I love how, when the blossoms fall it looks like snow but smells like a bubble bath.
Snow of Blossoms
I love how, when the blossoms fall it looks like snow but smells like a bubble bath.
Tag: Anger
Preverication
a false or deliberate misstatement; lie:
Dictionary.com
Last Saturday I volunteered to close at the site we staff 365 days a year. I came in at open so it would be a nine hour day…ten if you count the hour I get for lunch…away from home and out of bed. I was trying to be helpful to my team and my bank balance. Mostly my bank balance. I made the decision before I left home actually, so when the offer came I didn’t ask the necessary question…Who am I working with?
I was working with a person who’s opinion of herself in regards to the rest of the team is of a queen bee over her drones. When I worked with her a few weeks ago, she said I “You are so slow. I’m fast.” When I scowled at her she quickly clarified “Because I just ate sugar.” Yes, I hadn’t gotten much processed for the first pack (40 something), but I got something done and it was correct. I tried processing the first pack early on in my tenure with the company which ended with me in tears and my manager and I agreeing I shouldn’t do the first pack until I felt I was ready. I did it that Saturday because I wanted to see if I was ready. Her jab, though self-aggrandizing, placed a spotlight on my self doubt and discomfort at the job I had done. I decided I shouldn’t do it again for another several months.
Saturday she came out and told me she talked to our manager and our manager said “She wants you to do the first pack,” I objected and said I was more comfortable doing the evening pack, she cut me off before I could finish with “No, our manager said I should do the closing pack so it’s done right.”
Saturday was our managers first day of vacation and gave instructions to contact someone else. If she actually did talk to our manager, our manager wouldn’t have green-lighted me working the first pack because of our past discussion. I could have called her on it, but I didn’t. I was angry and instead of confronting her about it I allowed the fury to transform into a soul darkening I’ll-show-you mantra knowing if I failed she’d have to clean up the mess ‘so it’s done right’. I processed and packed over 80.
I’m very pleased I did so well. People do more during the first pack but people do less too. I don’t need to be the best; the middle of herd of phlebotomists is just fine with me. What I am upset about is how I handled it. Though I’m not caught up in the anger of being so blatantly lied to, I am upset I didn’t stand up for myself. I am upset I didn’t protect me from what my psyche sees as a bully, a manipulator. I hate I still fall prey to those people. My protection for now is to not work with her again. Meaning, not working the closing shift which she normally covers and if that leaves my team in a bind then it leaves my team in a bind. I don’t like being around abrasive and abusive personalities, and if I can avoid it I will.
My other need to do is to talk to my manager. On the off chance she actually *did* talk to her on Saturday I need to clarify with her we hadn’t decided I was ready to do the first pack and to tell her I can do the first pack if called upon to do so. The discovery I am just as good and bad as anyone else in the group is the one positive thing from this negative episode at work.
Why am I so focused on this? That is the question. I’m still not back to writing other than here and my journal. I haven’t really discussed this in my journal, but I will. I think I’m taking this person’s behavior as a personal attack on me when I know she does this to EVERYBODY. What I’m realizing as I write this, which is why I love writing here, is if I were back doing what I’m supposed to be doing with my life-Writing-things like this roll off my back because I gain strength in and for myself when I write. Starting this weekend I’m going to force myself, in a nice way, to sit at my computer and try to push past the last of the debris of my fall and start taking those small steps I talked about. I need to stop self-prevaricating that I can’t so I shouldn’t try, for there is strength and honor in the trying.
Slow Small Steps
That’s what I’m doing, slow small steps out of the madness I pushed myself into. I’ve been writing, but just in my journal. I can say anything I want in my journal; no one is listening. It’s the only true place where I can open a vein and allow the words to flow out with the pain. The writing there is a pressure bandage on the gushing self-inflicted wounds I’ve made. Yet to truly stem the flow I need to make plans. Real plans. I’ve found opening my heart here helps me form the lumps of ideas into a solid sculpture; something I can work with and towards.
My last blog “Humpty Dumpty was Pushed!” I talked about needing to go back to basics. Journaling. {check}. Chilling {check}. Blogging { }. That’s where I am today. Where chilling has been mostly watching TV/Movies and Miss Fisher (I don’t know why but the show is the best at relieving me of my need for reality for a short time). As things have quickly changed I’ve changed my to-do list as well….
Murphy’s Law popped up and ripped the rug out from underneath me with the news I had to close down my site and work at the other one in the same town. Not a horrific thing, I’m still employed and it’s only temporary, but it’s a new site, new people (not absolutely new, I’ve worked with the other two at different times). Today was the first day in the new work environment. It’s not horrible. I still get lost, it’s like four times larger than my site and there are two room dedicated to just employee space. Quite posh for a PSC. (Patient Service Center). I still turn into the wrong room for processing and I always go the wrong way to find the employee bathroom. But it is just the first day. Knowing this would be a challenge I spent the weekend trying to put my life (room) in order. I didn’t get it all the way there but enough so I can try and do a little bit every day to keep it neat and orderly. I don’t need orderly, per se, but it is nice to find what you’re looking for or having a nice clean space to write it when the urge hits. So, that’s the other small step out of madness: Making space for healing.
The writing…
The writing still scares me. I hate how pathetic that looks on the screen. Something I love, something I feel defines who I am and what I’m suppose to be doing with my life scares me. Even still, my brain is simmering the storyline in the back of my brain as a way to keep the aroma wafting in the air to call me back to the page with intriguing turns in the plot….but I just can’t do it. It’s too soon. I was hoping to do something this weekend, but instead I cleaned. I work next weekend and I’ve made plans with my niece for The Renaissance Faire for the 14th. Again, a way to chill and allow the pieces to come back together and solidify to bear the weight of my working again. So, in essence, I won’t be ready to present anything to anyone by the following weekend. And, as badly as I wanted it a few weeks ago, I think I’m okay with that. I’m not beating myself up about it, or berating myself…I’m just taking care of myself. Maybe the next time I push myself off the wall I will only crack, and the time after that I should have enough epoxy on my soul to bounce and laugh it off like a whole person.
Humpty Dumpty Was Pushed!
…and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men didn’t want to put Humpty back together again.
I’m not Ms. Dumpty, but I pushed myself over the edge…again. And now I’m AGAIN trying to put myself back together. I want to be put back together again because the heights I reached when I was whole was GLORIOUS. I’m sorry you we’re along for the ride, but as I explained in One Ball Juggler I can only really do one thing at a time without completely overwhelming myself. So, I’ve been working five to six days a week as a vampyre and spending my off days writing for five to seven hours at a stretch. The week I took off for my birthday in July I finished the first draft of my second-go-round of a book I’m breaking into three parts. I jumped straight into editing.
I hate editing. It’s a journey into everything that’s wrong with your writing, with you, and it screams why you shouldn’t be a writer. Amazingly it went smoothly and I was proud of the finished product. During this time I was aware I was feeling unnaturally drained, loss of appetite and wanting to crawl into bed long before the sun goes down. So I ignored it and pushed past it, like I used to do because this was more important. I would go to my room and sit at my desk, give myself an hour to do some more editing, and push beyond the hour and then try to turn off the chatter of the people in my head trying to explain to me how I can better present them on the page. (I know it sounds crazy to a non-writer but the fiction writers out there are just nodding their heads). The task was to just edit on my lunch hour but I kept pushing for more and more to get done.
I got time off work in October to attend a writing/media conference where I want to make some contacts (Maybe meet someone special: an agent!) so I’ve been trying to get the second pink edits done. This round is editing the edits and approving the edits before I actually make the edits in the computer. The goal was to have the lavender edits done before the end of October. (Pink and Lavender are just the color of paper I print on to keep track of where I am in the process) Every night I would go to sleep reminding myself that I only had X amount of weeks to have this done then calm myself with sweet words of “It’s plenty of time. You can do it.”. I was excited by the challenge and so proud of myself for getting so much done so quickly.
Then life happened.
Before I could manage the stimulus I tripped over old habits and I was crying in fear and rage and I think disappointment in myself. Physical manifestations of anxiety began to run roughshod over my emotional state; palpitations, shortness of breath, sleeplessness. Walking from the bathroom to my bed (maybe 10 steps total) felt like I did in PE class when I had to run the mile for the first time. I was overcome with the fear I was dying but I was too afraid to do anything about it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to alert anyone in the family of what was going on. I went to work because I thought if I ignored it it would go away and it did when we were busy, but it always came back. I asked to leave early and I talked to a doctor in my car, he agreed it was probably anxiety but suggested to keep a low threshold and go into urgent care if it doesn’t subside in a reasonable amount of time with a reasonable amount of medication. I told my family I was sick, they assumed it was gastro-intestinal which wasn’t far off because anxiety viciously works both ends in my life.
Luckily, I had therapy scheduled for that evening. We worked through the anger I was feeling, the fulcrum which catapulted me off the wall. I felt better emotionally and not horrible about my choices to protect myself. I felt safe again. Physically I was still dealing with the palpitations, shallow breathing and a rapid heart rate. I did more deep breathing before I went to sleep and slept fairly well thanks to the wonders of pharmacology. In the morning my Oura Ring told me my resting heart rate was 123 which wasn’t good. (It’s back down to it’s normal mid-50’s)
Deep breathing has healed a lot and has allowed me to rebuild my center. Pulling back on my mad-dash to get my book done before the end of October has been painful yet when I sit to work on it I feel like I’m trying to stuff myself into a box where I can’t breathe. What editing I have done has been, dare I say, revolutionary and changing some of the tone of the story. I respect the voices that are showing up on paper.
In the clear light of rationality I realize I broke on some of the old mended cracks, pieces that might not have had enough E6000 to weld them together, so I am going slowly and not pushing myself. I need to get back to the other things in life which were left behind in my pursuit of publication; journaling, blogging and just chilling. I’ve not picked up my journal since my birthday. Journaling and blogging has often been the alert bell when the cogs and wheels of my inner-workings are in need of a little oil or TLC. I’m back scheduling journaling, blogging and looking forward to Sunday drives and playing with my parrot. Writing to publication is my raison d’être it can’t be all there is to my life.
Another Spare
My mother used to joke when people asked how many daughters she had and she would laughingly reply “A pair and a spare,”. I didn’t realize how she really saw us until later on in life when the spare had to take care of her. She wanted, and invested in, the pair with full rights to demand care when she could no longer care for herself, or when she was just tired of taking care of herself (We’ll never know which). Both my sisters, twins, knew how to cook, knew how to clean, had practice with their own children on how to change diapers and how to take care of another human being. I can barely take care of myself even now and I’ve been practicing. I prefered to write or craft rather than clean house, sue me.
I just finish listening to Spare by Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex. I appreciated his experiences with depression and anxiety and felt a kinship with the rage that accompanied his depression which he called “the red mist”. Though he was allowed to wallop his brother and friends to get it out of his system, a perk of not having any proper parental supervision and being a boy, he described the pain of it very succinctly. Though each journey through depression is unique to each individual it’s nice to know you aren’t alone in the void.
We are reading/listening to the book for the Aunt/Niece book club. The chapters read like blog posts, chronologically from the death of his remarkable mother to the present. I know the book was about his coming to terms with the unnecessary and tragic death of his mother, the lethal abuse of the tabloid press, the absolute narcisism of his father, his service, his stumbles in the public eye, the rank racism towards his wife and children and ending with his separation from the institutionalized dysfunction of his family. That was the point of the autobiography; to take control of his own narrative and his own life. I guess, on a microscopic scale that’s what I’m doing here as well.
I pulled a different meaning from the whole of the book. I saw it as his fight and flight from the void, almost completely on his own. But more important, discovering the happiness to be had in the light. He reached a point in his recovery when he realized he had progressed beyond the constraints of the little bubble universe the family and the tabloids created for him. I’m still occadionally bumping my head on the constraints my up-bringing (such as it was) put on me. Writing here has helped me push my mental and emotional boundaries to realize I am the master of my own mind/life/soul. Like Harry, I understand the need to move far away from the funk in the my dysfunctional family because I’m afraid I will go back to where I was. That is not a crack at my family in any way. We are all on different paths now, nolonger slaved to the one our mother picked. I like the path I’m on but it’s new and it’s scary and it would be so easy to go backwards and be, instead of moving on my chosen path to becoming.
The book as a whole is an interesting, albeit asingle hyperfocused view of the monarchy. He is very respectful to the Queen yet didn’t exclude her from the spotlight of dysfunction either. He owned up to the things he had done wrong, the few things the news outlets got right and how he is working to move forward in his life. I appreciated his honesty. If you are an anglophile you should enjoy it.
Back to the Work
Taking the time off from working on what needs still to be done in my head was an excellent idea. I didn’t realize you can take a break from things like that. Well, I guess you can stop anything, even if it’s good for you, but the dedicated unceasing work is what has gotten me so far so fast. (Fast by the world’s standards, it’s been a long slog from where I’m sitting). But now, it’s back to the work. From the start of December I’ve been distracting myself with books I’ve listened to before (Harry Potter, Elantris, 14, Dragons Blood Omnibus), shopping and, of course, eating. It’s no longer and option to let my brain stand still with old stories, spending money I don’t have and eating myself into a coma. Standing still is a mixed blessing though. About 23 years ago I walked the Honolulu Marathon, and in a lot of ways getting my life back has been akin to that long hot day in December 2000. I did fine until mile 16 or so and then it felt like I was walking through amber. I kept putting one foot in front of the other then something in my brain snapped and said it was never going to end, I was never going to survive and I might as well give up now. That’s when I pulled out the Extra Strength Gu Gel with double the caffeine and choked it down with a few sips of water. I finished: I have the shirt and the medal to prove it too. So, instead of doing the Gu Gel at this 16 mile marker in my emotional marathon I did more of a rest and now I know why I didn’t rest in 2000….I wouldn’t have wanted to go back to it.
I have therapy on the 17th, so I’ll make that my official back-to-the-work day. I bought the physical book of Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less by Greg McKeown so I can use it as a text book and make my own notes and how I want to apply his lessons. I got it with another book called Deep Work by Cal Newport in a packaged deal from Amazon. I’ve started my writing again, I get up at the same time (4:30ish) on the Saturday I have off during the month and write for about five hours and I try to do basic edit or input edits in the evening or on Sunday. It works, but if I can get more work done in the same space of time then I will. It too is a physical book but I might splurge and get the audio book as well so I can listen to it on my way into work during the week. From those books I want to write my New Years Goals so I can break them down into S.M.A.R.T. goals for monthly direction. But again, I need to get back to the work!
Though the work was at rest my mind was still aware of what I was doing right and very aware of what I was doing wrong. My eating spiraled a little more than usual but not to pre-apocalyptic levels which is good, but it was more out of control then my normal stress-eating. I couldn’t get full no matter how much I ate and I couldn’t easily talk myself out of buying the extra bag of oreos no matter how hard I tried. As I explained in An Act of Christmas I need to stay true to my ideal of Christmas and be more productive in doing what I can do to help in the world. Next Christmas will be more of what I want and need it to be by starting this month toward my Act of Christmas 2023. With the new year I feel calmer and more in control. The two packages of oreos remain on my shelf unopened on top of an unopened box of Godiva chocolate a patient gave me for Christmas. It could be I’ve just been too tired to walk the 20 feet to the shelf to get them but I’m counting it as a win. I’m cringing now at the money I spent on me over the last month but I feel it was for things I needed and wanted and not spending money I didn’t have on online police auctions every time my mother irritated me. I think what I’m trying to convey is that I’m better, but I’m not at the finish line. The work yet to be done, the deeper work I’ve been dreading are the big boxes in my dream from 22 July 2022 Dream a Little Dream my closing statement was, mostly pertaining to the boxes still on the shelf:
…(bravely confront the past injuries, resolve the confusion, and end the subconscious suffering to move forward).
Dream a Little Dream, Bloggingfromthevoid.com
I’ve identified the anger at my sisters is more of the anger of the child I abandoned (me) in trying to protect myself growing up. I’m not sure if that makes any sense, but the anger I feel toward my sisters feels immature and the fire from that anger too hot and plentiful to be that simplistic. I’ve started listening to the book by Thich Nhat Hanh Reconciliation instead of reading his Anger book because this realization of where the anger was coming from became apparent and more urgent as I was reading the book on Anger. In Dream a Little Dream I talked about how the boxes were things I didn’t want to deal with and still I don’t want to deal with . As my history of stuffing things I don’t want to deal with in boxes and paying an immoderate storage fee attests, I’m really good at avoiding things. The need to get passed the anger, the need to feel at peace with myself is starting to outweigh the need to just keep the abandoned child placated with cookies and chocolate. I’ve named her Little Dragon because of the fire she evokes and she is going to be my priority going forward for this year. Her and getting the first book of three ready to submit to a publisher. That’s not expecting too much of myself, is it? {sigh}
Life – Medication = A Dawn Of Discovery
I know, I know it’s been quite a while. I’m sorry. Some basic bullet points about me now….
- I’m healthy
- I’m happy more often then not
- I’m working (and like most Americans I love my work but hate my job)
- I drive a blood red hybrid with an astronomical car payment (soon to be refinanced)
- I’m sane (thankfully)
So, it’s been over four years since the apocalypse. Proof that time flies even when you aren’t having fun. COVID-19 has been a boon for the medical industry and everyone is rushing out to get life insurance, and I, as the trusty insurance examiner, have been working pretty much non stop since June 2020. I found a fabulous therapist who has helped me curate tools and helped me build the shed to keep them in. When on medication I didn’t realize how desperately I needed them until the influence of the chemicals is waning and I’m left to my own devices. No one needs a lawnmower in a rock garden, kind of thing. When we last spoke I think I was on 20mg of Lexapro, 300mg of Wellbutrin and 30mg 2x day on Buspar. They are effective tools, but blunt and limiting. I’m now off Lexapro, 75mg Wellbutrin and 10mg Buspar 1x day. Life is starting to have sharper edges, my disdain for complacency is magnified and my utter frustration with the human race not being grown-ups is starting to take center stage in my mind these days. I can’t change the human race but I can make my life more comfortable so when the sharp edges stab at me I’m able to bob or weave or endure.
I am moving. My New Years Goals is to move away from this place….whether it’s up the street, down the block, a city over or a continental divide. Just get out of the rat hold I’ve lived in for the past 20+ years. With that goal comes the need to disgorge my life of everything I’ve collected, every piece of crap that I kept because it was associated with a happy memory, a piece of flotsam which is a representation of who I was/am/want to be. I haven’t seen most of it in over 10 years, I don’t need it. We’ll see what happens when I actually go through the stuff and I have to fight against the emotional currant to keep it. Getting rid of Mom’s stuff has been easy-peasy. It’s going to take a lot of effort and time so I’m giving myself a year to get through it. It will also give me time to get some sort of savings together for the move. I’ve been thinking I’d keep my job as an examiner so I can just transfer, get settled, get a new job then quit but I don’t think I’m going to be able to hold on that long. My job is the major part of my current frustration of the human race not being grown-ups thing.
For the last several years I’ve lived with a less than stellar array of roommates. One was a carry over from the Mothers care team, who told me I killed my mother because I didn’t clean the house (I kid you not, those were her exact words.), one was creepy kind of quiet who was desperate to get married, another doesn’t like anyone to touch her stuff and has threated twice to “make your life a living hell” and the final one believes, again, I kid you not, that solid cancer tumors are filters the body creates to remove the poisons out of the persons body; essentially saying they are good for you. I must attract them, I dunno. They have good qualities, those are just the high-lights. While medicated, I have always done my best to be personable, pleasant and honest in all my dealings with them. In essence I wanted them to like me, to be my friend to make up for all of the things I’m not as a human being. Off medication, I don’t care, well I do care but I don’t need them to love me, like me or even address me, they do have to respect and pay me. That’s all. This is scary territory for me, not being loved by everyone.
The voices in my head are still trying to convince me that if they don’t like me then there’s something wrong with me. That if they are unwilling to pay their portion of the utility bill it’s because I’m not explaining it correctly. It is my fault they are too afraid to ask to use the family-room the two hours I’m home to use it even after I’ve told them to tell me they wanted to use it. The reality is, I’ve explained my explanation to two different people, I’m explaining it correctly. Someone wasn’t expecting the bill so she doesn’t want to pay it. Period. If you want something and are too afraid to ask then that’s on you. That’s the way the world treats me. Period. The voices in my head are wrong and maybe I am a holy terror to live with, I think I’m fine, but until you live with someone you never really know, but the voices saying there is something wrong with me because they (the roommates) aren’t happy, that’s wrong. Maybe someday the feeling of frustration and irritation with people who behave like this will turn to sympathy and understanding of their lives; I just don’t think I’m that enlightened yet. Medication does wonders, but it’s not a miracle worker.
I have learned I hate living with people. I hate them touching my stuff, I hate them being disrespectful to my crappy furniture, and I hate having to have to knock on the bathroom door when I need to go, I hate them talking to my birds like they are friends with them (I know that sounds a little crazy, but if you are a bird person, you understand), I hate them eating my food, I hate having to have to tip-toe around them because they’re having a bad day/week/month/life, I hate unilateral conversations. After a long day of dealing with people I just want to come home, let the birds out of their cages and relax. I think it’s just human. It’s not wrong, it’s not weird and it’s not crazy. It’s just me.
Part of my New Years Goals is to have a writing block every day. This is my first public attempt. Let me know what you think.
Slip Sliding Away
In a lot of ways I’m still trying to stop the slip so please bear with me, I’ve tried to write this a few times and it just comes out in disjointed gibberish. I will try to keep everything as simple as I can without too much fluff, which is when I get generally get lost.
I don’t remember what day last week I slept through my early AM pills. Because it was late I didn’t take them but I did take the one I should have taken after breakfast. It had been close to a full week since I was taking all my meds early, morning and evening pills. I was barely holding on.
Tuesday I finished my CNA course and we had a certification program where we were all presented our papers which is my ticket to take the state test to start a new path. It wasn’t that big of a deal to me until it was. I made a point of getting a picture so I could put it in my journal. I looked horrible. The crush of the room was bothering me and ramping up my already jarred psyche so when it was over and the eating began I left. I knew if I started to eat I wouldn’t stop and no one and nothing would be spared. And there was food waiting for me at home and I could binge to my hearts contempt. What I forgot to mention is that though I laid out my meds the night before, I didn’t take them…..and you can repeat that all the way to Saturday morning but by then it was too late.
Thanksgiving for my family was on Friday. I was in a full blown anger hurricane and no one was safe. I stayed in the corner and pretended I was ‘tired’….well, tired of all of them. I ate only what I wanted; turkey, potatoes and dressing. I was kind to the kids, although the youngest was put on my lap and when he felt the disruption in my aura he began to cry and try to get away from me….I really couldn’t blame him.
Saturday I took my pills again but my heart was racing, my breath was shallow, my blood pressure was all over the place and I just wanted to scream – I took a tranquilizer….and tranquil I did become. My emotions flattened out and I slept for three hours, but my mind still hasn’t returned, it still can’t grasp anything and hold onto it for a long time. Words slip off the tip of my tongue, ideas float just out of reach and my memory pulls up the wrong information and my mouth can’t stop it from tumbling out.
I’m back on my three doses a day. I don’t know if I need to continue to slip to get back down to stable ground or if I need to start the climb again to where I was. I just hope which ever it is it doesn’t take me back to a place I don’t want and can’t be again. If there is any take away from this whole hellish experience is: DON’T GO OFF YOUR MEDS. I’m not well, I’m not better, I’m not quitting.
What Dreams May Be
Dreams are like movies directed by the soul. Your mind works out all the tangles and knots your daily life creates and then smooth’s things over so we don’t all go bat-crap-crazy. Of which I am truly grateful. There are certain things, symbols in dreams that are consistent with all the dream weavers out there….
There’s the anxiety dream where you can’t run when you’re being chased.
There’s the project dream where you dream you have a baby, a puppy, or something new born that is in your charge and you need to take care of it.
The wanting to speak dream where you try to say something but your mouth is full of gum or food and no matter how hard you work to pull the stuff out of your mouth you can never quite get it all out, ofrom between your teeth.
The happy dream is where you fly.
My dreams a few nights ago had puppies and flying. The puppy was the sample of a business idea that someone came up with in my dream…..Send A Friend A Puppy….Even I had a double take in my dream and asked them to repeat it. It works like this, you have a friend you want to cheer up so instead of flowers you send them a fluffy, clean 6 to 10 week old puppy. In this case it was a golden retriever puppy. They come in a box with food and puppy-poopoo-pads and gloves. You have to admit no matter how sick, sad or frustrated you are, an afternoon with a puppy will take a lot of the gloom and doom and shine up your attitude in no time. My mind has been feverishly trying to remake the main character in my completed novel less of a push-over and more of an woman that is 75% intelligent and 15% stubborn and 10% without a clue…..like most women. That’s the new puppy.
Later in that dream I was told that I could fly again. I didn’t believe them, but they assured me I could. So I took to the sky and doing my rudimentary swimming motions I propelled myself into the air. Though I was flying, and I was happy while I was aloft, I noticed that the scarf/sleeve had either sand or rice trying to pull me back towards the ground. I struggled against gravity and as long as I focused on staying in the air I did. I love flying in my dreams….they truly are my favorite dreams. I see this as a promise of present happiness despite of the things that seem to be trying to tie me to the ground. That’s to my surrender I no long dread or hate or even feel put upon taking care of my Mom. When she gets angry with me I react internally first and then sort of laugh at the whole thing….she’s like a toothless Chihuahua. It does kind of make me laugh and I try very hard not to do it in front of her. So, mom is one of the bags that are trying to hold me down, the other, I believe is my work with OA. I ran into a woman while getting food for my family and se said some of the OA speak and I asked her. I told her my problem with getting sponsor and she said she would be more than willing to talk with me. She said most people that can’t get the fourth step done is because they haven’t truly done the third step: Surrendering to your higher power. I’m trying to learn to surrender on the celestial level now, trying to surrender myself, my control and my life to God the Father and Jesus Christ. It’s harder than I thought it would be. But then anything worth doing is never really easy. It only seems easy when you see it through the rearview mirror.
I’ve also been having anger dreams where I just rant and rave at my sibling about stuff they don’t understand. And there have been a few anxiety dreams as well about running out of time, which is an anxiety that chases me in the waking hours as well, but I don’t remember the specifics of the dreams only the impetus of them….the hospice nurse made the comment that Mom was deteriorating and it triggered the anxiety and a feeling a fear and dread at the idea of my mother passing. (That’s a whole other post). The events in the dream disappear almost with my eyes focusing on the alarm clock, but the anger and anxiety tend to fuss with my day for a while.
Okay, why the post about dreams? Because it is confirming what I’m starting to realize myself. I’m happy, really happy. And I know I’m burdened some with my responsibilities and my health but I’m still happy. If surrender brings this much happiness I would hope surrendering to the other conflicts in my life should and would be easier.
Pleasant and prophetic dreams to all!
Gobsmacked by Life
So, when last we met, dear reader, I was embarking of under-employment but ever so hopeful things would continue on the course I had set it on. I stopped climbing the walls, so to speak only to have the freaking wall fall on me! I planned on giving myself one week off from work, which is reasonable since I hadn’t really had five straight days to myself since, well, since I don’t remember when….and starting the next week Mom shot up a temperature to like 103.1 and then it would go down, then back up. I got the temporal thermometer to see if the digital one was not digitizing the information the way we wanted but it was telling the truth. Which basically means now I have a really cool thermometer…..but I digress. I called 911 and had them take her to the ER in Mountain View. If there is one thing I can say about being on anti depressants and anti anxiety SSRI and dopamine enhancers is that when you are faced with something serious your emotions shut down and you can focus on the task at hand get things done. Well, sort of. Apparently was being a real pain in the caboose and my humor wasn’t what my sisters would have liked. After a few long, tiresome hours they realize that Mom was dehydrated. Who knew you ran a temperature when you are dehydrated. S. had heard about it when she went through her medical assistant training but she wasn’t sure. Once that was determined they decided to give her IV fluids and see if it brought her double digit BP back to the normal range….well, normal for an 85 year old woman. They admitted her around 2 am, I went home and had dinner, took a chill pill and went to bed around 4am.
What I learned from this experience is that 1) the right hospice agency makes all the difference and 2) never make plans that you can’t put off for later. We’ve changed our hospice agency which is more aggressive towards the pulmonary set, unlike the last one that would have been happy for me to give Mom morphine to calm her down and let her die in her sleep. The hospital doctor sent her home with a nebulizer and between me and K we have been militant about her getting her treatments, eating whether she wants to or not, and drinking at least two quarts of water a day she is gaining ground. Just as she started to get back on her feet the holidays descended like a biblical plague. Okay, so I’m not a bit holiday fan but being broke, being literally tied to the house like some house bound prisoner because Mom doesn’t like to be alone and “misses me” even if I’m in the other room. Did I mention she’s almost as deaf as a door knob? (hearing aids are on the list of things to do in the New Year).
I guess what I’m blathering on about is that I’m tired, I feel like a well used rubber band that is still functional if you don’t push it beyond it’s but when too much pressure is applied it will loose the last of it’s elasticity and then when pushed father will snap and crumble to bits. My doctor thinks I’m doing fine, but then we didn’t talk about how I imagine sawing through my arms again, or how I want to use a razor to carve a cross hatch pattern from my wrist to the bend in my elbow. I won’t do it, I know I won’t, I’m too big of a sissy when it comes to physical pain but he seems to think it is something that should be reported to him. I wish he was tech savvy enough to just read this and prescribe accordingly. I can’t go up any further on m=any of my meds so what other choice does he have then to tell me I’m doing good and hope the placebo effect will see me through until the stress passes?
I’m pretty sure this will be my last entry for 2014. May the New Year be bright, healthy and prosperous. Thank you for reading and following me.
Blogging From The Void 