiday list.
Along with meat, paper towels, moisturizing cream, Iams cat food, new bras and a place to live.
Spent over four hours today at the clinic. Lucky for me I only have to notify 331 partners of the infection.
Okay not really. It’s only 54. Oh all right it was a different kind of medical clinic –sigh-.
One more time it’s a total change of medication. Am titrating off of one that’s been coursing though my system for 12 years. Adding a few scary new ones that require lab tests every 90 days.
The doc says:
“I want to put you on ——– but you’ll gain weight. A lot of weight.”
My reaction? A blood curdling scream.
He thoughtfully then suggested another two meds with the addition of anxiety medication.
I acquiesced and he called Security to stand down.
Apparently apropos of nothing the blood pressure was 190/138 today.
The nurse took it twice to make sure. I already told the idiot that my blood pressure meds have been gone for a week.
“You know that’s dangerously high. You have to see a doctor immediately.”
“That’s why I’m here” I say
“Yes but we don’t prescribe that type of medication. You’ll have to see another medical clinic.”
“So I guess I’ll stroke-out here then. Do you have pillow and a blankie?”
“No we’ll give you a referral.” The nurse says.
Great. Come to find out after driving across town to another office (four hours later) that in order to be treated for the blood pressure I have to make an appointment in advance with reams of completed paperwork in advance to qualify for the sliding fee scale.
“Yes” I say “But I am going to have a fucking aneurysm today.”
“I’m so sorry but Washoe County is really behind the curve in medical treatment.”
Wile E. Coyote
Well Thanksgiving is coming up shortly. I’ve been invited to the First Annual Thanksgiving Misfits Dinner at a friend’s house.
C’mon sing with me kids ‘Oh we’re on the Island of Misfit Goys…..’
My hosts have invited 7 or 8 people to hang out, watch cheesy/cult/inappropriate movies (piss on football; we’re all geeks here) and then they’re going to prepare a feast for all.
When I say we’re geeks it’s true. The menu was placed into Excel and posted on Google.
Two count ’em TWO types of Meat (with a capital M), potatoes, pies, veggies, rolls (not of fat since I skirted that damned med) crudités, deserts, wines for each course, absurd campy movies and twisted humor all around.
Can’t think of a better way to celebrate “Happy Kill-An-Indigenous-People-and Eat-Till-You-Puke Day.”
Alrighty then time to look over this amazing array of medication bottles and try to ascertain which ones I take tonight and which are taken in the mornings.
Fuck. Better living through chemistry indeed.
Praise the Lord and Pass the Xanax.
Chase This Light
By: Jimmy Eat World
Release date: 16 October, 2007
I was prescribed another new medication. Hopefully it will be a better experience than yesterday, which resulted in a delightful afternoon and evening of nausea and physical illness.
Been playing the piano for almost two hours. My dad’s Knabe concert grand needs to be tuned, as well as played. He rarely sits at the keyboard anymore.
First I trifled around with some blues riffs, a couple of Scott Joplin pieces and then dug around the bookshelf for some sheet music.
I miss my fucking piano. You can’t play ragtime or complex classical pieces on a synth without 88 keys.
Usually when visiting I’ll pack a cache of my own music; nothing sounds a fabulous to a pianist as music played on a grand. Hell, nothing feels as fabulous either.
This trip I forgot to pack any music. Also forgot jewelry, a comb, my marbles and anything useful.
Yet the suitcase was still full when I closed it.
So in my rifling I find some old books that were mine as a student. Holy shit! The old bat who was my first piano teacher has left an indelible mark after all. Her bright red notations still exist even as she has been worm food for probably 25 years.
Funny strange. So of course this compelled me to play through some Bach Inventions and a few Beethoven and Chopin Etudes and Bagatelles.
Then I found an old book of Broadway tunes and an even older book of Billy Joel music. Oh god I must have purchased this while in high school. Obviously I’d left these compilations behind during various forays to the homestead.
Jesus. I can still mangle through Root Beer Rag! Not quite sure how that happened since it’s been at least a year since I last tried to play it.
The poor bastard singing opera earlier must be having a fit of apoplexy about now, since the windows are open and the Knabe sits besides two open French doors.
Singing and playing Suburban Showdown brought a crack to the vocals and tears to my eyes. Had forgotten the line in there “I only came to say good-bye and I won’t be back again…”
It’s already occurred to me that this is the real reason I’m here. To say good-bye to my family. I know it intuitively and have known since this trip was discussed.
My father’s 75th birthday is in early November and there is a party planned.
It’s doubtful I’ll be here for that so I’m grateful for this week to spend time with him.
We’ll go to AA meetings together, and out to dinner, and he’ll be his usual quiet strangely neurotic self.
Tomorrow after being poked and prodded and slid through machines that go bzzzzzzz and clunnnnnnk we’ll come back up the mountain. The next day I’ve an appointment with a different doc for blood tests and medication reviews.
I’ll surely be pulled off the Xanax. Fuck. Well, seeing as how it’s non-addictive and I’ve been on it for 10 years there’s no way that anyone would be concerned about that.
Will probably be taken off of every damned med that is currently coursing through my body and these will be replaced with different meds to course through said vessel. Actually there aren’t that many in my bloodstream these days. Went off a few myself (betcha didn’t know I was an MD) but have had no replacements now that the insurance went bye-bye. Not that this could have anything to do with the past two months of malaise, depression and suicidal ideation.
Quit smoking again and have been on the fucking Commit again for two days. There’s supposed to be a new trial med to help get off nicotine. Unfortunately the doc responsible for this is in the hospital. Argh.
It would be nice to ditch that final addiction before leaving this place.
The current medication prescribed to wean a smoker of the coffin nails is Wellbutrin.
Can’t take that one. It throws me into a manic phase; which while great for weight loss is bad on the teeth. Grinding one’s molars while staring at the television until dawn is not an especially pleasing way to pass the time. No siree.
Okay it’s back downstairs. Am going to try and concentrate for 10 minutes and read.
It could happen.
Besides, the phone has rung twice and every time I’ve hustled down the spiral staircase to find the damned phone the caller has already hung up.
Bastards say I.
I’m at the tippy tippy top floor of an old gingerbread tippy tippy top house. Using dial-up.
James picked me up and dropped me off at the airport yesterday morning and after the typically boring layover in San Jose my ass landed in untypically clear (hardly any smog) Ontario.
What am I doing here? There’s no one in the house this morning except for myself and a talkative orange tail-less cat named Bradshaw. My step-mother went to Orange County for a few days but I’ve no idea where my father is.
I don’t have my first appointment at the hosptial until tomorrow so a hike would be nice this afternoon, as I do not really feel like going into town to see any old friends. After finishing this cup of coffee I’ll have to walk down 4 flights of stairs to get another cup. Maybe a hike would be redundant.
The time it takes to schlep downstairs and pour more coffee should be enough time for a page to load on this computer though. Hard to believe that’s all we used to have for years isn’t it? Dial-up I mean, not schlepping.
It’s beauritful here in the trees, surrounded by mountain tops. The air is crsip and clean, since Idyllwild is at a 6000 foot elevation. My daughter will be here for dinner tonight and my old pals and former business friends (same thing) live in town as well.
The sun is bright and the azure sky blue and cloudless. It’s 8:30 am and I can hear occasional bits of a guy down the road singing opera. Yesterday afternoon one of the neighbors rode by. On her horse. This is a small secluded resort mountain town of artists, oddballs, retirees, tree-huggers, the over-educated and the out of place. It’s a reason I lived here for more than 10 years and fit in so very well.
So why am I still crying and craving the darkness?
Have once again accomplished nothing in the way of working on tinfoil hat guy’s site.
although the assmunch HAS called me four times today.
I did however clean the apartment; moved two bookcases including dusting the books, vacuumed the damned baseboards, scrubbed the friggin’ kitchen floor on my hands and knees, wiped down the cabinets and walls, de-haired the bed skirt and comforter in the other bedroom, and swept the floors.
Oh yeah also washed the sheets on the bed in my daughter’s room as well since the arrival of the anti-christ is imminent.
Sorry. I meant to say arrival of mom.
Also posted an ad on CL offering to trade the entire store inventory for ANY car that runs reliably. I just don’t care anymore you know?
Am attempting to talk myself into riding my bicycle to Albertson’s to get groceries and paper towels, etc.
Except it’s friggin 100F outside and I am just not into that ride.
Screw groceries anyway.
I would love some club soda though.
Oh goody. Something else for The Queen of Darkness to bitch about tomorrow:
Why don’t you have any food in this house? What is wrong with you?
Aye there’s the rub.
If thirty years of analysis, introspection, various and sundry spiritual paths, writing and therapy cannot provide the answer to ‘What’s Eating Rachael Black’ then I’m thinking nothing can.
Hey Mom try one of these Dreyer’s Tangerine Fruit Bars.
They’re good and good for you!
Now please shut up and I’ll see you in another nine months.
Remember what happened the last time I saw you and I was this depressed and alone? About 13 years ago?
Within eight hours of you leaving my house I swallowed an entire bottle of Trazadone and was rushed to the emergency room.
Praise the Lord and Pass the Xanax.
The other evening I was alone bored stressed and depressed.
Yes it sounds just like every other night in my life but what about it.
So, I decided to re-do my myspace background (stop laughing right now dammit. it’s a creative outlet) and contact box with pics from Boston.
A little Photoshop, my digital camera, a few crops, a bit of hocus-pocus and eye of Newt. Gingrich.
I just love the artwork on the headstones from the early 18th Century.
Skulls, Crossbones, Skeletons and all things morbid and reminiscent of death.
When did we, as a society, become so divorced from the reality of what comes after?
So I’ve been procrastinating on writing a blog since my triumphant return from the whirlwind tour of Boston. Meetings with the Kennedys, the Kerrys and the Cardinal took all of the stamina and fortitude I could muster.
Oh wait that was a dream. Something about donuts and snakes too but that’s not important right now.
Got an email this morning asking if Boston was nice this time of year. Well, define nice.
I’m sure that in comparison to the Amazon River basin this time of year it qualifies as spectacular.
Otherwise the weather can best be summed up by the following metaphorical blathering:
“I woke up, soaked a heavy woolen blanket in warm water and after showering and dressing wrapped said blanket about my body. Then I walked around the sauna until dehydration indicated admittance to Mass General.”
The weather reminded me in precise terms why living on the east coast in the summer became anathema and I’ve been back out west for the past few years.
Having slammed the humidity I will also add that in this Hades-reminiscent climate I ran in a 5K along the Charles River one morning.
The shocking thing (besides my actually getting up at 6:00 am to perform any kind of exercise –excluding strenuous sex of course) was that I did not finish last in my age group, and this was in a field of exercise-obsessed sober cardiologists, anesthesiologists, shrinks and dentists. They’re all whack-jobs.
I kinda felt at home.
After finishing the race I walked back to the hotel to find my lovely daughter still sound asleep in our room. I threw my soaking wet (and now mildly aromatic) woolen blanket over her reposed figure and said “Cate Honey… get your lazy teen-age ass out of bed and go find mommy some coffee before she becomes homicidal.”
She was not amused.
But I was.
My days in Boston were filled mostly with AA meetings and lectures given for physicians to obtain their CME credits. The free time was spent exploring every nook of historical significance I could find. I walked miles and miles, mercifully burning off the calories from the exquisite meals I’d been indulging in.
Did you know that Boston Common is Boston’s largest unmarked grave? There are more than 10,000 bodies buried there and not one tombstone.
Graveyards from the 1600’s, a night tour of haunted Boston, delicious seafood, sober doctors, ala-teen kids running amuck, lectures, bad banquet food, a fab evening listening to mystery writer/physician Michael Palmer speak, cannoli at Mikes Pastry, standing outside to have a smoke, buckets of coffee, my family, and general disorder.
In a word the trip was…. Surreal.
Here’s proof below. It’s my daughter, myself and my dad in front of the Revere House.
The one meeting I looked forward to was a bust. It was a lecture given by an Associate Professor of Psychiatry at Harvard, and the subject was:
Treatment of Bi-Polar Disorder in the Alcoholic and Addict Population.
This is a subject near and dear to my heart, and other parts of my anatomy such as my liver.
Sadly the doc delivering the lecture was possibly the lamest speaker it has ever been my misfortune to hear. I looked at my dad and he leaned over and said “My God this is the lamest speaker I have ever heard.”
My suspicions were confirmed. The guy was bad.
Unfortunately I learned nothing new. The poor bastard didn’t have any more info than was already available, to both lay persons (that would be me) and physicians and psychiatrists (that would be my dad).
For instance; the rate of suicide for persons suffering a dual diagnosis (addiction and bi-polar) is far greater than that of the general populace or a patient diagnosed with one or the other.
Whoa! No way. This guy is a fucking genius.
No new treatments were discussed, no new meds, no new anything. The speaker was unorganized as well. If I want unorganized there’s always my life to review.
|After the meeting I had a cup of coffee and considered heading over to Cheers, on the other side of Boston Common. Where I could have a drink and ponder all of this and of course,
everybody knows my name.
Another morning comes awake in Reno’s desert heat.
At least I slept in my bed again last night, after first falling asleep on the couch, a book on my chest, the AC on High.
Waking up alone in my bed is still disconcerting. There’s that brief 20 seconds when I think ‘where the hell am I.’ Then I notice the sun and am alright for another minute.
Then the memories and realizations crash in and stop my heart.
Sat outside in Little Tijuana and had my coffee with the last cigarette in the house. Am out of money for more until tomorrow. I’ll be in great form in another hour when the withdrawal starts in.
Later this week I’m supposed to actually collect some money for a design job I did last winter.
Been waiting six months to collect even a partial payment. Got an email yesterday saying that my check will be going out today. Cross your fingers. It would be nice coming back from Boston to a fridge that runs (hey lady is your fridge running?) and a functioning telephone and Internet connection.
Okay fuck the phone connection but I need the DSL or I’ll be doing design work from the public library computer.
Received an email from Tinfoil Hat Client this morning. He is happy with the store I’ve set up on his site. I’m not.
I think the entire thing is shite and don’t have my name anywhere on it. All of the work on that goddamned thing and I’ll never use it for a reference or resume.
Why? ‘Cause I did it exactly the way I was paid to do it. If the (grossly infinitesimal) check clears then who am I to argue with a client over layout.
Please save me from the blind.
Today I’m going to try and get out of the house. My depression is so severe that I’m incapable of doing anything but writing to keep my mind occupied.
To go through life without feeling is impossible for me. I cannot blame my faults and foibles on another person and know it is my job to work with what little I’ve got. To at least try.
Is it so wrong to find it inexplicable that others will not do the same?
Maybe I’ll be able to listen to my favorite music again today or play the piano.
Maybe I’ll sit inside in the dark and write.
Maybe I’ll go to the gym or for a walk to the river.
Maybe I’ll stop weeping for thirty damned minutes.
Maybe the phone will ring and I’ll smile.
Maybe I’ll obsess about sex again someday.
Maybe this is all a dream and I’ll wake up in another place.
I’ll let you know.
–nevada desert photo by arthur durkee–
Two people in the last 24 hours have told me that I should start thinking happy thoughts in order to relieve my depression.
Whoa. Great idea why didn’t I think of that? Damn I’ll get right on it.
Are you fucking kidding me…?
In other news…. was able to sleep in my own bed last night. The bad part was that I was of course alone. Again. Naturally.
I must say it’s a hell of a lot better than my couch though. No AC in the bedroom but the bed itself is mighty fine.
The summer heat in Reno is merciless. I’ve no spa to dunk my head into or sprinklers to run through. The past few months in TKs backyard spoiled me.
On the other hand it could be worse. Lizzie Borden is a Persian and that poor beast must be combed every day or she explodes fur like a time release hair freshener –rim shot-.
Been up since 5:45 this morning which is a record for the past week. My internal clock is all kinds of fucked up (hmmmm don’t say it) and this is the latest I’ve slept in days.
As the sun rose I sat outside with coffee and a cigarette –yeah another bad habit picked up in the last 6 months- finishing an essay by Noam Chomsky on B.F. Skinner.
Good Morning America? The Daily Buzz? Nay say I!
Here’s to a ciggie, coffee and words of a brilliant mind to begin a day.
Actually considered going to the gym first but that will wait until later. I’ve not put on any weight but my clothes don’t fit for hell. The extra baggage has shifted into areas not equipped with hand rails.
The problem with strenuous exercise when I’m depressed is this:
When the endorphins kick up I may not get that rush of positive high feelings. Instead, my mind sometimes goes the other way and I sob uncontrollably.
Bad form at the gym doncha know. It’s a pain in the ass wiping down the elliptical when you’re done but toweling up the tears is just plain embarrassing.
Have to work today for awhile besides hitting the gym. Was going to cook chili but have decided to throw away all of the meat I’d purchased.
I’ve no desire to cook for just myself. What’s the point.
I can’t bring any to share with a friend which was my original intention.
Already did the one-time-only pathetic shot of showing up without being invited.
You know, very childish teenage behavior. I was humiliated of course and made zero points.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that everyone in the history of men and women has done this at least once in their lives.
It’s when you make an unannounced visit more than once, or drive by an ex’s house, or continually make phone calls that you slide into stalker territory.
Ugh. I’d rather eat broken glass ala rusted razor blades.
So, I’ll continue to eat my Dreyer’s frozen fruit bars, try to write, finish up Tinfoil Hat Guy’s site, and think thoughts of tweeting birdies, puppies, kittens, smiling chipmunks and sunny happy days.
Scratch that last part.
Cognitive health indeed. I’m a clinically depressed misanthrope and while I am inconsolable over losing my best friend, watching the quail and discussing the universe I will surely drink Drano if forced to consider allegedly happy good thoughts.
Beethoven: Symphonien Nos. 5 & 7 / Kleiber, Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra
By: Ludwig van Beethoven
Release date: 23 January, 1996
I‘m trying to find some ways to feel better. The past three days have been colored with darkness, occluded by sadness and imbued with both hurt and guilt. Instead of feeling better about things I’m worse tonight.
These are all feelings that cognizant people work through. At times though the abyss is so black and the future so frightening that even finding that starting point seems pointless. Suffering clinical depression, overcoming a severe illness and trauma of all kinds exacerbate despair.
This essay is an effort to help myself.
Maybe you will find something of value as well.
Or, maybe you’ll simply say ‘ohfortheloveofchristrachael!’ call your shrink and take a xanax.
The kicker is this: it’s my life. You can always turn the page right?
Friends are hard to come by. Friends are people with whom we have real things in common. This indicates that we can also push each other’s buttons and have many of the same reactions to outside stimuli, be it good or bad.
I’m one of those folks who have learned to keep anger inside, hidden and buried. To show emotion, whether happiness or anger, in our family was to be ignored. It was not respectable. Later in marriage it was a cause to be screamed down and abused. There will be no feelings here dammit! Bad Rachael! No Donut!
I still jump at loud noises or a raised voice. Jesus. Slow learner or what.
I’m so afraid of hurting someone’s feelings or being yelled at or taunted that I don’t say anything until my anger reaches levels of epic stupidity.
Until of course it comes roiling out at usually inappropriate times. Or better yet, at a person or thing that does not deserve the level of my ire.
I’ve also been known to make light of the things which scare me. It puts the situation off and diffuses uncomfortable feelings. My own daughter even accuses me of this…. because it’s true. It’s another coping mechanism.
‘Cause what do people do? We’re at heart selfish and self-centered and easily hurt. It doesn’t matter if we’re also a soft touch, caring, giving, loving and want the best for those we love. That old animal instinct is still there.
Even Mother Teresa wanted to kick someone’s ass at times.
Not good for me, my blood pressure or the poor bastard (or bitch) who is around when I finally can’t keep those things inside any longer. Of course by this time my hurts have grown into monsters instead of simplistic problems that could have been worked out.
Rule Number One: Talk things out right away.
Why in the hell do I forget this on a regular basis? It’s so simple and effective but I am so afraid. Your partner or friend cannot read your mind, no matter how much they love you. Ouija board not included.
Rule Number Two: Learn to forgive
I’ve found over the years, when I fucking remember, that the best way to get over any anger is to forgive. Even if the anger is misplaced.
Either forgive the person who has said something to hurt me, or harder yet, forgive myself.
It’s a bitch to forget the hurt and anguish you went through. It takes a lot of convincing on your part, but it can be done. Forgiving releases pain.
Writing a letter to the person who has caused me anguish and pain helps. Writing in detail what they did and its effects. In the end, I normally write “I forgive you for all the pain you caused me. Much Love.” then I BURN THE FUCKING LETTER AND do NOT send the fucker.
TK gave me a great piece of advice one night when I was pissed off at someone. He said “wait 24 hours before you send that!”.No shit, it sounds simple.
I forget the cathartic effect of simply writing about how I feel and then just deleting, or better yet, burning the missive. It works too. Oh god I’ve mentioned my version of drinking and dialing… it’s called insanity and writing –shudder-.
Rule Number Three: Admit my part in an altercation.
We ALWAYS play a part somewhere. I have said something somewhere somewow to incite the current incident or problem. Doesn’t matter if it was knowing or unknowing. Everyone STILL plays a part in the outcomes of their lives. Thinking back to see where I fit in is a big step in allowing me to find a bit of understanding. Damned if I don’t forget this one as well.
Rule Number Four: No one is perfect
Say it ain’t so. Who has not had a disagreement with a friend/lover/spouse or family member? If you have strong feelings for someone then it’s gonna happen. It’s about remembering that we all make mistakes AND we can learn from them. Making amends means changing a behavior that is hurtful and it just cannot happen overnight. To me it indicates that willingness to give it all I have to change my reactions AND actions. Willingness and action together. Fuck more work no not again.
Rule Number Five: Exposing Vulnerability
This is the hardest thing in the world for me. Seriously. I’ve been accused of being unapproachable. Never unfriendly, rude, cold, or lacking in humor. Just unapproachable in matters of friendship. Sadly I feel the need to keep up that facade.
It’s true. How can I share myself with someone else when I don’t really appreciate anything about myself? More work on this one. Although humanity in general DOES tend to piss me off.
Rule Number Five: Be Friends
Share the good the bad and the oh-so-ugly. If someone is really your friend they will understand. If they’re not then it will hurt but you’ll know. Do stuff together. Make fun of retards. Kick back and just read a book in the same vicinity. Do the things that make you both happy. Together.
Rule Number Six: Always order extra sour cream at the Mexican Restaurant
Betcha didn’t think that this belonged her but it does. Why, my last marriage broke up over just such an incident. Never underestimate the power of enough sour cream to bring joy into your life.
Well clearly I’m not a doctor. Hell I’m a two time loser at the Alter (with the exception of that human sacrifice thing but that’s another blog for another night).
I just write this to try and sort out some feelings and thoughts and maybe have something to look back on.
My natural state is laughter at everything including myself. Being this sad is killing me, and that goes literally for a person such as myself.
We all want love and acceptance. Crave it. It’s the human condition and that’s the proverbial Good that goes with the Bad.
Talking it out, admitting vulnerability, being friends and sharing the special experiences and most of all forgiveness.
Wonder if one of the tattoo places here in Reno can ink that paragraph on the inside of my eyelids. That’s gotta hurt.
I can be right or I can be happy.
Happy is healthier and more fun.
Life is so fleeting. I could be dead tomorrow.
You could be dead tomorrow.
I want to spend the little time I have here smiling, joking, making love, being a smart-ass and learning.
Not gloating in private.
Well okay sometimes. Just for a few minutes each month.
Little Shop Of Horrors: Original Cast Album (1982 Off-Broadway Cast)
By: Alan Menken
Release date: 25 August, 1992