So, I probably have fibromyalgia. I'm going to have to attempt to give up some of my OCD and high-strung ways. Otherwise, I'll spend my days in a passion of body-wide pain. This is not a tempting situation. I'm currently in the midst of a flare-up, obviously, which led me to see the doctor, which led to this diagnosis. She wants me to get some X-rays done, just to be sure, but she's fairly certain it's fibromyalgia. Soon I shall have my grubby paws on some muscle relaxers and some painkillers to make my life easier. I'm also back on sleeping pills, since sleep disturbance and deprivation can worsen the condition.
I appreciate the fact that I know now why I've had these pains for last couple of years, why I've had these flare-ups, and now I can treat them appropriately. I was upset for a while, angry at nobody, but now...now I'm at peace. Now I know what the problem is and can respond accordingly.
But the flesh betrays the mind/soul complex again. No, I'm not going way out on the melodramatic limb to say that my flesh is making me change *who* I am. I will always be OCD and high-strung. I simply have to modify the expression of that aspect of my personality, or be willing to endure body-wide pain. I'm not sure how to do that, but I guess I'll have to figure it out.
1.23.2006
Never gonna be the same again
I'm almost convinced that every migraine I have does something to my personality. That's stupid, I know, but sometimes the thought lurks a little too dark, and it makes sense, in an incoherent sort of way. I just know that I'm tired of migraines. I had an ER-level one Saturday night, and though it was tempting to want to go, or to call my doc and see what she could do for me, I just...I don't have the money for a hospital visit. Nor a doc's visit. I ended up medicated, per usual, and passed out on the couch.
My world would be a beautiful place, if I could just save some money and realize that life that haunts me. Visions, ghosts, memories--what a potent brew they make toward creating in a bottle a mind-wrapped miniature of what I most desire--that life, that life that Kermit so blithely sings about in "Rainbow Connection." His song is saccharine, but it true. It tastes of truth, albeit too sugary sometimes. The thought is solid, and that's what matters.
have you been half-asleep / and have you heard voices / I've heard them calling my name
is this the sweet sound / that calls the young sailors / the voice might be one and the same
Yes, I've been half-asleep, and full-awake, and felt that tidal pull. Felt that powerful and perfumed pull of desire and reality. It's as close to real as we can come in this world, you know?
My world would be a beautiful place, if I could just save some money and realize that life that haunts me. Visions, ghosts, memories--what a potent brew they make toward creating in a bottle a mind-wrapped miniature of what I most desire--that life, that life that Kermit so blithely sings about in "Rainbow Connection." His song is saccharine, but it true. It tastes of truth, albeit too sugary sometimes. The thought is solid, and that's what matters.
have you been half-asleep / and have you heard voices / I've heard them calling my name
is this the sweet sound / that calls the young sailors / the voice might be one and the same
Yes, I've been half-asleep, and full-awake, and felt that tidal pull. Felt that powerful and perfumed pull of desire and reality. It's as close to real as we can come in this world, you know?
1.20.2006
The love you need ain't gonna see you through
...telephone line / give me some time / I'm living in twilight...
There are people who assume that depression is a choice, that a person can dig one's self out of depression, if that person tries hard enough. It doesn't work that way, if it's clinical (read: chemical) depression. It's not something one has control of, any more than a person can control their heartbeat, or the synapses firing in their brain. It's just something that happens. Some people take meds to help even the playing field, help control the degree of the downs, help deal with the inexplicable and unpredictable beast that is depression.
Some of us opt not to take the meds. The meds stripped me of my personality, my desire, my passion, and I'm unwilling to repeat the process. So I have to live with the depression, and I've learned to live with it. I've learned how to manage it.
But there are still days where I feel that depression as part of the manic-depression, rather than pure depression. When it's manic-depression it seems threaded with something like madness, and it loses coherence. Then it seems...it seems...
...it seems like something closer to reality. To the authentic soul. To the primal, yes, near to the instinctual, yes, but somehow more real. Without the veils and filters of the civilized and the appropriate, without the controls that demand coherence and relevance, without the normal moderation, the soul seems more on fire, the mind more clear (despite the incoherence). Expression may be more difficult, but feeling, experience--they become clearer. Or, at least, appear clearer.
And then? Depression, with the taste of madness, becomes an ally, a friend, a means of true survival, rather than a means of destruction. It becomes a way of experiencing the world, of processing experience, of becoming more of one's self. It becomes creation and re-creation, it becomes a muse and a means of understanding.
At least, that's what I tell myself when I feel the way I do today--so near to the soul, so close to the carelessness that comes out of mania, and the misanthropy that makes me nearly cast aside social convention, because somehow that seems to be a means to the maintenance of the self. It's hard to tell if it would really help, but I like to entertain the idea that it would, it could.
And I dream of a day, of a time, of a place where I'm brave enough to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.
There are people who assume that depression is a choice, that a person can dig one's self out of depression, if that person tries hard enough. It doesn't work that way, if it's clinical (read: chemical) depression. It's not something one has control of, any more than a person can control their heartbeat, or the synapses firing in their brain. It's just something that happens. Some people take meds to help even the playing field, help control the degree of the downs, help deal with the inexplicable and unpredictable beast that is depression.
Some of us opt not to take the meds. The meds stripped me of my personality, my desire, my passion, and I'm unwilling to repeat the process. So I have to live with the depression, and I've learned to live with it. I've learned how to manage it.
But there are still days where I feel that depression as part of the manic-depression, rather than pure depression. When it's manic-depression it seems threaded with something like madness, and it loses coherence. Then it seems...it seems...
...it seems like something closer to reality. To the authentic soul. To the primal, yes, near to the instinctual, yes, but somehow more real. Without the veils and filters of the civilized and the appropriate, without the controls that demand coherence and relevance, without the normal moderation, the soul seems more on fire, the mind more clear (despite the incoherence). Expression may be more difficult, but feeling, experience--they become clearer. Or, at least, appear clearer.
And then? Depression, with the taste of madness, becomes an ally, a friend, a means of true survival, rather than a means of destruction. It becomes a way of experiencing the world, of processing experience, of becoming more of one's self. It becomes creation and re-creation, it becomes a muse and a means of understanding.
At least, that's what I tell myself when I feel the way I do today--so near to the soul, so close to the carelessness that comes out of mania, and the misanthropy that makes me nearly cast aside social convention, because somehow that seems to be a means to the maintenance of the self. It's hard to tell if it would really help, but I like to entertain the idea that it would, it could.
And I dream of a day, of a time, of a place where I'm brave enough to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.
1.19.2006
Which generation are we in, again?
My living is made with information, data, technology. It's how I survive professionally. I have to familiarize myself with new and developing technologies. I seem to have a knack for discovering stuff, in terms of both hardware and software. And I enjoy this, too. I like being able to understand how things work. If I had a mind for it, I'd be in computer science or computer information systems. Unfortunately, I have not the talent for math.
At any rate, I am fascinated, both professionally and personally, by technology. I think Blackberries are wonderful (though I couldn't justify having one myself); PDAs are great, too (again, not enough justification). Laptops make the world go 'round (but I don't have the funds), and those little cell phones that have Internet capability (amongst other things) are just marvelous (if somewhat unnecessary sometimes--mine is very stripped down). You also have things like the Firefly mobile phone for kids.
My point? I am not a Luddite. I love technology. Ideally, it should make our lives easier, and in some cases it has indeed improved the quality of life (medically speaking, primarily).
What boggles me, however, is this sudden dependence on cell phones. Whenever I cross campus, I never fail to get behind people walking painfully slow because they're trying to hold in-depth conversations on their cells (and loudly, with a lot of "What?" and "Huh?"). It never fails that the minute a class is dismissed, you see them flip open their phones, check to see if they have messages, and then start dialing. It's the same with the kids to whomI give the ACT. When the students leave my sessions, it's the same thing. It's as though they can't go more than hour without having one of those damn things attached to their ear. I've seen some students with the hands-free earpieces on campus, too.
Maybe it's because I'm an introvert that this phenomenon confuses me. The idea of talking to somebody that frequently makes me frantic--forget actually engaging in the behavior. And when I see them early in the morning, walking to the cafeteria for breakfast, or on their way to class and they're jabbering away, I'm more flabbergasted. I barely talk to the husband in the morning--forget talking to somebody I'm not related to on the phone.
But these self-same phone-savvy individuals can't properly write a research paper or case study. They can't research for themselves. They don't know how to properly utilize the Internet for research and self-education. Hell, they can't self-educate. They aren't motivated by anything, it seems, except for some instinctual form of status protection, i.e., having the right model phone with the right features and a million numbers saved--half of which they'll never ever dial. (I won't discuss other features of status-protection--like clothing/fashion--now.)
Did I miss something?
At any rate, I am fascinated, both professionally and personally, by technology. I think Blackberries are wonderful (though I couldn't justify having one myself); PDAs are great, too (again, not enough justification). Laptops make the world go 'round (but I don't have the funds), and those little cell phones that have Internet capability (amongst other things) are just marvelous (if somewhat unnecessary sometimes--mine is very stripped down). You also have things like the Firefly mobile phone for kids.
My point? I am not a Luddite. I love technology. Ideally, it should make our lives easier, and in some cases it has indeed improved the quality of life (medically speaking, primarily).
What boggles me, however, is this sudden dependence on cell phones. Whenever I cross campus, I never fail to get behind people walking painfully slow because they're trying to hold in-depth conversations on their cells (and loudly, with a lot of "What?" and "Huh?"). It never fails that the minute a class is dismissed, you see them flip open their phones, check to see if they have messages, and then start dialing. It's the same with the kids to whomI give the ACT. When the students leave my sessions, it's the same thing. It's as though they can't go more than hour without having one of those damn things attached to their ear. I've seen some students with the hands-free earpieces on campus, too.
Maybe it's because I'm an introvert that this phenomenon confuses me. The idea of talking to somebody that frequently makes me frantic--forget actually engaging in the behavior. And when I see them early in the morning, walking to the cafeteria for breakfast, or on their way to class and they're jabbering away, I'm more flabbergasted. I barely talk to the husband in the morning--forget talking to somebody I'm not related to on the phone.
But these self-same phone-savvy individuals can't properly write a research paper or case study. They can't research for themselves. They don't know how to properly utilize the Internet for research and self-education. Hell, they can't self-educate. They aren't motivated by anything, it seems, except for some instinctual form of status protection, i.e., having the right model phone with the right features and a million numbers saved--half of which they'll never ever dial. (I won't discuss other features of status-protection--like clothing/fashion--now.)
Did I miss something?
1.18.2006
Mania in the Morning
Don't you worry 'bout a thing today
That would be refreshing. That would be...some measure of peace. Mark twain to the depth of depression! Hear us call out where the depression slows, is a little shallower, a bit easier to discern. It loses coherence beyond that.
you'll see
Variously, the day means things. It means mania, it means this sinking feeling of depression, psychological despair, frantic dissolution, damage, a fatigue that climbs into the bones and proves itself.
What can I call my own, other than my soul? Don Quixote might have satisfied with that meager portion, but I need something else to help fill those empty spaces burned out by this madness. To replace the memories I've rid myself of, the feelings I cut out carefully.
I am destruction and damage. Is that what used to make me so good at re-creation? Now it just makes me good for damage, for repentance, for absolution. What happened to salvation and creation?
how can I hurt when you're holding me?
That would be refreshing. That would be...some measure of peace. Mark twain to the depth of depression! Hear us call out where the depression slows, is a little shallower, a bit easier to discern. It loses coherence beyond that.
you'll see
Variously, the day means things. It means mania, it means this sinking feeling of depression, psychological despair, frantic dissolution, damage, a fatigue that climbs into the bones and proves itself.
What can I call my own, other than my soul? Don Quixote might have satisfied with that meager portion, but I need something else to help fill those empty spaces burned out by this madness. To replace the memories I've rid myself of, the feelings I cut out carefully.
I am destruction and damage. Is that what used to make me so good at re-creation? Now it just makes me good for damage, for repentance, for absolution. What happened to salvation and creation?
how can I hurt when you're holding me?
1.17.2006
Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion
I've been trying to feel complete again.
I need more time alone. Alone, in an empty house, in a room intended for my desires.
I have always been restless. Gypsy soul, that's what you'd call it. Born and bred to want to be on the Road constantly. It's a theme that has pervaded my life for as long as I can remember--even before I could put a name to the feeling and romanticize, "philosophize" it as I have. Made it a part of the soul/mind complex, like my morality and my spirituality.
Why do I get possessed by this restless feeling? Why do I get possessed by mania, as well? It's nice to have names for these unknowns, but an identification is not a definition, not an explanation. I suppose I'm asking the wrong questions. I don't even know where to begin to find the right ones.
I don't think it matters, really. I am alive. I am grateful for that. I live. More than that--I live. I experience, respond, process. Everything that means I'm not just existing.
I don't know where this is coming from. It's just here. I'll keep chasing that rabbit.
Edit, 1320pm, same day: ...you don't realize the passing of time. You walk alone in your own space. --Damian Adare to his daughter Audrina in V.C. Andrews' novel My Sweet Audrina.
I need more time alone. Alone, in an empty house, in a room intended for my desires.
I have always been restless. Gypsy soul, that's what you'd call it. Born and bred to want to be on the Road constantly. It's a theme that has pervaded my life for as long as I can remember--even before I could put a name to the feeling and romanticize, "philosophize" it as I have. Made it a part of the soul/mind complex, like my morality and my spirituality.
Why do I get possessed by this restless feeling? Why do I get possessed by mania, as well? It's nice to have names for these unknowns, but an identification is not a definition, not an explanation. I suppose I'm asking the wrong questions. I don't even know where to begin to find the right ones.
I don't think it matters, really. I am alive. I am grateful for that. I live. More than that--I live. I experience, respond, process. Everything that means I'm not just existing.
I don't know where this is coming from. It's just here. I'll keep chasing that rabbit.
Edit, 1320pm, same day: ...you don't realize the passing of time. You walk alone in your own space. --Damian Adare to his daughter Audrina in V.C. Andrews' novel My Sweet Audrina.
1.13.2006
A long time ago a friend told me I needed more of what was "fair and balanced" in my life. He also said, and I'm paraphrasing from a discussion that took place almost a year ago, that I was good at attracting damaged goods kind of people, the kinds of people who seem to want others to fix them. And that people perceived me as a fixer. Maybe I am. I'd like to think I've actually helped people in the past (like my bf from high school, or my roommate). But I didn't so much as fix them as provide them with emotional support and proof that they were worthy of love. Maybe that's the same thing.
I'm damaged goods. I come to the table with luggage, and lots of it, but who doesn't, in reality? I just feel like my damaged goods are hard to deal with and at any time could drive off the people I trust as friends. But we aren't going to deal with those issues today. What I want to talk about today is the fact that I do indeed seem to have a hard time making friends with people who are good for me. I mean, I make friends with people who are good people--just not necessarily good for me. I wonder why that is?
I do have friends who are good for me--my bf from high school, my college roommate, my married friends in my hometown (a few couples, actually), my friends from my yahoo group. I have two or three friends here who aren't bad for me and have actually promoted growth of some sort in the soul/mind complex. I just don't understand why the majority of the others were so bad for me, and why I am so good at finding them. What kind of damage is that?
I know what made me so ripe for the mistakes of last year--loneliness. I let it get the better of me. I don't usually, but for some reason it overwhelmed me. It's not excuse; it's a reason. Nothing excuses the grandiose catalog of mistakes I made in the last year in the context of my "relationships" with some of the Malcontents (as I refer to the people I used to call friends here). I'll use the experience to steel me against making the same mistakes again, no doubt. But I want to understand what makes me so prone to making bad decisions when it comes to making friends.
I'm damaged goods. I come to the table with luggage, and lots of it, but who doesn't, in reality? I just feel like my damaged goods are hard to deal with and at any time could drive off the people I trust as friends. But we aren't going to deal with those issues today. What I want to talk about today is the fact that I do indeed seem to have a hard time making friends with people who are good for me. I mean, I make friends with people who are good people--just not necessarily good for me. I wonder why that is?
I do have friends who are good for me--my bf from high school, my college roommate, my married friends in my hometown (a few couples, actually), my friends from my yahoo group. I have two or three friends here who aren't bad for me and have actually promoted growth of some sort in the soul/mind complex. I just don't understand why the majority of the others were so bad for me, and why I am so good at finding them. What kind of damage is that?
I know what made me so ripe for the mistakes of last year--loneliness. I let it get the better of me. I don't usually, but for some reason it overwhelmed me. It's not excuse; it's a reason. Nothing excuses the grandiose catalog of mistakes I made in the last year in the context of my "relationships" with some of the Malcontents (as I refer to the people I used to call friends here). I'll use the experience to steel me against making the same mistakes again, no doubt. But I want to understand what makes me so prone to making bad decisions when it comes to making friends.
1.11.2006
Having Kids
When my best friend from high school got pregnant, she spent the next few months, prior to my wedding, asking me if the husband and I were going to have kids. I told her I didn't know, and quite frankly, I still don't know. I did tell her we didn't plan to have kids right off the bat, 'cause we wanted to enjoy being married for a while before even pondering the idea. My parents thought that was a great idea, and they have been wonderful about not asking for grandkids.
I issued an edict a year or so ago that if I didn't have kids by the time I was 35, I wasn't going to have kids at all. After the age of 40 the chances of having children with problems (like Downs syndrome) increase. Not to mention all the hormonal inbalances that come with menopause that could potentially increase my chances of breast cancer. My mom's had breast cancer twice; has lost both breasts (radical mastectomies both times); and had to go through chemo both times. I'd rather not increase my already increased chances of breast cancer.
Lately, though, the husband has had dreams about me being pregnant, having a baby. Then last night I had a dream about being pregnant and having a baby. I woke up this morning with a certain kind of wistfulness about having a baby. I'm 26; there's still plenty of time before the 35 -year-old age cut-off. Financially we couldn't afford to have a baby right now, with the husband in school full-time, and me in grad school part-time.
I don't even know if I would make a good mom. I'm manic-depressive, obsessive-compulsive, and prone to long bouts of clinical depression. I've come to terms with these aspects of myself, as has the husband. We work around them. Can I be a mother, while contending with these aspects of my personality? Another question: spiritually speaking, I'm restless. Always have been. There is no true Home for me. I find a measure of peace in the husband; a measure of peace in certain cities (New Orleans, Memphis, Firenze, London, Assissi). Can a gypsy be settled enough to be a mother?
What will be the spiritual inheritance of my children? The metaphysical genetics that they will inevitably receive from their raggamuffin, passionate mother?
I issued an edict a year or so ago that if I didn't have kids by the time I was 35, I wasn't going to have kids at all. After the age of 40 the chances of having children with problems (like Downs syndrome) increase. Not to mention all the hormonal inbalances that come with menopause that could potentially increase my chances of breast cancer. My mom's had breast cancer twice; has lost both breasts (radical mastectomies both times); and had to go through chemo both times. I'd rather not increase my already increased chances of breast cancer.
Lately, though, the husband has had dreams about me being pregnant, having a baby. Then last night I had a dream about being pregnant and having a baby. I woke up this morning with a certain kind of wistfulness about having a baby. I'm 26; there's still plenty of time before the 35 -year-old age cut-off. Financially we couldn't afford to have a baby right now, with the husband in school full-time, and me in grad school part-time.
I don't even know if I would make a good mom. I'm manic-depressive, obsessive-compulsive, and prone to long bouts of clinical depression. I've come to terms with these aspects of myself, as has the husband. We work around them. Can I be a mother, while contending with these aspects of my personality? Another question: spiritually speaking, I'm restless. Always have been. There is no true Home for me. I find a measure of peace in the husband; a measure of peace in certain cities (New Orleans, Memphis, Firenze, London, Assissi). Can a gypsy be settled enough to be a mother?
What will be the spiritual inheritance of my children? The metaphysical genetics that they will inevitably receive from their raggamuffin, passionate mother?
1.10.2006
Purist Intentions
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I believe it. God knows how awry things can go, especially when you try to carefully plan. The more structured one's designs, the more likely they are to collapse under the weight of expectation and/or a lack of resources.
I started another blog here on blogger with the intent to be authentic, to be honest, to be real--but to do so as far as my poetry went. It's basically a poetry journal, and I've been less-than-faithful in updating it, for whatever reason (if you're curious: empireofautumn.blogspot.com). I wanted it to be for poetry and the pursuit of understanding. But I don't feel like I can post poetry and muse in the same space--it's too much. Or, I'm afraid it's too much, too self-indulgent.
I have two other blogs, one on LiveJournal and one on GreatestJournal. Why do I need another?
The neverending pursuit of self-knowledge, self-reality, and authenticity. To understand, to learn, to, as they say, broaden one's horizons. The attempt to facilitate one's own growth as an individual--the cultivation of the soul and the mind. To trace that development as a part of the process.
Maybe I'll succeed here.
I started another blog here on blogger with the intent to be authentic, to be honest, to be real--but to do so as far as my poetry went. It's basically a poetry journal, and I've been less-than-faithful in updating it, for whatever reason (if you're curious: empireofautumn.blogspot.com). I wanted it to be for poetry and the pursuit of understanding. But I don't feel like I can post poetry and muse in the same space--it's too much. Or, I'm afraid it's too much, too self-indulgent.
I have two other blogs, one on LiveJournal and one on GreatestJournal. Why do I need another?
The neverending pursuit of self-knowledge, self-reality, and authenticity. To understand, to learn, to, as they say, broaden one's horizons. The attempt to facilitate one's own growth as an individual--the cultivation of the soul and the mind. To trace that development as a part of the process.
Maybe I'll succeed here.
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