Archive for October, 2009

Festering Headstuff

The funny thing about the Internet is that there is so much we share but still so much that doesn’t come through in pictures or words.  See, y’all probably don’t know that I have a tic.  In my right cheek.  It gets really bad when I am stressed or anxious or upset.

It’s going like crazy lately.

I hate it, but it is one of the few things about me that never changes.

Tonight my psychiatrist asked me if I had ever tried anything to get it fixed.  I never really knew that I could until I was asked the same thing by the neurologist while I was hospitalized with the meningitis . And even though I spent so much time embarrassed by it, even though I cringe every time my husband asks me why I’m twitching, I lied and told him that no, it doesn’t bother me.

Tonight he asked me if I have any problems with obsessing.  And then if I have any compulsions.  And I told him about the one where I have to write or type words sometimes to get them out of my head and move forward.  And again he asked if this bothered me, and again I lied and said no.

And then he upped my script and I made my next appointment and I got outside and I walked home and I tried to figure out WHY DID I LIE?

Because I’m tired of there being all of these things wrong with me.  It feels like there’s always something else to add to my litany of defects, and frankly I’m sick of it.  I just want to take the pill, talk it out, grieve for the time I’ve spent being hurt or hurting myself and freaking move on.  And because it is a constant.  While I’m feeling such complete uncertainty about things, I know there are a couple that I can’t change and they are somehow comforting to cling to.

All the same, I think it’s time to see about getting the tic taken care of.

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I am a little on the manic-obsessive side this morning.  I’ve been up for around four hours, three of which have been spent thinking about, looking at, and engaging in writing.  Part of me feels like a floodgate has opened, where I am able to get stuff out of my head that has been festering.  Another part of me feels like it’ll never stop coming and I’ll be stuck with all-new festering headstuff.  [I’m wondering if I should mention to my psychiatrist this week that the meds don’t seem to be taking the edge off of this stuff anymore…]

I have been looking through old journals, editing old poems.  And I am horrified to read how depressed I was.  I am even more horrified to read how many of my insecurities I expected to be cured by no longer being lonely, and how many of them I am still shadowboxing with.

How hard it is for me to see my self as worthwhile, talented, lovable.

The up-side is that I now have 18 poems to work with, from 1994 to this morning.

The down-side is that I now have 18 poems to work with, from 1994 to this morning and I have no idea what to do with them.

The in-between-side is that if you had asked me last night, I would never have guessed that I had so many poems at all, much less ones I think are salvageable.  Hell, a couple of ’em I think are good, and that’s in the midst of feeling this insecure.

The tough thing is that it’s hard to be depressed, it’s hard to do the work that goes along with trying to get better, and it’s really tough to feel like you’re backsliding.  It’s hard to admit that those years you’ve sort of reduced to a series of stories were filled with honest-to-goddess pain and it’s hard to admit that I spent a lot of time in my early twenties writing about wanting to die because I don’t remember being that suicidal.

On one hand, I can see how far I’ve come in the past 12 or so years.  On the other, I hope it doesn’t take me another 12 to overcome the insecurities I’ve been carrying for most of my life.

It’s a sobering thing to realize that I’ve spent my entire adult life suffering from depression and I only just started being treated for it.  I’m glad I went through this stuff this morning but I now understand why I couldn’t stand reading it before–all of the Confessions of Misery seem melodramatic and overblown until you realize it’s a disease, not a personality weakness.

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Out Damn…Spot?

So, you know, it’s like catharsis already, man. I have never felt so unable to get shit out in my entire life.  It’s all balling up in my stomach, all of the fear and, well, fear.  It’s like writer’s block only it covers absolutely everything.

I’ve been art journaling for the past few weeks.  Painting with watercolor, mixed media-y sorts of stuff.  And I love it, I really do.  But it feels a little like nothing after the initial “hey, I made that!”

I’ve been feeling like dancing but there’s either no space or the living room is full of people and I don’t want an audience, I just want to get some of this ick out of me.

I’ve been feeling like singing too, but the thing about having a musician for a husband, even one as supportive and awesome as mine, is that I am acutely aware that I drop out of tune constantly and go flat constantly and I end up singing half under my breath anyway because I’m embarrassed.

I’ve been writing poetry again.  This comes closest to the catharsis of anything but to be honest, I can’t shake the feeling that I need to be producing SOMETHING REMARKABLE ALREADY (aside from the kids who are totally remarkable but seriously, can we do away with the whole making babies as means of expression because I sure as hell didn’t have kids as some sort of performance art/magnum opus deal.)

The other day, yesterday maybe, I went looking for a box in my big basket o stuff in the bedroom.  I pulled out lambs wool and yarn for Lucy’s loom, a bag of fabric scraps and practice knitting, and finally tucked into the basket in the back I found my box of herbs and candles and stones for spellcasting.  And for a minute after, I marveled at how I always dreamed of having the house where you could dig in a basket and find yarn and batting and lambswool for spinning and a box of witchy stuff.

It’s stuff like that that I want to be able to remember when I’m feeling like maybe I have no business calling myself creative, because this apartment is my creative space and all I have to do is stop judging myself long enough to enjoy it.

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I Heart Home

Ok, so where were we?


Most importantly, I  have new boots.  They are cute, and only vaguely in an LARP-y sort of way 😛

I would write about Lucy’s recovery but honestly, it’s just like having the pre-surgery Lucy home only with some chest scars and serious residual tape goo.  She is up and out of bed (although she has discovered the glory of pajamas all day), eating regularly, reading like a fiend, making stuff, and generally giving her father and me a hard time.  I don’t know what I expected post-surgery, but I didn’t realize she would be so quick to seem…normal.  Still not allowed to go where there are large numbers of people (which is pretty much everywhere ’round these parts) but she’s otherwise the Same Old Lucy.  Which is awesome, even when she’s copping an attitude (but don’t tell her that.)

We are also doing lots of spider-watching as Ruby is just about the coolest thing ever.  She has been digging up her molted skin and reburying it, changing her burrow around, and generally being completely fascinating.  If you’re looking for any one of us, there’s a good chance we’re nose-to-glass at the vivarium.  Still no news on whether Ruby is indeed a She, but as I’m reading up on tarantula-sexing this morning I’m not sure that we’ll conclusively know any time soon.  Which really doesn’t matter in the long run, but I’m a detail-oriented sort of gal so you know…

Midterms.  Ugh.

Words.  Ugh.

That is all.

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A day in the PICU is singularly surreal.  The people there are all friendly, and aside from the kid that died the night before, it’s a remarkably calm place.  You see mostly the same people and after the second day, you start to say hello and maybe one of the other parents comes to see your kid because hers is in a coma and there’s little to do while you’re waiting for your kid to wake up.  And you do your best to stay out of everyone’s way while you thank god that your kid is the one who is going  home in a few days, that yours is complaining about the episode of Dora you picked out (already seen) or the tray of clears (I just want some ice cream and milk!) or that you leave the cubicle for a few minutes to grab some lunch.  And even though she has a chest tube and iv crammed into her neck and needs a blood transfusion and, oh yeah, the tramadol and morphine, even though she is suddenly scared of every move the nurse makes and tells you every three minutes that she wishes she had done this last week, last month, when she was in pre-K…they can’t throw much at you that comes close to the fear that you felt the day before, when you kissed her cheek as she lay sleeping in the OR and hoped that the guy running the machine that was working for her heart and lungs was as good at his job as he was at telling you how to order and feed praying mantises because clearly he senses a kindred spirit in the kid with the tarantula.

Leaving the hospital with the kid who isn’t lying prone in a bed is surreal.  The streets all look different when your kid is in so much pain, when you spend so much time trying to give her space.  The sky looks strange.  The lobby of your building looks like a spacecraft.  You come into your apartment and you try to figure out what you’re supposed to do next.  You try to imagine waking up in the morning and doing it all over again and literally can’t fathom hearing and heeding the alarm except for knowing that you will catch hell from your kid if you don’t.  You lay out your clothes and you throw some words together and you rub your aching back and wonder how your sicko kid and husband are faring and try to have some energy left for the other kid who just wants to have your undivided attention for the rest of eternity.


I am exhausted.  I am running on fumes and muscle soother and lip buttah and port wine cheese.  I am so grateful for the people at LIJ who are taking such good care of my baby, and I am so, so sorry for the family and friends who lost their baby last night.  I sat there holding my daughter’s hand as the machine signaled that their kid’s battle was lost.  I sat in the lounge as a man broke down in the hallway, delivering the news and asking people to keep an ear open about what went down and my heart broke.  And I am thankful for these lessons I am getting, the reminders that life is to be treasured and that feeling sorry for myself is a product of the part of me that wants to keep from accepting that suffering is part of life.

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