Went to see Turnadot at the San Francisco War Memorial Opera House.  Puccini’s final work.  My understanding was that he didn’t finish it.  I don’t know how much of it was finished before he died, but it was finished perfectly on stage.  The spectical  of opera always lightens my spirit and my mind.  The talent of the performers, the costumes, the stage dressing….AMAZING.  I’m blessed to have a friend who loves the opera and invites me along. Turnadot is my hero and my new favorite opera.  She was cold, unfeeling and sort of a man hater, but she melted and cried when she finally fell in love.  She gives me hope that I will feel again and maybe find love…beyond the concept anyway.

Had a bite to eat at the Blue Muse by the garage I parked at and played with my phone and just enjoying my own company.

The opera soothes the savage beast as well,  as shampooing the carpet.  Something far more respectable in my opinion.

So, I wrote 10 pages in my journal last night and it dried out my brain.  I’m worried that I won’t be able to do the amount of work I’m going to need to do in order to get my current project edited and scarier still, I won’t be able to put the work into the one I’m shopping around when it gets picked up by a publishing house.  Doing blogs doesn’t do it because, though I’m writing, I’m skimming the cream off the top of my brain, the ideas that are easy to reach and discuss.  Last night I was trying to figure out why my body was protesting the idea of getting some sort of bariatic surgery to help me get well.  I had to dig through dust and move through the psychic hoard with a shovel.  Though it wasn’t ‘creative’ that normally burns me out like this, it was work and it made me feel like I’d worked all night long even though it was only a few hours, I got it done.

What is the point of recovering if all I’m going to be able to write is light extemporania and not plumb the depths (okay, shallows) of my vast experiences to write about?  What’s the point of going forward with anything?

It’s not all in my mind.  Yes!!  A lot of people seem to think that when I tell them my mother orders me around like an indentured servant, they don’t believe me.  Mostly because they just see her when she’s up for company and on her bestest behavior.  S and D were here to help me move around Mom’s room.  Actually, they had it pretty well done before I got back from getting blood drawn, but that’s not my point.  They were all getting along very well.  Then when I started to help orders started to fly at me.  S eventually got her to go to the front room where I made her breakfast and went back to work.

I whispered the question “How can you work with her ordering you around like that?”

Her response was rather shocking: “She just started that when you came in.”

I don’t know if I want things to change, honestly.  No, I don’t like the way she’s treating me, but I don’t feel like I want to go back to the loving relationship we had.  She hasn’t really treated me any differently, my perception of it was different.  Then she reminded me just how sharp her words are and it hurt because I had allowed myself to be vulnerable with her.  As long as she treats me like a hired servant I am comfortable with my decision to pull away from her again, at least while I’m trying to heal.  I thought building a relationship with her would be beneficial to me, helping her to have the mother that I need and helping me to be the mother she never had.  I think she needs to be in on this concept, and as stated before, I’m not willing to share.

I’ve been wondering why I haven’t felt like I’m moving forward in my recovery for the past week or so. I’ve still been hopeful, I had the whole manic thing and, I’ll admit, it scared me just a tetch, but I didn’t expect to end up standing still. It’s annoying. Tonight while I was doing dishes I was pondering this over the suds and realized I haven’t read, I haven’t actually put work into it to get anything out of it. I’m still holding onto my anger pretty well. I am able to get myself worked up over some sort of dreamed up scenario and how I would ‘get even’ with the perceived attackers. Then I remind myself that those people have to look beyond their own needs to be motivated enough to stick their noses into mine. That is both meant as a realization and knowing that I’m not as spectacular in everyone elses universe as I am in mine, and because, honestly, they’ve never shown an interest in the areas I’d like them to before now. I don’t think anyone in my family has read my public blog. Grant it, at first, I didn’t tell them. But now that they know they don’t have the time. Their friends have looked, and even commented on them, but my family, not so much.

See, that last comment again is evidence that I need to get back to studying and trying to grow the foundation passed where I stopped. I just wonder though, is this what I’m going to have to do every day for the rest of my life to ward off the darkness? Though I’ve been rather hopeful for the future (an idealized one I realize), the idea of getting through a day now is overwhelming. Having to have to exercise, meditate and grow my defenses against the void added to a normal human day is almost unfathomable. I’m going to need one hellavah foundation, aren’t I.

Ten years ago today I was woken up by my sister and told to turn on the TV.  Upon seeing one of the towers in flames I knew who did it.  Though I really didn’t know the whole story behind the whole thing at that time, the name that came to mind instantly was Osama Bin Ladin.  My plans for that day were changed and pushed off for a few days.  I was scheduled to be evaluated for a bi-polar therapy test panel in Berkeley.  Seems strange, as the world was introduced to global terrorism on our own soil I started recognizing the terrorism of depression and anxiety in my own mind.  I didn’t realize that until just know.  I can see the conversation my sister and I had in my car as we sat listening to the radio.  I called to change my appointment, they understood, and we just listened to NPR relate to us the events as they were unfolding at Ground Zero.  In no way am I comparing my struggle with those of the families of the victims or first responders, it just seemed odd to me that these days were somewhat uniquely commingled in my memory.

I was so ampted yesterday.  Scary so.  Mom’s funny, she’s telling me that I was scary manic with a really crazy pitch in my laugh.  I was talking loud, and I was talking quickly and yea, I was doing the whole Dug impression (Squirrel!).  But I was able to sit back and be quiet, though I was constantly twitching my glutes muscles to the beat on the radio.  So, I wasn’t that bad considering how bad mania can be.  My sister was in the car and finally turned around and said “Will you please shut up, just for a little bit.”  She was stressing and I feel bad that I was that bad.

I was terrified by the end of the day that the partner for mania is depression.  I understand the bi-polar construct in that the mania burns off the serotonin on the brain and then you’re left with the arid aftertaste of depression.  It’s kind of what I do to myself when I write too long too many days in a row.  I don’t have the good sense to write in moderation.  I’m kind of an idiot that way.  My fear was a little unwarranted this morning.  I chose to sleep in because, in theory, it was my day off. (Day off seems to be a long running joke these days.)  However, right now, I feel like I could go to sleep if I just closed my eyes.

I have to say what really helped was sitting down and talking to another writer/artist.   My friend C is like my construct of what an adult should be.  She doesn’t get sucked into the drama and she told me something priceless.  She has manic days and that it’s perfectly normal for people who are introspective and are aware of their own inner-conversations they feel these things and worry about things more so than the non-writer/artist.  And if I’m worried about being too manic, I’m okay.  People who are truly locked in a manic phase don’t take the time to wonder if they’re too manic.

I’m okay.  I’m not crazy.  I’m just a writer getting back in touch with her emotions.  However, there is this joke about how you can’t tell the difference between a schizophrenic staring at the window and talking to them selves or a writer staring at a window and talking to themselves.  Kinda scary huh.